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>You’ve got a death grip on the ceiling handle.
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“Jesus Christ, Lyra! Slow down!”
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>“I’m only doing 90, Anon.”
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“You’re doing 90 miles, not kilometers!”
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“Oh relax you big baby. I’ve got it totally under control!”
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>You know she does, despite appearances.
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>She probably does this shit just to mess with you.
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>She’s staring at the cartoons playing on the windshield, pretending to not see anything outside.
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>Lyra’s watching Homer Simpson and Peter Griffin get into hijinks, the media players turned as opaque as the projector inside the windshield would go.
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>Unlike when it’s showing driving instructions, you can barely see the road through the glass.
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>She’s hacked the infotainment center, which was one felony, and was committing another by how hard she was driving the projector.
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>Another three laws are being broken by her operating the vehicle. You pray that there aren’t any police nearby.
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>A cutaway gag on Family Guy sends Lyra into hysterics. The car swerves violently as she nearly misses an exit.
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“Please! I’m begging you, just go a bit slower! I’m gonna fucking hurl!”
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>The car slows, a bit.
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>Not that Lyra was pushing on pedals, or steering a wheel.
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>Despite how old the car looked, it was outfitted with a wireless suite.
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>Dangerous, but good luck hacking a link Lyra's using.
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>“Ok, I’ll drive normal… But only if…”
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>She turns to you.
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>The orange nixie tubes you modded into her irises being flickering.
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>To the naked eye it looks like they’re controlled by a cheap PWM circuit.
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>The controllers you chose were quite high quality, though.
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>Your smart glasses (Your younger coworkers called you a zoomer for still using that term) were able to easily record the flashes, however.
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>Lyra was broadcasting extremely lewd acts that she wanted you to do to her in morse code.
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>As the paragraph grows larger on the interface, you blush and glance away. The text follows your gaze.
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“I-I, oh boy, Lyra, I d-don’t think I can-”
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>“Why not, lover boy?~”
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>You bite your lip.
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“You’re such a fucking horndog,” you mutter.
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>“Says the guy who bought a ponybot to fuck.”
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“I can’t help it, mares are hotter than women.”
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>“You’re goddamn right about that. My flanks are very shapely.”
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“Thanks to me. The factory default ass you had was downright pitiful.”
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>“Two grand well spend, huh?”
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>Lyra stands up on the seat, and flicks her tail up, waving her ass in your face.
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>A quick glance at your estimated time of arrival tells you you’ve got time.
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>You place a hand on each cutie mark, giving her a squeeze.
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>Lyra lets out a moan, and all the windows on the car tint even more. You didn’t know they could go that dark.
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>She winks at you, her synthetic folds dripping.
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>You move your face closer.
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>And then the scowling face of your boss suddenly replaces her vagina.
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>A very loud ringer sounds out as the word URGENT flashes across your sight.
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“Woah, fuck, shit!”
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>You scramble backwards, throwing Lyra’s ass down on the seat.
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“Voice answer!”
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>His image updates to a live feed.
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>He’s even angrier now than he was in the picture.
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>Thankfully, he’s unable to see you adjusting your pants.
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>>“Anonymous! Where are you?”
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“Just down--”
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>>“No time. Half the parabolics at site F have gone down. We’re experiencing intermittent failure from the rest. Get your ass over there now and get them back online!”
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>Oh, shit.
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>That’s bad.
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>Your boss picks up a golden key off his desk and flings it towards you.
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>It flies through the window he’s sitting in and hovers in front of your chest.
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>There’s a tag attached to it.
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[EMERGENCY UTILITY EXEMPTION]
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>Before you can look back up at the old man he disconnects.
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>Instead, you look over to Lyra.
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>She’s giddy with excitement, staring at the key.
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>You sigh, and hold it out to her.
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“Go ahead.”
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>“YES!”
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>Your interface draws an orange shimmer over her horn and the key.
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>She flies it to the dashboard, where a slot has appeared.
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>Lyra inserts and turns it, causing several hundred pages of terms and conditions fly past the windshield in an instant.
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>She probably read them. Probably.
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>An identifier spawns above the car, letting everything know you’re allowed to disobey most traffic laws.
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>You wonder if that includes letting ponies drive cars. Probably not.
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>Lyra immediately floors it, barely waiting for the cars ahead to automatically swerve out of the way.
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>You’re really, really glad that manual operation is disallowed on the freeway.
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>In only a few seconds she’s up to 200 miles an hour, with cars parting in front of her like she’s Moses parting the Red Sea.
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>You are very glad she’s kept the windows tinted.
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>As if reading your mind she turns the tints off, and opens her window.
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>Before you can grab her she’s hanging her head outside, laughing manically.
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>You try to pull her in, but she’s too strong.
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“Lyra you little shit those optics were so fucking expensive I swear if a rock hits them I’ll sell your NFTs to buy new on--”
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>The car instantly slams to a stop.
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>You jolt a few inches forwards before the seatbelts restrain you.
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>Never have you been more happy that autocars require chest harnesses.
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>“We’re here! Let’s go save the Internet!”
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>You sigh as the harness retracts off of you.
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“Living with you is gonna give me a heart attack, I swear…”
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>“If that happens I can give you a jolt from my supercaps!”
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“I’m not a car. I’m pretty sure you’d flash fry my heart if you dump those into me.”
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>“Then I guess you better stay healthy enough to never need ‘em, Anon.”
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>Her ears fall.
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>“I do worry about you, ya know. Humans are a lot harder to repair than ponies. You take such good care of me, but you rarely ever perform maintenance on yourself.”
by Barney
by Barney
by Barney
by Barney
by Barney