//------------------------------// // Chapter II: Forcible Enlistment // Story: Musings on Lyra Heartstrings, or The Likely Result of the Mixed Chromosomes of Twilight Sparkle and Pinkie Pie and Its Adventures. // by TMH //------------------------------// Musings on Lyra Heartstrings Chapter II Forcible Enlistment  If there is one thing Lyra knows, it’s that nitroglycerin and blenders don’t mix (If you don’t believe her, try it yourself).  However, if there are two things she knows, it’s the erstwhile combination of a kitchen appliance and the liquid explosive that is now prohibited from being within thirty miles of any blender wielding Lyra, and the only sensible way to retrieve a wayward set of keys is through amiable, neighbourly, cloak and dagger domestic intrigue.  Therefore, in the interest of reconnaissance, and lunch, our dear protagonist makes her way to the bakery, which shall go unnamed, which employs and shelters the vile mare, who shall remain in a similar state as her workplace. While many of the situations she winds up in may appear somewhat, er, contrived, you should ask yourself this: “How would I go about retrieving my keys from a possible demon’s chambers that I may have been illegally observing?” The answer, my dear, handsome, reader, will invariably lead you to pastries.  Arriving at the venue of the previous night’s escapades Lyra finds, with considerable disappointment, that the bakery, which bears a remarkably whimsical resemblance to  something in a small foal’s glucose permeated fantasies, is packed well beyond the range set forth in the fire code. Lyra is not a firemare and cares about as much as one might imagine about the “Fire Department”, or the “Fire Code”, or the “Statute of Limitations in Regards to Arson”. Wait, scratch that last one. Lyra is actually in a very intimate relationship with that one, she’s still waiting for it to pop the big question.  The amount of ponies waiting for embryos of triticum infused with dead Saccharomyces cerevisiae and coated in the pulverized remains of innocent Saccharum had not significantly lowered, and so Lyra thought it best to sit upon a public bench and furtively observe the comings and goings of the ponies.   The ponies and a dragon.  Hmmmm, a dragon.  A dragon.  Dragon.  *slap* DRAGON!  “Wait a second, I bet Spike can help with my little ‘situation’. Haha. Hahahahahha, Mhahahhahah-*cough* Note to self: Refrain from mad cackling in public, diminishes covert-ish-ness-el-or-something. I really need to carry a dictionary with me.” ======&&*&&======  Spike was having a rather good day. Not an amazing day, Rarity still hadn’t proclaimed her undying love for him, but all around a good day.  His days were usually good the days after Twilight sends a report, friendship or otherwise, to Celestia, or when she takes those little blue pills, but, no, Twilight’s anxiety medication/elephant tranquilizer wasn’t to thank for her ease today.  Compounding the day’s contentedness, and perhaps being directly responsible for it, was the errand Spike had been sent on by his sister in all but blood, and species. That errand pertaining to the procurement of a certain class of sweets, sweets so, well, sweet, that rumors abound to it actually being created by satanic rituals performed by its creator. The confectioneries referred to are none other than one Pinkamena Diane Pie’s triple-layered, sugar coated, sugar filled, all around glucose infused, nutritionists’ nightmare, bane of Celestia’s will, and universally both sought after and feared desert: the Chimmy Cherry Changa.  While nopony actually knows what the Chimmy Cherry Changa contains, though cherries are generally thought to be involved, it is known that it was born of the Pink Terror’s abhorrence for anything containing less diabetes inducing substances than her.  Spike preferred the tangy aftertaste of a ruby far more than any foodstuff ponies had invented, save for the infamous “Baked Bads”, but Twilight enjoyed analyzing the makeup of the various foodstuffs produced by her tertiary colored friend.  Spike is no scientist, but he is pretty sure that anything edible produced from the baker-mare’s kitchens is not conducive to healthy living.  Healthy living of the physical form at least. What prolonged exposure to the Pink One’s Pinkness results in for your soul is not known, but it is reasoned that it may be very similar to prolonged exposure to the -REDACTED-’s 1500 Megawatt Heavy Duty Super-Colliding Super Button. At least, that’s what She’s telling me.  Your narrator’s extra-equestrian knowledge aside, Spike was feeling content and optimistic.  Then Lyra happened.  Lyra in and of herself was not cause for considerable alarm. Lyra galloping toward you, foaming at the mouth, and holding a burlap bag in her mouth, however, is cause for considerable alarm.  Spike would have been experiencing said considerable alarm, if it wasn’t for the fact that Lyra zapped him with a bit of ye olde unicorn horn juice.  And promptly stuffed, to quote a certain fashionista, “poor Spikey-Wikey” into her burlap bag, and wiped some of her spilled milkshake onto the exterior of the bag from its previous location surrounding her mouth.  Trotting off with a brisk tempo in her gait she happily sung a little carefree tune, or, rather, tried to sing, burlap bags are, despite popular opinion, not conducive to a singing voice to rival Whinny Houston. ======&&*&&======  “Ugh, Twilight, five more minutes. Twilight? Where in Equestria am I? Why is there a bag next me?...and why’s my back feel like it has dried milkshake on it?” Groggy, and slightly terrified out of his mind, Spike asked these rhetorical questions with no particular haste, and besprinkled with language that a particular pony would not approve of him using.  BRIGHT LIGHT! BRIGHT LIGHT!!!! SWEET SUNNY CELESTIA THAT LIGHT IS BRIGHT!!!! (You can infer a source of illumination is indeed of the umpteenth degree when you narrator is slightly miffed by its intensity. Stupid lights...*grumble grumble*)  Getting past what the wrath of Celestia must feel like if concentrated in your retinas, Spike attempted to improve his plight by speaking thusly: “Heh heh, okay, you got me Twi. Good one. Ha ha ha...? Twilight? Is this about me eating the jeweled flower vase? I already said I was sorry, and don’t tell me you don’t know how hard it is tell what something is when you’re looking for a midnight snack. Remember that time with the glass roses Celestia gave you for your fifteenth birthday? The whole castle heard you scream, and don’t even get me started on how you tried to hide your bleeding tongue from Celes...tia...”  Spike would have continued his little anecdote if not for the fact that a pony clad in a black jumpsuit, and cutesy-wutesy wittle green and white laterally striped socks, walked into his field of view, levitating a hammer in her magic.  “OK! OK! I ADMIT IT WAS ME THAT BROKE MISTER SMARTY PANTS’ EYE!!! I POKED IT OUT WHEN I WAS TRYING TO WAKE TWILIGHT UP!!! I DIDN’T MEAN TO DO IT HONEST I SWEAR!!!! DRAGON’S HONOR!!!! AND I  WAS THE ONE WHO ATE THE LAST BOWL OF RAINBOW LOOPS!! AND...” Spike went on for some time in this state, with his eyes closed. When he finally opened them, to see if he was in the big cave in the sky, he saw a pony.  A unicorn pony.  Mint green.  With golden eyes.  Sitting on her haunches.  With a video camera.  “Is that all?”  “...”  “I’m going to say that’s a ‘yes’!”  “...”  “I have to admit, I’m a little shocked to find out you’re into that sort of thing.”  “Lyra.”  “I mean, I know I hear about it all the time but I never that YOU of all ponies, er, dracos, sorry, would be into-”  “LYRA!!!”  “-My Little Monkey: Bananas are Potassium Rich. Yes Spike?” “What am I doing here?” Spike asked much more calmly than he felt. “Oh that’s easy, I dragonnapped you!” “Why?” “So I could forcibly enlist your aid!” This line was spoken with a grin that practically shouted cocksureness in the logic of the speaker. “For what?” “Breaking into Sugar Cube Corner so I can steal my keys from a corner of Her (*insert lightning strike here*) room.” “You mean Pinki-” Spike would have continued, however a hoof-shaped gag blocked his draconic eloquence. He wondered, for perhaps the millionth time, why ponies never thought about how unsanitary that was, and how his teeth were designed to pulverize gemstones. “SHHHHHH! Never speak that name in my presence. The last time I heard Her (*insert dramatic orchestral piece*) name, I had to run thirty-seven miles through Hollow Shades, in a flour bag, being chased by Changelings, Batpony militia, a manticore, two teenage hydras, and the first chair cellist of the Canterlot Symphony Orchestra. I learned two things that day: bows make terrible bows, and Her parties don’t always end in glucose-induced comas.” Spike bit Lyra lightly. “OWWWWWWWW! You BIT ME!” She said retracting her hoof instinctually. “YOU DRAGONNAPPED ME!” “YEAH BUT I’M ME, I EXPECT WHAT I DO. YOU CAN’T JUST DO THINGS, THAT MEANS I HAVE TO WORK HARDER TO KEEP MY REPUTATION!” “YOU’RE CRAZY! I LIVE WITH TWILIGHT BUCKING SPARKLE I KNOW CRAZY, BUT YOU’RE CELESTIA-DAMNED INSANE!” “Calm down Spike. Spike. Spike! SPIKE!!! CALM YOUR LITTLE SCALED FLANK DOWN. We need to stay calm to for my will to be don-” “I DON’T NEED TO ACT CALM, THIS IS A VERY NATURAL REACTION TO BEING HELD AGAINST MY WILL!” “True, but if you work with me I’ll just hoof this”, Lyra shook the video camera in her telekinetic grip, “little bad colt over and nopony has to know about your fascination with Stalliongrad ballet.” “I, BUT, BUT . . . oh, ponyfeathers. Fine, yeah, whatever, it’s not like stranger things haven’t happened to me.” “YES, HAHA, EXCELLENT NOW I’LL-” “Why did you have a hammer and black jumpsuit?” “Huh? OH! That! The hammer was for my stockpile of “Things that I’ll Probably be Banned from Owning in the Future”, and the jumpsuit is just fun to wear, it’s so tight and smooth. It’s like being inside my skin, except I’m already in my skin. Huh. I guess it’s like my skin being inside my other skin that’s black, and made of rubber. I like my black skin.” “Oh. What?” “Fuhgetaboutit. We have things to discuss, my little draconian cohort. Illegal things, hahahahaha, Mhahahahahaha, MHAHAHAHAHAH- laugh with me Spike-MHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...” “Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha?...” “...MHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAH...” “...Hehheh...” “...MHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH...” “...mhahahah, MHAHAHAHAHHAHA-this is actually really fun, I can see why you do it all the time-MHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA...” “...MHAHAHAHAHAHAH- I know right?-MAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...” And so they continued until Spike accidentally coughed and set Lyra on fire. Luckily for her, the damp concrete of her eight-story basement is profoundly flame-retardant! ======&&*&&====== “Okay Spike, you remember the plan?” “What plan?” “I don’t know, that just seemed like the right thing to ask.” “...” It is rather difficult to properly execute a look of inquiring unamused perplexity, but Spike pulled it off admirably. At least a 9/10. “Don’t give me that look, that’s the same look my parole officer gave me when he found me trying to tunnel under the magical detectors keeping me under house-arrest, with a fork. I know most ponies would try a spoon first, but I was really hungry and it’s easier to grab clovers with a fork than a spoon. Although, now that I think about it, I own a shovel. Huh. Several actually, military-grade too. I guess I didn’t think that through too well, but at least it wasn’t like that time with Cele-HEY! Where are you going?” This question was posed as our favorite little draco casually started walking toward Sugarcube Corner, from which he and Lyra where a short distance away in a rather sizeable shrub. “To get your keys.” “But I don’t have a plan yet!” “*sigh* Just let me handle it, okay? I just want to go home, reshelve the historical-fiction section, and take a nap. Until Twilight sets the library on fire and I have to go roll around in the fire until Rainbow Dash and the weather team can come put it out.” “But the Pink One will surely-” This statement of assured damnation was cut short by the door of Sugarcube Corner coming to rest in its doorframe after being pulled inward will all the force a baby dragon could muster, which is a surprising amount actually. Learned that when I tried to get a boxing cutie-mark back in the day. “Pitted against their peers.” my hind hoof!  Your narrator’s fascinating life aside, Lyra was sure that she had doomed the young drake to a fate far worse than the tortures of living with Twilight Sparkle, which are, admittedly, vast in both scope and intensity. Being the responsible mare she is, which is to say, fearing the body may somehow lead back to her, our horned protagonist took it upon herself to come to Spike’s aid. Or, at least, profit from his untimely demise. “I wonder what they’ll put for his epitaph? ‘He died as he lived: surrounded by mares.’ Nah. ‘Faithful assistant, friend, and instant-messenger.’ No they wouldn’t get the reference, stupid ponies and their irreverence for history! I know the documents are old, but so is the imported cheese in Rarity’s icebox, and that’s never stopped me from breaking into her house and eating it. Nopony sees my genius, nopony but me! I’ll have a statue one day, and when birds defecate on a marble effigy of me, who will question my logic? WHO!? Hey Bon Bon!” Lyra interrupted her own dreams of avian defecation, and grandeur, with a wave to her neighbor, and what appeared to be her visiting sister, as she trotted toward the alleyway behind the bakery. “Bon Bon, is that the mare you always write about?” “*sigh* Yeah.” “I think she’s into you, you should totally ask her out.” “What? NO! NO NO NO NONONONONONONONONONONONO, THAT’S LYRA, MY NEIGHBOR, NOT Her...” ‘Her...’ was accompanied by a dreamy sigh. “Oh, right. Lyra is your neighbor. So Colgate is your ‘Amor Sempiternus’?” “No, that’s my dentist, my ‘Amor Sempiternus’ is-” Bon Bon was about to reveal her, to quote one of her “Novels”, ‘Amor Sempiternus’, but growing up I was told eavesdropping on ponies is bad, therefore I think it prudent to remove the rest of the conversation from your seditious ears and send you to your room. Now go think about what you’ve done audience, and know that this hurts you more than it does me! Wait, I think I said that wrong. Stupid “101 Ways to Troll an Audience” and its easily confusable quotes! Now go away audience, I need to brood in peace. With my things. That you can’t have. So there! Hah! I don’t need you! I’ll just stay here. All alone... PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!!! I see you fell for ‘ole seventy-one: “Pity the author.” Hahahahahahahaha classic.