//------------------------------// // Esphalisanto // Story: Judgement // by Amit //------------------------------// Bon-Bon has apparently decided to barricade the entrances; she's spending more time in the room, now, pacing nervously. The confectionary, she's convinced, can wait. She seems awfully distressed, and I worry for her deeply; I hope Pinkie Pie's plan works. I check the clock. She should be coming by soon. I don't know how, but the madmare's probably going to find a way. “So,” Bon-Bon says, her mane slightly frayed. “Wanna play Monopsony, friend?” I grin nervously. “Sure, Bon-Bon.” She always wins, but now would be a great time to reinforce her. Pinkie Pie will be coming in two hours, and I suppose that a little game won't hurt. About two hours later, as Bon-Bon's about to buy out the labour certification institute for the Griffon Principalities, a little knock comes from the floorboards. “What's that noise?” Bon-Bon says, suddenly cautious. Scratching sounds. “I—I don't know.” I sniff a bit. Rotten cabbages? “Open the windows!” she says, going towards the door worriedly, pushing it open without much effort. It's meant to open with less force from the inside than from the outside; a safey feature. “Might be some kind of gas leak.” I nod, looking nervously about as I run over to open the windows, pulling the bolt out with a 'click' and letting the air in. I look to the ground and shake my head, hoofing at the floorboards. What has that mare done? “Hi!” I look up to see a pink face staring into mine, and refrain from screaming. Very admirable of me, I think. “What in the name of Celestia did you do, Pinkie? Did you—did you start a gas leak?” I put my hooves over my muzzle. “Naww. I just got some cans of stink and stuffed them in the vents!” I look around the wooden room and raise a brow. “The vents?” “The vents.” She nods happily. “Right.” “I set the oven on fire, too!” “You what?” “Just a teeny-tiny fire. Bon-Bon'll spend plenty of time putting it out, though. Straight from the mains. Like a Buckson burner!” “Oh dear, sweet Celestia.” The heating room is made of stone, of course; a fire wouldn't spread. I still am half-tempted to run down and help Bon-Bon right now. “So, anyway,” she says, climbing in and letting the balloons tied to her float away. “I got what we needed!” She pulls a suspicious-looking bag out of somewhere; I levitate it and put it on the bedside table. “This is going to do the opposite of work,” I say. “Why, again, am I involving myself in this?” “Because you wanna tap that!” And with that unexpected bit of crudity, she leaps back out the window. I look out just in time to see her speed off, leaving a trail of dust in her hopping wake as the smell begins to clear, the cans of 'stink' apparently having done their job. A rhythmic knock on the door. “Lyra! It was a fire!” I run over to open it. She's panting and sweating in that terribly attractive way. “I put it out, though, so we're gonna be fine. Did anything happen here?” “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Everything's quiet on this front.” “Great!” she says, closing the window once more. She doesn't appear to see anything wrong. “Now, where were we?” “You were about to gain a monopsony over the Griffon Principalities.” She looks at the board with a bit of distaste. “You know, you'll never win if you don't buy agencies. Seriously,” she says, poking at my ideologically unified union spots, “Zebrican Farmer's Collective? Canterlot Service Worker's Union? Stalliongrad Kolkhozy? Those're, like, the cheapest spots.” My face reddens a bit. “I think that certification should be left to the government.” She puts her hoof to her face. “It's just a game. You didn't even bribe anypony. Look, I've got COMEQUES and Guild Gilda at the same time.” She looks at the charts. “They're literally on completely different sides. I've got them at a hundred percent.” “Well, er, want to do something else, then?” She raises her brow. “Like what?” Pinkie Pie never told me how to broach the subject. I clean the pieces up quickly with my magic as I try not to look straight at her. “So, er, I found, er, something on the floor, after Pinkie visited.” Half-truths. I prefer not to think of the other half. She nods angrily. “I can't believe the nerve of that marefiddler. What was it?” A sideways glance to the packet. “It's labelled, er—” She marches over and grabs the packet, pulling out a compact disc smeared with red marker. “Blue Spots?” “...yes?” She picks it up gently in her teeth and goes up to the player, pushing it in. The video comes up on the television, and the sounds fill the room. Squelch. Moan. Squeak. About five seconds into the video, she ejects it, blushing furiously; the red is a beautiful ornament to the cream. “I—I think I need a shower.” My time to shine. “Well, er, why don't we watch it anyway? You know, as a joke. Because we're both straight.” She freezes. Metaphorically, of course. “Of course!” she says, nervously, pushing it right back in. Squelching sounds fill the room, and I can see her physically holding her gullet as she sits on her own bed, looking silently at the screen. “Of course. Doesn't bother me. Ha. Ha ha.” “Gross, huh?” This is the worst idea I've ever gone along blindly with. My voice is emotionless as I try to pretend to be disgusted. “Ew. Filly-foolers are so gross.” “Yeah, they totally... are.” I don't detect the slightest hint of repression. Just shock. Worst idea, worst idea. Twenty incredibly uncomfortable minutes later, as the moans die away, she pulls the disc out silently and puts it back in the bag. “Okay,” she says, breathing in deeply. “From now on, I'm not gonna leave this room, ever, and neither are you.” Worst idea. “What?” “Now that I've seen what they do, I can't let you out of my sight. Just thinking about it—” she shudders, shaking her head in that wonderful way, her mane flowing a bit over her crest. “No. Never. I'll get the supplier to bring food to us and hire someone to pony the register and make the candies. Can't leave you to be taken.” “Bon-Bon?” I suppose there are worse fates than to be locked up with your one true love forever, but this certainly isn't what I had in mind; then again, what exactly did I have in mind? 'You could wash laundry on that plot?' Maybe I should have gotten some cider first. “Average local wage reasonable, no union, high cronyism, nepotism; non-Pegasus socially isolated ponies tend to be unemployed except by government services. Blank-flanks particularly useful. Variable costs easily covered. Optimal profits high. Firm will succeed.” She seems to have shifted into her role as business manager, whispering figures to herself in a controlled panic. “Bon-Bon?” I say again, my voice a bit higher. “Yes, Lyra, my best friend in the whole world?” she says as she turns to face me, her face now in a wide smile. I don't exactly know what to say. “Maybe not all filly-foolers are... like that?” She looks at me for a moment. Then she laughs hysterically, the sound like chimes in the wind. “Oh, Lyra. All those books can't prepare you for real life. Just let your old friend take care of things the old-fashioned way.” And then she shuts the door neatly, and she bolts it nimbly, and she picks the receiver from the nearest phone and dials numbers, giving out very reasonable orders in the form of angelically polite requests. And I sit down, quietly, and let the competent pony do her work competently. Oh, Celestia. How I love that mare.