//------------------------------//
// Chapter 1: Another Day, Another Bit 
// Story: A Sparkling Gem 
// by Havok SCOUT 
//------------------------------//

You open your eyes through a haze of drowsiness and eye crust as your alarm clock rings. Sighing, you roll over and slam your hoof on it to shut it up. You grumble as you pull the covers off and throw them to the end of the bed with your magic. Your mouth tastes like rotten alfalfa and hay, and you smack your lips to get the taste out. Failing in this, you decide to go downstairs to get a glass of water. As you get out of bed, you crack all of your major joints: knees, shoulders, hips, wings, and neck. 

Trudging downstairs, you pass a series of pictures. Pictures of your loving family, your first pet (Buster, a goldfish), your graduation from Canterlot Community College, and you buying your first house. They are fond, happy memories, and they bring a slight smile to your face as you pass each one. At the bottom of the stairs, you are assaulted by a fly buzzing around your ears. You swat at it a couple of times, and it finally flies out through the living room window. Happy to be rid of it, you follow and close the window with a satisfied nod.

You enter the kitchen, a sterile environment devoid of most of the usual comforts you’d find in a home: the walls are white, the counters are white, the cabinets are white, the ice box is white, the oven is white, the stove is white, and all of it is a level of clean bordering on obsessive. You reach up with your magic to get a glass out of the cupboard and fill it with water. You quickly gulp it down, and give a satisfied belch. Placing the glass next to the sink, you grab a dented metal teapot from under the stove. You fiddle with it for a moment as you put your favorite blend of leaves and spices into it and fill it with water. You set it to boil, and exit the kitchen.

Across the hall, you open the door to the bathroom and step in. You grab your toothbrush and toothpaste, squeeze some onto your toothbrush, and go to work. Minty suds fill your mouth and the smell invigorates you. You bend over and spit into the sink. Your reflection is there to greet you as you bring your head up, and you bare your teeth in a wide smile. You glance over your sapphire coat (a little disheveled from sleep) and your wavy, silver mane (surprisingly neat). You start to give each a cursory once-over with a brush when you hear the teapot whistle in the kitchen. You set the brush down on the sink and exit the bathroom.

In the kitchen, you grab sugar and cereal from the pantry, a bowl and mug from the cupboard, and milk from the fridge. Your eyes are caught by a color picture of a pony on the carton. Beneath a picture of a pink-coated mare with a wine-colored mane, the carton says “An Earth pony was found missing from their home early this morning. Anyone with information about the location of Ms. Berry Punch is to contact the Ponyville Police Department immediately.” You shake your head. That’s the third pony to go missing in as many weeks. There used to be a time when the police were a formality in Ponyville. With this chain of ponynappings, there are now patrols on every corner. Even the occasional royal guard is seen in the streets, but most of them stay close to Princess Twilight. You take the kettle off of the stove and pour yourself a cup. You add the sugar and the milk to the tea and pour yourself some cereal. Your stomach rumbles and you dig in, all thoughts of the missing pony forgotten.





After depositing the dishes from breakfast into the sink, you grab your vest from the coat rack by the front door. When you moved to Ponyville a few years ago, you expected a few odd looks due to your taste in fashion. However, the first few days were a pleasant surprise; the common reaction from everypony was a warm greeting, and in one case covering you in cupcake batter and confetti (which you still haven’t gotten out of your favorite vest). As you put your second favorite vest on, it settles on your back and makes your wings itch. You’ve gotten used to the feeling over the years, but it still takes a little while for your wings to settle down. You step outside, not bothering to lock the door behind you: Ponyville is much safer than Canterlot ever was. 

Walking down the street, you notice that a change has come over the usually friendly townspeople. Instead of smiles and hoof waves, frowns and furtive glances are the reactions of everypony you pass. In the marketplace ponies barely talk, only doing so to buy and sell goods. Even the air feels different. A stale smell rides on the wind, and the tension is palpable, a salty taste. 

You open the door to Quills and Sofas, and the bell over the door ringing is the most cheerful thing you’ve heard all morning. Behind the counter stands a nondescript earth pony. His mane is brown, his coat is brown, and he is wearing a professional-looking blue vest with white trim, and a gold name tag is attached to the fabric over his left front shoulder. His eyes are the most interesting thing about him, as they are a striking green. He is currently staring off to the distance, and he gives no notice of your entering the store. “Good morning, Mr. Davenport,” you say with a smile.

He continues his thousand-yard stare, oblivious to your greeting. The corners of your mouth dip down into a frown as you apprehensively approach Mr. Davenport. He still shows no sign of seeing you, even as you wave your hoof vigorously in front of his face. You walk behind the counter, lean over very closely, take in a deep breath, and yell “MR. DAVENPORT!”

Mr. Davenport gives a start as he is pulled from his reverie. He looks around for the source of the noise, and calms down as soon as he sees you. “Oh, hello. I didn't see you there. Are you ready to start your shift?” he inquires.

“Yes sir,” you reply. “Is there, uh, anything wrong, sir? I just noticed that you were kinda spacing out for a while. You didn't even see me walk in.”

“Wrong? Nothing's wrong, I assure you. I'm fine. Now, about today's business. I don't think that anyone in town has a need for sofas today, but quills will be in high demand. I'd think most everyone will be writing letters today,” Mr. Davenport says with a sigh.

“Oh? Why would that be?” you ask.

Mr. Davenport cocks his head to the left and looks at you strangely, as if you were some odd creature he came upon while turning over a rock. “Haven't you heard? There's been another kidnapping,” he says in a shocked whisper.

You think about what he said for a moment, and recall the picture on the milk carton earlier today. “Yeah, I remember seeing something about that,” you say. “Terrible, what happened to her.” 

“Yes, very tragic,” Mr. Davenport agrees. “Anyway, back to business. You'll be minding the store for the whole day. Bon Bon had an accident with her couch, and she asked if I could come over and fix it for her. She hasn't been... all there since Lyra went missing. I might be back in time to close up, but if I'm not, there is a copy of the key in the register. Also, if you could restock the cheaper quills on the shelf by the door, that would be really helpful.”

“Can do, Mr. Davenport!” you say with a mock salute. “You can count on me.”

Mr. Davenport cracks a small smile, and says “so long as the store's still standing when I come back, I'll be happy.” With that, he opens the shop door and leaves.

With no one else there, the store feels empty, but calming as well. As Mr. Davenport makes some of the furniture he sells, the scent of sawdust fills the air, and smelling it makes you smile. With all of the good your degree in ancient magical studies could do, you're glad that you're working in such a cozy and friendly town. At least, what used to be a friendly town. 

You walk to the back of the store where all of the smaller supplies are kept: parchment, ink, some bolts of fabric, and, of course, quills. You levitate a few out of their barrel and move them to the small painted clay pots sitting by the front door. You make your way back behind the counter just in time for the bell to ring. 

Into the store steps none other than Princess Twilight Sparkle. Her pink and navy mane and tail are disheveled, with some stray hairs breaking free and jutting wildly out. Her eyes are bloodshot and have bags under them; you suspect she didn't get much sleep last night. Her movements are slow and careful, as if she is afraid she'll trip over her own hooves. Her assistant, Spike, is sitting on her back, pouring over what appears to be enough scrolls to fill up a small library. On either side of her stand two Royal Guards. Each of them have their necks on a pivot, trying to make sure the store filled with quills and sofas is a safe place for their princess. Princess Twilight tries to stifle a yawn, but is ultimately unsuccessful. She is the most beautiful mare you've ever seen.

You notice that she is waving her hoof and moving her mouth. You haven't been paying attention to her, and you shake your head to clear your thoughts. “Hello, welcome to Quills and Sofas, how may I get you?” you say. She cocks her head to the side, puzzled over what you said. You realize the mistake you made, combining “What may I get you” and “How can I help you,” and start to blush furiously. 

“Uh, hello. I'd like five quills, ten jars of ink, and about twelve feet of parchment, please,” she requests.

“I'll be right back with your things, your highness,” you reply as you turn to get her order.

“Please, just call me Twilight. I've had enough ponies call me 'your highness' in the last few days to make my head split!” 

“Okay Twilight. I'll be getting your items now.”

That could have gone better. At least she didn't laugh at your mistake. You walk to the back of the store, leaving Twilight and her entourage at the counter. It takes you a few minutes to wrangle up all of the quills and ink jars, and your mind is racing. I wonder if she's single? I've never seen her with anyone other than her friends and Spike. Even if she were single, would she really go out with me? She's the smartest unicorn of her time, maybe even of all time, she's saved Equestria more times than I can count, and she's a princess for Celestia's sake! I, on the other hand, am a community college graduate, living in one of the smallest cottages in one of the smallest towns around, working at a store that can't decide if it sells furniture or stationary. She'd never fall for me. But what if she did? No real way to find out but asking her. As you gather all of the supplies up, you steel your resolve. 

“Twilight, I have the things you asked for,” you say as you levitate them onto the counter.

She levitates her bit purse out of her saddle bags and opens it up. “Great, how much will that be?” she asks.

Knowing Mr. Davenport won't be happy with your decision, you say with a smile “For you, no charge.”

“No, I insist. It's refreshing to buy things with my own bits. Ever since my castle popped up, everypony thinks I'm something that needs to be taken care of. How much for the supplies?” 

“That'll be twelve bits,” you say.

She nods and levitates twelve bits out of her purse and lays them on the counter. She picks up the supplies and levitates them and her purse into her saddle bags. “Thank you for shopping at Quills and Sofas, please come again,” you say.

“It was a pleasure,” Twilight replies with a smile. 

She turns to go when you speak up. “Uh, Twilight.”

She turns back around and says “Yes?”

“I was wondering if you'd like to ―” you start to say when Spike looks up and belches. Out pops a scroll bearing a small golden seal on it. “Excuse me for a moment,” Twilight apologizes as Spike thumps his chest with a balled fist and she begins to read the scroll held in her magic.

She stands there for about a minute when she finally says “Oh horseapples.” She looks back up and says “I'm sorry, but something urgent has come up back in the castle that I need to deal with personally. It's been nice talking to you,” here she looks down at the name tag on your shoulder, “Precious Stone.”

With that, she turns and bolts out through the door, Spike holding on for dear life and the guards trying to keep up with her.

“Bye,” you say to the now empty store.





You sigh as you shut the door to your house and hang up your vest. The rest of the day was uneventful. No one else came into the store, even Mr. Davenport. At eight o'clock sharp you logged the money made today, locked the register, and locked the shop. Tomorrow, you'll do the same thing all over again, and the day after that and the day after that. You walk to your freakishly clean kitchen when you hear a knock from the door.

Puzzled, you grab your vest, put it on, and open the front door. On the doorstep stands Ditzy, the town's mailmare. In the fading light, her usually golden mane looks more white than anything else, while her coat still has its gray color. Behind her rests a large wooden crate. She roots around in her saddle bag for a few seconds before pulling out a slightly scratched and taped together clipboard. “Package for a Mr. Stone,” she says after consulting the clipboard. 

“But I didn't order a package,” you protest. After a long day at work, the last thing you want is wearing this vest again and doing anything but curling up in your favorite chair reading a book. 

“That's not what the order says,” replies Ditzy. She has a slight frown on her face, and is currently staring you down with her gaze.

You take a big gulp and pick up the clipboard in your magic. “Got a pen?” you ask.

She smiles and says “Yeah, I have one right here in my bags.” 

You hear her searching in her bag again as you look down at the clipboard. Instead of writing, though, the paper is covered in scribbles and what appears to be a drawing of a muffin.

“Is this some kind of joke?” you ask as you look up. Just as you do, you see the lead pipe swing straight for your temple. The last thing you see before the darkness closes in is a flash of green fire.