2/1: Weird Even For Fleshlings (The Return of Harmony Part 1)
“Why we gotta report in to work anyway?” Skywarp grumbled, spreading his wings out to glide high over the thatched roofs of Ponyville. “The rain isn’t gonna happen until tomorrow, and we got the clouds banked up ready for that already. I could still be in bed.”
“Quit whining,” Thundercracker growled unsympathetically beside him. “You’re getting paid to do nothing unless something unexpected comes up.”
“Why couldn’t we have the rain today?” Skywarp asked. “Then I could have tomorrow off, and hey, three day weekend!”
Thundercracker shook his head. “Since when did a Decepticon warrior care about weekends?” he asked. “Did the war ever take weekends off?”
“Hey, look here, squishy-brains,” Skywarp said, pulling up to hover with his wingtips, a phenomenon totally impossible by any aerodynamic sciences but which came to him almost as naturally as laziness or violence. “Look at this. I got feathers, I got fur, I got whatever this stuff is hooves are made of. I got these huge white balls filled with water instead of optics. I got about a kilo and a half of fat where my main CPU and memory banks ought to be.”
“No change there,” Thundercracker muttered under his breath.
“And I can’t even transform!” Skywarp jabbed a hoof at himself, a dark purple pegasus hovering in the baby-blue cloudless sky. “So you wanna tell me what part of this looks like a Decepticon?”
“The part where Megatron knocks your head in if he thinks you’re going to desert,” Thundercracker said without a moment’s hesitation. His own wings flapped behind him, holding him in place without his even thinking about it. (He’d learned the hard way that thinking too hard about what held him up would lead to several exciting moments of not being held up by anything. Fortunately, he’d had literal ages of practice in not thinking too hard about things.)
Skywarp grunted. “You got a point there,” he admitted. “But even so, there ain’t no Autobots here. No Autobots, no war. So why shouldn’t I take it easy? And don’t say Megatron!” he added quickly before Thundercracker could do more than open his mouth.
Before Thundercracker could answer, something bright pink rushed by them, moving against the wind. “What the slag was that?” he asked.
“I dunno, but it wasn’t one of those ponies,” Skywarp said. “Looked kinda like a cloud.”
“Clouds aren’t pink here,” Thundercracker said. “Except at sunrise and sunset maybe. The natives don’t pollute enough for that.”
“Well, I don’t know what it was, but-“ Skywarp cut off what he was saying, and a moment later he vanished in a flash of light and a clap of thunder.
“What the-“
Thundercracker never saw the second pink cloud, much larger than the first, until it hit him square on.
With another bang Skywarp blipped back into place, half curled up laughing as he hovered next to a thoroughly ensnared Thundercracker. “Ha ha ha hah! You look like a complete screwjack!” He made a face and put his forelegs up behind his head into a triangle shape. “Dur dur, look at me, I’m a screwjack stuck in the mud while-“
The third pink cloud hit Skywarp and plowed into the cloud Thundercracker was wrestling his way out of. The two clung together in a pink, sticky, sodden mess.
“Who’s a screwjack now?” Thundercracker rumbled, adding a couple of soft sardonic chuckles.
“Aw, go take yourself offline, why don’t you,” Skywarp muttered, struggling to get a hoof loose from the pink gunk. “What the slag is this anyway? This don’t feel like any cloud I handled before!”
“Nothing in the training books about this,” Thundercracker agreed. He brought up a forehoof, still spattered with bits of pinkness, and sniffed it. “Smells kind of sweet,” he added. “A little like those things Starscream gets from that beige pony with the curly hair.”
“Sweet, huh?” Skywarp bent his head down and took a bite out of the cloud. Bits of it clung to his lips. “Hey, yeah!” he said, annoyance vanishing at once. “Now this is the kind of weather work I could really get into!”
“You already did, you moron,” Thundercracker said. “And don’t eat that! You don’t know where this stuff came from!”
“I don’t care where it came from,” Skywarp said. “But I know where it’s going!” He plunged his head back into the cloud, and Thundercracker heard enthusiastic sounds of pleasure coming from inside.
“Ugh,” he grumbled, resuming his attempts to get free. “I bet nobody is having a worse day at work than I am.”
From inside the cloud next to him Skywarp’s muffled voice shot back, “Best. Workday. EVER!”
Laserbeak pulled a little farther back under the edge of the thatched roof, clinging to a windowframe with the desperation of someone who has no desire to get wet whatever.
“What kind of weather is this?” he muttered aloud. “The weather ponies said tomorrow! The rain isn’t due until tomorrow! Now how will I spy on the ponies for Lord Megatron if they’re all indoors?”
Of course, not all of the ponies were indoors, at least not yet. A couple of foals and fillies who had gone outside to catch the brown droplets on their tongues were getting herded home by their parents. The rainbow-maned pony who ran the weather service was flying across the skies, chasing and being chased by the strange pink clouds. The library door slammed open, and Twilight Sparkle and her little dragon servant ran out, heading to the eastern edge of town, a book trailing along in a lavender glow of magic.
Laserbeak ought to be following. Laserbeak’s whole job was to keep track of what Twilight Sparkle and her friends were doing so he could report the important bits to Megatron. But Laserbeak had got a bit of that sticky brown rain on him, and it tasted just like that rich candy he’d stolen from that shop the beige pony with the two-tone curly mane ran. And, just like that candy, it sent his heart into uncontrollable spasms, making it all he could do to cling to the windowframe and not get any more of it on, or in, his body.
“Oh why?” he wailed. “Mechanoids don’t have allergies. Why do organics have to have allergies??”
Buzzsaw slammed the door to his little shop shut behind him, throwing the bolt on the workroom side instantly. What he’d seen was insanity, sheer insanity, and he refused to have anything to do with it.
The wooden toys and dolls coming to life- that Buzzsaw could have dealt with. After all, with all this “magic” stuff flying around this world, he’d half-expected such things to happen anyway. But the wooden trains bounced up and down, while the wooden balls whistled. The wooden farm animals had chased him around calling, “Mama! Mama!” while the baby pony dolls had mooed, baaed, and left little puddles of lacquer in embarrassing places on the shop floor. And the wooden puzzles had begun moving themselves, twisting and rotating through dimensions of movement that computer brains could only extrapolate and which his current cat-bird-thing organic brain simply couldn’t comprehend without gibbering.
So he’d retreated into the back of his little art shop… and only then, after he’d allowed himself a premature sigh of relief, did he remember that his workroom held, in addition to his tools and his uncarved stock wood, those carvings he made for his own pleasure.
He kept the enormous knotted stumps he used for that purpose under dropcloths, since the subject matter, were any pony to see them, would cause Barnyard Bargains to sell out of flammable illumination systems and implements of manual agricultural product transfer in about seven minutes.
But now the dropcloths moved.
With barely controlled horror Buzzsaw eased himself over to the nearest stump, grasped the dropcloth with a talon, and yanked it away. Four Autobot faces, which he’d lovingly carved to represent the moment in which he’d inflicted the maximum possible torment upon them, stared back at him. For some reason all four of them were wearing straw hats, which he had definitely not carved for them.
Laserbeak had carved one of the faces with an attached shoulder and arm raised to ward something off. Now that arm bent, produced a tiny bit of metal from nowhere, and brought it to that Autobot’s lips. It produced a tone of precisely 440 hertz. “Mi mi mi,” the face sang, matching the little pipe’s tone exactly.
And then, in perfect four-part harmony, the faces began singing:
Hello my baby, hello my honey,
Hello my ragtime gal…
Buzzsaw screamed, yanking the window open and punching the blackout shutters aside. Ignoring the sticky brown rain that fell, he launched himself out, pursued by the barbershop quartet of Autobot voices:
Telephone- and tell me I’m your ooooooooowwwn!!
Soundwave looked over the internal workings of the gramophone with contempt. The primitive audio reproduction device used a bimetallic spring under tension to power a series of gears that drove a turntable, upon which a fragile plastic disc with grooves cut in each face rotated under a needle. The needle’s vibrations ran through the swing arm up into a large megaphone with a diaphragm in the narrow end, producing a tinny, muffled replay of whatever had been on the disc. There wasn’t a single electronic component in it; it was analog from start to finish, on the same level (in Soundwave’s opinion) as other things organics made using stone knives and animal skins.
But repairing the device would take him four minutes and twenty-five seconds, for which he would charge an hour’s labor, which would pay for two days’ rent of his new electronics repair shop. That knowledge helped reconcile him to the work, as did the thought that at least it wasn’t yet another Yippy Doggy battery-operated toy whose owner had given them a bath or tried to feed them.
For all the discontents Soundwave had with his new non-mechanical form, in the privacy of his own head he admitted there were distinct advantages. Yes, he lacked opposable digits. But in their place he now had magic that gave him the ability to use tractor and pressor beams that would have required gigantic banks of energon-thirsty equipment back home on Cybertron, beams he controlled with the merest thought. Replacing a single cogwheel with a snapped tooth and then verifying that the spring itself was intact? He could do it faster here than he ever could as a robot.
Of course, when he’d been a robot he would only have touched such a primitive mechanism in order to insert a surveillance device, Even here and now, he’d upgraded his own secondhand gramophone with a proper (though still very analog and thus primitive) electric turntable and speaker system as soon as financially possible. His old self would have sneered at both, but if the unicorn Soundwave wanted to listen to records (and he did) those were his only options.
(He’d given the old gramophone to Megatron, who hadn’t complained. Megatron also, for whatever reason, enjoyed listening to pony music. Soundwave had learned not to lend his commander discs, however; either Megatron would keep them permanently, or else he’d smash the fragile vinyl out of disgust. Either way, once gone, never to return.)
A few twiddles of a screwdriver, a few cranks of the handle, and a flip of a switch later, the turntable spun according to specifications. Soundwave nodded in silent satisfaction, flipping the switch off again, levitating a test record onto the turntable, turning it back on, and then lowering the needle onto the outer groove.
Instead of the quiet orchestral dance music he’d expected, he heard only silence. The turntable turned, the needle rode securely in the record grooves, yet no sound emerged except the faintest hiss.
“malfunction: cause unknown,” Soundwave muttered to himself. “ruptured diaphragm: potential diagnosis.” With the turntable still rotating, Soundwave stuck his face into the gramophone’s large curved cone, using his magic to send a little light down into the bottom.
The wave of water knocked him back away from his workbench and ripped his red visor off his face. Shaking off the wetness from his face, he squinted his white, clouded eyes until he glimpsed a flash of redness over under a chair. They turned out to indeed be his glasses, which he levitated back over his eyes, restoring clear (though red-tinted) vision.
Meanwhile, water continued to splash out of the gramophone in irregular bursts, running down off the table and pooling on the floor beneath. Soundwave flicked the switch with his magic, and as the turntable stopped moving, the water stopped gushing.
Soundwave took a glance at the label on the record: Water Music by Georg Spigot-Handle. Ah. That explained why the machine was spewing water, though it failed to explain why it was spewing anything other than sound.
A quick logic chain in the back of his mind threw up a further realization: Soundwave had been lucky he’d chosen Water Music, and not another of his collection of records, such as Stalliongrad Overture for Symphony, Cannons, and All the Drums.
Soundwave was about to take the gramophone apart to see what had caused his drenching when the door to his workshop slammed open to admit Buzzsaw. “Soundwave, sir!” the griffon gasped, his normally smooth tones on the edge of raw panic. “Something horrible is going on in this town! I beg sanctuary from you, please!”
Two smaller quadrupeds shoved Buzzsaw aside. “Have you seen what the Primus is goin’ on out there?” Rumble asked. “All sorts of crazy slag!”
Soundwave looked at the two earth ponies who, along with Buzzsaw, had been part of his cassette arsenal. “time check: half past eleven,” he said. “scheduled information transfer: still in progress.”
“Nah, Cheerilee cancelled school today,” Rumble said. “Had to, after her chalkboard drawings began trying to draw on her.”
“explanation: illogical,” Soundwave said, cocking his head in confusion. Then he looked more carefully at the other foal, whose dark red body had gone a very light shade of red indeed. “query: what happened to frenzy?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Frenzy hissed.
“These weird pink clouds were chasing ponies around outside,” Rumble said. “Frenzy tried to fight one of ‘em.”
“I saw those on the way here,” Buzzsaw said. “Tell me, how did the fight go?”
Rumble pointed a hoof at the thick coating of pink spun sugar stuck in Frenzy’s fur. “How do you THINK it went?”
“I said I don’t wanna talk about it!!”
“observation: insufficient-“
Soundwave cut off his observation at the sound of a long, horrifying yowl, a noise which sounded both dangerous and utterly pathetic at the same time. Stepping past the others, he walked through the small shop area of his new workplace and looked out the front door, where four extremely long stilts stood, ending in rather small black paws.
The yowl repeated, even more pathetically this time, and the stilt-legs wobbled awkwardly. Ravage’s head poked down below the top of the doorframe, conveying with a look an expression of miserable terror that Soundwave could not recall ever having seen on his compatriot before. Rivulets of brown liquid ran down the panther’s face, only adding to the picture of pathos before him.
“imperative: report to megatron,” Soundwave said. “operation: at once.”
There had been a time, a very long time ago, when Starscream had genuinely admired Megatron. He, a scientist and a member of the highest ranks of Cybertronean society, had been awed by the eloquence and drive of a mere menial, activated without even a cognomen of his own, only a serial number. It had been an honor to share in the glory of the Great Deception, to overthrow the old regime and seize power under his leadership.
That had been a very long time ago indeed. Since then Starscream had relearned his contempt for inferiors- and, in his mind, Megatron was incalculably his inferior.
Oh, not in raw strength- Megatron had the edge there, but only an edge, and that wasn’t that important. Asignificant number of Decepticons who either had more brawn or more firepower than either Megatron or Starscream, though most of them were combiners or titans. Despite that, those Decepticons didn’t give orders, they took them.
No, the true superiority lay in the qualities of the mind. And while Megatron had come up from the depths, his programming was still that of a mining device converted to warmaking. He saw anything and everything solely as a resource to be mined or an obstacle to be destroyed, and once he’d decided which he never re-evaluated his conclusion. He just plunged ahead, consequences be damned.
Time and again Megatron’s plans, holding together more by his force of personality than any actual chances of success, had collapsed under the slightest bit of Autobot interference. And each and every time, without exception, Starscream had been there to warn him. (He’d also been there to warn him against plans which had ended in stunning success. Naturally Starscream put that down to his own brilliance in ensuring the plans succeeded despite Megatron’s miscalculations.)
Starscream, on the other hand, possessed the algorithms of a true scientist, putting all potential new resources to the test and relying only on those which proved out for his purposes.
The other Decepticons frequently pointed out he also had the mind of a raging hypocrite, but Starscream turned a deaf receiver to that talk. They were merely jealous of his flexible intellect.
And besides, Starscream had no need for hypocrisy. He didn’t want to overthrow Megatron for the good of the Decepticons or of Cybertron. He wanted it because he wanted to rule, plain and simple. The obvious fact that he would make a better Decepticon leader only affirmed what he would have done anyway, and he felt no shame in admitting it.
After all, was not the Decepticon credo all about allowing the strong the freedom to rise as far as their strength could carry them? His attempts to dethrone Megatron were but the obvious logical outcome of Megatron’s own philosophy. It raised him up; it would also, inevitably, bring him down under Starscream’s boot.
The thought never failed to bring a smile to Starscream’s face, even now, when that face was made of flesh instead of flexalloy. That smile grew all the more because, he thought, the means of finally putting Megatron in his place were in his hands… well, his hooves.
His research into dimensional portals had turned up nothing more than fairy-stories for credulous juveniles, but in the process he’d run across various alchemical texts, one of which included an entire chapter of warnings about compounds which, when mixed incautiously, would produce a gas that could strip a unicorn of their magic powers permanently. The gas would dissipate in moments, but that would be long enough. All Starscream had to do was make a little bomb out of it, set it off under Megatron’s hooves…
… and, well, when he finally discovered the way to get the Decepticons back to their home dimension, one fewer Decepticon would be making the return trip.
He’d spent a week tracking down the critical reagent, a substance that only oozed from a particular crack in a particular cliff in miniscule amounts. He’d had to scrape all the dried remains off the cliff walls to get enough together for his purposes, leaving absolutely nothing but bare rock behind. That had been enough for two doses, and he’d used one dose to make sure his gas bomb functioned properly. The cloud of yellow gas had billowed up quite nicely and dispersed in less than half a minute, functioning with perfect precision.
Now he stood by his chemistry apparatus, watching as the reagent boiled with the other chemicals and, pressurized through a series of condenser coils, pushed the resulting chemical, drop by thick shining purple drop, from the outlet spigot into the bomb capsule. In just a few more minutes he would have the tool, the perfect tool, to overthrow Megatron once and for all. And then he, Starscream, Decepticon Air Commander, would be merely Starscream, Decepticon Commander, without qualifier.
Plip… plip… plip… plip…
… plip…
… pilp… pilp… pilp pilp pilp pilppilppilp…
Starscream blinked, his eyes glued to the capsule as, against all accepted physical laws, the solution began dripping upwards, leaping out of the capsule and back into the glassware. As he watched the process sped up, a loud slurping sound came from the apparatus, as if it were somehow drinking his bomb.
In moments the capsule was not merely empty but bone-dry, and every bit of the purple solution lay back in the crucible, not even boiling, despite the burner still going hot and fast underneath it.
What he’d just seen was impossible. There had to be some explanation. Was this some side-effect of the so-called magic of this world? Were there perhaps impurities that somehow negated gravity? Had some part of the apparatus cracked, allowing hot air to escape and thus creating a vacuum?
And why wasn’t the solution boiling anymore?
Curious, cautious, and careful, Starscream began tapping the side of the crucible, watching to see if the vibrations caused the solution to boil over.
“STARSCREAM!!”
The sound of Megatron in full rage caused Starscream to send his hoof straight through the glass crucible. There was a crash of glass and a thick burst of yellow gas that snuffed out the burner flame and spread to engulf Starscream. Then, mere moments later, the gas dispersed, leaving him with a slightly singed mane and a right forehoof covered with a thick, sticky purple residue.
None of that slowed Megatron’s stomping hoofbeats as he walked through Starscream’s improvised laboratory to confront his subordinate. “Are you responsible for this?”
As much as Starscream wanted to take time to figure out exactly what had gone wrong, never mind the time to mourn a foolproof scheme that had just literally gone up in smoke, he hadn’t survived nine million years of failed attempts to usurp Megatron without a better than average survival instinct. There were times when it was safe to snipe at Megatron or criticize him, and the murderous tone in his voice told the pegasus in no uncertain terms that this particular time was labeled Simper As If Your Spark Depended On It Because It Does.
“Responsible for what, Lord Megatron?” he asked, putting his best effort into appearing eager to please and ready for orders. (In reality it made him look more oily than a refinery in full operation, but he didn’t know that.) He glanced at the pink gunk clinging to every edge of Megatron’s guard armor and the brown liquid pooling in the ridges of his helmet. In a more honest tone he added, “What in the Nine Nebulas even happened to you?”
Megatron let out that particular growl of frustration which Starscream had long ago translated as I Really Want to Hit You But I Don’t Feel Justified Quite Yet, But That Could Still Change. “I suppose this would be beneath even you,” he admitted begrudgingly. “After all, unless this pink cloud is some sort of slow-acting poison, all it accomplished was to thoroughly humiliate me.”
Starscream took a sniff. “It smells like sugar and artificial flavoring to me,” he said. “In fact, I would almost say it’s cotton candy.”
“OF COURSE IT’S COTTON CANDY!” Megatron roared. “But since when does cotton candy fly around in clouds and rain chocolate?”
Starscream’s survival instinct was better than average, but not perfect. “I thought you liked chocolate,” he muttered, not in any snide or teasing way, just stating a fact.
“I like chocolate in a cookie,” Megatron hissed. “Or in one of those humbugs you keep buying from that female-“
“Bon-bons,” Starscream corrected. “Humbugs are boiled sugar candies.”
“AS IF I CARE!!” Now Megatron did take a swing at Starscream, but it was half-hearted enough that Starscream was able to jump out of its way. “My point is, I like chocolate in food! I do NOT like chocolate ON MY HEAD!”
Starscream hurriedly shifted back into simper mode. “And what person would, Lord Megatron?” he asked. “I can’t think of anybody who…” He trailed off and added, “Well, there is that one pony who seems insanely interested in jams and preserves and other sticky things…”
Megatron shuddered. “Don’t remind me,” he said. “In any case, I’m going to the showers to get this…” As his anger cooled, Megatron began noticing things again. He looked at the partially smashed equipment and asked, “And just what have you been doing in here all morning?”
Starscream’s mind raced for a lie, any lie, even a stupid one. He waved his hoof… his purple-coated hoof… which had a suspiciously sweet smell…
Despite all common sense and self-preservation instinct, he took a lick. It was not poison.
“Apparently,” he said, half as much to himself as to Megatron, “I was making grape jelly. Poorly.” He took another lick, then tried to fling the gunk off his hoof to no effect. “Whatever that bizarre pony gets out of this stuff, I don’t see it.”
Megatron sighed. “Starscream, I say it so often and still can’t say it enough: you’re an idiot.”
Starscream took one final look at his hoof, coated with the final remains of his latest failure to get rid of Megatron, and sighed. “Yes, Lord Megatron,” he said.
Before anything more could be said, voices echoed from the assembly hall of the old guardhouse. “Megatron!” “Lord Megatron!” “Hey, Megatron!”
Megatron sighed again. “And I suppose this is all my other warriors come to tell me about everything I already know.” He shot a glare at Starscream and added, “Unless you think I’m mistaken?”
“I may be stupid,” Starscream said, “but I’m not that stupid.”
The assembled Decepticons watched as a lone pegasus swept the skies above Ponyville clear of pink clouds, herding them all into a tight ball off east over Sweet Apple Acres.
“Well, that’s that,” Starscream said. “Though it does stick in my air intakes to be grateful to these namby-pamby ponies.”
“Hmmmmm,” Megatron said, still looking at the sky. “I wonder about that.”
“What’s to wonder?” Starscream asked. “The sky is clear. It’s no longer raining chocolate milk or whatever that was. And the other effects…”
Ravage yowled disconsolately again, leaning against the wall of the guardhouse for support. His head rose level with the second-story windows.
“I think I can still hear singing from my studio,” Buzzsaw said.
“Exactly,” Megatron said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know it isn’t over yet. Not that easily. Buzzsaw! Laserbeak!”
The two griffons dropped to the ground side by side, saluting smartly. “Yes, Lord Megatron?” Buzzsaw asked.
“Go monitor Twilight Sparkle and her friends,” Megatron said. “If this phenomenon has an intelligent cause, then no doubt they will end up at the center of it all. When you have something to report, send Laserbeak back here with it.”
“As you command, Lord Megatron!” Laserbeak squawked, and the two griffons lept back into the air, flapping their wings hard in the direction of Sweet Apple Acres. A few moments later they turned around, flying almost exactly the opposite way, as six female ponies galloped (or flew) towards Ponyville’s train station.
“Starscream,” Megatron continued, “go to the library. See if you can find anything in the history books that refers to random acts of… of… randomness.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Starscream said, voice filled with misgivings. “Though given how little these ponies value cause and effect as it is, it will be difficult to pick out this kind of chaos from what they consider normal.”
“Skywarp, Thundercracker,” Megatron continued, “air patrols. Notify me at once if those pink clouds return, or if some other bizarre phenomenon appears.”
“Yeah, sure, Megatron,” Skywarp grumbled.
“Pardon me, sir,” Thundercracker put in, “but could we take a shower first?” He stretched out a blue wing as far as he could, given the spiderweb of gunked-up cotton candy strung from his feathers.
Megatron sighed. “Yes,” he said. “After me.” Turning to walk back into the guardhouse, he muttered, “I cannot believe how much this stuff itches under my armor!”
And somewhere too far away for the Decepticons to hear, but barely an eyelash’s width distant, a spirit of mischief laughed, as row upon row of cotton candy clouds gathered on the horizon…
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A classic, but I have to admit given that they were a quartet of heads I was hoping for something else:
Hey, Soundwave got his own business? He really is superior
Oh no, the ‘bots are starting to adapt to pony-logic and trains of thought. Wouldn’t have pegged Soundwave as the first victim…
Hey, good on Starscream for being honest with himself. This one time.
I agree with Starscream, I might prefer strawberry jam.
I’ll read the next chapter tomorrow - you have a talent for posting new chapters just as I need to turn in. But I’m definitely looking forward to it.
Time for the Decepticons to meet the Lord of RANDOMNESS!
11107942
I dunno I think understanding pony logic is not a bad thing, when you look at things from a logical stand point you understand puns and sight gags rather easily, you might not find them funny, but you get the joke. Also just because Soundwave speaks monotone doesn't make him emotionless, the least emotional Decepticon is Shockwave and he can still get angry. Soundwave even laughs, though monotone laughter is unsettling.
Course fate craps on Starscream by destroying his foolproof plan, not that it wasn't deserved, karma knocks the dude around a lot but he has earned it.
So, no difference.
You were saying?
Oh just wait.
A chocolate allergy. Oh that is ROUGH.
Fun.
That's a fantastic line.
Mood.
That's true evil.
Ah, comedy.
That is a VERY pony name.
That, yeah, that sounds about right.
That is ROUGH.
I see your ego is none the worse for wear.
Uh-huh, sure they are.
Look at that, honesty.
It's fun seeing people deal with Discord's effects.
When the Lord of Chaos is around.
Oh yeah, Hugh Jelly.
Oh?
This is gonna be fun.
HEHEHEHehehehehehehe!
11108199
Sound wave versus maud pie
Could have been worse — could have been “Coro di Zingari” from Il trovatore or ”Feuerfest!”, Op. 269…
That is a very interesting way of comparing the same thinh out of two different angles.
Discord sure has fun with the Deceptions.
I guess the Author Note conflict is still coming?