It's dim: typical lighting fare for these bookish types. Speaking of, the one in question is cowering on the floor in front of me, hooves drawn to his chest. The orange cast by the room’s few candles only make him look more pitiable.
“Quit groveling; it makes you look pathetic,” I tell it to him straight.
“B-b-b-but groveling is all I know how to do!” he whimpers, shuddering all the while. “I’m something of a-a wallflower you s—”
“Can it.” He makes like a kipper and does so. Don’t know why I thought kippers. Maybe thinking about Opal (Damn odd, right?). Anyway, I scan the room, tilting my head as I counted the goods. Though wearing sunglasses indoors would normally be a dumb idea, my eyes are good enough to make it work. Plus, it’s a necessity whenever my black suit and white undershirt combo are involved.
Once I take stock of the wares, I look down at him and say, “You know why I’m here.”
He barely raises his chin before quivering out, “Y-yes, but I have a good r—”
“Not for having them this long.” I pat a small stack on the table to my right. “And especially not for these types.”
“Y-y-yeah, but—”
“You know how hard reference books are to come by, especially these ones? Other ponies need these, and we can’t very well leave them hangin’ just so you could hoard them for your—”
“I wasn’t hoarding!” he shouts, his head shooting up from the sudden growth of a backbone. “I needed them for my personal thesis! I had to make sure everything was accurate and well-cited, and it had grown more complex so I—”
“Don’t you play me,” I snap with a grizzled edge. “I know exactly the kinds of things you do, you sick puppy.” The drippy-nosed dog merely sneezes.
“As for you.” I refocus on the owner. “You were aware of your liberties, but decided to take advantage of them, thinking we wouldn’t notice. Heh, you seem to forget exactly what kind of pony I work for.”
The pony’s spine withers away as he resumes shaking. I turn around as he begs. “P-please, I can pay. I may not look it, but I can be a very motivated, unquestioning helper.”
“We both know the exact penalty for this.” My sword being unsheathed gives my sentence a sharp punctuation. “There’s no point in trying to kid yourself.” I lick my lips as my claws caress and take hold of the hilt, and turning around I raise the blade over my head. Despite what physics had to say, the guy manages to make himself smaller. Except for the eyes; they only get larger.
“N-no, stop! I have a family!”
“No you don’t.”
He glances back with a blush. “Yeah, that was bit of a stretch. But I’m sure I have some distant cousin; if you’ll just let me—”
“Not gonna happen.”
He gulps. “S-surely you wouldn’t do something this cruel, would you?”
Towering over the poor guy, arms raised, sword primed, in a position of unmitigated cruelty, I pause and reflect on his earnest plea. Then I raise my sword higher, baring my pearly whites.
“Obviously you don’t know my work ethic, either.” I let it drop.
“NOOOOOOOO—”
A flash of steel. A streak of crimson. Another day at the office.
Ep1
MIDNIGHT OVERDUES
My name is Spike. I’m a dragon, and also the main character of this story. It’s not a glamorous one, but since you bothered to pick it up, I may as well regale you. I could say this is a story of Love & Late Fees, but then I’d be unoriginal and a liar. No, this is a tale of Bloodshed & Order with a side of Intense and a sprinkling of Strange, because that’s how it goes. It’s also a Serious story, so it can get heavy at times. Just saying.
Some key details: I have a job. A rather important one, unfortunately. The official title is Royal Vanguard to the Literary Preservation of Her Most Majestic Majesty’s Academical Interests. However, most everyone (especially me) just calls it Fetcher, which is essentially what I do. Not the most eloquent of names, but it’s sure better than Gopher.
My job boils down to getting back books from ponies who have been delinquent with their returns. Now, most of the time, a nicely-written letter is sent to remind them of their overdue status, sometimes delivered via an arrow to the door. Most of the time they make their returns, pay their dues and we leave them be. But sometimes they don’t do as the letter says. Or the ones after that. Sometimes they also like to keep many books, never paying the fine. That’s where I come in.
I not only get those books back, but I do so with extreme prejudice.
To the present: having just performed my duties with a disappointing lack of opposition, I find myself standing in Her Majesty’s Librarium (don’t ask me where she got that name) giving my report. All my life I’ve been around books, sorting and handling them, but I can never get used to the massive yet painstakingly organized pile that took up the center floor space, from which she conducts her important royal decrees and whatever. I swear, even with my shades on the whole thing is practically glaring. I’d say it’s magical touch-up, but honestly I think they naturally glow whenever she’s nearby, which is always.
“I got the items in question, Your Highness,” I begin. “All accounted for and in good condition.”
“Well done, Spike. Once more you bring me and these grand tomes good tidings!” she decrees while spreading her magnificent wings for effect. You’d think after eight years she’d get tired of doing that. “I take it the hoarder has been dealt with just as verily?”
“Verily in—HMMN, yes. He was no trouble at all. Though there is a newly-orphaned puppy to consider.”
“Most excellent, dear Spike,” she says with that radiant, though official smile of hers. “One less hoarder for these fair books to be worried about. The wayward pet shall be handled by the Royal Animal Wrangler, as per usual.”
That’s what she calls them: hoarders. Basically she has it in her mind that ponies who have been very late with their books are actually keeping them for themselves with no intent of returning them, and for the most part she’s right. Admittedly, someone who wasn’t familiar with Her Ladyship’s habits and had little to no regard for their own life might point out that she herself is hoarding. However, the difference is she lends them to everyone, and outright encourages said lending. Granted they’re brought back on time, otherwise... yeah. A bit ironic, though: having a dragon take out book hoarders. It would be amusing if that was her sole reason for employing me.
Having nodded her approval, she looks back up at the observatory built into the ceiling and gets back to floating different royal science stuff in front of her. “You can take the rest of the night off. You earned the break most deservedly.”
I shrug. “Maybe not too deservedly, but I still appreciate it, Twi.” I take up my sword (had to put it down, decorum and all) and turn for the door without pause, keeping posture as I do so.
As I reach for the doorknob I hear from behind, “Um, Spike? You didn’t refer to me as 'Your Highness' that time.”
I hold still and think about it. “I didn’t?” Shrug. “Hmm, my mistake.” I can feel that understanding smile form on her face.
“That’s okay, Spike. Same time tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” I open the door and step out into the cool Ponyville night. Funny, after all these years and the tree still looks unchanged from the outside. Then again, look who’s running the place.
Twilight. Silly over-serious Twilight. A bookworm like the rest of ‘em, and then one day she becomes a princess. Takes on greater responsibilities, becomes Protector of the Weak and Inspired. Barely a year after her change she begins the campaign to restore balance to the written word by any means necessary, and being her faithful assistant, she entrusted me to do the dirty work wherever it was needed, anywhere in the whole of Equestria. At first there was a lot of it, but things began quieting down about two years ago. A good if messy outlet for a growing pubescent dragon’s excess energies, I have to say. Keeps the stress down and maintains the peace (though usually costing the peace of mind of others).
Ponies say Twi became more overbearing over the years, and a bit power-mad. To an extent, yeah. The whole crusade against book hoarders pretty much proves that, among other things. But crazy enough, things still work because of it, so she’s doing a good job as far as anyone’s concerned. Besides, the rest of Equestria's gotten pretty twisted over the years as well, so pots calling kettles something or whatever.
Sometimes I’m asked why I put up with her, why I do this. For one, being the only creature with opposable thumbs around makes me a dead ringer for a job that requires frequent swordplay. And for another... I suppose I owe her. Getting my ass out of fires, usually ones I started. And the whole upbringing thing.
Fuzzy reflections turn over to other needs. Specifically, a certain kind of itch that needs scratching.
Claws in my suit pockets, my feet carry me toward the business section of town, and soon the lights of the Boutique appear on my shades. It’s busy tonight: a line of gentlecolt callers have taken up most of the yard, hoping for selection. Figure I can pay a visit.
I walk up to the door beside the line of stallions, their eyes, necks and nerves twisting as they inevitably notice me. I shoulder by the stallion at the door (barely an inch taller than me) and head inside. Usual Thursday night set-up: hanging crystals, deep pink lighting, all kinds of drapes. Like the daytime business, the first floor is mostly for show. The real magic happens on the second floor, and only a select few make it to the stairs.
The line of stallions end at a table, where sits the hostess of the evening, making her judgments: Rarity. Coat like finest porcelain gossamer, covered in the scantiness of silk wear and, to my actual surprise, a familiar heart-shaped keepsake. Good to know I’m still in her thoughts. Better mosey on over and say hello.
I wait for the stallion at the table to scram, and then I warm into the chair across from her, the guy at the front of the line not objecting. “Hello, beautiful,” I open.
“Hello, Spike. What brings you here?”
That curt breath before speaking; the way she barely bats an eye at me sitting down before her; her even, casual tone bordering on professionalism in its delivery. This is the rapport borne from years of familiarity and nothing more. Despite her plain greeting, I smoothly remove my shades and put them on the table. Looks as lasting as hers, you gotta take it all in.
“Her Highness gave me the night off, so I thought I’d drop in.” Gotta say it low, smooth. Have to maintain appearances; it’s the least you can do for a proper lady.
“That’s nice, dear, but can’t you see I’m rather busy at the moment?”
“I see.” Subtle nod. “Still, never hurts to see an old friend for a while.”
“Well, actually—”
“How bout you close up shop early and have a drink with me, just the two of us. Whaddya say?”
Her sigh signals the beginning of a dance that is also all-too familiar.
“Do you really have to do this, Spike? Now of all times?”
“I don’t think it’s that bad a time,” I say with sincerity. “It’s late, I’m feeling bushed, and clearly,” I raise a claw. “You’ve been thinking of me.” I aim it at her heart. Both of them. She just gives a glance and looks back to me, unfazed. Ever the model of the modern hostess.
“Oh, that. Well, I couldn’t find my usual jewelry and I was in a bit of a rush to get ready. Don’t put any thought into it.”
“Still, you keep it around, and that says something.” I plant my arm and elbow on the table and lean in, easing into my counter word sabat.
“Spike, isn’t there an... eight year difference between us?” she two-steps a rebuttal, but I’m on the uptake with a recovery verbal sweep.
“So? There are couples out there with far bigger age gaps. It don’t mean a thing.” Now for the twirl. “Besides, how hard is it to come by someone who is alright with your ‘other’ line of work?” I nod to the awaiting callers, who I imagine smile back nervously. “I understand that times can be tough and a mare has to do whatever is necessary, and I completely respect that. A working lady has a right to handle her business however she wants, no matter what business it is.”
A moment of hesitation as she looks to the side. One of two outcomes: she’s feeling vulnerable and I finally got her. Or, more likely...
“Oh dear. Um, how do I put this delicately?” She takes a breath and looks me square in the eyes. “The fact is, Spike, I... well, I don’t want no scrub—No no, Dr. Suture, I said scrub. Singular. You can stay—What I mean is, your line of work isn’t really... befitting of a lady such as myself.” A cough from one of the waiting John Ponies interrupts her, but quickly she adds, “Besides, aren’t you and Sweetie Belle still together?”
I shrug. “Don’t really see how that’s a problem.”
“I LOVE YOU, SPIKE!!”
“Shut up baby, I know it.” I look from the stairs back to Rarity. “It’s nothing serious. And we know that affections can drift about without taking root. I mean, look at you and tonight. Or you and all those other nights.” I lean in closer. “Why not give it a chance, Rarity? You know I’ve come a long way from being just ‘Spikey-Wikey’. Heh, you might even be amazed.”
“I’m afraid I’m in no position to even consider that now, Spike.” She flicks her curly mane with that aloof mystique of hers. “I ask that you politely leave. My clients have been kept waiting for far too long.”
She’s clearly brought an end to this dance. Again. “Fair enough.” I take up my shades and make a point to put them back on slowly, which goes well with my reserved image, among other things. “I’ll be catchin’ ya around, doll.” I get up and head for the door.
“Do it during the day if you really must, Spike,” she calls as I nudge past the stallions and back into the welcoming dark of the outside. All that mood lighting just about gave me a headache.
Once clear of the Boutique, I take a deep breath and sigh. Another strike-out, possibly making it just a little worse. Really comes as no surprise: years of barking up the same porcelain tree with little change hardly expects different results, and it’s been one-sided Friend Zone pretty much since the day we met. And though I like barking up this particular tree, problem is, there’s some things that a job of wanton violence and execution can’t satisfy in a growing dragon. Even sadder, there’s hardly anything in this town at all to fulfill those particular needs period.
I look up to the stars briefly before walking off toward the edge of town. Maybe I’ll just stroll by the stream, take a long cold dip and then head home. It’s been awhile since I got some decent sleep when I think about it. Not too long, though, but I wouldn’t want to go back to being an insomniac. Things aren’t nearly busy enough for that.
A soft flutter precedes the settling of added weight on my shoulder. I turn my head and immediately recognize the ball of well-preened feathers and soul-piercing eyes.
“Hey there, Owli.”
A scroll with Her Highness’ seal is held snugly in his beak. I take it out to give him some breathing room, and he takes the opportunity to greet me with a “Hoo?”
“I’m doing okay. Yourself?”
“Hoo.”
“Ah, really? All the better then.”
There was a time I wouldn’t have known what the hell he said other than “hoo”. But there are advantages to being Vanguard to a princess, including access to all manner of books on communication, and even complimentary tutoring from the foremost expert in animal communications (Fluttershy). Though we started off jagged at best, after a few lessons in Owl (subtly complex language, whodda known?) we came to be fast friends. Pretty amazing how far a little understanding can take you.
“Hoo?” he pries, to which I shrug.
“That obvious, huh?” I ask, rather unnecessarily. “Yeah, but a guy’s gotta try. Kinda ruins my night, though.”
He nods. “Hoo.”
“I appreciate that, man. Anyway, let’s see what Twi has to say.” I hold up the scroll and break the seal. I have a good feeling what it’s about, and unrolling it and seeing that very neat, official handwriting, turns out I'm right.
Most Loyal and Dutiful Spike,
A matter of some concern has come to light as of recent. In my cataloging of the Librarium's inventory I noticed a number of missing books, and a short investigation has brought my attention to one Mrs. Belljar, widow. The books in question have been gone no fewer than three weeks past return, and there is record of repeated notices sent to the individual in question. Such prolonged delinquency cannot be tolerated. Therefore, you are tasked with retrieving the articles of interest and ensuring that Mrs. Belljar, widow, won’t commit such a transgression again.
Though I am aware I relieved you of duty for this evening, you will be delighted to know that the suspect in question resides outside of Ponyville town limit, near the outskirts of the Everfree Forest. Included in this scroll are pinpoint directions and a list of the books in need of retrieval.
Proceed unerringly and with adequate caution. I have, and always shall have, the utmost faith in your abilities.
Sincerely,
Princess Twilight Sparkle
Just like that, it’s back to work. I take a breath and roll up the scroll before looking to Owlowiscious. “Duty calls, it seems.”
“Hoo,” he says in understanding.
“Guess you should head back. I’ll catch you around, bud. And take it easy.”
Only a silent nod this time before spreading his wings and flying off into the night toward the library, or Librarium rather. I grip the hilt of my sword to get my mind into gear, and begin my walk out of town. This sudden imposition isn’t a bad thing. Though the job doesn’t satisfy certain needs, it definitely helps me forget them. And I needed the distraction quite badly.
It takes ten minutes before I spot the residence of Mrs. Belljar, widow: a very nondescript brown cottage, practically blending in with the forest behind it. I’d swear if it wasn’t for the moonlight I may have overlooked it. As I got closer, I begin to smell the decay. I could taste the rotting wood before I saw the mold. Not a very good homeowner, or perhaps she’s one of those old bags that stay indoors all the time, ignoring everything outside the front door. Even her own house.
I stand before the shabby door and shift my shoulders into a more firm position, ready to play the part. Normally this kind of thing wouldn’t be carried out at midnight, but the instructions were very insistent about getting this done. It wouldn’t be the first time I made a house call in the dead of night, either. Duty tends to outweigh courtesy in these circumstances.
I raise a fist and rap it on the door. The thuds reveal surprising thickness despite its condition, and they’re followed by an unsurprising silence. After some seconds I knock again, and still no answer. I grab the rusted doorknob (my royal position allows jurisdiction for breaking and entering). The door opens with ease. Somewhat odd.
I step in and look around. Fairly dark, even if I wasn't wearing shades. No candles to speak of: just a modest fireplace, burning enough light to show a dusty easy chair and ancient throw rug, both of them more shadow than substance in the bad lighting. Apart from those, there were the usual senior citizen accoutrements: humble coffee table with a bowl of knitting wares, sewing machine, at least three glass cabinets loaded with assorted collectible chinas and porcelain bobbles. The place reeks of old age, top to bottom on every surface. Certainly not the home of a hardened criminal at first glance.
Letting the door close behind me, I walk over to the middle of the living room and try to find some sign of the dear widow.
“Mrs. Belljar? Are you here?”
My nose picks up a waft of cookware, burnt metal, recent. I stride to the other end of the room and get to a door by a bookshelf filled with figurines. I softly plant my shoulder to the door and open it, leaning inward as it swung. I peek in, then assume an upright stance before walking into the very ordinary kitchen. It also smells of old pony, but it’s not as heavy, subdued by the homely scents of cooking and afternoon tea. In the middle of the floor is a table with two rickety-looking chairs and a bowl of fruit in the center, as well as a chandelier of four candles hanging above it, providing the room’s lightsource. As I step toward it, I look over to find an antiquated white stove by the wall, where the crone of the house stood.
Her coat’s a faded vermillion, and an old green shawl is draped over her shoulders and upper back. Can’t make out the cutie mark. Her mane’s a typical old-pony white, except there’s a lot of it, done up in a bundle best described as a cross between whipped cream and a miniature snowman. She hums to herself, though loud enough for anyone to hear. She’s minding a kettle, which I can tell is about to steam.
“Mrs. Belljar?” I say to get her attention.
“Yes, dearie. I heard you come in.”
She turns her head and I see her face: fairly smooth for an oldie, and has that mixture of kindness and misery you see in the elderly. Something that makes you happy and sad at the same time when you get down to it. She addresses me with a weak smile, then speaks again in that oaken soft voice.
“My, aren’t you quite the strapping young lad.” She shakes with every other word uttered. The kind of infirmity that can make a heart melt, but mine has no time for shaky old ladies. It’s in it for business.
“There is something we need to discuss, Mrs. Belljar,” I cut to the chase. She gives a half-shake of her spindly head.
“In a moment, dearie. I’m about finished making tea.” She nods to the table. “Please, have a seat. I can’t have you waiting around uncomfortable.”
I hesitate, then pull out the chair closest to me and plant myself down. I could tell from her voice the request was genuinely sincere, the sort that’d be rude to balk. In a moment the kettle begins its piercing shriek, but Belljar’s on it like a pro, grabbing the handle with rag in mouth and taking it from the heat. She pours the boiling water delicately into two cups, and just as delicately she puts down the kettle and bites the dainty metal tray, also delicately (wonder if they're dentures). She trots slowly over to the table and puts the tray down expertly by the bowl of fruit, close to me. She looks to me.
“I say, don’t those sunglasses make it hard to see? You don’t have to worry about impressing me any if they make things inconvenient for you.”
“I’m not trying to impress. They’re part of the uniform, you understand.” Not really, but they help me focus on the job, and they definitely sell the professionalism angle. My little discourse seems to work, as Belljar turns around and heads for the cupboards.
“Suit yourself, dearie. I’m not one to judge.” I keep my eyes on her as she rummages around the cupboards. There’ve been too many runners in my day that I’d let my eyes wander for a moment. She doesn’t take long in coming back, now only carrying a plate with some blue, swirly-frosted treats. It takes a split-second for my nose to register what they are, and even less time for my mind (and mouth) to salivate.
“Sapphire cupcakes? Oh man, those are my favorite! It’s been soooo long...” I recompose myself with a cough, but it’s far too late from the looks in her eyes. Smooth one, genius. “Yes, this is something of a surprise.”
“I made them just the other day,” she replies. “The ingredients allow them to stay fresher for much longer, so it will be like I baked them only yesterday.” She gives a smile, both of kindness and pride. Smug old bat. I pick up one of the cupcakes.
“So you were expecting me, then.” I sniff the cupcake, then give the frosting a taste with my tongue. No trace of poison, or even sedatives. If I didn’t know any better, I say this was a normal jewel-encrusted confection.
“But of course, dearie,” she continues. “I have a sixth sense when it comes to expecting company. It’s always nice to have someone around, especially after my darling husband passed away. And of course, it wouldn’t do for someone of your position to not have a proper welcome.”
I munch away at the cupcakes while she talks, burying the shame as discreetly as possible. There aren’t many of them, and they’re relatively small. If there wasn’t enough poison for me to taste, then there isn’t nearly enough to put me down. Maybe if I had been a pipsqueak it’d work, but as far as I can tell they are plain, ordinary, ungodly delicious cupcakes. And still she’s gabbing away. What’s with the old needing to flap their gums any chance they get? It just makes the whole thing sadder. Now she’s taking the other chair to cozy up to one of the cups of tea, taking it between her hooves. A mild sip shuts her up, finally. After a moment she looks me dead in the eye, just as I finish the last cupcake.
“Now, what I really wanted to do was to discuss the matter of your visit in a civil manner.” Yup, here we go. “Though I’m well aware of the seriousness of your visit, I admit that I’m prone to forgetfulness. Mind’s not as sharp as it used to be, sad to say, and as a result I lose track of things. That being said, I’ll willingly give back what you have come for. All that I ask is that you let this old mare enjoy her last few years quietly. Not very many of them left, I should say. And I’d certainly do no harm to anypony.”
She smiles pleadingly. Granted, she’s being more cordial and reasonable than most others. But, even so...
I grab the other cup of tea. It practically disappears into my claws (keep forgetting how big they are). I take a sip, not taking my eyes off her. Nothing fishy in the tea, either. A real sweetheart.
“Though I believe you wouldn’t hurt anyone, there can be no exceptions,” I lay it down to her. “Notices have been sent to this address, frequently. Weeks of reminders, Mrs. Belljar, and you chose to ignore them. I’m sure you’re a nice pony at heart, but some confections and kind words aren’t going to make this go away.” I stand up. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to get down to business. It’s late enough as it is”
She gives the slightest mournful shudder. “I understand. Just let me get my glasses. I’d like to be able to see my maker when I go see her, heehee.” Belljar turns back to the cupboards, where I spot the dainty pair of glasses on a countertop. This is going by surprisingly smoothly. No crying, desperate begging, screaming. Been a long time since I dealt with someone who took to their own impending demise with such grace and dignity.
I decide to let my eyes wander slightly, take in the quaint ambiance of the kitchen. “Nice place you have. Don’t suppose you have anyone to give it to wh—”
I hear the dispersal of air in time to shift my head to the side, letting the knife shoot by and plant itself into the wall behind me rather than my skull. I immediately look to Belljar, who’s hunched in the typical stance of someone who had thrown something with the intent to kill. She straightens up and sighs, light gleaming off her newly-placed glasses. No harm to anypony, my ass!
“Oh, fiddlesticks. You are a quick one, aren’t you?”
It’s a bit excessive, but I respond by picking up my chair and tossing it at her. I watch it clear the distance over the table... only to halt midair before her face in a silvery glow. I then notice the little glowing bump nestled within her mountain of hair, and I swear under my breath.
Unicorn. She just had to be a unicorn.
“Now that’s an incredibly mean thing to do,” she remarks, her face showing no reaction to the chair dangling in front of her. “I thought you’d be well-mannered enough not to throw around another pony’s furniture all willy-nilly.”
Without batting an eye she shoots the chair back at me, which I narrowly duck. It smashes into a dozen chunks on the wall behind me, and before they all hit the floor I already have my sword drawn and am halfway across the tabletop. Again the old bat is on the uptake and I feel the other end of the table lift up sharply, making me stumble before it flings me back the other way. I land in a crouch and slide back a few feet, and as I stand back up the hag launches the entire table at me, fruit and plates included.
I raise and bring down my sword in a slash that cleaves the table in two, both halves going past me without touching. Barely after I catch a breath I hear the rending of bolts, and just as I turn to the side I’m side-winded by the stove and knocked across the room.
The door into the kitchen explodes as I tumble out into the living room. Little birds are spinning over me as I pull myself back onto my feet. As I shake my sight back into focus, there is the pull of some chords and a whir. I turn around and lo and behold it’s Mrs. Belljar, only now with two gleaming chainsaws revving and beside her. Are you freakin' kidding me?
“I wanted this to peaceful, but now I must take matters into my own hooves.” Her voice is as even and calm as an executioner’s, overcoming the roar of her weapons. “You just wouldn’t leave an old mare alone, even after I asked you kindly. Now I’m telling you to get out, otherwise I’ll—YAAH! Gracious, I went and pulled my back.”
While she crumples from her ill-timed affliction I dash across the room to split her head in two. As I bring down my sword, she glares at me and crosses the chainsaws to block my attack and push me away.
“Attacking an old woman while she’s injured? Disgraceful!”
From the hole leading into the kitchen, several knives float out and line up around the crone before firing at me. I avoid and deflect them as they zing by, and once the barrage is over I spot a rocking chair gliding over to the incumbent hag, who raises her flank slightly to take a seat. Rump firmly planted, the chair lifts her a few feet off the ground and hovers in place (albeit rocking).
“Ahhh, that’s better.” She looks at me. “Now, I believe there’s something called ‘respecting one’s elders’ I should teach you before getting you out of my house.”
“You’re a real class act, lady.” I sneer. “But I think it’s well past your bedtime.”
“First lesson, dearie: minding your tongue!”
The chainsaws rev up before Belljar throws herself at me, weapons trained. I hold up my sword and catch the intercepting deathdealers, and after a flurry of sparks and grinding metal I shove them aside. Belljar glides slowly to the other end of the room and turns around, siccing the two chainsaws on me from different angles. I dodge like crazy and parry them back, but their rotary teeth remain sharp and hungry for dragon bits. I get backed into the recliner, but I flip back over it and kick it off the ground mid-flip, and it knocks back the two chainsaws hard. The recliner falls into tatters as the heavy equipment run back to their mamma, who's making ready for a follow-up.
An aura of gray rises up around her stupidly large hairdo, and from the table several yarn balls float up and start orbiting her. I manage to crook my head curiously before the felt-layered spheres shoot my way, one by one. I’m still kinda dumbfounded, so two of the balls smack me on the face before I get my head back in the game and slice up the other ones. Then out of the bowl comes two knitting needles, which line up with the spot between my eyes before firing.
I duck low to let them fly over me, but standing back up I find them hovering just a short distance behind me before coming in for a second sweep. I hold my sword to the side then cleave the air, slicing both needles in half. The metal bits bounce on the floor, but it’s when they float back up into the air that I realize I gave the fogy four stabby things instead of two.
The needle parts circle round me then halt before shooting at me at once. I deflect two of them and duck under another, but one from the side manages to tear my coat sleeve and leave a bloody gash on my arm. First blood in this fight and it goes to the geriatric. This really isn’t my night.
The fresh rush of pain makes me more focused, and concentrating, I aim and slice repeatedly at the needles until they’re indiscernible bits. Before I let them rise up in more numbers, I turn and face Belljar and make a run for her. Stupid old bag has been watching her little needlework and let her guard down. I leap and stab my sword forward, ready to end this nonsense. A line of decorative china appears and takes the full force of my attack, bringing me to a dead halt in the air before I find myself flung back onto the ground. I crouch land yet again, and immediately the cabinets around the room burst open and dozens of figurines shoot out and swarm around Belljar, practically buzzing like pissed-off porcelain bees.
Before I could say how ludicrous this has become, the figurine swarm disperses and flies right at me. Next thing I know I’m getting pelted by cheap collectibles and trying to bat the stupid things, getting bruises all the while. Amidst the tempest I spy a shimmer and leap to the side, a chainsaw embedding itself into the floor and tearing it to hell. The other chainsaw follows right after, and along with figurines trying to bust my skull, I’m losing standing room and getting wood chips on my shades.
This has to end. Using my arms for cover, I look around and spot one of the empty cabinets. I roll over to it and knock it onto me, making for some protection and giving me a chance to catch my breath while the figurine swarm beats on it. I feel the wood caving in and chipping, and I also hear one of the chainsaws revving up. Time to get unconventional.
I scramble on the floor, keeping the cabinet on me as I make for Belljar’s direction. Just as the first holes appear I shove my back hard and fling the cabinet up at Belljar, who promptly destroys it with a swing of a chainsaw. While she’s distracted I roll sideways, and planting my feet into the floor I spring up for a rising slash. She looks down at me just as the tip of my sword connects with her cheek and tears upward, cutting off her glasses and a chunk of her stupid mane in a splash of blood.
I flip and land back onto the floor, and the figurines follow in clattering fashion. In the refreshing silence afterward, I look back and see Belljar still floating in her chair, looking exhausted and none too pretty. A bit of her horn is sticking out from her ruined mane like a sore thumb. I point my sword at her.
“Ready for bed, granny?”
That seems to strike a nerve, because her eyes flash pure silver before she lets out a hellish, ear-splitting screech. Magic energy blasts me off my feet and across the length of the living room, through a wall and onto something soft and comfy. I’ve landed in the crone’s bedroom, and after getting a nice look of the ceiling I sit up and see tonight’s next shocker: other than the floor space before the bed, the room is covered in piles of books. Most I recognize, but there have to be books from libraries from other towns, districts even. Seems this really is the home of a hardened criminal.
Speaking of which, the witch comes floating in through the hole that used to be a wall, eyes aflame and her mane floating about like it was possessed (and it most likely is). She has her chainsaws at the ready, along with bits of living room acting as under-side shielding. There wasn’t a molecule of sweet old lady left in her twisted, snarling face.
“You stay away from my darlings, you wretched meddler!” Nothing but shrieks in that one. “I won’t let you lay one filthy claw on them. They are as dear to me as grandchildren; no one is taking them while I breathe!”
“You’re delusional,” I state the obvious. “And so you know, playing the insanity card won’t make your sentence any easier.”
“It doesn’t matter you little miscreant. You’ve gotten me far too riled up. You’re not leaving here alive!”
A haze forms around her, and everything in the room starts rumbling. The mattress shoots up and tosses me onto the floor, which creaks and groans from incredible strain as I get on my feet. Right as I get my balanced, rows of nails shoot up from the floorboards and hang in the air around me like a sharp, rusty aerial minefield. The nails quiver and shake, while Belljar slowly lifts a hoof, her face nothing more than vicious eyes and a crooked smile of malice. Only one thing to say in this situation.
“You’ve got to be kidding...”
A drop of the hoof and here comes the pain. I raise my sword to deflect maybe three of the nails from the get-go, but all the rest just swarm in to stab everything not guarded by my blade. Seconds pass of nails zipping by and coming at me, piercing and tearing through my suit and cutting up whatever’s underneath. My sight’s all blurry from so many freakin’ nails, and I’m steadily getting soaked with blood. I keep batting away, chopping up whatever I can, but there’s too damn many of them.
My focus wears down and I feel myself stumbling from the injuries and the swirling nails. Some kind of roar makes me spin around half-confused, and I take a chainsaw to my side. Everything slows down, strips of my suit and drops of blood soaring gracefully as I stumble to my right. I feel myself collapsing, but I plant my sword into the floor so that I manage to kneel sloppily.
I’m breathing heavily. The pain in my side and thudding in my head drowns out all noise, except for the cackle of that demented crone. I look up and see that the nails have lined up by her sides, giving her a set of rusty wings. She must be really full of herself, or I’m hallucinating. Has to be the former; no way I could’ve lost that much blood. Right?
“Looks like the whipper-snapper’s had enough,” she gloats (they always have to gloat). “Maybe if you ask kindly I’ll end your miserable life quickly. I’m always open to a little courtesy, keheeheehee.”
I start to feel woozy. Stupid hag has had her fun long enough. And given the chance, she’ll keep having more of it. Gotta end it now; the suit’s had enough as it is.
As I breath, I begin to feel the familiar warmth growing in my core. Getting a hard grip on the sword hilt, I push myself back into standing position, the left lens of my shades clattering to the ground as I straighten up. Oh yeah, it’s personal now.
With my free claw I pat the wound on my side, and once it’s nice and drenched I bring it up and smear it over my blade, giving it a dark sheen. I hold the blade up, just as wisps of flame start rising from the corners of my mouth. In one long breath a trail of flame goes down to my sword, and I concentrate on making it circle around and stoke the blood on it. Belljar just watches curiously, doing nothing as the fire grows and begins to rise up to drape over my shoulders. Big mistake, granny. Ever heard about the cat?
As the rite continues, my limbs start burning with power. Things take on a sharp green tint, and I can feel my mouth take on a cruel smile. Poor bat doesn’t know what’s gonna happen, judging from the way she’s gawking.
A primer: dragon fire is magic. Dragon blood is also magic. Put the two together, throw a weapon in the mix, and there’s only one outcome: sweet carnage.
“Chartreuse Phoenix.”
I blast off after uttering those words, the room getting bathed in searing flames as I soar straight across the room. Belljar manages to raise a hoof and drop a jaw before I rip through her in a burst of fire and steel. The world stops for a second, just before the ensuing blast demolishes everything around us.
When the green dies down, I find myself standing in what’s left of the crone’s bedroom. Hell, what’s left of her house. No ceiling or roof to speak of: just piles of scorched wood that had once been walls. Feeling the familiar chill of the night, I look around the former bedroom. All the books are gone, vaporized just as the last flickerings of green fire snuff out. I hear a whimper, and looking down I find Belljar lying on the floor, a hole where the right side of her chest should be.
She’s reaching out to where the books had been, her breath raspy and blood-stained but overcome with despair.
“What... what have you... done to them?” She says it condemningly. Sad waste of last words, but I figure I ought to oblige her.
“Put them someplace far from you.”
She strains to look back at me, opens her mouth as though to cry, and falls silent and still. Crazy old pony finally at rest. Very likely another case of finding comfort and company in the written word and losing touch with reality, something like that. No family, no friends. Just loneliness and the escape into literature. Miserable bat.
In any case, it seems I managed to get all the books with that blast. I bet the princess will squee a bit once they pile up in the Librarium in a few minutes. Always nice having something as convenient as enchanted fire to handle bulk work.
Unfortunately, the adrenaline wears off and I falter. This job took way too much outta me; I don’t think I can stumble back home before conking out. Luckily, I happen to know a certain Royal Healer who lives nearby. I lift up my sword, sheath it, and trudge from the ruins of the house and into the light of the full moon (since when is it never a full moon?).
There was a time when I’d tell myself that all that I do, all of it was a dream. That I’d wake up in the little basket at the foot of Twilight’s bed, and she wasn’t a princess. Simpler times. Carefree, innocent.
But this is no dream. It’s cold hard reality.
This is life under Her Majesty’s New World Order.
And I’m hell on Equestria.
DEATH by DRAGON
MIDNIGHT OVERDUES
end
*Unashamedly inspired by the artful madness of Suda51