A Chorus of Lyras Has Invaded Your Bedroom
Fuck Mondays. Fuck them with the dull, rusty pizza cutter that sliced your wholly unsatisfying dinner. (You made sure to face away from the Panda Express while you ate. The lo mein still beckoned and taunted you by turns.) Monday means unwanted, often highly destructive guests who you really didn’t want to deal with.
Still, deal with them you must, apparently. As you open your front door, you mutter, “Come out, come out, whoever you are.”
You decide it’s best to get it over with and head straight for your bedroom. You note that the door’s shut. It hadn’t been when you left. You also hear a feminine voice on the other side of the door. Wonderful, this one talks to herself. In a way totally different from your comment upon arriving home. That was witty commentary on the sad state of your life. The pony is the one who’s crazy.
You pause to silently weep for your dwindling sanity. As you do, you realize that one voice just talked over another one. Then a few more chime in.
Your gut fills with dread where it doesn’t hold crappy pizza. There’s more than one of them. That can’t be good.
You grab the doorknob, only to find it locked. It’s one of those push-button locks that can be opened with a wire hanger. If you were to grab one from the coat closet, you could open it in less than a minute. And yet, you hesitate. You try not to think about why several ponies would lock the door to your bedroom behind them, and as with anything you try not to think about, several images immediately come to mind.
“Just a moment, sir.” Thankfully, the voice on the other side of the door jolts you out of your horrific revery.
The bottom of the door glows gold, and you reflect on how jaded you’ve become. Once, seeing actual magic would’ve been a thing of wonder. Now it’s just another part of this weekly aggravation. You’ve seen it far too many times to feel any fascination.
A unicorn mare steps through the gap under the door, moving like a reflection in a funhouse mirror, expanding from less than an inch tall to crotch height. As she returns to her usual size, you recognize her as Lyra.
Okay, you haven’t seen that one before.
Lyra holds herself much more seriously than you’d expect, straight-backed and looking you in the eye. Not a trace of recognition there. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you, sir,” she says.
“Why?” you ask, before the visions can come back.
She looks away and paws at the carpet with a forehoof. “There’s been a… mishap.”
You groan. Of course there has. Last time was entirely too peaceful. She had to make up for it. At least nothing is on fire… as far as you know. “What did you do, Lyra?"
She blinks. “I take it we’ve met?”
“What?” You shake your head, trying to make sense of this. Does she have amnesia or something? “Of course we have! It was like the most fulfilling moment of your life!”
She sighs. “This is actually part of the mishap. You may have met me, but I’ve never met you.”
There’s really only one response to that. “What.”
“This will be tricky to explain,” she says. “Assume we never met. What can you tell me about myself?”
You have no idea where she’s going with this, but you might as well humor her. However, you don’t recall her ever actually doing anything in the show, so you don’t have a lot to work with. “You live in Ponyville."
She nods. “Go on.”
Harp cutie mark. "You’re a musician?” That seems like a safe bet.
“At times,” she says, wearing a smug little smile.
You scowl at her. “I am in no mood for enigmatic pony bullshit, okay? Just get to the point.”
“Sorry.” To her credit, she really does seem apologetic, ears folded, eyes pointed at the floor. “In any case, beyond that, you don’t have a lot of information, right?” She hums to herself ”This is my first time meeting you. I should probably introduce myself. Nice to meet you. I’m Lyra. Lyra Heartstrings.”
You blink and shake your head. “Why did that sound… green?”
“That happens sometimes. In any case…” She trails off, gaze drifting to one side as she thinks. “Okay, this is going to be almost completely wrong, but you won’t understand anything more accurate without several advanced degrees in subjects that don’t apply to your laws of physics. Basically, the cosmos itself is as unsure as you are when it comes to the question ‘Who is Lyra?’ Thus, you didn’t get just one answer to it. You got eight.”
You narrow your eyes. “What did I just say about enigmatic pony bullshit?”
“Oh.” She shifts her weight from side to side. “Sorry again. I’m trying to explain some pretty arcane concepts, in several senses of the word. I’ll try to keep the enigmatic horseapple content low. Shortest, simplest version? There are seven other mes in your bedroom at the moment.”
“Seven,” you echo. You hadn't made an estimate or anything, but just the idea of that many ponies at once…
Lyra nods, showing no regard or consideration for your moment of soul-consuming horror. “Seven. The Lady of Winter, Hoodie McNavelgaze, and I are working on getting us back. The Bearer of Loyalty is keeping the other four entertained.”
You blink. You understood less than half of that. “What?”
She either shrugs or does a shallow push-up. “Well, we can’t all go by ‘Lyra.’ That would be horribly confusing."
"I... guess that makes sense," you say with a slow nod.
"Besides, we all agreed on the nicknames." She smiles. "I’m Agent L.”
This still isn't telling you why you can't go in your bedroom, but if you try the direct approach, she’ll probably go on an even weirder tangent. “So," you ask, "why aren’t those other four helping?”
“Two reasons. One, they don’t have experience with the time-space magic involved. Frankly, three out of eight’s a pretty incredible ratio for that kind of thing.”
You frown. “Star Swirl said it was a curse.” Well, you think he did. All the mind magic made that whole day kind of muzzy.
Her mouth hangs open for a moment. “Star Swirl? The Bearded?”
You cross your arms. “Are there any others?”
She nods. “Quite a few, actually.”
“Oh. Huh." You weren't expecting that. "Then yes, Star Swirl the Bearded.”
“You know, that may actually explain some of what we're dealing with in there.” She puts a hoof to her chin. “Did he do anything to the bed?”
That much you remember. “Banished it.”
She smirks. “Yeah, that tends to be his default solution in a lot of timelines. How’d it get unbanished?”
“Clover the Clever was still on it when he banished it.”
Lyra groans. “Fantastic. One of those Star Swirls. Still, that explains a lot.” She shoves her head back under the door—a gap, you might add, that is still maybe an inch wide. “Star Swirl messed with it!”
The answer comes in deadpan triplicate. “Of course he did.” Ugh, you hadn't noticed they were all the same voice until now. Creepy with a capital everything.
The spokes-Lyra pulls her head out of the crack and faces you again. Also creepy, though less so. After an awkward few seconds, you ask, “So, you said there were two reasons why the rest of you aren’t helping?”
She nods. “Right. Number two is that out of the four that the Bearer's keeping busy, three would smother you with questions and one would smother you with one of the pillows.”
You take a step back. “What?”
“Yeah, a lot of me are anthropophiles.” She gives a nervous laugh that is far too cute for this situation.
“Not that," you say. "The part about the one who’d want to smother me with a pillow.”
She sucks air through her teeth. “Well, I just said that for the sake of parallel structure. Truth is, she’d probably just try to gore you.”
You become very aware of where Lyra's horn would be pointed if she charged you. You take another step back and squeak out, “I’m in favor of leaving her alone.”
“I thought you would be.” Lyra sighs. “She’s probably the worst off, and that’s taking Hoodie into account. Bad experience with humans. Trust me, you do not want to go in there.”
Well, there’s your answer. You shrug. “It’s not that much trouble. Ponies go back by the next day.”
She perks up, ears erect, eyes wide. “Do they, now?”
“Yeah, so I don’t—” Your sentence dies as she shoves her head back under the door. You’re almost getting used to her doing that. Almost.
Through the door, you hear her say, “He says ponies go back in a roughly 24-hour timeframe! Focus on figuring out what disrupted the waveform collapse.” Then she pulls her head back out from under the door and turns back to you. “Sorry, you were saying?”
“How did you do that?” you cry. Again, almost used to it.
She rolls her eyes. “Magic. Duh.”
You glare at her. “Seriously?”
She opens her mouth, but shakes her head before saying, “Sorry. As I said, I have experience with time-space magic. It’s even my special talent.”
“But that’s a harp,” you point out. You feel like a moron the moment you hear yourself.
She doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she grins. “Haven’t you ever heard of string theory?”
Your bury your face in your hands and groan. Bad enough that ponies have burned your possessions, controlled your mind, and drunk your booze. Now they’re trying to pun you to death.
“Besides,” she adds, “if we don’t fix this, there are good odds that the problem’s only going to get worse. Imagine getting a dozen Rainbow Dashes in the same room. Twenty Pinkie Pies. Fifty Discords.”
You shudder. One of each had been more than enough “Okay, point made. I don’t suppose you’d be able to stop ponies from coming at all?” Might as well check.
“Well…" She considers this for a bit, muttering things like "along the rho vector" and "account for the Hugs field." Finally, she says, "Theoretically, yes, but that would take months at best. Even if the anomaly allowed us to stay that long, those would be months you’d need to tiptoe around Wicks.”
You furrow your brow. “Wicks?”
Her ears droop as she looks at the door. “Worst Case Scenario. W C S. Wicks.”
“Oh. Right.” You're not sure what happened to that one, but you do feel a little bad for her. Heck, she even agreed to that nickname.
"Yeah, it's either circumspection or circumcision."
Well, that ruined the moment. "Yes, thank you, I got that." You sigh. “And that’s not taking the room and board for eight unicorns into account.”
She gives a little gasp. “You’d feed us?”
You shrug. “I couldn’t just let you starve.”
"Wow, your psych profile never—" She whips her forehooves over her mouth.
You scowl and kneel down, trying to loom as menacingly as you can. "My what now?"
She backs away, a massive fake grin on her face. "I should really go back and see how the others are doing." She should have run out of room by now, but instead her body's compressing itself to fit under the door.
Like Hell you're going to let this one go. She probably made up the sob story just to keep you out of whatever she's up to. As her head warps itself through the gap, you stick yours in right behind it.
You're not sure what you were expecting—maybe a squeezing pressure or something—but you don’t feel anything. Instead, the space under the door stretches up as you approach it, forming a gold-glowing, pony-high archway. The view on the other side is so distorted that it’s just blotches of color.
You push forward a few more inches, where you can see everything clearly. Lyra's staring at you, eyes wide with surprise. Two unicorns are next to the bed, identical to her save that one’s in a ratty-looking hooded sweatshirt. There's... something above the bed. You can't make out what, and just looking at it is giving you a headache.
You move your attention to the group of Lyras in one corner, all looking over at the commotion. Eight eyes lock onto you. Six pupils dilate, while two shrink to pinpricks.
The room goes quiet enough that you can hear them whisper.
"Tiny nose."
"Brownish hair."
"Tannish skin."
A fourfold shout, one far more furious than the others, breaks the calm:
"HUMAN!"
You pull back, staggering away as your brain struggles with the abrupt transition in and out of the warped space. The glow fades out just before several bodies slam against the bedroom door. Hooves scrape against it, voices shout incoherently, and the tinkling-bell sound of magic rises to near-deafening levels.
You hide behind your couch.
After a small eternity, you hear Lyra's voice again. "Well, I hope you're proud of yourself."
You stay behind the couch. Entirely out of prudence, of course. "Is it safe?" Entirely. Out. Of prudence.
"The Lady of Winter's also darn good at electromancy. The four of them are stunned."
You risk a peek. She glowers back, mane in disarray and a bruise already forming along her jaw. Still, her horn isn't lit, so she's probably not going to fire some doom spell at you.
"Um..." You ease your way into view as you grope for something to say. "Sorry?"
She rolls her eyes. "Just be glad that I don't want every Equestria ever disgorging its contents into this universe."
"Thank you?" you try.
There’s that weird quadrupedal shrug again. "If nothing else, you've given me one heck of a water cooler story."