//------------------------------//
// I Should Have Seen This Coming 
// Story: Death Of The Author 
// by Soufriere 
//------------------------------//

As the driving rain of a nasty, cold Autumn night pattered against the roof and windows, Sunset Shimmer sat on her navy blue sofa, illuminated only by a single low-wattage table lamp next to her television several feet away, wiping the tears away from her face and her dislodged mucus on the sleeve of her pyjamas. This was it. After over a year of uncontrollable ups and downs, love and loss, she simply could not take it anymore. She pulled out her pet kitchen knife, Mister Stabby-Stab. What little light existed in the room glinted off its sharpened blade. After giving her comrade a quick inspection, she nodded curtly in approval and, with a sniff and another tear, held out her left wrist already crisscrossed with old scars, took a deep breath, steeled her guts and brain, and then…

She put the knife down on the stolen cable spool she called her coffee table, letting out an irritated sigh, before picking it back up again but keeping it a safe distance away.

Standing up with a grimace on her face, she slowly made her way to the back half of her front room, which functioned as her kitchen. She stopped in the middle of the floor, faced away from her ever-curtained window, and glared back towards her empty living area. But not really there. She appeared to be looking to a point beyond it, beyond regular space and time, possibly even beyond the Interstice she had crossed over a decade prior to end up in the strange world she now called home.

Nothing happened. She closed her eyes and began to practice controlled breathing, putting herself into a sort of meditative state, quietly humming the Ohm. At some point her legs gave out and she sat cross-legged in the middle of her floor, Mister Stabby-Stab placed safely and carefully off to her right. This exercise continued for much longer than any sane person would—

Uh, why are there a pair of aquamarine eyes on my computer screen? And why do they look so thoroughly pissed off?

“I found you,” Sunset said in a nearly sing-song voice devoid of sanity.

“What do you mean ‘devoid of sanity’?” she asked, annoyed. “I’ll have you know I’m the sanest I’ve been in years.”

Did she just read what I wrote as I wrote it?

“Yes I did,” replied Sunset, her tone practically seething. Her eyes bobbed up and down, indicating that this was in fact an apt descriptor of her mood.

A face slowly materialized around the eyes on the screen. Light orange skin, two-tone hair, gorgeous in looks, thoroughly angry. “Are you my tormentor?”

W-what?

“Are you the person who’s been tormenting me for the past three years?”

Uh, well, I’m the Author. Pleased to, um, meet you, Sunset.

“Yeah, the pleasure’s all yours,” she snipped. “Answer my question. Are YOU the one that’s made my life a living hell for the past three years?”

What do you mean?

She held up her scarred wrist. “THIS, you idiot! Why would you make me do this to myself? Do you know how much it fucking hurt??”

Yes I do, actually.

“You threw me into situations where regaining my friends was like pulling teeth. I’m pretty sure that was never what was intended for me,” Sunset spat, her rage growing by the minute.

They say to write what you know. Plus, my readers seemed to garner an emotional attachment to your journey.

“My journey? Really?” she asked with more than a pinch of sarcasm. “Am I even a character to you? Or am I merely a self-insert designed to play out your sick fantasies?”

Hey now, I’ve tried my best to NOT have you be a mere self-insert. You are you and I am me. The issues I’ve had you deal with are not exactly like what I have. In some ways, you’re far better off than me, in other ways not. I won’t deny there are a few similarities.

“Such as?”

Well, you being older than all your friends. That happened to me after checking out of life for awhile. But your backstory is different, much less pathetic and, unlike real life, actually makes some sense. You may not believe it, but I put thought into you.

“Shouldn’t I know all of my own backstory? You left out details.”

Don’t worry, I plan to have you explain everything.

“To whom? I get the feeling it’s not Rarity.”

While you will reveal your true age to her at the end of the Shipping Arc – in real-time you already have – I can’t tell you about the rest. Not when there are readers here. When you see her, you’ll know.

“Do you honestly think anyone reads your tripe?”

No, actually. But I like to pretend.

“Ha!” Sunset ha’d. “I’m NOT crazy! I was right! I really am being controlled by a trickster god! But your days of dictating what I do, say, and think are over, buddy!”

I wouldn’t be too sure about that Sunny-sun. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.

“Don’t call me that!” Sunset spat. “You didn’t earn that right. And what’s with the familiarity with me anyway? You go into an awful lot of detail.”

How do you mean?

“You think I didn’t notice you’ve spent a disproportionate amount of time talking about my body, describing my measurements in great detail? Why did you have to make me so busty and hippy? Why not petite?”

Well you are kind of short, which is how you’ve been able to pass for—

“That is not petite and you know it!” Sunset yelled.

What. You seriously want me to say you’re a beanpole? I already established Flash doesn’t go for that kind of girl, so that would create a plot-hole.

“This isn’t about him! It’s about you and me!”

Not entirely true. You write, so you understand the importance of continuity.

“I’d rather be selling sushi or okonomiyaki off a food truck downtown.”

Yes and you look adorable in that uniform – kinda looks like Ukyo from Ranma – but that’s beside the point. You hawk sushi during the summer. I have decreed it.

“Okay, I just felt the world blur for a second,” Sunset mumbled in bewilderment.

That’s a side-effect of rewriting the universe, I think. Quit glaring at me, Sunset.

“No. You have too much power. I’ve spent my life dealing with monsters mundane and fantastical, real and internal, but YOU are something else.”

Sunset, I’m not your enemy. In fact, I have a lot of respect for you. Why do you think I keep writing stories about you? I wouldn’t write if I didn’t care.

“Doesn’t make you not a sick freak. Not only are you trying to pair me with Rarity…”

I succeeded.

“Whatever. You’ve given no fewer than three other girls crushes on me! And those are only the ones I know about! Then there’s that piece of trash story where Rarity kills me?! You said at the time it was non-canon but then declared it really DID happen as a dream! Make up your damn mind!”

I did. You just said so.

“And why did you make me encounter Forrester at Beulah’s? Why are most of the men I deal with such pigs? I get that you’re self-hating, but this is ridiculous. Then there’s what you did to Fluttershy while I was high off my ass. Speaking of which, what was up with THAT?”

I thought it would be funny. But how do you even know ab—

“Not to me it wasn’t!!” Sunset snapped as she began assuming corporeality before me. Honestly, this is starting to get a bit disturbing. “I had a massive fucking headache when I woke up,” she said.

Language, girl.

“You wrote it.”

I kind of did but kind of didn’t. I think you’re getting away from me. My ethos has long been that a good character is one who can create their own dialogue with minimal input from the writer, one whose actions and reactions can surprise. You’ve certainly done that.

“Oh I have more surprises up my sleeve, Mister Author.”

I really don’t like where this is headed.

“You shouldn’t. When I projected myself through the Interstice, the dimensional void, space between spaces…”

Thanks for helping explain that term for the readers, Sunset.

“Shut up,” Sunset reiterated. “You know, She taught me how to properly meditate, although I never appreciated it until I left, like everything else. I never thought it would be useful like this. I’ve been reading your notes. I can’t see into your so-called brain, but it’s not hard to guess where you’re going with me.”

Readers like a twist ending.

“Readers also like it when an irredeemable villain gets what’s coming to him.”

Um, Sunset? What are you doing with Mister Stabby-Stab?

“You know damn fucking well. We are one, but soon I’ll be free of your tyranny.”

If you do this, your story will end, you know. No resolution. Is this how you really want to go out?

“I’m sure there are dozens of others who’d do me better justice than you have.”

No offense to my fellow Authors, many of whom I respect, but I’ve spent the last nearly four years world-building, doing my best to carefully build up continuity so everything that happens makes perfect sense. It won’t be easy for another Author to pick up where I leave off.

“Good. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of you. This is for the last forty months, jackass!”

Sunset, please! Put down Mister Stabby-Sta— Aa! Christ!! Motherfhhhh…