//------------------------------// // Chapter III: Relations of Lyra's Further Shenanigans and the Chance Encounter it Prompted // 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, or the Likely Result of the Mixed Chromosomes of Twilight Sparkle and Pinkie Pie Chapter III: Relations of Lyra’s Furthered Shenanigans and the Chance Encounter it Prompted     First of all, dear reader, I wish to apologize for my behavior at the end of the last chapter. It was wholly uncalled for.   Anywho, now that Mother is satisfied, perhaps we can continue this narrative?   Indeed? Indubitably!   After resolving to acquire a first-row seat to Spike's untimely demise, Lyra began to formulate a scheme as devious as it was foul. Pertaining to the juxtaposed nature of the Bubbly-Maned One’s joviality and crippling cynicism, perhaps bordering on schizophrenia. It was quite plain for all to see that there was simply no action or order of actions to obviate the young drake’s consummation of ephemerality.   Thinking it prudent to delay no longer, for she had been idly, and wholly naturally we assure you, sweating and presenting a smile so grand so as to be anatomically inconceivable, and risk being linked with the murder via stander-bys’ later testimonies, she hurried, with great stress on appearing unstressed, toward the alley behind the pastry shop.   Seeing a bush with a horn scooting around the Ponyville market, and subsequently stuffing itself within a trash pail, may seem, at first consideration, to be an odd spectacle indeed. Ponyvillians, however, are well known for their eccentric hobbies and idle musings, and so think little of their fellows practicing extreme flora contortionism.   I tried my hoof at said sport once upon a bygone day. I still feel as if my spinal column is shattering under the pressure of Canterlot Mountain every time I trip upon a wayward twig or faggot.   But, I suppose there is no need to dwell on such things as my mild vegetation induced Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.   Arriving in the concealment of the shadows and general gloom of the filth stricken path, our fearless, and dashing, protagonist proceeded to at once let the illuminating power of justice and love send her screaming murder into the locked back entrance of the bakery. This proved, yet again, that Lyra and affidavits do not mix. Though the paper was actually a crudely drawn stick-figure of what appeared to be Rainbow Dash and Scootaloo with barely legible hoof-writing that read, “A match made in Taur-Tartaro-Tartarus.” There was a roughly drawn tiara following the words.   You’d be surprised at how easy it is to confuse an affidavit with an ineloquent abandoned insult.   Lyra quickly magicked that little black-mailing beauty into her saddle-bag. Diamond Tiara hadn’t been paying her “dues” on time. Lyra figured that a strategically placed hint or two about a certain paper winding up in a certain prismatically maned pegasus’ hooves would fix that up directly.   “Hahahahaha! Yes! I get Diamond Tiara to pay her overdue library fees and Twilight will let me use her first edition copy of An Egghead’s Guide to Elucidating Speech for Means of Conversing with the Laypony for sure. I know there just HAS to be a secret government codex in there. I mean, why else would Twi get a new edition of that on everyone of her birthdays? And why am I saying this out-loud?” Shaking her head violently, she began to scan her immediate vicinity for anyway to breach the locked portal barring her entrance.   And did you really think Lyra was extorting foals? That’s absurd! Everypony knows that you can’t acquire enough bits to buy any serious black-market military hardware like that. Take it from Lyra, she did the math. Several times. And performed a few field trials. And, due to an unfortunate misunderstanding, is now on the Equestrian sex-offender registry.   She vehemently protested her innocence of molestation and demanded that she be tried for extortion of a minor instead, buuuuuuuuuuut noooooooooooooo, “Stranger Danger” was all the rage back then. Bunch of foals. Everypony knows the majority molestations occur on weekends from 7pm-12pm in Princess Molest-*ahem*-Celestia’s chambers, as reported by the Equestria Inquirer.   Overcoming my attention deficit, our object of, shenanigan inducing, focus had spotted an open window close enough to the ground that, with the assistance of a few miscellaneous trash cans, could be used to illegally enter the premise.   Gathering the necessary objects with her crazy demonic unicorn horn juice, Lyra shakily began her ascent, one hoof at a time. Making progress ever so slowly, physics, the bane of burglars the world over, grew weary of the task and, with the help of government black budget operators no doubt, designed to cause some overdue chaos.   Sensing the impending doom of her makeshift ladder, and having no desire to dirty her coat (What? A mare can’t take pride in her appearance?), she scurried toward the pinnacle of the ramshackle device. Instinctively using her magic to steady her quickly crumbling hooving, Lyra dived through the window just as the mass of garbage containers smacked the ground with a muffled thud.   And promptly impaled her horn on a sack of flour.   “Oh horsefe-*cough*-thurrrrrrrs-*wheeze*-,” Fun fact, flour is not conducive to effective exclamations of disgruntlement. As popular opinion is well opposed to I’m sure.   Resolving to prevent her lungs, and general upper respiratory system, from becoming sufficiently readied to be baked in an oven at four-hundred degrees fahrenheit for three hours, or until golden-brown, or whatever color the illustrious reader prefers his/her food, Lyra quickly removed the bag from it’s resting place upon her horn. She then simultaneously flung the bag into a corner of the dark closet pantry she was in and used her golden sparkle powers to wipe her face of offending white matter.   Get your dirty thoughts outta here. This ain’t that kinda story, unless you imagine really hard. I mean, not like that, uh, yeah.   Moving on.   Not stopping to think of the plentiful innuendos that adolescents of a future age could derive from her recent predicament, Lyra quickly scanned the oppressive darkness, and mildew mixed with flour, with her magical green ice cream cone powers. (I’m not even trying anymore.) Finding the room sufficiently clear of potential hazards, and spiders, ewwww, she silently sneaked her way to the door.   After a hazardous journey filled with every imaginable creaky board and loose nail imaginable, she found herself pressed against the portal to damnation. Otherwise known as a door whereupon being pried open could reveal a face full of party cannon.   I shall leave it to the, grand and elegant, reader to decide if the use of party cannons by third parties on civilians is a violation of Equine Rights. Like landmines filled with custard. We still aren’t sure where the Destroyer of Introverts acquired sufficient military grade explosives to send three pounds of custard outward at speeds exceeding four hundred -insert local and/or fictional Equestrian measurement of speed- per second. We are sure that the answer has greater universe shattering implications than the question.   Taking a moment to shudder in fear with thoughts pastry filled soirees and baked goods debauchery, Lyra slowly pressed the door open.   Press...   *CREAK* Stop.   Heavy breathing.   Press...   *CREEEEEEAK* Stop.   Similarly labored breathing.   Press...   *CREAK CREEEAK CREAK! CREAK!! CREAAAAAAAAAK!!! CREA-*   Buck it.   SLAM   *WHUMP*   *Creaaaa-* Glare *aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-* Intense ocular fixation of disdain and distemperment. *-aaak*   “When I finally finish my time-machine, I am so murdering the pony who invented doors. Bucking doors.”   Lyra would have likely ruminated further on her designs of chronocide, but, as the Gods of humorous circumstance willed it, found herself the object of attention of several dozen ponies, most of them in some phase of consuming delicate and doughy delectables.   After several moments of awkward silence, somepony in the back of the room spoke up, “Lyra.” her voice was deadpan.   “He he he, um, hi, Officer Mist.” Lyra was clearly distressed, if her sweating and scratching of the back of her neck with her hoof was any indication.   “That’s Officer Misty Morning to you Miss Heartstrings.” The now firmly established officer of the law was making her way toward the green mare. Most everypony else was quietly edging away from the two, as if the two were drawing swords in preparation for a duel.   “Oh, yeah, right. Officer Miss-in-Mourning, got it.” Apparently realizing that she was indeed Lyra, Lyra grew a smirk and her demeanor seemingly gained equal parts snarkiness and bravado.   “I’ll be sure to add ‘Disrespect of an Officer’ to your impressive criminal list.” Barely a pony’s length away now.   “Two words, Officer, autrefois convict.”   “Three words, Miss, breaking and entering.”   “Yeah, well, your face! UHH!”, “UHH!,” Was accompanied by an extraordinarily graceful and righteous sticking out of the tongue.   “That’s ‘Assault of an Officer.”   “Yeah, well, your face! Again! And your tail too! So, yeah. BURN, er, something.” Lyra’s face morphed from a triumphant cocky smirk to a self-reflective questioning gaze over the course of the last -*ahem*- “Insult”, if such a string of unequaled eloquence can be named that, which was made all the more amusing by that fact that she had never rolled her tongue back into its natural dwelling. Thereby making her facial expressions SO FICKING CUTE, OHMAGAWD I CAN’T STAND IT-UNGH!!!   Right...right, deep breaths. Think of nature. A lion ripping a gazelle’s legs apart while it’s still kicking and trying to run, then it accepts its fate and fades into the darkness as its entrails are devoured in the maw of the malicious beast.   That’s better. I can do this.   Thank Celestia for Equestrian Geographic. Those sickos.   Officer Misty Morning was now barely a nose length away from Lyra, she spread her wings, did I mention she was a pegasus?, and embraced Lyra in a spine-crushing hug.   “How you doing sis?”