We Don't Talk about Spike's Sources
”...Rarity?”
“Yes, what is— Sweetie Belle!”
The jagged cut ran up her sister’s leg from pastern to knee, blood squirting with every step.
“Does it hurt— No, I’m sorry, that was a silly question.”
“I’m okay. Feels weird though. Scootaloo fainted. I think I need a bandaid though.”
This was worse than her usual clumsy cuts and scrapes. It wasn't deep—thank Celestia!—but it was long. This needed stitches, a doctor even. Rarity winced. Rent was due soon. And the utilities. Medical bills would make things very tight for a few months.
It wasn't fair. A doctor could charge a horn and a wing for a couple stitches she could sew herself in a few minutes!
...she could, couldn't she?
Was flesh really so different from fabric when it couldn't feel? A lockstitch with heavy thread, then a bandage for compression? It was doable. Free, too.
And neither of them would have to go hungry.
"Sweetie, go to the bathroom and rinse off the blood. I'll get my sewing kit."
And perhaps review the first aid manual. But she could fix it.
"Rarity?"
"Yes?"
"My tummy feels funny."
Rarity turned and- bit back a shriek. Ribs were not meant to look like that!
She gingerly touched it. Sweetie didn't react, but the protruding lump sank without resistance. Another edge pressed out.
This was too much! Cuts and scrapes she was adept at fixing now, but this was magnitudes worse. A grim slideshow flashed through her mind: Ambulance. Invasive surgery. Medication. Specialist from Canterlot. Intensive care. Physical therapy. Foal Protective Services. Re-evaluation. Custody loss.
No.
She was a good sister. She took care of things. No one else could care for Sweetie like she could.
She would... fix this. Patch her up like she always did.
“Get on the kitchen table and Don’t. Move.”
She’d need her heavy-duty scissors. Seam ripper. Pins. Tweezers. Rags, for the blood. Steel corset boning. Maybe an anatomy book from Twilight’s. But she could fix it. She would fix it.
Eyeballs were bloody fiddly little things.
Delicate and fragile, with a thousand gossamer threads that demanded precision alignment. Like crocheting with spidersilk.
"Done." With a gentle push, the eye popped into its new home. "Well? How's it feel? Give us a blink."
Sweetie blinked. Out of sync. First the green, then the orange. A mismatch, sadly, but the original was unsalvageable, most of it still on that tree branch.
“I can see! It’s a miracle!”
“Spike’s the miracle. Be thankful he found one in your size.”
“He got my new hoof too, right? Where does he get all these replacement parts?”
Rarity put her hoof to her lips. “I don’t ask, he doesn’t tell me, and I pay him in gems and headpats. It’s better this way.”
She tossed her bloody tools in the sink and returned her references to a shelf that, used to a lightweight burden of romance novels, creaked under its dozenth magical medical text.
“One… two… and…” Crch-ch-crack-snap!
With an unpleasant grinding, Sweetie’s new jawbone snapped into place. A needle, layered with dozens of obscure spells, joined flesh and skin and fur till only color revealed the edge.
“This one’s a little on the small side, so you may have some trouble speaking at first.”
“It theems okay. A little thtiff.”
“That should pass. And what have you learned from this little accident?”
“No thord-thwallowing cutie markth.”
“Nor jawbreaker-breaking ones. That should have been evident after the first time. Jaws aren’t nearly as easy to come by and Spike charges me a wing and a horn.”
“Wath that a joke?”
“In a sense.”
“...Could he get me thome wings?”
Rarity prepared to deny her, but…
Then again, those texts she’d liberated from Sombra’s collection had some intriguing ideas.
“Maybe for your birthday. If you stay out of trouble.”
“Yay!”
*Bing-Bong!*
Rarity put aside her work. Friends and customers never rang the doorbell, which meant it was something serious.
She opened it to a grim-faced stallion in medical garb with a sheet-covered cart.
“Miss Rarity Belle?”
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news. It’s about your sister. There’s… been an accident.”
Rarity rolled her eyes. “Whatever it is, I’m sure she’s just playing it up for sympathy.”
“No, it’s—”
“Tell her she’s not getting out of a punishment that easily.”
“I know this is a shock but you need to take this seriously. She’s—”
“Milking it.”
“She’s dead!” He ripped the heavy sheet off the cart he’d brought.
There was her sister.
Half her sister. The important half, at least. Though the drying blood and spilled organs certainly painted a messy picture.
Honestly, just what was the hospital doing with their money if this was how they presented a deceased filly to her family? Disgraceful.
But now was not the time to wax on the state of Equestrian medicine. She had work to do.
“Alright Sweetie, you've had your fun and a free ride home. Now stop malingering and head downstairs to the clean room or it's a week of no sweets on top of a grounding for whatever stunt led to this mishap.”
Sweetie blinked and sat up. Tried to sit up. The stallion screamed.
“But it wasn’t my fault!” she pouted, “Scootaloo said—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Now get your missing behind inside.”
Sweetie rolled and flopped to the ground with a squelch.
“And don’t you have something to say to the good doctor here?”
She managed an embarrassed smile with her remaining teeth. “Sorry for playing dead and scaring you.”
“Good. Now get on the slab so I can patch you up.”
She crawled off, a loose tube of intestines leaving a smear that would be murder to clean later.
“B-but… how?” the doctor stammered, “She was missing—”
“Redundant systems, darling, obviously. It pays to be prepared. Adventurous young fillies can be such a hoofful. But thank you for bringing her home, I’ll take care of her from here.”
She eased the door shut. “I always do.”