Musings on Lyra Heartstrings, or The Likely Result of the Mixed Chromosomes of Twilight Sparkle and Pinkie Pie and Its Adventures.

by TMH

Chapter IV: Sorority of Sinister Siblings

Now, now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Celestia and Luna this pony is sexy.” and, while that is very true, you should be thinking this: “He totally just made that last chapter up as he went along, especially the end.”

  While that is completely true, in fact every, entirely true and accurate, story I’ve relayed to audiences has been, um, improvised, only in the most minute of details of course, I must attest the whole and pure validity of these anecdotes.

  With my compulsory prologue out of the way we can continue.

  As per the norm with Lyra’s reunions with her family, Lyra found herself consumed in a kidney-bruising embrace after being quizzed in various criminal laws and their similarly various loopholes.

  The current example of reunion was chiefly composed of none other than Lyra’s only sister, Misty Morning.

  Misty Morning was a pegasus with an off-white mane and tail, a coat that seemed to shift and glimmer as if it longed to shroud everything about it, and, perhaps paradoxically, brilliant mint green eyes. It very well could be said that she resembled near terrestrial water vapor condensing due to temperature difference between ground and higher atmospheric elevations, in the morn no less.

  To reiterate, she looked like what you would expect.

  She happened to be an officer, in case you somehow missed that. An officer of finance.  An agent of doomsday. A member of They Who Taketh Our Funds to Pool Our Funds. A lady of lament. A messenger of monetary mastication.

  To say more concisely, a tax collector.

  The horrors that this, this, abomination, of “justice” and other such nonsense as the “rule of law” and “sound financial management,” wreaked upon good, honorable citizens is despicable.  Her, in lieu of a word or calligraph that accurately describes it, “profession” was not the oddest thing about her, however much I might detest that.

  Neigh, the oddest thing about her was her family.

  Now, I’m sure you expect me to make her out as the “normal” one in a family of nutjobs. And I’m quite sure you expect me to attempt cliched comedy skits with it that weren’t funny even when they were new.

  Never make such unfounded assumptions. It shall transfer you to no great station in life.

  When I say, “the oddest thing about her was her family,” I mean that her family, including her, are quite the unorthodox bunch.

  Starting long ago with Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Auntie Roseberry Dew, who was well renowned in her day for collecting objects and novelty decorative pieces that we might call gewgaw. (I assure you that word is founded in reality.)

  Some say Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Auntie Roseberry Dew was a close friend Her Most Immaculate and How Does She Never Get Stains On Her Coat I Can’t Wear White Hoof-Cuffs Without Getting Them Soaked in Everything Majesty, Princess Celestia of Eques-waitforit-tria. Trading knick-knacks and antiques and telling the most elaborate stories of them.

  Circuitous and verbose stories if you ask me, I would never sink to such lows as to fill my lack of proper reporting and affluence of procrastination with purple prose that is verisimilitudinous of true intellect.

  Truly, my humility knows no bounds.

  Returning to the genealogy lesson at hoof, we shall find that, through the generations, a certain level eccentricity was maintained and radicalised.

  From Great-Great-Great-Great Grandfather Marred Weather, a most appropriate name, who produced and, illicitly, tested the first contemporary theories of meteorological warfare.

  To Great Grandmother Kernel Corn, another most appropriate name, who pioneered in the field of battlefield nutrition, devising and issuing the first canned goods light enough for soldiers to carry with them.

  Beforehoof, the mares and stallions of war relied on the bulky and, also quite apropos, succulent targets that the large refrigerated wagons that supplied nourishment in far-flung wastelands made for.

  She was affectionately nicknamed “Colonel Corn.” Although she was technically a Commandant. Being a Marine and all.

  Returning to the time period of this story, we find that most of the former customers of Sugarcube Corner have mysteriously vanished. Sometime after hearing Lyra’s sister was in town the townsfolk furtively, so as not to let them smell the fear, galloped the hay out of there. Most of the rest vanished after realizing Misty was a tax agent.

  The two sisters paid no heed, however, and instead proceeded to inform the other of her life since they last spoke.

  I shall present the information in an abridged, narrated format, as the two talked through speech, body language, their family’s own verbal code, and even some primitive telepathy Lyra knew.

  The relevant information is as follows:

  Misty is going to be in town for the foreseeable future, helping whip the locals into good economic shape.

  They’re both still single. Not surprising. *cough* Ahem, what?

  Hollow Shades is a wonderful place to live, according to Misty. The bat ponies have the most exotic and effective invasive interrogation techniques.

  Ponyville is as boring as ever, according to Lyra, the only ponies that see any action are the Elements of Harmony, and Derpy. Plus, the Import-Export Guy (Interesting Note: This was communicated using all the ways listed above.) only comes once every two-months.

  Mom and Dad are still on vacation in the Western Islands training local militia groups in exchange for a small villa, a not-so-small sum of precious metals, and enough jungle fruit to feed a small army.

  So they finally have a reliable food source for their insurgency then?

  Yeah, but Mom likes it there so much she wants to abandon the plan for the Southern Griffon Kingdoms and overthrow some of the local republics and tribes instead.

  You seen a dragon around here?

  Yeah he came in about five minutes ago, walked upstairs. Why?

  He’s trying to get my keys back from the Pink Devil that inhabits this foul place.

  Seems nice enough for me. Could use some darker colors, but-

  Give it time.

  Want some help with those keys?

  Yeah sis. And the b-

  And the body?

  Yeah...

  Got you covered.

  Mr. and Mrs. Cake watched the whole thing in a mixture of awe, then fear, and finally dismissiveness, muttering something about, “Mares these days.” Then they went about their business trying to find a way to keep some twenty-five pounds of recently ordered baked goods warm.

  I’m quite confident that all of you kind and patient readers are quite eager, some may go so far as to say restless, to hear of the continued adventures of Spike the Fearless.

  Unfortunately for you wandering drunkards, the only Spike hear is Spike the Retriever of Key Rings.

  So it is that after casually walking up the stairs Spike oriented himself and began his walk toward the Room of our long anticipated foe.

  It being Pinkie Pie’s day off, however, meant she was off gallivanting about the town in search of “Friends” and “Smiles” and other such frivolous frivolities.

  Thus is is that our very own Spike the Retriever of Key Rings simply walked through the open door, located the spot that Lyra told him she last remembered holding the keys in her telekinesis, and, with much pomp and circumstance, plucked ‘em up and started on his way back to Lyra.

  Perhaps it is apposite to note that Spike undertook all these actions described with a rather severe frown, much like after he eats a particularly bitter gem with lemon juice, and intermittent mumblings about how he, “Never agreed to any of this,” and Lyra, “just had to follow them [Him and Twilight] to Ponyville.”

  In fact, Spike was just in the middle of describing, to nobody in particular, how he doesn’t even get paid for what he does. And his allowance doesn’t count.

  It could even be assumed that he would have continued on this rant and eventually gone home to Twilight empty-clawed and sulking.

  Lyra, then, inadvertently took the place of Pinkie when her sister and she snatched the keys from Spike’s claw, quickly stabbed him with a syringe of propofol, covered him in a burlap bag, and then stuffed part of the bag in his mouth to prevent him yelling out.

  Pinkie doesn’t like unhappy ponies, or dracos, and, if Pinkie was a Psychologically Unstable Unicorn from a long line of genetic crazy, it could be ascertained reasonably that she would consider doing something similar to what Lyra and Misty just did.

  “Hey, sis?”

  “Yeah, Misty?”

  “This isn’t Pinkie Pie is it?”

  “No sis.”

  “This is Spike?”

  “Yep.”

  “What are we-”

  “Take my keys and go back to my place, you remember where it is?”

  “Yeah, the one with the bomb shelter out back?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, what are you going to do with him?”

  “Don’t worry sis, I got this.” Lyra uttered these words while standing on her hind legs and propping herself up by placing one of her hoofs on the bag covered Spike and the other hoof in the crook of the first. And I’m pretty sure somewhere a dramatic orchestral piece played.

  DING-DONG

  “Hmm, Oh! Sorry, we’re past public hours. Please come tomorrow.”

  DING-DONG

  “Oh, Celestia.” Twilight Sparkle rose from her cushion in front of desk and made her way toward the Library door. “This better be important.”

  *Muffled speech*

  *Gulp* “Hehe, well, here goes nothing.” Twilight opened the door only to have her expectations of a prankster/hostage crisis dashed by a medium-sized burlap bag wiggling around and producing muffled yells. There was a note attached to it.

  Twilight Sparkle,
         

        Tell Spike I appreciate the assistance, and he can expect a shipment of delectable gems within the week.

Lyra Heartstrings