//------------------------------// // 73 There's always something // Story: Moonie shorts [Filly Nightmare Moon] // by Eighth //------------------------------// As you glance at the piece of paper, eyeing it carefully for something you've missed, you tap your pencil over and over on the desk. "Whats up?" Moonie asks nonchalantly as she enters the room. You glance upwards then to Moonie who gives you a glaring warning. "Just making a list," you resign, deciding you've already riled her up without even making the lame joke. "For what?" "Things I need to pack." Again you run down the list as you feel the pessimistic pressure that you've forgotten like so many things in the past. There is always one thing you forget. And you'll never think of it until you're on your trip, doing nothing. Then you get the honour of spending the rest of the day annoyed with yourself for letting something so obvious slip through your mind like a broken sieve. "Where are we going?" she probes while snacking away on a bar. "I am going to Canterlot, for Mayor stuff. You are staying here with Trixie." "Why?" she stomps with puffy lips. "Because you have school, and I need a reason to be paying Trixie." "Just fire her," her tone is cold and distant. "That's far too harsh, I'm not doing that." "Why not?" "Because she's useful to keep around, even if she's lazy. Maybe that's why you two get along so well." "I do NOT get along with her." Her defiant words ring out but their meaning is hollow. You think of all the times the two have magic lessons or when they collaborate on a bit of mischief together. They argue sometimes but it's always over benign stuff and neither means any threat they throw out though they both know that, they'll never admit it. Another thing they'll likely both never admit is that they act rather like bratty sisters together. But you wonder what they're like when you're not around. You make a mental note to try and find out one day. "Keep telling yourself that," you reply dismissively. "Let me come, it's my last year of school anyway," her sing-song whine continues. "All the more reason for you to stay. You'll have to get a job after that, or further education." "But Trixie gets to freeload off you." "She doesn't, she helps around the place. More than a certain someone. Besides, when was the last time you saw me clean around here? Or do the food shopping?" "You did the dishes last night," Moonie says matter of factly. "Okay, aside from that. You know she's been helping. Plus she does pay board here." "You let her move in?" "She's been here how long now? It's not permanent, just until she figures it time to move on to the next town. I told you this--Do you ever actually listen to me?" "What?" You turn back around to the desk. "Wait-wait-wait! That was a joke, I'm listening. I am!" "You better be." "So you'll let me come to Canterlot?" "No." Moonie's crusade to wear you down until you let her come with becomes seemingly endless. Without tire, she asks the question again and again. Though your responses are slowly getting increasingly irate, you hold firm. Then suddenly, the day before it's time for you to go. "Can I go?" the relentless filly pops her head out of her room to ask. "Moonie, for the last time, I said no." "Fine," she concedes before slamming her door shut. The slam echoes in the house for a moment before silence falls and along with it, a sense of foreboding. You're expecting the question to come barraging back sometime in the day. After a week of constant questioning, you know Moonie isn't the type to give up now. For the rest of the day, everything Moonie does is missing its usual flair and lustre. Her feet drag lightly as she walks, Sir Bearington rides on her back like she is some common horse, and she does everything you tell her without question or even a hint of her typical brattiness. You know what she's doing. The classic guilt trip. And despite that, you feel a little bad. The big day comes. You pack up all your things as you check them off your list. Even after adding a few things, you're still adamant you're forgetting something. "Come on Moonie," you call out. She looks up from her bed in a bit of confusion to see you holding two bags. One large, clearly yours while the other is decorated in Moonie's trademark night sky motif. With a squeal of excitement, she leaps off the bed and grabs both her bag and Sir Bearington before making a dash for the door. You do brace yourself for some bragging or showboating, but it seems Moonie doesn't want to risk it. At least, not until she's on the train. Then her little cheer begins. It's a short ride, but you're still glad once it's over and you can get to your hotel. "I thought we'd be staying in the castle?" "Why?" "Because this is a mayor thing." "Yes, not a royal thing." "Did you upset one of the princesses?" "No. I just don't want to bother them for a room each time I come here." "In the castle that has like fifty spare rooms." "There's not that many." "I think I'd know. It used to be mine once upon a time." "You're also prone to exaggeration." She blows a raspberry at you as you finally enter your room. Then as you step inside you pause as you realise something. "What is it?" "Shaver. That's what I forgot," you grumble. Moonie rolls her eyes. "There's always something." You continue to be sour as you place your suitcase up on the bed, then with a great heave, Moonie throws her bag at yours which causes a pop sound from your case. "What was that?" you ask as you open it up. "No-no! Don't!" But it's too late, you open it up wide for the smell of the stink bomb that just went off to permeate through the room and invade your nostrils with its nauseating smell. It's like it rotten eggs decided to spend an entire week sweating up a storm before bathing in whatever smell skunks make and deodorise with a stick of that really weird french munster cheese. "Oh, sweet moon above, I am out of here." "No, you get back here little miss," you bellow as you stamp after the scampering filly.