>You’ve got a death grip on the ceiling handle.
“Jesus Christ, Lyra! Slow down!”
>“I’m only doing 90, Anon.”
“You’re doing 90 miles, not kilometers!”
“Oh relax you big baby. I’ve got it totally under control!”
>You know she does, despite appearances.
>She probably does this shit just to mess with you.
>She’s staring at the cartoons playing on the windshield, pretending to not see anything outside.
>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.
>Unlike when it’s showing driving instructions, you can barely see the road through the glass.
>She’s hacked the infotainment center, which was one felony, and was committing another by how hard she was driving the projector.
>Another three laws are being broken by her operating the vehicle. You pray that there aren’t any police nearby.
>A cutaway gag on Family Guy sends Lyra into hysterics. The car swerves violently as she nearly misses an exit.
“Please! I’m begging you, just go a bit slower! I’m gonna fucking hurl!”
>The car slows, a bit.
>Not that Lyra was pushing on pedals, or steering a wheel.
>Despite how old the car looked, it was outfitted with a wireless suite.
>Dangerous, but good luck hacking a link Lyra's using.
>“Ok, I’ll drive normal… But only if…”
>She turns to you.
>The orange nixie tubes you modded into her irises being flickering.
>To the naked eye it looks like they’re controlled by a cheap PWM circuit.
>The controllers you chose were quite high quality, though.
>Your smart glasses (Your younger coworkers called you a zoomer for still using that term) were able to easily record the flashes, however.
>Lyra was broadcasting extremely lewd acts that she wanted you to do to her in morse code.
>As the paragraph grows larger on the interface, you blush and glance away. The text follows your gaze.
“I-I, oh boy, Lyra, I d-don’t think I can-”
>“Why not, lover boy?~”
>You bite your lip.
“You’re such a fucking horndog,” you mutter.
>“Says the guy who bought a ponybot to fuck.”
“I can’t help it, mares are hotter than women.”
>“You’re goddamn right about that. My flanks are very shapely.”
“Thanks to me. The factory default ass you had was downright pitiful.”
>“Two grand well spend, huh?”
>Lyra stands up on the seat, and flicks her tail up, waving her ass in your face.
>A quick glance at your estimated time of arrival tells you you’ve got time.
>You place a hand on each cutie mark, giving her a squeeze.
>Lyra lets out a moan, and all the windows on the car tint even more. You didn’t know they could go that dark.
>She winks at you, her synthetic folds dripping.
>You move your face closer.
>And then the scowling face of your boss suddenly replaces her vagina.
>A very loud ringer sounds out as the word URGENT flashes across your sight.
“Woah, fuck, shit!”
>You scramble backwards, throwing Lyra’s ass down on the seat.
“Voice answer!”
>His image updates to a live feed.
>He’s even angrier now than he was in the picture.
>Thankfully, he’s unable to see you adjusting your pants.
>>“Anonymous! Where are you?”
“Just down--”
>>“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!”
>Oh, shit.
>That’s bad.
>Your boss picks up a golden key off his desk and flings it towards you.
>It flies through the window he’s sitting in and hovers in front of your chest.
>There’s a tag attached to it.
[EMERGENCY UTILITY EXEMPTION]
>Before you can look back up at the old man he disconnects.
>Instead, you look over to Lyra.
>She’s giddy with excitement, staring at the key.
>You sigh, and hold it out to her.
“Go ahead.”
>“YES!”
>Your interface draws an orange shimmer over her horn and the key.
>She flies it to the dashboard, where a slot has appeared.
>Lyra inserts and turns it, causing several hundred pages of terms and conditions fly past the windshield in an instant.
>She probably read them. Probably.
>An identifier spawns above the car, letting everything know you’re allowed to disobey most traffic laws.
>You wonder if that includes letting ponies drive cars. Probably not.
>Lyra immediately floors it, barely waiting for the cars ahead to automatically swerve out of the way.
>You’re really, really glad that manual operation is disallowed on the freeway.
>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.
>You are very glad she’s kept the windows tinted.
>As if reading your mind she turns the tints off, and opens her window.
>Before you can grab her she’s hanging her head outside, laughing manically.
>You try to pull her in, but she’s too strong.
“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--”
>The car instantly slams to a stop.
>You jolt a few inches forwards before the seatbelts restrain you.
>Never have you been more happy that autocars require chest harnesses.
>“We’re here! Let’s go save the Internet!”
>You sigh as the harness retracts off of you.
“Living with you is gonna give me a heart attack, I swear…”
>“If that happens I can give you a jolt from my supercaps!”
“I’m not a car. I’m pretty sure you’d flash fry my heart if you dump those into me.”
>“Then I guess you better stay healthy enough to never need ‘em, Anon.”
>Her ears fall.
>“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.”