Binky Pie

by Miyajima


Let There Be Balloons

Twilight looked down her spectacles at Bill Door, who had fallen silent.

“How difficult?” she said, her voice level. He shifted uncomfortably on his seat. Aside from Twilight’s piercing glare, he hadn’t quite got used to sitting down as a quadruped, even with a week’s practise.

“You already know why I cannot just... send myself back. Pinkie Pie summoned me here by the Rite of Ashkente, and I am bound here until she releases me. I can not exercise my own power against this rule, for she has taken my place as Death and, in my absence, inherited all my power. I am left mortal, and trapped.” Bill Door replied, occasionally waving a hoof for emphasis.

“... Given you knew I already knew all that, why did you bother repeating it?” Twilight asked, head askant.

“I have noticed you do it quite often to your friends and assumed this was a customary form of conversation amongst you ponies.”

“... Oh.”

“Now, I suspect that Pinkie Pie has figured out much of this herself by this point, yet she has not appeared. Therefore, I can conclude that something or someone is preventing her return, and there are only a small number of beings capable of doing such a thing. Of these, only one of them would have reason to.”

“And that one person is...?”

“Not a person. Never a person. They are the Auditors.”

Twilight waited for an explanation that did not appear to be forthcoming. She waited a little longer, so that she didn't seem impatient. The silence stretched awkwardly, and yawned, trying not to be noticed.

“... What are Auditors?” she asked at last, relenting.

Bill Door was pleased. He was getting the hang of this ‘exposition’ thing.

“The Auditors are personifications of impersonal forces. Gravity, friction, magnetism, they are the ones who control it all. While the gods command their own domains, the Auditors are the ones who keep the universe... ‘ticking over’. They neither love nor hate their vocation, it is simply what defines them, and they treat it with the same mechanic obedience as mortals do to breathing,” he paused, shifting his weight.

“They despise me, for I do not believe that my task as Death should be so impersonal, and without emotion. They say I am corrupted, and ought to be replaced or removed. They have tried to bring this about at least three times already, to my count, and very nearly succeeded.”

“You’re describing them as if they’re people, but you said they’re not ‘persons’. Why is that?” Twilight posed the question, intrigued.

“The Auditors are as immortal as the forces they represent, and understand mortality as having a definite end. They believe that only mortals can develop personality, and that the life of a mortal is so short when measured against the age of the universe that it is effectively nothing. Thus, the moment any one of them develops a personality, it ceases to exist.”

“Ah. Interesting. So you’re saying they’re what’s preventing Pinkie Pie coming back to Equestria?”

“It is a distinct possibility.”

“And how are we to go about fixing that?” Twilight said, grinning, as her horn pulsed with energy.

Bill Door looked up at the ceiling in thought, rubbing his chin*.

“We don’t.”

The glow faded and Twilight looked visibly disappointed.

“Perhaps more accurately, we can’t,” Bill Door added, correcting himself. “This is something that Pinkie has to do.”

“But... But I can’t accept that! We can’t just sit here and hope she makes her own way back!” Twilight replied, a note of distress entering her voice. “She’s one of my closest friends! … My first friend in Ponyville, if it comes to that. I have to try, at least.”

Bill Door seemed a little confused. “But it will not help.”

“You don’t know that!” Twilight snapped, turning back to Starswirl’s journal and her own notes.

Bill Door felt moved to reply, but something stopped him. He noticed the glint of determination in Twilight’s eye, the flash of sorrow at the fleeting prospect that she may never see her friend again, and the anger that she kindled against those who would hold her back.

He mused, as he turned back to his book, that all mortals - wherever they’re from - seemed to share similar traits of stubbornness and illogical effort.


*Or, rather, awkwardly scraping his hoof against his jaw.


Pinkie was in her element.

Well. Not her element. She was laughing, that was for certain, but she wasn’t (by any stretch of the imagination) caught in some vortex of laughter that existed solely for the continued existence of laughter itself.

… Perhaps it would be best to rephrase the statement.

Pinkie was having the time of her Life.

Ankh-Morpork, ‘Citie of One Thousand Surprises’, was certainly living up to its falsified reputation for the pink pony. Although she had been purposely heading towards the Unseen University, she just couldn’t help herself: distraction quickly set in. Everywhere she turned was something new, something exciting, and she struggled to take it all in.

The citizenry of Ankh-Morpork were similarly struggling to take her in, and there was a growing crowd following the diminutive equine, either out of curiosity or avaricious interest. And if anyone alive or undead on the Disc was born to make a fortune by capitalizing on newfound avaricious interest, it was Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler.

With practised, fluid grace, much akin to that of a snake approaching an unwary mouse, CMOT Dibbler sidled up to Pinkie Pie and carefully assessed her. Of course, he knew who she was. Who didn’t, in this city? CMOT Dibbler had been ordained in the Cult of the Pink Pony of Death during its first week. It was his firm belief that it never hurt to keep your options open, especially when you could market cheap knock-off religious charms to your naive and money-carrying brethren.

And when he hit on the idea of making them edible, and thus a consumable commodity, well. That was a stroke of genius, and he didn’t mind saying it. Yes indeed, if the Pink Pony of Death had decided to manifest herself as a joyful, carefree, bouncing and very, very pink pony in the middle of Ankh-Morpork, she would need an agent. A representative, if you will. Like a priest, but with less theological burden.

His thought process, normally an unstoppable force of capitalism, ground to a halt as he realised that the Pink Pony of Death had stopped, and was looking at him intently.

He opened his mouth to say something, but she interjected almost immediately.

“Balloons.”

“... Pardon?” he responded, a little taken aback.

“Balloons. This city needs more balloons.”

CMOT Dibbler cast his experienced eye about the streets surrounding him. Whilst it wasn’t something he would have personally noticed, the city was a little lacking in colourful floating paraphernalia.

“Balloons,” he repeated, his mouth familiarizing itself with the word while the cogs of his mind, greased by the oil of inspiration, began to spin once more. “That could be arranged. I know a guy. Very cheap, fast worker... Uh. How many were you looking to order, exactly?”

Pinkie wasn’t listening. She felt very deeply that Ankh-Morpork was not complete without balloons. Very deeply indeed. And when a deity feels deeply about something, it is best not to get yourself involved.

“This city needs more balloons.” And there were balloons.

Some gods like to make show of their powers, with great lightning and thunder, meteors, blinding light or booming voices. Some prefer the subtle influence of shape-shifting or encouraging mortals to solve their own problems.

Some merely did.

Every citizen in Ankh-Morpork suddenly found themselves with a balloon. Balloons were tied to doors, mantles, street stalls, gates, windows and fences.

And they were all very, very pink.

Pinkie beamed. “Much better!”

CMOT Dibbler could only stare, mouth hanging open, as Pinkie trotted away happily.


A silence fell over the great hall of the Unseen University. This is an unusual occurrence in the great hall, especially given that, at any time, roughly a third of all university personnel can be found there, either finishing the remains of the previous meal or making an early start on the next one.

They were silent because the great hall had, of an instant, transitioned from a state of balloon-lessness to a state that could be described as an abundance of the floating, pink-coloured decorations.

Scraping broke the silence as the great and terrifying bulk that represented Archchancellor Ridcully rose from his seat. He glowered at the assorted students and staff present, searching for any indication of who was responsible for the small dirigible now comically attached to the point of his hat. Ridcully’s glower could melt stone.

When no guilty party became apparent, the Archchancellor returned to his seat and instead cast his baleful glare over the faculty staff that shared his table. The Bursar remained entirely nonplussed, and was instead happily giggling whilst jabbing at the balloon with his wooden spoon.

The youngest member of the faculty’s ‘head table’, Ponder Stibbons, the Head of Inadvisably Applied Magic (and several other equally as superfluous titles), glanced at the small device sitting between the runcible spoon* and the lobster pick**.

“I’m not reading any thaumic disturbance, Archchancellor. Everything seems to be normal,” Ponder said, tapping the device. The needle wobbled slightly and there was a muffled grunt from inside. Ponder squinted at the needle for confirmation, and continued, “Nope. Whatever that was, it wasn’t magic.”

“And if it wasn’t magic...” The Dean added, trailing off mysteriously.

“... If it wasn’t magic what?” The Archchancellor replied, spoiling the moment somewhat.

“I don’t know!” The Dean snapped back, “I just wanted to sound mysterious and aloof, I haven’t got the faintest clue.”

“Friendship,” The Bursar blurted out, causing everyone to turn. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Has he been given his pills today?” The Archchancellor asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I think we’ve run out of dried frog, Archchancellor. Doctor Hix was using them all in his experiments yesterday,” Ponder replied.

The faculty looked towards the vacant seat of Doctor Hix, Head of Post-Mortem Communications. The Archchancellor sighed.

“Someone find that idiot necromancer and see if he’s got any left. And get rid of these blasted balloons!”


*An eating utensil which did not exist except under a constant magical field, and is thus impossible to describe, portray, or indeed, define what purpose it actually serves. It is thought (by the Reader of Spoons, a prestigious position amongst faculty kitchen staff) that the runcible is not intended to be used as an eating utensil, but rather exists to facilitate the identification of a wizardly banquet from an otherwise gargantuan and hedonistic mundane one.

**A dwarven eating utensil closely resembling a pickaxe, designed to aid in the consumption of a particularly calciferous, cave-dwelling lobster species.


One said, How then do we guide her?
One said, It may be best to let her guide herself.
One said, She is born of a mortal, and has mortal thoughts.
One said, But she tries to hide them.
One said, She will succumb to them. It is in her nature.

Three said, We will wait.


Across the Disc, in a small front room of a small house in a small city, Death stood invisible. A child was dying. A sickness, one that had been thought conquered, had re-emerged in the city, and many were falling prey to its grasp. She could see it, now, standing opposite her. Belief in a thing gives it shape, and the people of this unimportant city had reason enough to believe in the plague that now stalked their streets, pale and thin, long and sharp. It stood there, on the other side of the mother nursing her coughing child, looking down with a vile glee.

Death glanced at the hourglass in her hoof. She watched, dispassionately, as the last few grains funnelled through the pinch into the lower bulb, in time to the child’s weakening coughs. Silence fell with the last grain, and the plague smiled.

The mother held the dead child tight, grieving, while the father tried to hold back tears.

The plague stretched out its gaunt arms, beckoning the child’s soul as it sat up from its body, calmed with a serenity that only the innocent could comprehend.

It was The Duty. Death knew that. The Duty wasn’t fair, or just. It was no respector of persons. No regard for wealth or status, for a person’s achievements or crimes.

She knew that the plague should have its way. She knew she should cut the cord that bound the child to the mortal world.

The scythe was in her hoof, it was a simple task. The plague stood there, waiting with growing impatience.

Death looked back at the hourglass.

She turned it over.