An ancient donkey philosopher had once said 'To attain wisdom, one must be daring'. It was something Twilight took to heart; though she acknowledged one could dare too much. Especially when said philosopher, in a full forum of his peers, insisted his particular theorem on the nature of circles was singularly and objectively correct.
The donkey's death was purportedly long, confusing, and hideously brutal. All the things a young girl enjoyed in a good read. Grasping this ideal with two paws, she delved into risky territory.
"I think the chocolate one's better for dunking."
The gasp said all she needed to know, yet Kibitz decided to add his two bits-worth in any way. "Dunking? Dunking?! Such barbarism," the last word was spoken with the tone of one who'd just witnessed a cannibalistic rite. "I'll have you know, Lady Sparkle, that the fissured surface of a plain fouga makes it a superior biscuit in all forms of teatime. Dunking, snacking, and otherwise!"
Two cups of tea later, hers more milk than brew, and she felt strong enough to ask the question. The one that hundreds of ponies begged, bribed, and pleaded for on a daily basis with the palace staff.
“Can I see my mother?”
Moustache twitching, he lowered the cup with exact grace, his corona control a pristine example to all and sundry. Unlike herself, Kibitz never had the joys of Rigid Poise's tutelage, somehow learning the thousand and one arts of 'good breeding' on his lonesome. Twilight occasionally wondered if he'd been born like this. A tiny foal, all stuffy and serious. Or had he been some vicious urchin? A ragamuffin who'd lucked his way into high society?
She'd have to ask him one of these days. A thought that, on reflection, astounded her. They’d lived together for years, but it had never once crossed her mind to ask Kibitz about his past. She knew more about her friends of eight months than a pony that was practically blood!
“It is… unfortunate Lady Sparkle, but her Highness is regrettably embroiled in matters of state right now." A frown tugged at his features, wrinkles gaining ever so temporary siblings, "Delicate matters at that, I might add. We can’t have a repeat of ‘The Gustave Incident’ now, can we?"
Heat flushed Twilight's cheeks, her final fouga crumbling in a clenched paw. “...Oops?”
Despite the abundance of cleaning staff littered throughout her home of seventeen years, she duly began the arduous process of crumb collection fastidiously instilled by the pony opposite. Even if the spray had been impressive enough to render it a task more suited to a brush.
“I refuse to apologise for offering a nation, one we are on good terms with to this day, a method for recovering an incredibly important artefact related to their heritage," she grumbled on hands and knees, a monogrammed paper napkin from the earlier-delivered tea tray consuming each oaty shard.
"If I remember correctly, your device nearly suffocated the Griffon Regent," he said, very well aware of the moment in particular. Twilight knew that for a fact, it wasn't often a pony had the opportunity to perform CPR on a griffon. Let alone the leader of an entire nation.
Hissing as she rose, aches and pains beginning to reassert themselves after her recent bout of increased exertion, Twilight knew her next action. No matter how plush the carpet was, it couldn’t alleviate her abuse of a perfectly good body. Extended study sessions were cancelled for the time being, she decided, knowing that what began as an intended three hours had a runaway habit of turning into ten. It'd be a challenge, but one she’d rise to.
"How was I supposed to know his chain of office was from the same period as the idol?" She groused, absent-mindedly pocketing the sullied napkin before stretching her, twinging back and rolling each oversized shoulder. “He only fell unconscious for three minutes. That’s not even enough time for brain damage to begin!”
“Indeed,” Kibitz replied dryly, rising from his seat with a slow dignified air and taking his charge in hoof. “Now, while her highness may be indisposed, I am always available to offer help, as are Miss Inkwell and Captain Armour.”
“What about Bluey? Or Aunt-”
Twilight had sketched pony anatomy before, both during her on-again-off-again artistic phases and when studying medicine as a down time activity. The shifting of equine musculature held a certain intriguing quality to it, one that had been useful in coming to terms with her own radically different form. Despite this, it was a uniquely uncomfortable sight watching Kibitz body stiffen, each muscle locking in place at the mere mention of those names.
“We’ve no need of that reprobate you call a cousin, Lady Sparkle. As for Princess Luna, she is also indisposed. Albeit with a charlatan whose quackery-” he bit his tongue, a deep snort saying what he felt unable, “-let us just say she is seeing Mister Storm and leave it at that, shall we?”
Ignoring the pointed jabs, Twilight rolled her eyes, familiar with the older stallion's complaints. “Bluey’s fine Uncle Kibby, he just…” she sighed, already aware of what twists and turns this oft-repeated conversation would take, “... does things his own way.”
“The lads a licentious swell! Strutting about town every day with some mare or another!” he spat, all the while looking like his tea had contained rather irritable wasps. “The fool wouldn’t know the meaning of duty if it bit him on his tail.”
“Uncle Kibby…”
It was a tone she reserved for these kinds of conversations, a drawn-out rumble that was more warning than anything. ‘Continue at your peril’ if you knew her well enough to translate it.
“As for work, well, that says it all.” he continued, ignorant to the minefield his complaints had sent him into, “A fashion magazine. A magazine! He could at least enshrine his empty-headed notions in proper literature, not some glossy claptrap unfit even for toilet paper...”
Internally sighing, she attempted to tune him out, trying to be patient with the older stallion and letting the familiar sights soothe her. The room may have been designed for political appointments, but much like every home, it had happy memories. Days gone by, hide and seek with her mother, tea parties over books. It was lovely, but it was also struggling to stand out against her ‘Uncle’ and his venomous tongue. All too soon, though, Kibitz had gathered more than enough rope to hang himself, and with her tolerance emptied, she pulled the gallows lever.
"Uncle Kibby!"
With Twilight, the term 'bark' took on a whole new meaning. One that sent the stallion's glasses askew.
"Blueblood may not be the ideal example of royalty, but how can you tear him down in good conscious while praising me?” A dinner plate-sized palm slapped her chest for emphasis, “A creature with more education than half this city, yet who works in a public library! Who barely had any friends outside of her studies or home until recently!” She gnawed on her lower lip, voice wobbling, “I'm disappointed in you Uncle Kibby. You and Mother always told me it’s our differences that make us special.”
The stallion went silent, his eyes downcast as he fiddled with the pince-nez now inhabiting his moustache in a rather tangled lodging agreement. Whatever vim and vigour had been empowering Kibbitz appeared to disintegrate, leaving only a tired, withered, pony standing before his 'niece'.
It felt like an age before he finally spoke once more, each word uttered slowly, and with due care put to them. Not the diplomacy of those trying to hide bile beneath social niceties, but the grinding, inexorable difficulty of saying the beleaguered truth.
“I…suppose so,” he forced out, a sigh following after. “I apologise for my behaviour, Lady Sparkle. It’s just something about that lad. He ‘gets right up my nose’, as the maids say.”
A smile that had unsettled the newer servants spread its way across Twilight's face. Some suggested it was the plethora of razor-sharp fangs that sent shivers down their spines. Pinkie Pie had a rather more novel suggestion, it was a precursor to the much feared ‘Twilighting’.
She’d been rather put out by the term at first in all honesty, but it had grown on her. What didn’t was the groans of her friends when, to them, it either signalled an anxiety-driven rush or the joys of some madcap science project. Now, though, it was the slightly smug sense of knowing better than a parental figure.
“As for Doctor Storm, Auntie Luna says he’s doing a world of good for her. At least, her last letter certainly did,” She added, her tone implying that this was the final word on the matter.
An unnaturally tense silence followed, the two finding nowhere to go, yet stuck in some kind of impasse. That awful quagmire place where the conversation ended, but goodbyes can’t quite begin.
“…you've changed Lady Sparkle.” Kibitz eventually said, shattering the quiet as he looked at Twilight with new, unfamiliar eyes.
While his words lacked any malice, they still gave Twilight a feeling of sombre discomfort. As if something had been lost that day, small and precious. Refusing to let the notion gain root though, she strode towards her earlier discarded suitcase, work being the greatest cleanser of a troubled mind in the bicces experience.
“So, let's get down to business,” She hummed with false bravado, placing the pig-leather-clad luggage on a table that had seen trade negotiations, peace treaties and even the odd political marriage. “While Raven’s expertise in all things epistolary would be useful here, I think it’s important to get the facts straight with somecreature I can trust. Someone who’ll understand the sensitive nature of what I’m about to show them.”
A single click was followed by the biices dramatic flourish, her case’s long-held treasure on display for all and sundry within a tightly gripped paw.
“Those are-” Kibitz coughed into a hoof, “-your, ah, unmentionables, Lady Sparkle,”
“Hehe, so they are…”
Swiftly ramming voluminous white fabric back into her suitcase and cringing inside all the while, she eventually, this time with more caution, pulled forth a folder full of documents. It wasn’t particularly thick, yet the weight of its contents had dragged her from Ponyville and up the Canterhorn.
“I gathered the evidence-”
That had been a poor choice of words on her part, she realised, watching the elderly stallion bristle like a hedgehog. Even the tips of his moustache seemingly gained new lustre.
“Easy there, Uncle Kibby,” the bicce said, raising a paw. “I can’t have you jumping to the wrong conclusions just yet.” She certainly couldn’t afford Captain Armours' involvement either. He’d just slow their whole process down.
Ignoring the incensed mumbling, Twilight carefully laid out several sheets of paper across the remaining table space. “Two days ago, I received a series of hectographic copies in the mail. While it’s not unusual, those tend to come directly from my private correspondence. Scientists, professors, the occasional art critic. What made it more unusual were two things.” She raised a single digit. “Firstly, the letter had no point of return. Not an impossibility, but certainly odd.” Another finger rose, the black nail polish on it notably chipped, "Secondly, the copies. They’re the records of my final project at Maresachussets Institute of Technology.”
“What was that one again, Lady Sparkle?" Kibitz said, stroking his moustache as if it would kick-start a brain cell or two. “I’m afraid my memory is faltering somewhat. I distinctly remember the false legs and your steam engine modification, but other than that I’m drawing little.”
“The term is ‘prosthesis’ Uncle Kibby, and it’s no surprise you don’t remember the project.” She pointed at the lone photograph amongst the sheets. Within the faded image stood a metallic tube, roughly the size and diameter of a chimney, its end adorned with a glassy-looking spiral. “I never sold the patent.”
“Why ever not?” he asked, horn aglow, gently handling the image with care while trying to parse the seemingly innocuous device's function.
Twilight leaned calmly on the table, content for a nanosecond, before the reality of her actions kicked in and she hopped away. While indeed ‘home’, her time in Ponyville had taught the bicce to be wary of anything wooden and weight bearing. Her life was fun like that.
“I didn’t feel the project was sustainable outside a theoretical prototype.” she hurriedly said, getting her bearings once more. “Just showing we could do it was enough for the grade,” a light shrug followed, “I mean, who needs a stallion portable drill that can cut through solid rock in seconds-”
Boggle wasn’t quite the word for Kibitz expression, but it fit close enough, “Celestia's Beard!”
“-you didn’t let me finish Uncle Kibby, and do you always curse in mother's non-existent parts?” A wry grin found its way to Twilight's face before fading, “Anyway, yes, the drill was powerful. Incredibly so. But you’d need a unicorn to use it and a spare fifty thousand bits on hand at all times,”
“Fifty tho-that’s more than a team of miners make in a year!”
“Yes, that’s on a commercial level though,” Twilight said, eyes roving over copies of her scribblings. “Proper materials, frequent drill bit changes. What we cobbled together worked…but if the Professor asked for another demonstration, I’m pretty sure we’d have burnt the building down.” she giggled uncomfortably, scratching behind an ear, “I’d rather not have that happen twice.”
She watched as Kibitz rifled through the papers, knowing that despite his sterling reputation, most of her documents would be beyond him. It wasn’t arrogance, merely that his areas of expertise didn’t fall within crystal harmonics, magi-tech applications and metallurgy. Though curiously, it did include horology. Not that it mattered, she noted, watching as his nose wrinkled at their tacky touch. This was about the present, not the past.
“Ugh, I do so hate hectographs. Nasty jelly business.” He placed the papers back haphazardly, trying his best to avoid touching them more than necessary. “Still, it is rather bizarre that some unknown party has copies of your notes, Lady Sparkle,” an eyebrow twitched, “Surely there’s a law against that?”
“Yes, which makes the next thing all the more unsettling.”
The folder was opened once more, lavender paws gently pulling the intended document out as if its touch were acidic. Despite that, the contents weren’t hard to see, even in the dull yellow glow of the room's lighting. A similar picture to the prior one, the key differences were two-fold. Twilight now inhabited the picture, standing awkwardly before the drill in a lab coat and safety goggles, the elastic wrapped ungainly around her skull. The second difference was rather obvious. Painted in bold, red letters across the image, were the words “Merchant of Death” and “Their blood is on your paws”.
“Ah,”
“Yes," she replied, her jaw set and tone icy. "My feelings exactly.”