> Love Locks
>  by Burraku_Pansa
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Round 1: Luster Lock vs. Bristle
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------





Plug. Pins. More pins. Springs. Hull. Actuator. Body, square and black. Another spring. Shackle.

Body, square and gray. Just a simple ward lock, this one. Somepony was begging to get robbed. Spring and shackle.

Latch and lever, case and collar, disc and dial. A nice, round body, even if it was black. Shackle.

Pre-made pin-tumbler. Body square and black, but shrouded. Shack—

There came a pounding at the door.

The mare looked up from her work station and across the showroom. There was a shadow past the metal grill on the front door’s window. “Read the sign,” she called.

A moment passed soundlessly but for the gentle whirring of the ceiling fan, and the mare turned back to her desk.

The pounding came again.

The mare sighed, dropping the tools from her dim gray feathers. Off her stool, she stomped across the showroom floor and unlatched, unbolted, unlocked, and all around unsecured the door. She cracked it open, and a little chain was all that obstructed her view of the saddlebag-clad stallion outside. The dying sunlight showed her a brown earth pony, short mane with just a hint of waviness, youthful but mature, so incredibly—

She slammed the door shut, undid the chain, and ripped it open once again. “Hello,” she purred, leaning on the doorframe.

The stallion leapt back a step, eyes wide. “Er, hello.”

“What can I do for you?” The mare smirked, bringing a wing up to bounce her steel blue curls. “Interested in a love lock? It’d make a perfect gift for your wiiii…”—no change in the stallion’s expression—“…fffillyfrieee…”—nothing—“…eeescorrrr—”

A little colt—practically the stallion in miniature but for an added pair of wings—peeked around the stallion’s hooves, and the mare’s eyes shot down to him.

“Baby mama?” she tried.

“S-separated,” said the stallion, looking off. He coughed into his hoof, then met the mare’s eyes again. “Sorry to bother you so late, miss. We were at an art shop and we lost track—” He gave a little yelp, rubbing his hind leg where his son had smacked him. “I lost track of the time. But we need a locksmith.”

“Art, huh?” The mare’s smirk was shifting to become a grin, and she moved out of the doorway. “Come on in, big guy.” Her eyes drifted down past the stallion again. “And little guy.”

“It’s ‘Bristle’,” said the stallion as he walked into the store.

The colt followed slowly, staring at the mare all the while, until a brown hoof scooped him up.

“And my little fella here,” continued Bristle, ruffling his son’s mane with a free hoof, “is Swatch.”

Eyes focused despite the deteriorating state of his hair, Swatch nodded to the mare.

She giggled. Looking back up to the stallion, she said, “Luster Lock. Cool to meet you both.” Luster swept a hoof about the dimly lit showroom. “Welcome to Lock’s Locks: After Hours Edition.”

The showroom windows were doing little for the shop, so it fell to a pair of wall-mounted lanterns to breathe some life into the black tile, the white walls, the cold metal shelves, the locks and latches, hinges, catches. The lanterns were not up to the job.

Luster made her way over towards her work nook, and the boys followed. She said, “What brings you to a place like this on what I’m sure was an otherwise fine evening?”

A flittering buzz filled the air, and Bristle and Luster turned to see Swatch flying up onto his father’s back. He undid the clasp on a saddlebag there, drawing out a wooden box decorated with little doors and lots of brass. He held it up for Luster, who grabbed it with a wing.

“We got that lock box at a toy store earlier,” said Bristle, “but it turns out a couple of the parts don’t work right. Key doesn’t fit its lock, the bolt doesn’t want to move, and such.” He ran his hoof through his mane, eyes looking tired. “The store wouldn’t give us a refund, though, so we need—” Feathers.

Luster retracted her free wing from Bristle’s lips and set the lock box down on her workbench. “Have a look around the store, I guess.” In an instant, most of her primaries were wrapped around the handle of one tool or another. “This won’t take long.”

She set about it with a passion, and a storm of scratching and creaking and clacking and squeaking rose up. Swatch stared on at Luster, wide eyed. 

Bristle chuckled, turning back to the front of the room. He wandered, reading little labels that were trying their very best to tell him what all of the tiny variations between each lock actually meant. Coming around a particularly large display of doorknobs, Bristle found a section of wall decorated very differently from the rest of the shop, so much so that he stopped in his tracks.

“Are these the ‘love locks’ you mentioned?” he called back. Padlocks were arranged haphazardly, their open shackles hanging off of a chain link fence that had been brought in.

“That depends,” came the reply. “Do they only come in what a sensible pony would call ‘colors’?”

They did, Bristle observed. Not an outward hint of black, white, or anything in between. They came in all shapes, too—but mostly hearts, though there was a great deal of variation even there. “What are they for, exactly? I’ve never heard of them.”

“They’re a symbol,” said Luster over the still-present noise of her work. “A couple gets one, maybe writes their names on it, then they put it up someplace—usually on a bridge, but not always—lock it, and throw away the key.”

“That’s cute.” Bristle hefted one love lock designed to look like a smiling sun, with a crescent moon for a shackle. “They sell well?”

“Ha!”

Now there was a bitter sound if Bristle had ever heard one. He turned back, saying, “What?”

The sounds of tinkering slowed. “I’ll tell you why you’ve never heard of them, Bristle: I’m having an amazing time trying to get them to be legal here.”

Bristle raised an eyebrow. “What, do they count as vandalism?”

“Yep,” said Luster, “and I did sell a few when I first started making ‘em, but as luck would have it, unbreakable love isn’t much of a match for a good set of bolt cutters. Or threats of a lawsuit.”

Bristle snickered and looked to the fence again. He leaned down to a group of simple, solid color hearts.

“But hey.” The little noises picked up their pace again. “Do you like—”

“You didn’t use primer.”

There was a tinny snap. And then Luster cleared her throat. And then came a bit of quiet but fervent whistling.

Bristle trotted back over to Luster and his son just as the former was dropping what looked like half of a thin screwdriver into a garbage bin. “Everything okay?”

Luster turned to him with a cheery smile, saying, “Yep.” She held the lock box aloft on a now tool-free wing, and Bristle’s brow raised. “I replaced a faulty spring in the pin-tumbler, cleared the rust off the slide bolt and its plate, oiled the hinges, and shined all the brass. Plus I sanded down the edges and corners a bit—they seemed kind of sharp.”

Swatch found the box dropping into his little hooves, and a gleeful grin tore across his features.

“Wow,” said Bristle with a dangling jaw. He reached into a saddlebag. “How much do I owe you?”

Luster waved a wing, a bright expression on her shaking head. “Nothing. We’ll call it even for next time.”

Bristle’s hoof paused. “Next time?”

“When you buy me dinner.”

The hoof retreated from the saddlebag, running its way once more through Bristle’s mane.
> Round 2: The Facts of Ponyville (Luster Lock vs. Heather Rose)
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------





Heather loved the feel of the comb—the knowledge that each tooth was slowly working her mane into neat, tidy rows of rosy hair, like flowers lined precisely in a field. Even if it wouldn’t stick for any longer than an hour or two.

“Und meine Mutter,” said Lotus, behind her, “sie hat diesen winzigen Hut getragen, und sie sagte, ‘Was ist los, Kinder? Zu groß?’” She tittered, nearly dropping the comb.

Heather giggled herself, but felt a pang of guilt, recalling her own mother. She’d have to send a letter soon. The farm had just been so hectic recently…

Lotus hummed and took away that blessed comb, and already Heather’s scalp missed it. “Fertig,” said the spa pony, coming around and offering Heather a hoof down from the table.

The delightful sound of hooves on tile spread out through the heavy air as the duo made their way to the front room. Lotus walked around to the back of the counter while Heather waited in front, coin purse in hoof and a smile on her face. This part was well rehearsed. As Lotus scribbled in a ledger, Heather measured out some bits and passed them over the counter.

“Danke schön, Röslein,” said Lotus, smiling brightly. “Come back soon, ja?”

Heather mirrored the smile. “Bitte,” she said, and she accepted the complimentary soap Lotus offered. “And I will. Give the others my best.” She started towards the door, calling back, “Tschüs!”

“Tschüs!”

Out the door, and the afternoon sun was shining bright. The warmth and cheer in the air of the (relatively) bustling thoroughfare sent a giggly shiver up Heather’s spine. She closed her eyes, taking a moment to drink in the little town she called home, and all of its perf—

She was on the ground now, a light twinge in her shoulder. She could feel the dirt worming its way into her not-so-groomed-anymore mane. Not two minutes. It must have been a new record.

Groaning, Heather opened her eyes to find a set of grayish hindquarters. That wasn’t the least common thing to see after getting knocked over in Ponyville, but… This other pony—while she was indeed a pegasus—had a lock for a mark rather than bubbles, and hair that was far from blonde.

The other pony turned, frowning, and offered Heather a hoof. “Sorry ’bout that,” she said, her voice boyish in manner if not in timbre.

Heather took the hoof and stood, saying, “Danke.”

“You’re”—the other pony raised an eyebrow—“‘wel-ke’?”

Heather shook her head. “You want ‘bitte’. Sorry, habits.” She took in the sight of the pegasus, from curly hair (unkempt, but clearly for longer than Heather’s own—it was practically encrusted with sweat), to over-the-shoulder knapsack, to dusty hooves. This pony was a traveller, and unless Heather had forgotten a face, new to town. “So,” said Heather, “what has you walking backwards down our little town’s main street?”

The other pony snorted. “What’s got you standing still on it?”

There’d been a bit of a sneering edge to that question, and Heather didn’t like it one bit. She couldn’t help but frown.

“Er.” The pegasus cringed. “Sorry. My business, is all—plus I had kind of a long trip. Luster Lock.” She offered her hoof once again, her knapsack balanced awkwardly now with nothing holding it.

Heather shook it, saying, “Heather Rose.”

Luster’s eyes widened, and suddenly Heather’s flank was the unwilling subject of a rather focused (and creepy) bout of peering. “You’re just what I need!” the mare shouted.

Looking all about, Heather grimaced at just how many of the town’s eyes had turned their way. She hissed through her teeth, “And you’re in public!”

But Luster had a grin that wouldn’t quit. “Your cutie mark,” she said. “Bunch of heather. What’s it mean? Flower farmer or something, right?”

Oh. A potential customer? “That’s it precisely,” said Heather, “minus how it symbolizes my—”

Luster waved a hoof. “Doesn’t matter. You’re perfect.”

“Perfect for what, exactly?” Heather was frowning too much today—it was market day, for goodness sake! But that might have been the big issue. She needed to go set up her stall and start making her bits, yet here she was, waylaid by a strange—

“I need info from somepony who’s really boring,” said Luster, still grinning. “Somepony who’s really small-town, really scared of big disasters—and, like, change in general, preferably.”

Heather felt her eye twitch, and she turned away. It was time go fetch her cart and her wares for the day.

“Hey!” Luster called after her. “Aw, come on! Do you at least know any other flower farmers, or some old-timey farriers, or anything? Ugh.”





After all those years, Heather’s stall still wasn’t popular enough.

Ponies didn’t realize (yet) just what they were getting when they bought themselves a batch of Heather’s Heath brand heather honey. Or heather honey in general, for that matter, but good luck finding any other brands around Ponyville.

Heather itself is a stubborn plant, only blooming naturally for a scant few weeks out of the year—the real sort, anyway—so heather honey has to be extracted from bees feasting on it during that brief window. As an earth pony, Heather could widen that window, coaxing the heather to bloom for upwards of about a month and a half, but any longer and the excess of magic needed would bother the bees—which themselves were on loan for that period, and not Heather’s to bother.

So heather honey is a rarity, so what? It’s just another kind of honey, right? Wrong. Aside from being darker and richer in flavor than most other honeys, heather honey is so packed with protein that it’s practically solid until you stir it. Add to that all of the carbohydrates, nutrients, antioxidants, und so weiter that you get from any honey, and heather honey is the good-tasting health food.

And Luster Lock, standing before Heather’s stall in the local market—with a full range of heather honeys, meads, beers, bread (Oma’s recipe), jams, jellies, and bare, tasty flowers laid out before her eyes—said, “Let me get a couple of those dried ones. They look tasty.”

The ‘dried ones’ were a decorative heather wreath, and she’d been perfectly earnest in her request, Heather was sure.

“Please go away,” said Heather, voice and face made painstakingly neutral.

Luster sighed. “I’m sorry for insulting you before.” She rubbed a wing—odd as that looked to Heather—through her still-dirty mane. “I really would appreciate your help.”

Luster’s eyes seemed so sincere, even if it looked like her mouth was about to creep into some kind of smirk. Plus, it wasn’t like there was a line forming behind her. “Fine,” Heather grumbled. “How can I help?”

“Like I mentioned before, I need info,” said Luster, lighting up and leaning on the stall’s counter. “Somepony as bor—” She froze as Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Ahem. Somepony like you, a small-town flower farmer, probably does her best to avoid big, awful disasters and such, right?”

“Right,” said Heather with brow raised. For all that she loved Ponyville most of the time, she did hate it whenever monsters attacked, or a local said heather was too bitter a plant, or ancient evils resurfaced in town. Did that really go hoof in hoof with her occupation…?

Luster continued, “And you’ve lived in Ponyville—a place pretty much infamous for exactly that kind of thing—for how long, now?”

“A little under five years.”

“Great!” Luster beamed. “I figure, that attitude and all that experience, you’ve got to have a disaster sense by now, right? When’s the next one coming?”

Friendly chattering and the rolling of cart wheels over cobblestone and the heated sounds of bartering filled the silence.

“What?” said Heather.

Luster didn’t falter. “When do you think Ponyville is due for trouble?”

“That’s the most ridiculous—” But it wasn’t, Heather realized as the word left her mouth. It wasn’t ridiculous at all. There was an equation forming in her head—or, no, not forming. It had been there, invisible, in the back of her mind.

Market days were her favorite days of the week, and this was true for most of the town’s many farmers. Likewise the weather, sunny and comfortably warm. But there was a balance to be maintained there: get some good, get some bad. Harmony. Though, there had been plenty enough bad today, in the form of the quirky pony with whom she was talking—her hair had even been ruined much sooner than the norm, she recalled.

But… No, there were two equations. Her personal unpleasant experiences today only balanced out personal enjoyments, like the—she now remembered—extra long and entertaining spa visit. The perfection of the day on a town-wide scale had yet to be checked by…

“Today,” Heather breathed. “Within twenty-four hours for sure. Oh, großartige Schwestern…”

“Today?” said Luster. She shot up from the counter. “Perfect!”

Heather watched as Luster set her knapsack down and used her wings to widen the drawstrings. From within, she pulled out a length of thin but remarkably sturdy-looking iron chain. And pulled. And pulled. She wound it around a foreleg and, after no more came out, she withdrew also an ornately carved—was that a dragon face?—and solid-seeming lock. She left it open, but with its clasp bridging the first link of the chain to the last and holding the whole heavy, menacing arrangement taut against her hoof.

And then… she started pulling out more chain, for her other foreleg. What an uncomfortable burden that knapsack must have been.

It was about when a second lock reared its vaguely leonine face that Heather summoned the presence of mind to ask, “What in Equestria are you doing?”

Lock in place, Luster danced a little jig, rattling the chains to her giggling satisfaction—and everypony else around’s sweat-beaded consternation—and looked back up to Heather. “Getting ready,” she said, grinning like predator, “to whup and or restrain and or sell some custom locks to the trouble.”

“So you came to Ponyville to throw yourself at disasters…?” At Luster’s nod, Heather could only shake her head. “‘Du spinnst,’ my Oma would say. You’re going to fit right in, I’m sure.”

As misfortune would have it, there came a sudden roar from the other side of town, and the local birds loudly flapped and cawed their way off. Heather’s mind froze even as her body kicked into practiced action, frantically beginning to pack up her wares along with all of the saner stall owners around the market.

Luster’s grin had magnified tenfold, but Heather saw her make a concerted effort of reining it back into a quivering smile-smirk. The pegasus drew some bits out from her somehow-still-not-empty knapsack, tossed them onto the stall counter, and grabbed a bottle of heather mead with a wing. She popped the cork and took a good many swigs.

“Ahh,” sighed Luster, slamming the bottle back down onto the counter like she was cool instead of just hurting the wood. “My compliments to the brewer.”

“Danke,” said Heather with an absent mind.

Luster turned her smirk back to Heather, saying, “You’re bitte.”

Heather winced, rolled her eyes, and just barely managed to correct Luster and pack away her things before the stomping said that it was time to be anywhere else.





The town of Ponyville’s collective palate still somehow managed to overlook the strikingly crisp flavor of a fine heather ale, with its notes of floral, even vaguely sweet—

Oh, who even cared? The Thirsty Draft had it on tap, and that was all that really mattered right then.

Of course, it was Heather’s Heath brand heather ale, but The Thirsty Draft was the most wonderful sort of pub that Heather could imagine; they charged a local supplier only slightly more than what they paid that supplier in the first place for the same amount of stock. For coppers on the bit, Heather got to drink her ale at a better temperature and out of a nicer glass than what she could manage at home, and the atmosphere—warm and loud and littered with ponies, but rarely any of it to an unpleasant degree—came free.

And so of course the only open seat at the bar was next to a battered but radiant Luster Lock. After all, it had already been such a train wreck of a—no, such an average, balanced day—that Ponyville couldn’t let it be over just yet.

“Did you win?” said Heather as she sat. The bartender, without even needing to meet her eyes, had already laid down a frothing glass for her. Almost everything was right with the world.

Luster turned Heather’s way and smiled, and she served up a light punch of recognition to an already aching shoulder. “Not really,” she said. “No lock sales today. And he sure was better at doling out a whupping.” Her smile went a little soft. “Had fun, though.”

Heather giggled lightly, and she asked, “What was the other thing you were going to try? ‘Restraining the trouble’?”

Grayish wings rose up in some kind of gesture—a shrug, maybe? “Opening locks is more my thing, I guess,” said Luster, smile back to its earlier… luster.

There Heather went giggling again, even if there wasn't much call for it—but she realized it was the first time she’d laughed since leaving the spa, and it felt good. Though, she supposed it was hard not to be happy when half a glass of ale had made its way down her throat while Luster had been talking. And no sense in leaving the other half waiting.

Luster whistled. “You sure can put it away, huh?” She held up her own glass, eyeing what was left. “And I guess I can kind of see why.”

What did—Oh! That hazy gold color, and that earthy nose! “You’re drinking my beer?”

Luster nodded, taking another pull.

“Oh, danke schön, Luster! Ponies here rarely even give it a chance.” Heather raised her own glass high—full again, that wonderful bartender. “How does it taste?”

Emptying the glass and setting it down, Luster shot Heather one final, all-enraging smirk. With a tone of the utmost self-satisfaction, she uttered, “Bitter.”

There were times, however rare, when The Thirsty Draft did get to be too hot and loud for Heather’s liking. During the occasional good-natured bar fight, for instance.
> Round 3: Supercell (Luster Lock vs. Vanilla Skies)
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------





It was a dark and stormy night, flying in the face of any concept of scheduling. Either Manehattan’s weather ponies were playing hooky, or it was that plus the maritime wild zone a few dozen miles off the coast was acting up again. And Vanilla Skies was lucky enough to be responsible for both.

Which wasn’t to say that she oversaw pony resources, per se, and neither was she one of the veteran weather-busters on retainer for situations as dire as the storm heading towards the city late that afternoon, with the lighting and the hail and the not-quite-tornadoes and all the rest of the sensational schlock better suited to a copper dreadful. No, Vanilla was merely the dusk-dawn shift change coordinator—the might-as-well-be-lone steward of those most woeful times to which all Tartarus seemed honorbound to gravitate.

The day pegasi were good, sensible, hard-working sorts, and the night pegasi their polar opposites—the dawn shift change at least tended to be manageable. But dusk? The day pegasi were tired and the night pegasi were useless even when they weren’t absent. And for that particular shift change, it also happened that one veteran weather-buster had just the week previously celebrated his retirement, while the other was the recent victim of a crippling bout of hypochondriasis.

Thusly, it had fallen to Vanilla, as it so often did, to pick up the slack and push others to do the same. But there was one miraculous fact of the antiquated Manehattan weather division that worked in her favor: the shape of its funding.





Not a day in, and Luster Lock’s latest attempt at a vacation was already looking pretty cruddy.

Why had she decided on Manehattan? It was a big, active place, yeah, but what was the point of leaving Hoofington for… a bigger, more active version of Hoofington? Cities were just cities, at least when earth ponies had made them. But there she was. At least the skyscrapers were cool. Big.

‘Active’ didn’t really apply, though, or not right then. Luster half cantered, half danced right down the middle of a lamplit street, with no carriages in her way or pedestrians on the sidewalks telling her to stop. Where was everypony? Thinking back, the reason Luster had settled on Manehattan was probably that it couldn’t be uneventful. But lo and behold…

Was it the storm? In the middle of executing a perfect cartwheel—balancing with her wings was probably cheating, but whatever—she looked up to the sky. Dim and gray, like her coat. Dreary. Little bit rainy, which felt nice. Looked pretty windy up above, where the buildings stopped. And the thunder was kind of exhilerating.

It looked… bad? Luster wasn’t a pro at weather stuff. Give her some tools and Ol’ Downy and Mr. Tickle could crack a safe or pop a padlock like lifelong felons—her wings alone had earned her a stint in escape artistry, even—but they never could handle themselves so well in the air. Pro or not, though, the storm wasn’t the worst she’d ever seen, she didn’t think. Didn’t seem like enough to bring a place like Manehattan to a halt or anything. So…

Luster cut the prancing and eyed the surrounding buildings. The alleyways. If it wasn’t the storm, had she just gotten off the train in a bad neighborhood? Now that she’d thought of it, that storefront off to the left was definitely boarded up, and there were an awful lot of cracked windows around. And—and was that a shad—

“Hey!” called a voice from above.

“Wagh!” Luster jumped out of her skin. Or onto her back, more like.

Four hooves smacked down onto the pavement. “You okay?”

Getting back up, Luster got an eyeful of a crazily orange-and-yellow mare who stood out sharply from the dark street. “Long as you’re not gonna try to rob me,” said Luster, “I’m perfectly fine.” The mare’s cute little messenger bag and short, pretty—if a bit naturally windswept—mane definitely didn’t make her look like a thug, but you never know.

“What?” The mare shook her head. “No, I’m wondering if you aim to help.”

Luster quirked an eyebrow. “With what?”

The mare gave Luster a look like Luster had just punched her in the gut and asked what was wrong. She pointed up.

Luster tracked the hoof up to the swirling clouds above. “Oh, right. You don’t have ponies for that?”

“Not tonight we don’t,” said the mare. “Not enough of them.” She opened up her messenger bag and drew out a piece of paper, shielding it from the rain with a wing. “If you sign this and I confirm that you helped out, you’ll get a flat fifty bits when the storm’s over. Of course, the Manehattan Weather Cooperative won’t be liable for any injuries, though it shouldn’t be that dangerous once we’ve got enough wings in the air. Interested?”

Slowly, Luster approached and began looking the form over. Fifty bits was a nice chunk of spending money, and it would probably be more fun than just heading to her hotel. Weather, though…

“Miss,” said the mare, “I hate to rush you into a decision, but it’s rather urgent that I go and find willing pegasi. If you accept, you’re not bound to do any work—you just won’t get paid if you don’t.” With her free wing, she drew a pen out of the bag’s side pocket. “If you’re unsure, you can sign now and then think about it while I get back to my job.”

Luster bit her lip, but nodded and took the pen in her own wing. She signed her evening away with a nice little flourish.

The mare smiled. “Thank you…” She looked down. “Miss Lock. We’ll be meeting in about twenty minutes above Dame Harmony.” Form tucked firmly back into her bag, the mare held out a hoof. “I’m MWC Overseer Vanilla Skies. If you do wind up contributing, we’ll notice, so just come find me after the storm for your pay.”

Luster shook the offered hoof, saying, “Can do.”

“Alright,” said Vanilla, taking to the air, “I’m off to find others.”

“Good luck,” said Luster.

They smiled to one another, and Vanilla flew off.

Luster watched the bright speck of a mare disappear over a rooftop, and her eyes lingered on the sky. She felt her smile die.





The air there was congested with… well, cumuli congesti. They were swirling and pouring, no doubt, but they weren’t yet cumulonimbi, so it was about as safe a spot to talk as they were all going to get.

“Alright!” called Vanilla. The other pegasi—about thirty-five of them in all, counting the MWC weather ponies—cut their side conversations and turned to her. “First, a quick thank you. I know not all of you are residents, and Manehattan appreciates your assistance, paid or no.” That brought smiles to some of their faces, where before there’d mostly been worry. Vanilla made sure to dial up her own smile as she continued, “With that in mind, some of you need to be informed of our general process.

“Manehattan has a sophisticated lightning protection system, grounded rods and charge negation charms on most every building—we’ve got all the time in the world to handle the basic storms, even if the potential for hail could become an issue. Our big worry is the possibility of a tornado. You see any mesocyclones forming in the cumulonimbi, you dissipate them. You see a supercell going full force, you block the wind shear, kick down through the anvil, cool the air around any striations in the base and collapse the updrafts—whatever you’re capable of doing. After that, we clear up the simpler thunderstorms. Any questions on technique?”

The roughly two dozen pegasi Vanilla had approached to volunteer, she’d approached because they’d seemed capable at a glance. Big wings, slim enough frames, good balance. It looked to have paid off: nopony’s eyes had glazed over during her speech, and there were no questions, but for a single exception. “Yes, Miss Lock?”

Miss Lock lowered her hoof, saying, “Um, yeah…” There was some definite tension in her hover, and not any good sort. “What do we do if we don’t know what any of that means?”

The encroaching thunderclouds had the decency to balk, refraining from any dramatics, but a far less modest gust whistled by.

“I…” said Vanilla. “I suppose you should just follow somepony else and try to do what they do.” Hopefully Miss Lock just didn’t know technical terms. Either way, Vanilla needed all the wings she could get, and it was doubtful one pony could make things very much worse… Though, that sounded dangerously like an open challenge to fate. “Better come with me, in fact.”

Miss Lock nodded, and her movements were a bit surer.

Vanilla looked over the group at large. “Any other questions?” No hooves. “Okay, everypony. If you’re a volunteer, speak with an MWC officer”—she motioned to the ponies at the group’s center, and they hovered higher—“to be put on a sub-team and given further priorities. We all do this right and you’ll have your pay in time to enjoy the sunset.”

Chattering began once more as the ponies organized themselves. Peals of thunder rang out all the while—seemed the storm had decided it was time for drama.





Wow!

Luster had been up in a storm or two before she’d won her padlock cutie mark—even a ground-born pegasus always gets to thinking they might be destined to go get struck by lightning—but they didn’t even begin to compare. Not to a full-on, ice-cold, bare-ankled, absolutely massive, wilderness-spawned monstrosity of a real storm.

And she’d thought the thunder from before was exhilerating.

Luster did her best to follow after Vanilla—hooves down the better flyer—as they punched through banks of clouds and out into the open air. Only to dive right back in, towards whatever the biggest cloud in sight was. Luster dutifully kicked and flapped and corkscrewed whatever bit of heavy fluff that Vanilla pointed her towards.

It was around the sixth trip back to the clear sky above the storm that Luster was beginning to feel the burn in her wings. She looked over to Vanilla, wet with what had to just be rainwater—the mare looked like she hadn’t used up an ounce of energy yet. Vanilla’s head snapped suddenly off to the side, and the break was apparently over.

“These have all just been cumulonimbi,” she called, her voice carrying to Luster over the rushing wind in her wake. “Stormclouds. But that”—she pointed a hoof forwards—“is a supercell! It’s a stormcloud, a cyclone, and a lot of other things all rolled into one. We have to focus on it, or there’s a chance it’ll form a tornado.”

Luster looked ahead, at an utter mountain of a cloud. Bigger than a pegasus apartment complex. It had a wide, fluffy-looking base that curved up and in, and then mushroomed back out again—the top looked almost like it was reaching towards them as they closed the distance.

“How?” yelled Luster.

Vanilla didn’t answer for a moment, but then said, “Nopony else is on it yet, so we don’t have many options. The wind shear—the wind coming at it—is what makes the air inside spin, but the two of us alone can’t stop that.” Another beat of wind and wing flaps, and then Vanilla turned her head back to Luster. Her brows were knitted and her eyes unsure. “Two pegasi can cool air around the base to keep it from getting sucked upwards, but it’s dangerous. Are you up for trying that, Miss Lock?”

Dangerous? Luster wasn’t afraid, but… “Is that the only thing that’ll do any good?”

Vanilla frowned, saying, “If I’m being frank, I’ll say that we’d have more options if you were a stronger flyer. Creating opposing air currents, for example.” She shook her head. “No, it’s our best option for making a difference together. Even a foal can cool air.”

That was true—it was one of the few pegasus tricks Luster had ever managed to grasp, apart from cloud-walking. Just a matter of sucking heat into your feathers. “Let’s do it, then,” she said, and they turned forward again.

They were coming up on the supercell’s bottom, and Vanilla led Luster down below it. Fat raindrops buffeted them, to the point that Luster was having trouble seeing even the brightly colored mare in front of her—until lightning flashed from elsewhere on the cloud, highlighting Vanilla, the eerily flat bottom of the supercell, and a little bunch of clouds sticking out of one spot. It was to there that they were apparently flying.

“Is this dangerous because of the lightning?” yelled Luster.

“No,” said Vanilla. “The updrafts.”

They reached the cloud-blob, and Luster could feel what Vanilla meant; the air around was getting pulled towards it, up into the supercell. It was… pretty strong, actually. The burning in Luster’s wings flared up as she fought back.

Vanilla came to a halt, saying, “Alright. You cool the air, get it to be low pressure, and that’ll weaken the updraft. Meanwhile, I’ll be in the cloud, ready to rip the channel apart when that happens. Then we’ll move to the next one. Ready?”

Luster grunted, “Ready.”

And Vanilla took off, tearing a hole into the supercell’s bottom that quickly filled itself back up. Luster took a deep breath and focused on her wings. Thinking them cold, thinking them empty. Thinking just how warm the air was. And… there.





The clouds were pressing in on Vanilla. Heavy on her wings, making it hard to hover, and thick in her ears. But she couldn’t have missed it when the roaring, spiraling wind nearby started dying down to a relative whisper. Miss Lock had had it in her, it seemed.

Vanilla burst forward and into the weak updraft—still enough to send a less experienced pegasus tumbling and spiraling upwards, but nothing she couldn’t handle. She tore into the wind of the channel, flapping hard downwards, in a reverse spiral. It didn’t take, and the channel’s currents just picked up again.

She flew up and tried again, moving hard and fast against the current, and this attempt bore fruit; the current was weak enough by the time she reached the bottom that the updraft collapsed, thickening the clouds of the channel and killing the last of the spin.

Flying down and out through the base of the supercell, Vanilla took a breath and reoriented herself. She spotted Miss Lock and headed over. “Good work,” she said over the rain.

“Thanks,” said Miss Lock. Vanilla noted the other mare’s light panting, and the way the rain hissed and sizzled against her steaming wings. “So, um. More of that?”

Vanilla nodded. She scanned the base, spotting at least two more striations, and asked, “Think you can handle it?”

Miss Lock took a deep, closed-eyed breath and tried visibly to relax her hover. She opened her eyes again, her look not quite resolute, but much better than worried. “Sure thing.”

Good enough.

They made their way to the next striation, Vanilla making sure to charge the air with every flap of her wings. If she was going to wake up in a hospital tomorrow, it wouldn’t be because of anything as amateur as lightning.

At their destination, Vanilla spared one more glance towards her comparatively haggard companion.

“Good luck,” they said at once.

They both smiled, and Vanilla flew up into the roiling cloudstuff.

A few moments in, she settled on a spot to wait, and that damnable fluff set about muffling all her senses again. It condensed on her coat, her body heat the only thing keeping it from freezing, and that heat was getting sapped all the while.

Vanilla’s head jerked back, and she sneezed. And now it was in her nose and mouth! Smelling of ozone and tasting of gobby nothing. Her ears were a lost cause by that point, the cl—

Her ears twitched forward. Was that… a shout? Or was it just more of the same wind, rushing p—

That was definitely a shout!

This wasn’t good. It had to be Miss Lock in there, and the volume of the wind’s movement meant she hadn’t cut its speed down much, if at all. Vanilla couldn’t go down and do that herself—it would take time, and every moment the other mare was left spinning out of control was another chance for her to go unconscious, and if that happened… there was every possibility she could be flung from the mesocyclone, free to fall to the ground.

Vanilla revved up her wings. The only option was to power right through the channel before the current could get a hold on her, and either spot or hear Miss Lock on her way through the thinner cloud there. Then do it again, but grabbing Miss Lock as she went.

She shot forward, pumping with all her strength, ears on alert for any more shouts.

She failed to swerve out of the way when from out of the haze came the shocked face of Miss Lock.





Vanilla’s groans rung out from the other side of the cloud, and Luster let out a long, satisfying breath. “You okay, Vanilla?” she asked, turning.

Vanilla raised her head, eyes all but spinning, and asked, “What happened?”

Luster chuckled. “You smacked your head right into mine right after I escaped that updraft.” She turned back to the nearly clear skies, and the sunset over the bay. Tangerine and royal purple reflected by skyscrapers and glassy, lapping waves. She wished she were a better painter. “You fell unconscious,” she continued airily, “and I brought you to your weather friends, and a medical guy looked you over and said you just needed some rest.”

Groaning some more, Vanilla sat up. “How’d you manage to get out?”

Luster shrugged, saying, “Mostly luck, I guess. And probably a bit of escapology experience.” The wind in the updraft had started to feel an awful lot like chains once Luster’d been panicking hard enough. Instinct had definitely kicked in a little. She turned to Vanilla once again. “Again, though, you okay?”

Vanilla nodded, and she gave her wings a little flap. “I think so.” She flapped in earnest, rising up from the cloud and moving out towards the sunset. She turned her body, flying easily upside down, like she was reclining.

For the first time, Luster noticed what looked like a little sunset cutie mark on Vanilla’s flank. And the mare’s whole body was like a few extra shades of orange and yellow melding into the real sunset’s colorful display.

“Yes, Miss Lock,” said Vanilla, a happy sigh in her voice, “I’m perfectly fine.”

Luster put on her best grin. “Does that mean I can get my bits now?”
> Round 4: What You Love (Luster Lock vs. Lilligold)
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------





Prologue





A clack, a whir, and a clack.

“INFERNAL FERN,” read the title card in splotchy, childish hornwriting. A quill scratched on paper in the dimly lit room.

Clack, whir, clack.


“Fern made of fire! Didn’t last long, though.
FIRST USED: Lit fireplace, with The New Spell.
TRYING TO REDO WITH: Ugly torch, with The New Spell.”


More scratching, then clack, whir, clack.

A low table was pictured, behind which was a unicorn filly, light of coat and lighter of mane in the sepia. Young enough for her star-and-lily cutie mark to be wondrous, but old enough for it to be broken in. On the table lay a gnarled and cloth-wrapped bit of wood.

Clack, whir, clack.

Three quarters of the next slide were blackened and warped, and the rest showed the wide eyes and open mouth of the filly—possibly screaming.

More clacks and whirs, but the next three slides were even more damaged.

“TUMBLERWEED,” read the fourth. A moment passed, and then a sigh disturbed the silent air. There came a fervent scribbling, and then more of the normal scratching. Then the next slide was slotted in.


“Really cool metal vines, with a working keyhole!
FIRST USED: Lock on granny’s hope chest (NtS: Apologize!), with The Spell and The Other Spell.
TRYING TO REDO WITH: Padlock, with The Spell and The Other Spell.”


Yet more quill-scratching. Clack, whir, clack.

The same table as before—though scorched in the center—with the same filly behind it and a solid-looking padlock sitting on top.

Clack, whirrrrrr, clack.

“ZENBREATH SPROUT,” read the slide.

A growl rang out. At once, a pale green glow flared brightly and lit the patch of the room by the projector, then a series of lanterns came to life and finished the job. 

A unicorn mare sat hunched over an open journal on the projector’s table, set up in the center of a small room—otherwise barren but for mostly empty bookshelves along one wall and the stacks of boxes along another. And the dust coating most every surface.

The mare, a lively pink excepting the dark bags beneath her eyes, reached a hoof forward and powered off the projector. With a screech of wood on wood, she stood from her stool and peered down at the projector’s carousel.

The spaces before the currently loaded slide were empty.

She growled again, sitting her star-and-lily-stamped flank back onto the stool. The quill on the table rose up in her magic, and as it started scratching away once more, she eyed the journal’s page.



How about a fruit that tastes different every time you bite into it? Bowl of fruit, with Spell #7?
Weeks and can’t stop making it taste like all at once. Move on.

Flowers with perma-dew that doubles as a sweet juice drink? Hibiscus, with Spells #5 and #14?
Perfected in half an hour. Where’s challenge?

A phoenix-like plant that regrows after it gets burn
Called a pine tree, idiot.

Maybe a type of grass that sings when wind
No no no! Did last year and was utterly dull!

What if I could

A reed




Gardener’s Block Therapy


Maybe look through old trials for something to perfect?

1. Onyxrock Pepper. Orig: mine vein, Spells #1 & #6. Redux: large gemstones, Spells #1 & #6. Failed to reproduce.
2. Wallow-well Moss. Perfected back then.
3. Infernal Fern. Orig: fireplace, Spell #3. Redux: torch, Spell #3. Mane is just how I like it.
4. Tumblerweed. Orig: grandma hope chest, Spells #1 & #2. Redux: padlock, Spells #1 & #2. Failed to reproduce.
5. 
6. 
7. 



The mare stared at the page, eyes bloodshot but blank. The quill hovered, jittering slightly.

She flipped to a blank page and started writing.




Gardener’s Block Therapy (Cont.)


Inspiration vacation. Close Glimmering Gardens and block new commissions.

Tired of woods. Always woods around Elmshire, or deserts. Tired of Elmshire! Tired of country!
Tired of deserts.
Visit Equestria? Where in?
Always a happy little town over there.
No more woods, no more deserts, no more happy little towns. Urban?
Elmshire is urban…
Go to urban place. Go to reasonably urban place. Small city, not too crowded.

Go get spark back.







What You Love








Free Writing


Okay okay okay, alright. Elmshire far behind. Can I write again? Think of plants? Am I creative yet? What have I done what have I done, well, I caught one of those fancy dirigibles. Way more bits than trains or a ship but last time I took a vacation was before I opened the store. Years Mother used to say treat yourself but I never

First time on a dirigible and it’s a beast of a thing all dark and it looks scaly and they might have used real dragon scales on the outside. I bet it’s just lifted with light gas or magic but I picture the insides like a hot air balloon from Tartarus fire roaring

The little mare held for dear life onto her mount, its roars and belching flames piercing the sky.

“Steady!” she called up from its back, but the wind was too strong to carry the command. It was all she could do to keep her hooves wrapped around one of its massive black spines.

She made the mistake of

She looked down to the world below, and marveled. Her dragon was bringing her over the sunny sands of the San Palomino. The mare had walked that land as a foal, soaked up its heat for days on end like a sword in a forge, and grown strong. That knowledge burning in her mind, she called once more, “Steady!”

The dragon checked its turbulence with a grunt, at last, and the little mare looked ahead, towards the green lands of their destination.

Equestria. It would be hers.



Something beautiful, but hard and dangerous. Try to get some dragon scales. And some nice, thorny sorts of roses? Spells #2 and #7?



Hoofington was chilly. It was well into the afternoon, but mist hung low about the dirigible landing pad just in from the city’s outskirts, and the skies were more white than blue.

A single-file line of ponies came down the great airship’s tiny staircase, many of them dressed in sharp suits or sober dresses. A few others were undressed, and all the rest wore only enough for the temperature.

A pink-coated, silver-maned, star-and-lily-marked mare in a forest green scarf reached the base of the steps. One hoof held a paperback journal close to her chest, the front cover of which read, “Property of Lilligold,” then, “a.k.a. A Unicorn,” then, “i.e. Open at Own Peril!”

Lilligold peeled the journal open as she walked, and she drew a quill out from her scarf with her magic and set it to the page.



Never tried turning something into a cloth or other textile kind of thing. Decorated so many weddings, but what if I could make a living dress material for a bride? Any colorful flowers. Might need a new spell.



Hoofington had no skyscrapers, no grand monuments. No towers and nothing towering. Past the loose cobblestone pathway in from the landing pad was a small commercial district, filled predominantly with squat, utilitarian brick buildings.

Color came in the form of signs, mostly, shining with neon and magic in shop windows or above awnings. Traffic was subdued but not negligible, and Lilligold pony-watched even as she moved deftly through and past groups of fellow pedestrians.



Formless neon flower(s), definitely Spell #3. Easy, though. Maybe a self-reshaping glass shell for it, too? Spells #1 and #7, with a little tweaking.



Lilligold was smiling brightly, scratching away at her journal without even having to look. Instead, her eyes darted all around herself.

To the busy intersection, carriages whizzing by. To the clothing outlet with the sparkling gowns on display. To the food cart selling a variety of aromatic teas. To the abandoned side street with the boarded up buildings. To the cheerful, bronze-painted street performer. To the dubious smoke shop with the tinted windows. To the toy store with the chintzy tune pouring out its open door. To the inky shadows in the cramped alleyway.

Her quill had eaten two full pages by the time she came to a break in the district: a bridge over a river that ran right through the city. On the other side appeared to be more businesses, though their signs were less elaborate and the buildings themselves were somehow even squarer.

But Lilligold’s eyes were wide as she crossed the bridge.

On its sides were fencing to keep ponies from falling (or leaping) to the water below, and on the fencing were hung a multitude of padlocks. Some were dark and basic, others bright and elaborately engraved. Some were cheap and tinny, others encrusted with gems. Some fat, some teeny, some sharp, some curvaceous. Many, many of them were in the shape of hearts.

Lilligold slowed to a stop as she took more of the sight in, and her expression slipped into blankness. She stood aside from the flow of ponies over the bridge, flipped back a few pages in her journal, and read. Then she skipped forward to a fresh page, raising the quill.




Temp. Notes


If you found these notes, stop reading here. This means you!


Tumblerweed.

Originally made from grandma’s hope chest’s lock, Spells #1 and #2. Tried to remake with padlock (unsuccessful).

Spell #1 = frame spell, tangible base material → plant. Probably didn’t cause the failure.
Spell #2 = manifestation of emotion/intention.

Emotion or intention w/ padlock? Probably little to none. I think I bought it that day, just to try to make a tumblerweed? I didn’t care much about it, any rate.

Granny loved that hope chest (never apologized for uglying it up, you jerk). Gramper gave it to her, had lots of “memories” inside. That lock meant something, to her at least.
Protects something important.
Want to make a tumblerweed, probably need a lock somepony cares about.



She ripped the page from her journal with a hoof, tore and crumpled it up, and tossed the remains over the fence. A couple of passing ponies aimed scowls at her back, but said nothing.

Lilligold stared hard at one of the padlocks before her. It was simpler than most of the others—a heart, flat-fronted like it had been cookie-cut from a pan of steel, with a perfectly stereotypical keyhole in its center. Colored a glossy, even azure, and its clasp a polished silver.

Her horn’s glow suddenly flared a few notches bigger and brighter—but just as quickly diminished back to only its hold over the quill. She bit her lip, and she brought the quill down.



NtS: It’s not right to experiment on other ponies’ things without asking. You know this. Stop.



Lilligold let her journal float in her magic as well. She brought her freed hoof up to the heart-lock, lifted it, and tilted her head. The edge of the back read, in letters embossed on the metal, “Lock’s Locks, Ltd.”





“Welcome to Lock’s Locks!” said a high-pitched male voice the very second that Lilligold walked in the door. She winced and held her journal even closer, but turned all the same. She found an off-white, older unicorn stallion with a curly green mane and particularly glittery eyes, who continued, “I’m Block Lock, and I’d bet bits to bolts you’re new to the place. Anything in particular bring you to our store this afternoon, miss?”

Lilligold’s eyes roved over the shop and the other patrons milling about. It had a very focused design scheme, certainly: from where she stood could be seen many tall, matte gray, hardware store–like shelves stocked with a great many different kinds of lock paraphernalia—padlocks, chains, things with locks pre-mounted in them like knobs or small strongboxes, a selection of what looked to be precise little tools, and more.



Thin, metal plants that shape into tools on command! **Fourth-quarter project, all on its own.



All of it was very iron-and-steel, very cold and dark. Except—Lilligold started when she saw it—the swirling rainbow patterns of the entire western wall’s papering, and all of the colorful locks mounted on the great chain link fence that stretched across its surface. Most of the ponies in the store were concentrated there.

She pointed a hoof to it, saying, “I passed by a bridge, and—”

“Say no more, miss.” Block Lock, grinning, began walking towards the back of the shop.

Lilligold hesitated in taking her first step, but she followed a moment later.

“Hey, Ellie!” called out Block as they passed the edges of the last shelves and came to a more poorly lit portion of the building: a small work area off from the counter with the register. Two pegasus mares were bent over a large workbench there, bright lamps pointed down at locks their wings were working with.

The pegasus that looked up at Block’s call had a dim gray coat and a bluer, longer, and even more curly mane than him. Plus a cutie mark practically identical to the heart-lock back on the bridge, with an open clasp. She said, “Yeah, Pop?”

He nodded towards Lilligold. “Got another love lock initiate here. From out of town, I think.” At Lilligold’s blank stare, he added, “Bit of an accent, miss. And the bridges are old news by now.”

‘Ellie’ let the tools fall from her wings and onto the benchtop. She turned to the other mare, blue-coated and straight-maned, and said, “Leave mine alone this time, Ma.”

The older mare just sniggered, not taking her eyes or wings from her work.

Ellie came forward into the light, and looked to be roughly the same age as Lilligold—though of the two of them, Ellie’s eyes looked far duller, at the moment. Her smile was bright, though, and she extended a wing to Lilligold. “Luster Lock.”



Lillig



“Oops, um.” Lilligold’s horn flared brighter, and she hovered Luster’s wing firmly up and down. “Lilligold,” she said, putting a smile on as well. “So… not ‘Ellie’, then?”

Luster shook her head, and she started towards the western wall. “Ma’s named pretty much the same thing as me. Gets confusing.” The pair arrived at the chain link fence, and she turned back to Lilligold and continued, “So yeah, love locks. Haven’t heard of ’em, I’m guessing?”

Lilligold shook her head.

“All the rage a couple months back,” said Luster, “with all the other locksmiths around copycatting, but I've been at it way longer. Got popular when I finally got ’em classed as interactive art instead of vandalism—you’d need to check your own place’s rules on that, by the way.” A mock-stern glare. “Not liable, us. But yeah, point of ’em is they symbolize unbreakable love between the owners. You set one up someplace and get rid of the key.”

Her eyes wide, Lilligold said, barely above a whisper, “Perfect.”

Luster smirked. “Got a special pony back home, then?”

But Lilligold said quickly, “Luster, I have something of a queer proposal.”

“Er.” The smirk fell steadily from Luster’s face. “Not that I’m not into that, but if we’re talking love locks and, like, commitments, then I don’t know how it goes where you’re from, b—”

Face burning pinker than pink, Lillgold waved a hoof wildly about. “No!” she yelled, before shoving the hoof over her mouth. She lowered it again only after the other patrons stopped staring, and continued, much more quietly, “I meant a business offer.”

The smirk resurfaced. “Oh, right on. What’s the deal?”

“A short summary.” Lilligold’s stance went professionally rigid, as though there were a podium in front of her. “I own, operate, and stock a specialty agriculture store in my homeland. Magical plants, artistic and practical both, all of them my personal designs and breeds—and such a thing requires a great deal of experimentation.”

“Right…” Luster’s eyes darted down to Lilligold’s journal and back up. Her expression didn’t change, but her tone was a touch less enthusiastic as she said, “When you say ‘experiment’, you’re not glossing right over some freaky, cauldron-y stuff or something, yeah? Nothing super weird?”

“Not…” Lilligold frowned. “Cauldrons aren’t involved as a rule, and certainly not in my proposal. Why?”

“Because I think I know where this is headed.” Luster’s eyes were keeping a laser-focused watch on Lilligold’s face. “Listen, Lilligold, we sell top-notch locks here, and you wouldn’t be the first or even the fortieth eccentric pony to come in with some well thought-out story for why your shed happens to need a wagonful of ’em, or just the strongest lock in the whole—”

“Please stop.” Lilligold slipped her journal into her scarf and rubbed her hoof to her temple. “It’s nothing as nefarious as all that, I assure you. I keep my work very private, yes, but what I need the locks for… here.”

Lilligold looked about—no one but Luster was looking her way. The unicorn shut her eyes, and her horn brightened, magic swirling visibly along the pattern of its fluting. The air in front of Luster’s face glowed lightly and began to spiral just the same. The spiral spun faster, pressing into itself, and in a matter of seconds, the air in the field was a dense and visible thing.

Luster’s eyes widened, and in the next instant, the glow was gone and the air had taken a floral shape: a long stem topped with petals blooming in a spiral pattern, pinwheeling slowly. It began floating to the ground, more lightly even than a downy feather, and Luster reached out a wing, catching it undamaged.

“Free sample,” said Lilligold, opening her eyes. “It should last a few days, kept outside of any tightly enclosed spaces. Just do not get it near an open flame.”

Luster raised and lowered her wing, guiding the ghostly, delicate bloom through the air for a few moments, before looking back up to Lilligold. “This is the sorta thing you want to do to my locks?” Her eyes were fuller, more awake.

Lilligold shook her head. “As I was saying, my work takes experimentation. Your ‘love locks’ might be just what I need to complete an old project, and only after I can verify th—”

“What do you need?”





Luster’s eyebrow rose. “You just carry them around in there…?”

“It always pays to be prepared,” said Lilligold, shutting her journal and sliding a sheet of parchment and her quill across the table to Luster.

One that read, at the top, “Glimmering Gardens Official Oath of Secrecy.”

The storeroom of Lock’s Locks was much like the showroom, in that its lighting was fighting a losing battle against the sheer size and quantity of its shelves. More so, given that there were no windows. Still, room had been found for a pair of stools and a small table, from which came the room’s only sound: a quill tip scratching on parchment.

“Done,” said Luster, and her other wing relinquished its hold on a love lock, which fell to the table with a heavy clank. “And done. Now c’mon, lemme see it!”

Lilligold smiled and lit up her horn. The form and quill tucked themselves into the journal, and the lock—an orange and green thing, shaped into a side view of two kissing, closed-eyed pony faces—moved to the table’s center.

The glow turned intense. It was as though it was thickening, looking almost solid enough to be touched and felt. The lock rattled against the wood. Still, the magic expanded—Lilligold was grunting through gritted teeth, now. The lock was beginning to dent the table.

And then the magic winked out. Lilligold was lightly panting.

“That’s it?” said Luster, face deadpan. The lock was still a lock. “Did we really just waste that much time?”

“A failed experiment isn’t a waste,” said Lilligold, picking the love lock up in her hooves. “Though… I really did think I was on to it.”

Luster sat back on her stool. “On to what, exactly?”

Lilligold stared blankly into Luster’s eyes for a moment, then said, “I suppose you’re sworn to secrecy either way—I do hope you took note of the hefty fines, by the way—so there’s not very much harm in telling you. I suspected that there’s an emotional component to the process of making this breed. Somepony has to care about the lock. About it protecting something important.”

Luster blanched.

Running her hoof over the lock, Lilligold continued, “I saw your cutie mark. It’s you that makes these, correct? If I’d been right, the love and intention you imbue into them just through the act of creating them would surely—”

“Er.” Luster gave a dry, weak chuckle. “Since we’re already sharing secrets—” She held up a hoof as Lilligold’s mouth opened. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You can have mine for free, long as you promise you won’t go blabbing to my parents—it might break their hearts, and I couldn’t do that to them.”

Lilligold shut her mouth, and she nodded firmly.

Luster steepled her primaries, fidgeting. “Well, they think the same thing you probably do. That I got my cutie mark making my first love lock, or whatever—and I did get it right around then, and it probably does have something to do with why it looks how it does, but…

“I got my cutie mark by picking a lock, not by making one.”

Silence settled back into the storeroom’s air.

“So…” said Lilligold. And after a moment, “Your special talent is picking locks?”

Luster winced. “Yeah and no.” She sat forward on the stool again, setting her hooves on the table. “Thing is, when I was a filly, before my parents trusted me to take care of myself, we had double cylinder knobs installed on the shop’s doors—locks not just outside, but inside, too. This one night, some school friends want to go to some bad concert, and I tell myself I need to go with them—any excuse, right?—and so I bust out. And then I just walk around Hoofington, feeling the night air on me, and I get my mark. Don’t even go to the concert.”

She sighed and continued, “Next day, my parents think I was up late working hard on my love lock design and got my mark like that. And I couldn’t set ’em straight—couldn’t say I think locks kinda suck, at least when they’re in my way.”

Lilligold placed the padlock back down on the table. “And these?”

Luster’s ears fell apologetically, and she said, “I really don’t care about them, past that they’re a lot more fun to make than a standard kind of lock. Artsier. They’re… just a good outlet, you know?”

Her hoof sliding over to touch her journal, Lilligold gave a small nod. “But they’re not what you love.”

“Right,” said Luster. She stood up from her stool. “I guess this means…?”

Lilligold nodded more firmly, picking her journal up and standing herself. She looked to Luster, and said, “We don’t have any further business. I apologize for taking so much of your time.”

They made their way to the door, Luster waggling a wing and saying, “Nah, it’s no big thing.”

The showroom was empty of other ponies; darkness had fallen fully outside.

Lilligold smiled, shaking her head as she walked. “It was inexcusable.” Past the shelves, at the front door, she added, “In fact, I insist on a proper apology.”

Before Luster could get a word out, Lilligold’s horn was surrounded by magic. It expanded, thickening to opaque, and coated the front door’s knob. A tingling filled the air, and built.

And then wiry, dark vines sprouted out around the knob’s lock. They reached and spread, all along the door, fattening as they went. Coil after coil wove about one another, until at last, every vine had reached the floor or part of the doorframe and braced itself there, hard. The glow faded.

“No matter your feelings on locks,” said Lilligold, quietly, “there does indeed seem to be something in this shop worth protecting.” Lilligold turned her smile on Luster, and continued, at normal volume, “This free sample, at least, should be much more permanent.”

With wide eyes, Luster produced a small key from within her wing and fitted it into the ‘doorknob’. She jumped as the vines suddenly retracted exactly opposite how they’d grown out.

Lilligold opened the door, stepped out, and breathed the air. “Have a good night, Luster.”

She started away, pulling out her journal.





Epilogue





Luster moved between the shelves, snuffing out lanterns as she went. The pitch black outside the shop windows took a firmer and firmer hold on the room. She reached the work area, where her lamp was putting out the only light on the floor, and she approached the workbench.

The lock she’d been struggling to restore earlier in the day sat shining beneath the hard light. Pristine and fully assembled.

Luster sighed, smiling. “Damnit, Ma…”

She sat at the bench, taking the lock into her wings. Eyeing it. Running her feathers along it. Just holding it. Holding it.

Another sigh.

She set the lock down and drew open one of the bench’s underside drawers. Out came a paper and a pencil, and she placed them beneath the lamp.



Dear Guys,

Next time I talk to you, I know you’ll tell me you felt it coming, and you get it.

Bye for now. Probably for a real long time, for this one.

Love you both to bits. Be safe.

~ Ellie ~