//------------------------------// // Chapter Eleven: “Some cereal, s’posed to be good for ya." // Story: Stuff My Sister Says // by Daemon McRae //------------------------------// Chapter Eleven: “Some cereal, s’posed to be good for ya.” “I swear to Luna I can explain,” I say quickly, as soon as Captain Spitfire walks into the room. Apparently word of my dive-tackling my sister in the food court had spread rather quickly. It was only the next morning when a messenger from the Wonderbolts had told me to report to Spitfire’s office “Yesterday.” She raises an eyebrow at me, then looks over to Runway, who is busy staring all around the room at the various trophies and decorations with the awe of a child. Which, to be fair to her, is the usual response for anyone visiting the Captain’s office for the first time. “I sure hope so,” Spitfire groans, taking a seat in her big-ass Captain’s chair. Did I mention she’s the damn CAPTAIN? I tap Runway with a wing, who looks to me, then to Spitfire, then back to me. “What?” “Could you at least try to pay attention while I work on not losing my job?” I growl. “Oh, pffft,” she scoffs “They ain’t gonna fire you.” “I might, actually,” Spitfire deadpans, leveling her extremely intimidating gaze at me. Runway’s eyes widen, and she throws herself on the desk. Because of course she does. “No, wait, officer, I can explain! She’s totes innocent! Whatever it is, she didn’t do nothin’!” I facehoof so hard I make myself dizzy. “Oh my Celestia, Runway.” Spitfire leans back in her chair to put some distance between herself and my sister. “So she didn’t dive at you with a fork in a crowded food court?” Runway thinks for like, negative one seconds. “Oh, no, yeah, she totally did that.” “RUNWAY,” I bark. My sister falls back in her seat. “I mean, I don’t even know why she was mad! I was just talkin’ about how I’d went to this one wedding or whatever and ate a whole buncha food and hadn’t gained any weight! I mean, it’s not my fault I have an awesome metabolism!” I can feel my pulse in my ears, but more interestingly, I notice Spitfire’s expression switch from stern to confused rather quick. “It’s like, what’s the problem? You work out all the time anyway, just cause I can eat more carbs than you,” Runway continues, poking me in the side with an elbow. “S’not my fault her flanks are so big.” Seriously, I think the only reason I can hear her talking over my own heartbeat is straight up magic. Spitfire quirks a smile at me. “So, what, you attacked her cause she called you fat?” “...it sounds a lot pettier when you say it like that, Captain,” I admit, looking back down at the desk. “I mean,” Runway continues, as if oblivious to other ponies saying things. “Have you seen the other recruits or whatever? It’s like your training routine is designed to make your butts look big.” Oh my god, w’ere going to die today. “What.” Spitfire growls. It’s not a question. There was very definitely a period at the end of that word. “What?” Runway echoes, oblivious. “It’s not a bad thing! Big flanks are sexy on girls, you know? Of course you know,” she adds, winking at Spitfire. CAPTAIN Spitfire. My boss’s boss’s BOSS’S BOSS. Wow that’s a weird word. Boss. Speaking of bosses, mine’s on fire. I think I can actually see steam coming out of her ears, she’s so mad. “What do you mean, ‘I know’?” she asks slowly. Calmly. Blood-freezingly terrifyingly. Runway leans to the side to look at Spitfire’s rear end. “C’mon. You gotta admit you got dat flank, right?” Spitfire looks ready to explode. Then, all at once, she’s calm. Collected. Like the fucking Grim Reaper. “Dust?” “Yes?” I say in a very small voice that I’m surprised I was able to find at all. “You are pardoned. Also, do me a favor next time you attack your sister in public,” she adds, giving me an even, highly controlled look. “Um, don’t do it?” Her eyes narrow, and she glares at Runway. “No. Don’t miss.” ------------------------ We’re back in my apartment, after a very long walk home. I almost hurl myself at my couch, savoring the glorious comfort of the cushions, while Runway immediately beelines for her assortment of luggage, which is still in my living room. I don’t want to say anything, however, lest she take it as an invitation to unpack and move in. She ruffles through a big-ass duffel bag, making all kinds of noise. I swear I hear something metallic in there. I look up from my view of my sister barrel-deep in Celestia-knows-what, back to the front door. Which of course she left open. Groaning loudly, mostly for my own benefit, I roll back off the couch and close it. As soon as I turn around, however, Runway’s almost in my face. I say almost because the thing actually in my face is in her way. I try very hard to look past it. Beyond it. Into the infinite void of space between me an all other objects in the universe so as not to acknowledge the presence of… of… “Runway, what the fuck is that thing?” “It’s a bonsai, ya moron!” Don’t kill her. You barely made it out of the office today with your job in tact. Do not. Kill her. “Why are you shoving a bonsai up my nose?” She graciously removes it from my personal space and looks at it sheepishly. “Well, I brought it at first to apologize for just showing up at rando, cause I thought you’d be mad about that. But then you weren’t so I saved it. Then I was gonna give it to ya to say I was sorry for gettin’ us kicked out of the department store, but then we got ice cream ‘n’ stuff. Then we went to the party and I forgot I had it. So now I’m givin’ it to ya to say sorry for almost gettin’ ya fired.” I roll my eyes and gently take the plant from her. It is kinda nice. And my cloud house could use a splash of color besides all the blue and yellow and white. “Well… thanks.” I gently place it on my kitchen counter for now. When I turn around, she’s back to digging into her luggage. “And what are you looking for this time?” “Some cereal, s’posed to be good for ya,” she replies. I feel a tic in my facial muscles, until she digs herself out, actually holding a box of cereal. “I missed breakfast!” My eyes take a return trip around my orbital sockets. “Just poor me a bowl, would ya?”