Every day, ponies find new ways of being with each other. Roughly 6% are actionable.
If a trait, quality, or item exists, then somepony is going to bring it into a bedroom. Living in a world of magic clearly means finding methods for using that magic as a way of rocking somepony's world. It's a truism older than Equestria, and it's one of the many reasons why ponies continue to experiment.
But experiments go wrong. They do so in interesting, strange, and often silly ways. And when the results end in somepony jabbing out a shaking (and probably soaked) foreleg while shouting "I'll sue!" -- then there's only one legal way to settle things.
Welcome to Sex Court. Your fate is now pressed between the hooves of Judge Impassi Heartstopper. All rise.
It was almost impossible to keep a courthouse from radiating pure intimidation. That quality seemed to be embedded into the mere concept of such a structure, lurking until it found a way to express itself through cold marble and harsh lines. The architects tried to moderate the effects, for some were innocent and needed to be reassured accordingly... but it always came out in the end. The vast majority of those who approached the central courthouse in Canterlot would find themselves shivering slightly when they first grazed its aura, for something within them recognized the emanation of You Done Fucked Up.
Or, for a number of those whose knock-kneed approach was reluctantly advancing on Sex Court, You Done Fucked Something.
It was a much smaller structure: one which would have almost been lost in the shadow of the main building, if not for the material. The exterior had been crafted from pink marble. The hue was delicate, persistent, universal, reminded many ponies of something else which was pink and for those who actually had to go inside, very few would snicker more than once.
Because Sex Court wasn't a place which addressed crimes -- well, not on the felony level. Those went to the time-crunching white coffin on the left, because there needed to be a place which chewed up the guilty, spit the remains into prison, and swallowed years of their lives. It could be said that Sex Court mostly dealt with misdemeanors and civil cases, while maintaining a bustling traffic in Abject Humiliation.
Because ponies lived in a world of magic. And if there was magic in the world, then clearly the occupants possessed an obligation to use it. Especially if doing so would result in better sex.
It was universal, really. It wasn't even limited to magic. If something existed, then it was eventually going to turn up in a bedroom. Minotaurs had invented clockwork: somepony had noted the subtle vibrations produced by unwinding springs and decided to turn that up by a few dozen notches. The introduction of the movie camera had naturally led into capturing images of an activity which often involved a lot of movement. There were things to be done with gramophones, and most of them were legal.
Ponies experimented. (So did the other sapient species, because each had its own magic and there was probably going to be a bedroom somewhere.) Experiments went wrong. Even the tried and true, which had no more than a 0.0001% chance of failure, would eventually gallop directly into the demon known as Cumulative Odds.
Experiments could led to pleasure. Joy. Innovation. They also had a tendency to detour into The Land Of Oops, which was largely populated by those who were jabbing out shaking (and probably soaked) forelegs, usually while shouting "I'm gonna sue!" Because every day, ponies found new ways of being with each other, and roughly 6% were actionable.
Some talked things out. Others decided that never speaking to each other again was simpler than public confrontation. A few mutually shook their heads, trotted up to the blackboard together, and started working on a new set of diagrams.
For everypony else, there was Sex Court.
Judge Impassi Heartstopper reviewed her notes. The steely gaze (rendered by steel-hued irises) went over the summations, line by merciless line. Both plaintiff and defendant attempted to evaluate her expression, trying to figure out how the judgment was about to go.
That failure was mutual. There were several vital skills involved in administrating Sex Court, and the ability to keep a perfectly straight face was somewhere near the top of the list.
It was hard to make out any details of the judge's figure: the robes were fairly shapeless, and most ponies only saw her truly move when she entered or left the courtroom. But the earth pony's fur was pearlescent grey. The lavender-tinged ringlet curls might have been natural, styled, or she could have been wearing the world's best-fitted wig: nopony was ever quite sure. Hooves were exceptionally dense, to the point where she never used a gavel because a simple foreleg slam sufficed. And her features were fine, with the lines imposed by middle age doing nothing more than adding a few highlights.
She was, in all ways, considered to be a total JILF.
Over the course of her career, several defendants had decided that they had to find some way of knowing her better: all had subsequently discovered that getting charged multiple times was an exceptionally poor way of flirting. And most of the gallery had wondered what she would be like when under the saddle blankets. Because if sexual experience could be passed on verbally... then the judge had heard it all. And sentenced most of it.
But at this moment, those fine, stonefaced features and liquid steel eyes were reviewing notes.
The judge preferred to make her own notes. It was Sex Court in a land of magic. Minor sympathetic resonance effects meant there were times when the stenotype caught fire.
"To summarize the testimony," a perfectly even contralto announced, "the defendant felt that while his performance was -- and I quote -- 'just about perfect' -- there had been some complaints from his previous partners regarding what they saw as a relative lack of seminal fluid production."
The unicorn stallion winced. The gallery, which had quite a bit of experience in such matters, waited. One bespectacled grey-maned older mare, sitting in the Affected Parties section within the front row, did her best not to snarl. The slightly overweight pink earth pony sitting next to her (whose curls were perfectly natural, and utterly uncontrolled), kept herself unusually still and patient.
"So he devised a spell which would do something about that," the judge continued. "Multiplying his output. However, the enchantment did not do anything to the seminal gland, or the prostate. He only believed that it had, because his first, only, and rather minor trial -- conducted in a private train car, while coming home from Appleloosa, through the desert -- demonstrated a moderate increase in volume. But once he reached Ponyville, and found a partner for the evening..."
There was a pegasus mare sitting at the plaintiff's bench. She did not look happy. She hadn't looked happy for quite some time, and she certainly wasn't going to start now.
"...circumstances allowed him -- and a significant number of witnesses -- to discover how the spell actually functions. Namely, it steals resources from the general area and channels them directly into the ejaculation, as it emerges. And given his exact address..."
The steely-gaze snapped up. Focused on the defendant.
"One experiment," the judge said. "In private, as you masturbated. Only one. And then you decided everything was fine."
He just barely managed to nod.
"They tracked the trajectory of the geyser," she neutrally added. "From the launch through what had been your window, to the center of the splash zone. Which, if Ms. Whitetinge had not been a pegasus, and had not managed to get her wings into a glide position even when the feathers were adhering to each other, would have also been her impact point. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, Your Honor..."
The pegasus mare compulsively shook out her wings again. She'd been doing that for the whole of the case, and no flakes of dried white fell away. That had mostly stopped after the third day. And the tenth bath.
The judge's left forehoof nudged the notebook closed. A pair of magnets within the covers locked into each other, and did so with a tone of doom.
There was a persistent rumor among the regulars: one which said that the judge's birth surname wasn't actually 'Heartstopper'. Ponies just heard it that way, to the point where she'd finally give up and started to write the distortion down.
"I find for the plaintiff," the judge announced. "Damages will be awarded as previously requested. The remedial magic classes are mandatory. Additionally, there will be community service for the defendant, as I understand that portions of the cleanup are ongoing and the pony responsible should really be doing most of it."
The unicorn's head dipped. The horn seemed to sag. The judge just looked out into the gallery.
'Heartstopper' might not have been her original name. But if so, 'Hardstopper' wasn't much of an improvement.
"Marigold?" the judge checked.
Mayor Mare took a deep breath.
"I would also appreciate it," the older mare pushed out between her teeth, "if Ponyville residents would stop finding new ways of emptying out the entire water tower in one go!"
Impassi nodded. "And as for the other affected party -- Miss --"
The other, much younger earth pony took a deep breath.
"The spell stole the resources to make more of the stuff," she announced. "All of the resources! And I know exactly what goes into it, because I checked at the library! Why, when the stallion's diet is just right, it can taste so sweet!" She tossed her head, and furious pink curls flew everywhere. "I saw the sacks collapse, just before the screaming started and the world went white and sticky and full of lumps which took three days to wash out! The bakery just wants its sugar back!"
There were generally three main ways of getting into the building. Those who worked there had a private entrance. Quite a few of the ones who had businesses within the courtroom would choose to enter via underground tunnel, because some of them had gotten into this mess by pushing through a dark cylindrical space and there was clearly no need to change anything now. And the spectators tended to come in via the front, laughing and calling out greetings to each other as they made their way towards the ornate doors. Those parties would generally go silent once they reached their benches, because it was considered rude to talk over the testimony -- but there were occasional exceptions made for regulars.
The majority of those who were entering for the first time tended to be shocked by the interior layout. Anypony exploring the building would find the expected offices, judge's chambers, restrooms, some seldom-used emergency arbitration areas, and a file storage section which featured some of the strongest defensive enchantments in the realm. (A number of losing parties had recognized that there was but a single place which hosted the Permanent Record and decided their last recourse was to set it on fire.) The concessions stand usually came as something of a surprise, although not quite as strong as that which arose from discovering that the refreshment prices were actually quite reasonable.
But most of the initial attendees were quite reasonably expecting to get more than one courtroom.
It was somewhat less harsh than the building's exterior. Paneling had been done in rosewood, and just about all of the benches were plush. It was easy to settle down and stay for a while, especially in the spectator areas. And the sight lines were actually rather well thought-out, especially since a plaque-commemorated genius had thought to put in stadium seating.
The population of the district would have seemed to mandate extra facilities. But as with all courthouses, the majority of cases were settled well before reaching this stage. Ponies would work out compromises. Debts were privately totaled and paid. Some went to Sex Court ahead of their actual trial date in order to get a look at the place, spotted the stadium seating, and decided to compromise right there. Only a fraction of the potential caseload ever came before Judge Heartstopper (although most had come well before that), and so a single courtroom sufficed.
The spectator seating took up most of the room because unless there was classified material in play, the public had the right to attend trials. However, nothing in Equestria's founding documents said they had the right to do it for free and so for Sex Court alone, there was an admission charge -- but the season ticket discounts were significant, and it was easy to reserve your favorite bench. Seniors, who found this form of daily entertainment to be cheaper than the cinema and sometimes had trouble with hearing the best parts of the testimony, generally got to sit near the front. Just about everypony brought their own water, and did their best not to loudly munch on popcorn during the good bits.
The gallery was its own little community. The privacy forms which were permanently bundled into the ticket contracts meant they generally only got to discuss cases with one another. Friendships sprung up along the rows. Relationships had been started, and the resulting couples would start potentially bringing their children -- once they were old enough, which was generally measured as 'fifteen years post-graduation or after I'm dead, whichever comes second'. And multiple books were being planned, but only after enough of the names and details had been changed to avoid giving the authors some lawsuits of their own.
The wheels of justice turned smoothly and, courtesy of tickets and concessions, also turned a small profit.
Judge Impassi Heartstopper entered the courtroom, and the day's proceedings officially began. Chatter faded away as experienced spectators prepared themselves for the mandatory part.
"All rise," the bailiff ordered.
They did. The Sex Court gallery was only asked to rise before the first case of the day, because none of the testimony had started and after that happened, some of them legitimately couldn't, usually because they already had.
The gallery didn't shut down until an hour after the judge had gone home. The season ticket holders liked to stick around and talk about the day's events. Or about hoofball. A lot.
The judge took her bench.
"First case," she said. "Ms. Rivka Поломка of Yakyakistan vs. Mr. Shoal."
You could learn a lot, when you were in the gallery. One of the more frequent topics was interspecies relationships. There were very few such truly stable relationships in Equestria, even within the capital -- but ponies experimented. With magic, each other, and occasionally ran all of that out to seeking the affections of those who weren't ponies at all.
And because every species had its own magic, culture, way of perceiving the world, and ponies were, by and large, creatures who occasionally forgot that zebras existed... there were misunderstandings.
For example, it took a strong-willed pony to date a donkey. This happened every so often, because a well-groomed jenny could be exceptionally pretty and some ponies would decide that when it came to ungulates, a donkey was clearly close enough. And then they would get into the bedroom for the first time, and the donkey would wearily gaze at their partner's endowment while slowly shaking her head with regret, because that was just what a jenny did and it took an exceptionally tough pony to go through that more than once.
And when it came to yaks...
"She said we were going to use sex toys!" Dune Shoal frantically insisted -- or did so with as much force as the unicorn could manage without putting too much internal pressure on the bruises. "And I thought okay, I'm already going out with a yak, I've gone this far, so what's a few toys? But when we got in there, she just -- she..."
Words ran out. The yak, silky, strong, and elaborately-braided, looked confused. Judge Heartstopper simply took a breath.
"Mr. Shoal," the judge said, "are you sure that's what she said?"
"...well," the unicorn faltered, "I... think so. I mean, I know she was talking about sex toys, but yak sentence structure is so weird..."
Judge Heartstopper turned her steely attention towards the yak.
"Ms. Поломка?" The pretty, half-confused, and rather large dri perked up. "Please provide a word describing that night's actions, in the terms of making sure you personally experienced pleasure."
"Sex," Rivka immediately declared.
"And the role of a unicorn during that act?"
"Sex toy."
Dune Shoal froze.
"Pony has good horn," the dri decided with a smile. "Long. Thicker than usual." Warmly, "Squirming helped."
Eventually, that was straightened out. The budding relationship went off to find somewhere it could recover, burdened by the arrival of fresh Knowledge and a number of helpful pamphlets. Reading the pamphlets was mandatory. Strictly speaking, the waiver forms were optional, but the judge always recommended keeping the emergency contact whistle next to the bed.
"Next case," Judge Heartstopper announced. "Mr. Tumbleweed --" The doors opened, and a slightly-built, somewhat underweight unicorn trembled his way up to the plaintiff's station. "-- versus --"
The doors opened again. A portion of wind rushed around the stadium seating, because the defendant wasn't in a good mood and every flap of the cyan wings came with Consequences. This was followed by the gallery leaning in to get a closer look --
-- the spectators generally remained silent. There was a degree of decorum to be followed, and the rules were generally kept right up until the moment when they heard something really funny.
But you had to make exceptions for regulars.
"RAINBOW!"
The half-hovering mare looked around. Crossly-folded forelegs briefly untangled themselves, and the right one managed a tiny wave.
"Yeah, yeah," she muttered as she flew towards her assigned place. "Nice to see everypony. Really. It's just so good to be back -- Bracy? You're pregnant? Congrats! When did that happen? Whose is it? I mean, other than yours. And I know this mare who can sew up some really good buntings --"
"-- Miss Dash," Judge Heartstopper interrupted, "please take the defendant's bench." Paused. "Again."
Eventually, most of the pegasus settled in. The judge had given up on asking her to remain completely still long ago. Some degree of shuffling and wing movement was reasonably expected and in any case, when it was Rainbow, the court was doing exceptionally well to keep her within two body lengths of the actual bench.
"Do you have anypony coming in to represent you?" the judge checked.
Which produced a half-muttered, "No," followed by a long pause and a rather sulky "Again."
This was normal. Rainbow had tried to hire attorneys before this. Doing so had naturally meant meeting them first, and entire law firms had been known to spontaneously go on vacation rather than try to get Rainbow Dash off on what was essentially a charge of Being Rainbow Dash.
Tumbleweed kept glancing at her. Every moment of visual contact (which she didn't notice) was accompanied by a shudder. This was also normal. Rainbow had once testified that one of her goals in sex was to ruin her partners for all other mares and until the resulting therapy kicked in, she generally succeeded.
"So what happened this time?" Judge Heartstopper asked, and waited for it.
Rainbow's sex life came with a certain degree of fallout. Just for starters, the area surrounding her home had initially seen its property values plummet.
"Allow me to summarize," the judge finally said as the notebook magnetically snapped itself shut. "You were, in your own words, 'in the mood'."
Rainbow nodded. The pegasus was often found 'in the mood'. Some of her lesser charges had come about because a mare whose emergency napping spots tended to be semi-public didn't feel like getting all the way home before masturbating and surely that high exterior building alcove was going to be just visually shielded enough.
"So you picked up Mr. Tumbleweed," the judge reviewed. "For the express purpose of having sex."
Another nod, and Impassi briefly considered the stallion's rather minimal physical size. When Rainbow decided to pick somepony up for sex, she meant it.
Which was part of the problem.
"And when you were well into the act --"
"-- I like to move!" Rainbow abruptly yelped, and the judge didn't bring a forehoof down because you generally made exceptions for regulars. "Everypony knows that! It's more fun if you're moving! Anyway, I was doing what you told me to! I stayed on the bed this time!" The briefest of pauses. "Around the bed. In the rough vicinity. For what had to have been four whole minutes! It might have even been five --"
"-- and then," Judge Heartstopper said, "you had a thought."
"There's this stunt I've been working on," Rainbow promptly said. "If you bring in the blackboard this time, I can draw up some diagrams --"
Neutrally, "-- and the thought was?"
The pegasus abruptly swallowed.
"'Maybe it would work better with a drag weight'."
Property values around Rainbow's home had initially plummeted. Multiple ponies had decided to move out. Then word on why they were moving had gotten out, and the nature of the market had asserted itself. Something which, once the right buyers had become aware of the opportunity, had made those values rebound all the way back, and somewhat beyond.
"So I thought..." Rainbow verbally stumbled... "we've already come this far, I'm pretty much in the first stage over the bed already, and if there was just some more space to work with..."
"I DIDN'T WANT TO GO OUTSIDE!" Tumbleweed abruptly yelped, and did so just as the last portion of lingering styling in his tail vibrated itself apart.
There were a lot of new residents in Rainbow's neighborhood. Just about all of them kept a pair of binoculars in every room and stood ready to use them at all times. Rumors of home movie camera setups were persistent.
The pegasus half-spun on her bench, and furious magenta eyes glared across the gap. "If you didn't like it --"
"I was trying to tell you! The wind was whipping my words away!"
"You could have just pulled out!"
"What, and lose an anchor point? You nearly tossed me off during that loop! Twice!"
"You kept moving around! The more I flew, the more you moved! That meant you were having fun --"
"-- I was trying for better bracing!"
"MISS DASH," the judge sternly said.
Slowly, Rainbow turned to face the bench. Wings angrily refolded, and didn't quite tuck back in all the way.
"...I came twice during that loop," the pegasus said. "And still kept it all going. So I must have been doing something right."
The courtroom collectively gave her a little while to settle down.
"Miss Dash," the judge finally resumed, "did you tell Mr. Tumbleweed about what you wanted to do?"
"There wasn't time --"
"-- there is," the older mare cut her off, "always time in the bedroom, and during the act. Time to place between thought and deed. Did you tell him?"
The cyan forelegs had folded again, and the sleek head was now turned in a way that meant the pegasus was just about muttering into her own flank.
"...no."
"Which meant you didn't ask him if he wanted to come along on the 'stunt'."
"...no."
Impassi, with expert effort and great experience, completely failed to sigh.
"Miss Dash," she reviewed, "what does 'consent' not mean?"
And because you made exceptions for regulars, the entire gallery said it with her.
"It does not mean," most of a courthouse chorused, "'You entered my bedroom, you knew what you were getting into'."
They would have known, if any of them had come back for a second time. Rainbow was rather consistent in her drives and, with certain subjects, a consistently slow learner.
But she picked up a lot of ponies for sex. Once each.
"...can I change my plea now?" Rainbow finally asked.
"Yes."
"Is there gonna be a fine? Because there was this Daring Do collectible I wanted to get and --"
"Yes."
The pegasus openly sulked.
"Am I ever getting off community service?"
Impassi Heartstopper considered the odds.
"If by 'getting off'," the judge said, "you mean once again ducking out of litter duty and finding what you mistakenly believed to be a completely hidden alcove --"
Many of the cases which reached Sex Court rose from experimentation: physical, social, and magical. Having the district include the capital tended to make the last category somewhat more complicated.
The capital had the Gifted School.
Those few among its graduates who didn't struggle to get through all the stages of a relationship required to reach the bedroom still tended to encounter some issues in explaining exactly what they'd come up with for use within it. This was especially true when it came to detailing What Probably Went Wrong -- and, for them, the equally-important detail of Why I'm Almost Certain I Can Make It Work Next Time. Additionally, the ones who could make some attempt at spelling out their -- spells -- were Gifted School graduates and therefore, most of their explanations emerged in Academic. It was a language which had once possessed a faint relationship with Equestrian, but the two weren't currently on speaking terms and skilled translators were hard to come by.
So, as with other courtrooms, both sides were allowed to retain the service of expert witnesses: those who had special proficiency in a category and possessed some faint chance of explaining it to the public. They spoke from the brain, because some of them genuinely didn't remember that a heart was supposed to be involved. A few managed to include diagrams. Live demonstrations were occasionally necessary, and the first few rows of spectator seating existed under a permanent reminder that they might get wet.
This particular expert witness had been in the courtroom a few times before. It had allowed Judge Heartstopper to discover that having the full credentials openly recited simply took too long. Passing out cards to let ponies read them over wasn't an improvement, because the options for doing that were either a card roughly twice the size of the expert's body or a one-point font: either way, getting through the whole thing was going to take a while and produce significant eyestrain.
It had once taken quite a bit of time to properly recognize this expert, especially if the other side decided to challenge any of the details. (They generally didn't, because it was a rare intellect which would risk any attempt to deadhaul that much vocabulary.) But she'd experienced a certain change in her life and once that had happened, all that was required for credentialing was to introduce her by name. Everypony nodded, the mare took her bench in the witness area, and the really long part began: waiting for her to finish talking.
The mare usually wasn't entirely comfortable with the subject matter. But she wasn't going to pass up an issued invitation to lecture.
"-- so when you look at how the spell was modified, you can see how it's ultimately about getting nerves to fire more often! Without the usual recovery delay, because you'd hardly expect some kinds of nerves to fire all the time." She paused. "Except for the ones which do. Like pain nerves. It's funny how that works, isn't it? That pain can be constant, and some kinds of pleasure aren't? Except that maybe there is a delay, and it's just so small that we can't measure it --"
The judge took a very audible breath.
"-- anyway," the expert witness not-at-all smoothly recovered, "this was clearly about a temporary modification to the pudendal nerve. More firings, more sensations, and more..." Her volume dropped into the realm of the near-whisper, because she only found the magical aspects comfortable and the rest was frequently perceived as being something of a side effect. "...orgasms. But as an experimental working -- and one which really should have gone through a few more trials before being tested on ponies, let me tell you! -- it didn't quite operate as the caster planned. There were a lot of nerves firing, yes. But the somatosensory cortex got involved. And once that happens..."
She paused. The gallery desperately scavenged the remaining oxygen.
"Of course the pony on the receiving end is going to laugh," the expert said. "Her brain thought she was being tickled. So she laughed. Now, when it comes to her inability to stop, that was clearly the fault of --"
"OBJECTION!"
The mare's eyes narrowed.
"You can't object," she stated -- but the tones were a little uncertain. "You're not even the lawyer --"
"She can object," Judge Heartstopper corrected. "An expert witness, for either the plaintiff or defendant, may object to testimony in circumstances when the attorney would not know to do so. You've done that yourself. That's why she was hired, and it is her right to speak."
A little desperately, "But it's her --"
The judge shook her head, and the witness fell silent. A gaze of steel moved to the opposing bench.
"And what is the objection?" Impassi inquired.
The blue unicorn mare took a deep breath, and the streaked tail slowly swayed.
"I object to her being used as an expert."
The witness awkwardly shifted on her bench. Purple eyes were now mostly visible through tiny slits.
"Her credentials for magic," said an older mare who already felt she knew where it was all going, "have been more than established."
"For magic," Trixie Lulamoon agreed. "But what would Twilight Sparkle know about having sex?"
Eyelids shot open. Wings flared out. A touch of corona began to dance on the end of the horn.
"I understand more theory than you ever will," the alicorn angrily stated. "I've published twice your number of papers. Maybe three, since I had a free hour yesterday --"
"-- which you obviously weren't going to spend with anypony," Trixie snidely interrupted. "Curled up with a cold inkwell, instead of a nice warm body --"
"-- you're only here because your side couldn't get anypony else," Twilight snapped. "Or afford them. Everypony knows you work cheap. Cheap stage, cheap caravan, cheap hat --"
"-- cheap wings --" Trixie casually said.
The flared limbs froze. The gallery waited.
Trixie hummed to herself. It was a few bars of a classic foal's tune, and it was seldom hummed in public because somepony had figured out that the syllable count of 'She's an adult virgin' exactly matched the tempo and after that, the followup ya-ta-ta-ta-TA-ta-da! had more or less been lost forever.
The alicorn's wings slammed inward.
"So you're saying I don't know anything about sex."
With open sarcasm, "Nothing everypony in the world doesn't know. Maybe less --"
Furiously, "-- it's like two hours ago in the waiting area never happened!"
The five seconds of utter silence which followed largely represented the time required for the gallery occupants to fully review the privacy contract attached to their tickets.
The plaintiff froze. The defendant desperately wished to be anywhere else. The attorneys independently planned to get a drink together after this, because it was going to take a lot of alcohol to wash all of the memories away. And the judge, who'd been there before, expertly remained silent.
"Well," Trixie calmly proposed, "maybe if you'd bothered to adjust your position."
"Maybe if you had some rhythm to your flow."
"Maybe if you could have bothered to check the lumen output on your corona before you tried that last casting..."
The expert witness did her best to spin in place while resting upon a plush bench, and came within a 90% error margin of making it.
"Your Honor," the alicorn furiously said, "I'd like to request a recess. So I can speak with the other -- 'expert'. And straighten out my credentials."
"Whatever," Trixie shrugged. "I don't mind. If straightening them out is even possible. Which it probably isn't." And glanced up at the more elevated bench. "Your Honor?"
"Recess declared," the judge neutrally said. "Use an arbitration room. We'll resume when you're both done."
Twilight angrily jumped down and stomped her way out of the courtroom. Trixie, whose trot had more of a false geniality, steadily followed. The gallery looked collectively uncertain. And the bailiff turned to the judge.
"I need some idea of how long we're going to be out of session," the bailiff half-whispered. "So does the gallery. So we can call everypony back in more or less on time. Can I get an estimate?"
Impassi nodded, and then carefully considered all of the factors and parties involved. Something which included an impressively dismal amount of evaluation based on Previous Courtroom Experience.
"Hate Fuck Break," the judge formally announced, and the gallery occupants began to stand and stretch. "We're back in fifty."
For the frequency of their appearances alone, there were a few of the expert witnesses who effectively qualified as regulars. Attorneys tended to pass around lists of those who would be willing to speak on a client's behalf and in any case, there were only so many ponies who truly knew about certain subjects. Those who would step into the witness stall to explain, in careful, common terms, exactly what had gone wrong. And some were simply authorities in established categories of sexual interest. Because things happened when ponies came up with the entirely new and chose to experiment -- but civil cases also arose when somepony viewed a known path for the first time and decided to get experimental.
They were ponies who didn't always know what they were getting into or, once the final strap had closed, how to get out of it again.
Take, by way of example, bondage. Quite a few ponies had taken the concept out of the stable for a test gallop. For those who hadn't done what was absolutely a required amount of studying, the path had mostly led through a number of shadowed back alleys in the hopes of finding a discreet locksmith at the other end.
The entire category of BDSM interests had a single aspect in common, and that was a dire need to put in the research. You had to understand where the limits were. How to put exactly the right amount of pressure on a joint, because this far was Pleasure and one degree past that was Hospital. A near-medical understanding of the pony form helped. Some added knowledge of materials science. Anypony worth their tail-mounted whip would understand how to work a buckle with tongue alone, and emergency release pullcords were effectively mandatory. A rookie had to be partnered with an expert, and the first few sessions would effectively be a classroom in the form of a pleasure dungeon. For those who'd had exceptionally poor school experiences, the greatest shock would come from discovering that learning could be enjoyable.
But when it came to such learning, the majority of ponies who underwent initial investigations tended to be those whose school book report style had been regrettably familiar: take any 800-page classic and force themselves to read through the entire back cover blurb. (It was theoretically possible to get through a full six mouthwritten pages with that much knowledge, although not without dangerously depleting the world's 'very' supply.) They would grow up to become adults who treated Do It Yourself repair books as something which had a subject on the front cover, a picture of the final results on the back, and just touching the spine would clearly absorb any additional information. In practice, this meant the interior of the book could be replaced with a list of qualified repairponies who were also capable of putting the resulting fires out -- but it wasn't as if the amateur was going to read that either.
It meant they experimented once, because they didn't bother with the little details like 'What kind of safeword can still be clearly pronounced with a ball in my mouth?' (Those who did more than skim the books would have also worked out ear and tail movement codes.) There was a subcategory which felt that proper gear just had to come with locks all over it: this group had full overlap with the ones who couldn't remember where they'd put the keys.
A lot could go wrong with bondage, especially for those who felt their personal learning curve didn't require an index. Too many of those bad results wound up in Sex Court. And that was why so many attorneys called upon Golden Harvest.
She'd been more than a little nervous, during her first time in the witness stall. It had taken an extensive review of the privacy contract to get her past the marble columns, because just about all of Ponyville knew Goldie solely as a carrot farmer. She didn't feel that they would understand if she told them how many other uses farming implements had, or... look at her the same way. There was something in Goldie which felt that so many would never look at her again.
(Goldie had been hired as an expert witness more than a dozen times. The gallery was now fully familiar with every possibility embodied by a tiller. Nopony had been able to make her talk about what was being done with the actual carrots.)
But she was an expert. She could carefully guide an audience through the basics: what went where, the points at which tolerances ran out, and all of the safeties which had to be in place because the illusion of danger could never be allowed to crash into reality. Show her a picture of improvised gear and she would immediately point out at least ten points of failure: it could take some time before she reached the detail which had actually gone wrong.
And she could even explain the dominant/submissive relationship. The paradox of it, because... ultimately, it was the sub who held the true power. The ability to say 'stop'. A true relationship was partially built around honoring that 'stop', and keeping it as something very close to holy.
A true relationship. Something Goldie had never known.
As an expert witness, she was a regular. As a defendant, Golden Harvest was an ongoing tragedy.
For those who knew what they were doing, the BDSM community in the district was small, loving, and just about entirely paired up. It left Goldie to scavenge among the curious. Those who had taken a momentary interest. And she did her best to teach. Nopony ever went into Goldie's playroom without having been told exactly what they were getting into -- along with what they had to say in order to be let out of it.
But ponies didn't always listen. Or they discovered that curiosity ran out at the exact place where sensation began, they panicked, forgot everything, didn't bother to signal because trying to kick was clearly more effective...
Goldie got hauled in for scaring ponies. She had explained the concept of 'saddle' a dozen times and ponies still broke for the hills when the tack actually came out. Because her partners hadn't understood, hadn't listened, hadn't been sincere.
But she was an expert dom. She always told them what to expect, and... not having the words reach their brains wasn't her fault.
She'd always been able to prove that she'd tried to prepare them. That they'd gone in fully informed. She was, in many ways, the anti-Rainbow: any partner of Goldie's always knew exactly what she was going to do -- or would, if only they had truly listened.
(There had been a case where Judge Impassi Heartstopper had simply asked Goldie as to why the farmer didn't draw up a contract, and the mare had bitterly said that she didn't need written evidence floating around. Also that it would have been a great way to discover that ponies didn't read either.)
As the expert BDSM witness for the district, Goldie was in great demand. But she'd taken on that role because she'd been forced to explain herself from the defendant's bench, over and over, in front of attorneys who had decided she could now fulfill that function for them.
As a defendant, the farmer occupied a curious position: one even stranger than that created by her gear. Goldie had both always gotten off and never gotten off.
She was an expert dom. She would have been a brilliant, loving partner. But she had been forced to scavenge through the leftovers, her luck was horrible, she didn't have anypony...
When Goldie entered the courtroom as an expert witness... the gallery tended to nod respectfully, and did so as a herd. But today, she was present as a defendant. Again. And the spectators had gone silent, because that was one of the proper responses to tragedy.
"And what is your exact complaint?" Judge Heartstopper asked the plaintiff: a slightly-built light blue earth pony mare, all subtle curves and soft angles. The mane was slightly towards the silver side, and the mark claimed a talent for metallurgy.
"False advertising," declared a high-pitched voice.
Goldie's attention appeared to be focused on her desk. She didn't look up. Her ears failed to twitch in the general direction of the accusation. The farmer had been there before, been there too many times, and... she would typically speak when it was her turn.
"Which is generally filed against a product's manufacturers," the judge noted. It was possible to make the claim with a pony, but... well, there would have been thousands filing suit, along with a near-equal number of stallions trying to claim that somehow, 7=12.
"It could be argued," the small mare coldly said, "that bondage equipment is a product. Along with being part of a service. She failed to deliver."
Goldie? went through Impassi's mind. The judge's voice chose "And the particulars of that failure?"
The small mare pulled herself up to a rather minimal full height.
"I want to make a few things clear."
The judge nodded. Goldie's head dipped.
"There was nothing wrong with the snout gag." The little earth pony paused. "Well, it was clearly homemade. But she'd taken some care with it."
Another nod. The farmer's mane was starting to droop.
"The balance on the sleepsack..." The mare paused.
"You felt trapped," Judge Heartstopper said. "Confined. That you couldn't get away --"
A small frown creased attractive features.
"No. The balance was exquisite. And I've never seen anypony work the anal hook into the support grouping."
She went to the hook. And she would have explained it first. Every aspect. She really wanted this to work.
"So you have no complaints about the sleepsack," Impassi checked.
The small mare shook her head.
"No. Although I didn't understand why the chevalet was in the room --"
"-- it's not a chevalet," Goldie whispered in the general direction of the table.
"Ms. Harvest?" the judge carefully asked.
"I was trying to make a queening stool which would work for a pony. Repurposing other things. It wasn't finished. I hadn't leveled the top yet. So it just looked like a chevalet."
Nopony asked what a chevalet was. Goldie had explained those before, mostly because ponies had to know why they should just about never be used.
"...oh," the small mare carefully said. "Well, I guess I can see where you were going with that. Even if it was homemade. Like the harness. And the hobble skirts. And the saddle. Obviously improvised. Well-made, but... not exactly purchased, were they?"
The farmer slowly shook her fast-dropping head.
"But I was promised something special," the mare announced. "Something unique. And that's why I moved here in the first place, to seek out what nopony in Drayton could truly deliver! Pain and pleasure, twinned and intertwined! I was expecting perfection, and I got a sleepsack and a hook and the saddle, she told me about what she was going to do and I was still waiting for that which never came --"
-- she just sniffled, she's never --
The little mare reared up, and slim forehooves pretended to slam against wood.
"-- because where were the spurs?"
Judge Heartstopper allowed herself the luxury of a single blink.
"How is it supposed to be special without spurs?" the sub demanded. "I was supposed to be her pony! Hers! How is she supposed to truly claim me without --"
Which was when judge, plaintiff, and gallery all realized that Goldie was crying.
For ten endless seconds, there were no words. Just soft impacts, and water being absorbed by darkening wood.
"...don't you have spurs?" the metallurgist half-whispered.
Goldie shook her head. Drops scattered.
"...I can't get ponies to stop running from the saddle. How am I supposed to bring in spurs? I don't even know where to find spurs, and I can't just make --"
"...I've been dreaming of spurs for six years," stated the little mare. "Ever since I realized what I wanted, and that... nopony in Drayton would do it. I thought... I thought that at the end, after everything you'd said, the spurs would just... be there."
The defendant's head came up. Just a little.
"And I was so angry about not getting the last part of my dream," the sub finished, "that I made you let me out of everything and I just... I just left..."
Nopony said anything.
The plaintiff looked up. Checking with the occupant of the highest bench.
Softly, "I want to drop my case. Right now."
Impassi nodded. The little mare dropped back to all fours, then slowly trotted over to the defendant's station.
"It's just about all wood and cloth for you, isn't it?" she quietly asked Goldie. "Because that's what you have available."
Which produced a tiny, sad nod.
"But I work with metal," the sub said. Took a slow breath, and followed it by taking a chance. "Mistress... may I please show you how to make my spurs?"
Goldie's head came all the way up. It was the only way to truly stare.
And then they were both crying. Half of the gallery was crying...
They left together, Goldie and Braeö, because that was the paradox of bondage. Ultimately, the submissive was the one who held the true power. The ability to say 'stop'.
Those who worked within the white structure on the left would have freely traded their marks to never have had another case involving a minor and, with that swap effectively impossible, took great pride in punishing the monsters who had decided innocence was just a particularly enticing form of prey. Judge Heartstopper understood and, if it would have meant seeing that portion of the system rendered obsolete, would have offered up her own icons in an instant. Children were simply that important.
But the other structure was for felonies. Sex Court dealt with misdemeanors. Civil cases. And, inevitably, it was going to see its share of minors. Because adolescence was a time of sexual awakening.
It also happened to coincidence with a years-long period where the minor had very little concept regarding what was happening to them. They usually didn't want to actually go and ask anypony, because they had just realized that they needed to establish their place in the world and requiring help with any given topic was clearly going to lessen them. Somehow. Very few adolescents could make any kind of start at explaining the particulars on that and once vocabulary inevitably expired, turning to anypony else for assistance was obviously right out. Several had simply put all thinking on hold until adulthood, or offloaded that function to something which didn't work with actual neurons.
Too many tended to tell themselves that they already knew everything. And therefore, whatever they came up with on their own officially qualified for more than anything. When it came to information, a number of adolescents believed themselves to be in possession of roughly 102% of all which could ever exist: oddly, none of it ever seemed to apply to the particulars of cleaning a bedroom or, for those who'd been experimenting, doing something with the sheets.
They were confused, lost, felt as if the world was spinning out of control, their own bodies were becoming foreign entities, and the only way for so many to deal with any of it was a constant stream of inner lies, all of which were offered up to a target longing for belief. That they were in control, because that was far easier than asking for advice or -- horrors! -- having to look something up.
They told themselves that they were in control, and did so when their world was in upheaval. While they were still trying to figure everything out -- and 'everything' very much included 'sex'. Even basic masturbation, applied to the pony form, was something of a challenge -- and it took a very good friend to take somepony aside and explain what they were probably doing wrong. Add that to the fact that emerging magic often expressed itself during certain moments of intensity, and...
There was a tendency for unicorns of a certain age to wind up in the emergency room. None of them could walk properly. Not a soul among them had mastered the concept of 'aim', while every last one had forgotten that a corona lost some degree of fine control when it was moving an item which could no longer clearly be seen. Just about none wanted their old toys back.
Adults who experimented could wind up in Sex Court. Adolescents existed in a state where truly talking to each other could potentially push the limits of personal capacity. And the court, staffed by adults who'd all been there, did its best to understand.
When it was adults... mares and stallions arguably should have known better, or at least been willing to learn. Adults got the gallery, because the gallery was Abject Humiliation arranged on plush benches, with optional popcorn. It was supposed to be a reminder. If there's going to be a next time? Stop, remember, blush, and then think.
But adolescence already existed as abject humiliation on the installment plan. Any earned memories were then locked away in a vault, where they proceeded to earn embarrassment interest for the whole of the account's lifetime. And nothing was worse than having a parent crack the door open so they could pull a story out.
For minors, the spectator benches would be empty.
In terms of court occupancy, it was frequently just the children and Judge Heartstopper. Attorneys could be involved in such cases, but -- the judge always asked for a little private time. The bailiff would leave, and the stenographer understood that anything said was going to be off the record. The fate of all minor files was to eventually be sealed and destroyed: allowing the isolated conferences just meant that much less paper to burn.
The rules were different for minors, because they had to be. And with the truly young...
The judge calmly looked down at the three fillies, so tightly clustered along the defendant's bench. White, yellow, and orange bodies were pressed against each other for security -- or, given this particular trio, to allow the option of a coordinated group break.
She could see the shivering. Little vibrations jumping from body to body, intermeshed fur strands substituting for transmitting nerves. By contrast, everything along their backs had been pressed flat. Weighed down by the sheer gravity of the situation.
Impassi carefully closed her notebook, and made sure not to let the magnets click too loudly.
"I want to review," she softly told them. (Her voice still echoed in a little in the empty courtroom, bounced off the walls and embedded itself in the commemorative plaque.) "And then I think we can wrap this up."
All three managed tiny nods.
"How did it start?" the judge asked. And waited.
The yellow filly was the first to speak. She usually was. There was a futile hope in play, and it said that the adults might go easier on the trio if they were listening to a cute accent.
"We've sorta been lookin' for our marks," Apple Bloom carefully began. "Y'probably ain't got the particulars. Ah'm guessin' most of that wound up next door --"
"Which has no bearing on the current case!" Scootaloo abruptly snapped, because a filly who wasn't on track for a legal mark had still spent enough time in Small Claims to pick up a few details by osmosis. "Priors shouldn't count --"
"-- girls," the judge quietly said.
Orange wings slowly refolded.
"...we..." The smallest and most timid cleared her throat. "...we've tried a lot. And we heard... well, there's a new pony in town. Miss Fleur. She's -- really pretty --" Sweetie's skin began to flush fire-red, all too easy to see through white fur "-- and... we heard that... she used to be an escort."
"Yes," Judge Heartstopper peacefully confirmed. "Recently retired to pursue a new line of work, but -- yes."
Nopony said anything for a few seconds. Silence filled the courtroom, then got in line at the concessions stand.
"We hadn't tried that yet," Scootaloo finally said. "I keep track. Of all the things we've tried, so we don't do any twice. 'Escort' wasn't on the list. So we tried it."
"An' they sent us here," Apple Bloom miserably noted. "When we hadn't done hardly anythin' at'tall. Nothin' real. Nothin' more than goin' up to the adults an' offerin' escort services."
Judge Impassi Heartstopper, who'd read the full police report, very carefully said nothing at all.
"It's not as if we even got marks out of it," Sweetie dejectedly declared. "I don't even know what we did wrong..."
The lone adult in the room carefully pushed her notebook to one side.
She didn't laugh, because so much of being in charge of Sex Court was about not laughing. And when it came to adults, she never smiled. It was part of what was required, just to keep control at all.
Seeking marks? Ponies had been doing that for the whole of recorded history, and it had proven some categories of icon to be impossible. For starters, despite the sheer numbers who'd longed for it and a few who'd at least made a direct attempt, nopony had ever manifested a mark for having sex. But when you reached the subcategories...
"I'm going to ask you a question," the judge said. "All three of you. It's all right if you talk to each other about the answer before you tell me what it is. Or you can take turns. But I want to hear it from you."
They waited.
"What do you think 'escorting' means?"
They told her.
The judge shook her head. Lavender-tinged ringlets very nearly bounced.
"...that ain't it?" Apple Bloom disbelievingly checked. "Then what d'you have t' do?"
She told them.
There was one more shiver. And then the miniherd came apart, as three young bodies began to laugh in relief.
"Boring!" Scootaloo instantly declared. "That is so boring! I think it's worse than what we were actually doing!"
"Goin' t' parties with ponies y'don't even know?" Apple Bloom tried to reconcile. "An' then y'have t' stay with 'em after? Seriously?"
"I've never been so happy to fail!" Sweetie giggled. "Imagine spending all of those nights in the wrong beds! You wouldn't even know which parts of the mattress were the best spots, and the other pony would probably just take them first!" The two-tone tail twitched with amusement, and stilled itself just before the hasty "Which doesn't mean it wasn't right for Miss Fleur! Since she's so pretty. But now I know why she wanted to stop!"
The adult waited for them to laugh themselves out, and didn't speak again until six eyes had looked up towards her bench.
"There's no sentence," she told the little group. "No fines or community service. This isn't even going into the juvenile record. It's a misunderstanding, and it's been cleared up. You can leave whenever you're ready."
And then they were staring at her.
"...really?" Sweetie half-whispered. "No punishment at all?"
"None."
The weight lifted. Three fillies began to get up, with fourteen limbs flexing in abrupt relief.
"There's still one part Ah don't get," Apple Bloom risked as her forehooves touched the floor. "If'fin we got it that far wrong, then... why did ponies turn us in t' start with?"
The other two nodded, and three confused gazes sought the only possible source of wisdom.
Impassi had spent years within the courtroom, all without laughing. And when it came to adults, she would never smile.
But the rules were a little different for minors.
"To be fair, girls," she told them, "they had every right to wonder why you were charging two hundred bits to walk them across the street."
"So I thought, it's our first time together, I want to make this special, and what's more romantic than a bed covered with roses? It's beautiful, we can wash off any stains together after, if we get hungry then I've put a snack right there...."
"Your first time together."
"Yes."
"And your first time with an earth pony. Ever."
"...yes. I... guess it was going well if... that. All of... that."
"And you are asking for...?"
"Medical expenses to cover treating the wounds from spontaneously-growing thorns would be nice."
Interspecies relationships were complicated -- but they were also rare. Unions between the pony races were decidedly more common, and that state mostly meant that the associated problems cropped up with increased frequency.
Everypony was just a little bit strange to everypony else. Very few unicorns understood the drive of the physical -- but that was how earth ponies lived. Pegasi... those who had been raised with other ponies tended to understand the majority. But there were airheads and stone foals: the ones born in the clouds, for whom 'ground' was the most foreign country which could possibly exist, and you didn't visit it for long because nothing made any sense. Plus you were a lot closer to the source of gravity and there was every chance that it might get you.
They had to find ways to reconcile. Live together. Love each other.
And when that last factor became especially complicated, it tended to wind up in Sex Court.
The pegasus at the plaintiff's station was rather pretty. Her coat was the streaked grey-white of a cloud which was moving towards storm, and the mane shifted through all the hues of sunrise. She was sleek, well-styled, and hadn't stopped blushing since the moment she'd come through the doors.
"So we'd been dating for a while," she radiated on waves of hot embarrassment. "And we'd taken it further. But it was always at his place. Because I've got a little apartment in the Ring, and... he's an earth pony..."
Black eyes completely, and visibly, failed to dart towards the defendant's post.
"So you were in one of the few cloud structures on Canterlot's border," Judge Heartstopper prompted.
"It's all I could afford," Crystal Fractus blushed. "And I just came in from Stratuston last year. It's strange enough, just... being in the capital. Seeing so many earth ponies and unicorns every day, and not just as tourists who don't want to stray too far from the wooden safety platforms because they're afraid their cloudwalking spells will start to wear off. Dating them..." Her wings flared out slightly, slowly tucked back in.
The judge waited. Expertly.
A little more softly, "I just wanted... one familiar thing. Someplace I could go at night, when the day had been too strange. And I was already dating Gibber, and..."
The defendant said nothing. He didn't move. He didn't twitch.
Or perhaps he had. Nopony could really tell.
"...I kept going to him," Crystal quietly said. "I wanted him... to see my world. A little of it. But he does quarry work, and... I'm in the factory. Neither of us makes very much money. We couldn't afford the cloudwalking spell. And I thought... because I was in the factory..."
"The factory," Judge Heartstopper cued.
"The..." Crystal swallowed. "...Cumulus factory."
Most of the gallery inhaled.
"You know," the pegasus unnecessarily added. "The mattresses."
They knew. Everypony knew. Because there were three major Equestrian pony species, and every last one of them needed to sleep. If you slept, you dreamed. And if you dreamed, then you were eventually going to dream about sleeping on a Cumulus because that way, the whole thing would obviously be that much better.
A Cumulus mattress was easy to describe and, thanks to the company keeping the exact techniques involved under tight wraps, impossible to manufacture outside of the facilities. They were clouds. To wit, they were clouds which had been saturated with so much magic as to allow anyone to sleep upon them. Ponies, sapients from the other species... anyone at all. You climbed up, curled up, and then you went to sleep.
The vapor cradled, nestled, and comforted. The support was perfect. A full set came with puffs of pillows, and those never, ever needed to be flipped over to a cool side. And when it came to any fluid production inspired through being together atop the billows... the Cumulus absorbed it, purified out the essentials, and dispersed the rest. No washing was required. Ever.
There were only two limits to a Cumulus: size -- whatever was done to the cloud in order to let the magic work stopped functioning once you got past the dimensions of an Ultra-Deluxe Princess model -- and price. Or rather, there was an absolute limit on what most ponies could afford.
The cost of a full Cumulus set doubled as the average kitchen refurnishing with a new stable on the side. In theory, pillows could be easily covered by trotting into the nearest pasture and swapping out the price of your lunch for free grass. Repeat as necessary until the full cost was covered, and be prepared to scrape through a lot of snow.
Ponies dreamed about sleeping on a Cumulus. Having sex while atop one was an equally common vision. Princess Luna claimed that the total for both nightscape scenes had been eclipsed by those who simply saw themselves falling into the required pile of bits, but she was considered to be something of a biased source.
"And what is your exact role in the factory?" Judge Heartstopper inquired.
Crystal swallowed again.
"...cleanup." A little more quickly, "At least for now. I'm in training for manufacture, but it takes a while to learn how all of the techniques work and it's paid training, so the company... put me on cleanup. I..." One more gulp. "...sweep up clouds. Because there's..."
Attractive features twisted. Gibber, at the opposing station, didn't notice. And arguably couldn't.
"...I have a non-disclosure agreement..." the pegasus helplessly said.
"I don't believe we need the magical particulars just yet," the judge stated. "Just the generalities. We can see the results, Ms. Fractus." (The results didn't move.) "How did they come to pass?"
"...there's pieces left over," Crystal finally said. "From the molding. Sometimes they have to trim a little, to keep the density right. And that happens after the techniques are woven in. So you get little pieces of worked clouds all over the place, and they have to be gathered up..."
The gallery collectively looked at the defendant's station. Then they waited for it.
"...and I thought," the pegasus reluctantly continued, "anypony can sleep on a Cumulus. Anypony and anyone. So it has to be a little like a cloudwalking spell, right? Only it's something a pegasus can do. And the magic on a Cumulus doesn't wear off, ever. So I took some of the pieces out. The littlest ones, which weren't even going to be pillow stuffing. And I found Gibber, we talked about it, I told him exactly what I wanted to try --"
The words were coming faster now. Trying to escape before the heat of humiliation made them catch fire.
"-- and he said yes! So I tried to sort of transfer everything! Use myself as a bridge, send the magic from the scraps into him! And I got him into a pressure carry, I lowered him onto a cloud very slowly without ever letting go and..."
The defendant's borders shuffled somewhat.
"...it held," Crystal said, and there was still a little pride in that. "It held him. We were laughing, we laughed for at least an hour and just rolled around a lot. And then I finally took him to my apartment, finally let him see what I was like when it was my world instead of his, and we..."
She stopped. Her wing joints loosened, and feathers drooped.
"It was the best," she told the courtroom. "The best we ever had together. And I made him promise not to get off the bed without waking me, just in case it started to wear off. It didn't. So I took him down the next morning, because we both had work, and... it was foggy. I had to bring him down slowly, because it was foggy and I couldn't really see where I was going."
"As foggy," Judge Heartstopper said, "as it was this morning."
Reluctantly, "...yes."
Defendant and judge mutually looked towards the plaintiff's station.
"Mr. Gibber?" Impassi checked.
The cubical cross-section of billowing grey vapors vibrated slightly.
"Glick," said the pony at the core.
"It's been a week," Crystal miserably said. "And this keeps happening. The Weather Bureau won't give us a break. Everything just -- adheres. He can breathe in there, but the humidity isn't good for him. It's too solid for him to do more than shuffle his legs a little, though. And I can mold him free, or get enough heat directed towards him to make the cloud evaporate. But that takes a while. And I don't know how to unravel the weave. I can't tell if it's ever going to wear off. And maybe there's a way to avoid vapor, but we can't just move to Appleloosa and stay there for the rest of our lives..."
Judge Heartstopper looked at the plaintiff. Turned to the slightly-shuffling cube of fog, and then went back to Crystal.
"Ms. Fractus?"
"Yes, Your Honor?"
"Why are you here?"
The pegasus blinked.
"...Your Honor?"
"You have effectively confessed," Impassi neutrally noted. "You had to know you would be found guilty."
The tail drooped. "...yes."
"And, in reviewing Mr. Gibber's papers," the judge continued, "I notice that he has failed to ask for compensation. Of any kind." A little more softly, "And, speaking as somepony who sees a considerable number of relationships -- it would appear that your feelings towards your partner are still somewhat -- solid."
Crystal silently nodded.
"So why did you both let the case get this far?"
The pegasus took a deep breath.
"Because there's privacy rules about what happens in Sex Court," she said. "It doesn't get out. And this keeps happening. We tried to come in together this morning, and then I had to mold him free. The Gifted School doesn't work with pegasus magic. We can't visit the Institute in Cloudsdale: we can't afford that. Not even together. So we can't reach anypony who can fix this, and he doesn't want me to risk losing my job if I tell the factory, and we thought..." Black eyes helplessly, hopefully looked around the gallery. "...there are ponies here who've heard about more accidents than just about anypony in the world, some of them even come here so they can try to learn from everypony else's mistakes, and maybe... they might have some ideas on how to...?"
She stopped. The fog patch sympathetically tried to shuffle towards her, and promptly fell over.
Reorienting ensued.
"You realize that there's a risk," the judge checked.
"Yes. We... both said we'd take the chance. I can mold him out so he can tell you --"
"-- do you think you're the first pony to believe the gallery might be able to help them?"
After five seconds, "...yes?"
Impassi expertly failed to sigh.
"And that," the judge said, "is where you would be wrong. So I'm going into my chambers to see where I put my contact information for the Institute."
Crystal's shoulders, hips, and wings sagged.
"I expect to initially fail," Impassi Heartstopper added as she stood up. "I also expect that failure to take quite a bit of time, and require the presence of a bailiff to ultimately discover where the documents actually are. Which means that I am declaring recess and, for approximately the next two hours, have absolutely no official idea as to what is going on in this courtroom. Gallery -- disperse."
There were certain rules of decorum for those who had to deal with the justice system and when it came to Sex Court, most of them were written down. The complete recorded list was available for review by anypony who wished to see the document, at any time they desired to consult it. And it was generally only read over by the attorneys because if most of those who had business before the court had possessed any desire to pause and consider the full ramifications of what they were about to go through, they wouldn't be in this mess.
Still, the list was there. Searching through the written material would quickly locate formal regulations for what was to be worn in the courtroom or rather, a formal lack of them. The majority of cases dealt with ponies and once the calendar was officially shifted into summer, you were lucky to get hats. The typical unicorn would eschew going that far, and formal collars were the last resort of those who had desperately jaw-snatched something from the haberdashery one block to the south.
Most of the rules were written down, and Judge Impassi Heartstopper recognized this as a problem. But every subculture tended to silently develop its own code of conduct and in Sex Court, even the unspoken guidelines tended to be recognized by the majority. Herd instincts had their (scarce) benefits, and a collective tendency to understand exactly when somepony was about to cross the line generally kicked in about two seconds after the tail finished lashing its way over the border.
If somepony had been part of the gallery for a while, they would know how it all worked. That there were times when they had to remain silent -- but the judge recognized that some incidents, when viewed from the perspective of somepony who hadn't actually gone through them, possessed an inherent level of comedy. The fact that she never laughed didn't mean they couldn't, especially as it was better to allow a brief outburst than watch as dozens of ponies came close to choking on their own forelegs -- but at the same time, a subtle nod was a suggestion to stop, and a slam of that dense hoof into the desk was an order.
(A second impact meant the courtroom was roughly thirty seconds away from being cleared. Nopony wanted to risk that. The worst offenders were quickly isolated, and season tickets could be revoked.)
Rules and guidelines. Things which dictated when you spoke, and why you had to stop. Orders to be followed, accompanied by general exercises of common sense -- and because it was Sex Court, that last category was where sapients tended to get into trouble. Again.
For example, if somepony happened to be appearing before the court as an about-to-lose defendant for the second time, it was probably best not to display a posture of smug boredom.
The earth pony mare's fur was the exact shade of a thick dust coating, which could make it slightly harder to tell when the actual dust dropped out -- if she was at rest. Small movements tended to produce minor clouds, and her bench was slowly acquiring an outline of her body. Her entrance into the courtroom had left something of a trail, and the custodial staff was once again debating the seemingly-eternal question of Broom Or Shovel? And yet, something about her rough contours suggested a base level of attractiveness. Uncovering the details was probably going to require an industrial power washer.
There was an old legend which claimed that the earth pony species had been born from soil. This particular mare either hadn't completed the process or made weekly visits to see how her parent was doing.
She was wearing saddlebags. There was a small amount of weight deforming the bottom of each, and deep breaths made the masses softly jingle.
The stallion at the plaintiff's station wasn't looking at her. He had no cause. He'd looked at her before, he'd allowed the alcohol to do a certain amount of wipe work, and now he was here. Looking again wasn't going to make things any better. But if he had... he would have seen the same thing which was being witnessed by a entire courtroom. That everything about her expression, posture, and half-lidded eyes created a silent shout of smug boredom. She'd been there before, she knew how it was going to end, and... she didn't care.
Impassi recognized that. She'd reviewed the original case that morning, and expected the defendant's testimony to be a late afternoon rehash of a previous evening's play. The judge understood that if everything was exactly the same, then the plaintiff was going to lose. In that sense, it would be an identical verdict.
Not quite.
"And after she had agreed to leave the bar at your side?" the judge inquired. "Which would have been at approximately nine p.m." And, with utter patience, waited for history to attempt a full repeat.
The stallion briefly, compulsively vibrated. No acquired dust fell away from his flank, but several overworked muscles visibly spasmed.
The court collectively gave him a minute to recover.
"She told me... that she had this little quirk," he finally said. "And I thought it was going to be something strange, maybe something I wouldn't want to try. Because she'd held off on telling me until we were outside, so it had to be bad, right?"
Several senior gallery members, who'd been there for the original performance, began to wince. Others had been doing it for some time.
"But she just said that she could only have sex at her own apartment," the plaintiff tiredly continued. "In her own bed. And I thought... well, that's not so bad. It's sort of like the jokes about ponies who say they can only use the toilet trench in their own bathroom, right? There's one spot which works for them. And they sort of have to find a way of going with it. Besides, it meant we wouldn't be using my place, and I wouldn't have to..."
His tail didn't exactly droop. The dock muscles had simply lost all interest in functioning.
"...straighten up," he made himself finish.
The entire gallery was wincing now. The mare simply yawned.
"So you followed her to the residence," Impassi neutrally prompted.
"Yes," the stallion sighed. "I thought... it was nice of her, to offer me the key. As if I was letting her in. Like I belonged there. And she just stood off to the side, waiting..."
More spasms. Most of the intercostal muscles were trying to get away from the ribs.
"The door opened outwards," he stated for the court record. "So when the contents of her living room tried to fall on me, I was able to jump backwards. That got me clear for most of it."
That's a change, Impassi internally noted. She must have swapped the hinges. The previous victim had needed a good five minutes to shove his way in.
"Most," was the verbal end of that.
"I had to get my forelegs out of the newspaper landslide," the plaintiff told her. "Why would anypony save a year of newspapers --"
"-- price comparisons on the ads," the defendant casually shrugged off. "The material's right there."
He didn't look at her. "Fast food containers?" was offered to the bench.
"Stores the rolled-up ones."
"And the crates?"
She thought that over.
"I have to trot above all of it," she eventually announced. "The crates are a place to stand. Like rocks in a stream."
Or, given the increasing layers of decay as you progressively work your way down, a swamp. Although the actual snapping turtle had presumably found a kinder environment in which to live.
Judge Heartstopper silently regarded the exhausted stallion. He forced his head to temporarily raise.
"I'm still not sure where she was hiding the plow," the plaintiff admitted.
"And how long would you say it took for you to reach the bed?" asked the judge.
"Hours," was all he could offer. "I got a glimpse of Sun at some point. Once the curtains could move again. And then I had to clear the bed, I even swapped the sheets after that one set was finally scrubbed, and..."
Impassi thought about con artists. Those who played the long game, taking moons to work themselves into a victim's life. Slowly building the level of trust required to set up an ultimate betrayal. And then she considered just how much time could be saved in those efforts by simply offering the target a chance to have sex with them.
"The last thing I remember is collapsing onto the mattress," the stallion concluded. "And I woke up in her building's hallway. She'd already left."
"I put you outside," the defendant yawned, "because we'd had sex. That's the only reason I'd picked you up. For sex." Viciously paused. "And you weren't good."
Without making eye contact, "I don't remember having sex."
"I get that," the mare offhoofedly declared. "If I can barely be bothered to remember any of it, imagine how bad it must have been for you --"
"-- I do remember getting screwed."
Impassi rapped her left forehoof against the desk. Both ponies went quiet. For the mare, this required a little more time. The yawn had a rather impressive trailoff.
"What would be your best estimate for when you fell asleep?" she asked.
"...ten in the morning?"
"Does the defendant wish to officially offer a response to those allegations?" the judge checked.
Another shrug. "Not if it means dragging this out." Which was followed by the first hints of a thin smile. "Besides, it's all he-said she-said, right? Just like before. So just like before -- get it over with."
Judge Heartstopper briefly looked at the mare. Turned her attention to the stallion.
"For the court's official record," she instructed, "please state what you were seeking for damages."
"Compensation," the fatigued stallion told the courtroom. "Just... compensation." With a sigh, "I put in the work. I'd like to get something out of it."
Impassi nodded.
"I find for the plaintiff," she placidly announced, and the stallion's eyes closed with what was either satisfaction or near-final surrender: the mare merely yawned again. "One moment..." Her teeth nipped at a quill. The right forehoof slid the blank paper into range, and she wrote quickly. "Ms. Clutter is hereby ordered to pay this amount. This is to be done in front of a court-appointed witness, with a notarized receipt. Base payment period is one week." Impassi glanced at the bailiff. "Please take this to the defendant."
The bailiff nodded, fetched the paper and began moving towards what was now a slow-shifting dust cloud. The defendant was getting up, and her saddlebags lightly jingled accordingly.
"Whatever," the mare shrugged. "Pay up. Just like the last time. I agree to the fine, is that what you want to hear? I'll even settle today. That's why I brought some bits. And just like the last time --"
The bailiff put the paper in front of her bored gaze. Then the pegasus decided that wasn't quite enough, and a few quick wing flaps cleared the view.
The mare looked.
Then she blinked.
Her eyes did their best to dart back to the beginning of the number, and didn't quite manage the feat. It took a visible amount of time to cross that much distance.
"This..." the mare ineffectively sputtered, as dust coalesced around spittle to form the world's filthiest raindrops. "This is... this is -- !"
"-- the current going rate for a professional, top-tier stallion escort in Canterlot, charged hourly, starting from when you 'picked him up' and ending when his task was complete," Impassi informed her.
Most of the gallery began to murmur. Some of the more experienced attendees gave that up in favor of a half-muted giggle. The stallion, who'd been packing up his papers in slow motion, didn't so much freeze as decide to give his body the day off right there.
"But that's... that's eight times the last fine! I -- I just work in trash collection, I don't make escort-hiring money, and it was just labor...!"
"During your previous appearance in this courtroom," the judge impassively stated, "I did in fact calculate damages at the base rate for physical labor. However, as you did say that you'd chosen your most recent conquest solely for sex, I felt an adjustment was necessary."
The mare's hind legs collapsed, and dust flew everywhere. Impassi completely failed to smile.
"I recognize that based on the visible weight within your saddlebags, this amount would be more than you're currently carrying," she continued. "And possibly more than you can assemble within a single week. Accordingly, please submit a official non-negotiable copy of your salary voucher to the court clerk and upon confirmation, a payment plan can be arranged. After all, the fine is no longer, to quote your parting remark during your original case, 'still cheaper than a visiting maid service'. Court is adjourned."
Time spent in a courtroom tended to propagate across additional legal institutions: something which held true for every part of the system. But when it came to Sex Court, there was a single near-truism: namely, that those who were in attendance within the gallery for the first time tended to wind up in a contract attorney's office shortly thereafter. It was clearly going to take an expert to determine if the privacy clauses in their ticket contract were that solid.
They were.
They had to be.
Gallery members could discuss cases -- with each other, generally within the confines of the courthouse. You could also arrange to meet up with fellow season ticket holders well away from the building and talk matters over, just as long as all participants were certain that nopony else could overhear. It was theoretically possible to fictionalize a case, writing a story based on courtroom events in such a manner as to completely hide the source material -- except that somepony claimed to have once seen Judge Heartstopper carrying a legal thriller into her office and since just about nopony could conceive of her reading for fun, the assumption was that she would know. And she would not be happy.
And under normal circumstances, that was about it.
(Anypony who had a habit of talking in their sleep was advised to either rest with a gag in place or invite their current partner to a courtroom season: some of the newer attendees encountered considerable difficulty in working out which solution would be more uncomfortable.)
But the privacy clauses were was necessary. The legal system understood that Equestrians had to be permitted access to every part of it. No case could ever be tried without having the potential for witnesses. It was possible for the public to collectively decide that they were going to stay away -- herd instinct could play a part there -- or for the law to require that everypony within a courtroom be sworn to secrecy. But there had to be an open chance at observation. For a trial to exist beyond view was to raise questions as to exactly what was being hidden and with a few of the more repressive governments across history, no one was going to risk expressing that query out loud.
The people had to be allowed to watch. The issue was that they were watching other people. And given that so much of Sex Court consisted of abject humiliation under cross-examination...
The privacy clauses were what allowed the vast majority of adult plaintiffs to risk a court case at all.
Adolescents always operated within a shield of privacy: the law was a little different there. It also allowed files to be permanently sealed: the resulting documents were destroyed on the crucial birthday, and the newly-minted adult was often permitted to light the fire. But with mares and stallions... they would have to talk about what had truly happened, under oath, and their words would be stored within some level of permanent record. The fact that the actual Records Room featured some of the strongest protective enchantments in the realm wasn't quite enough to get most of them through the door. They needed codified, diamond-solid, legal reassurance that their words wouldn't reach the public. And without that protection, too many would have feared seeking Justice, because the only visible path would have led directly into Mockery.
Without the privacy clauses, just about nopony (and no one) would ever come forward. The vast majority of gallery members eventually came to understand that, especially if they wanted to stay -- and when somepony did try to sneak in with the intent to gossip (or worse, publish), the regulars effectively served as an extra law enforcement squad.
But even for the long-timers, the clauses could still be frustrating. Because there was only so much time to talk it over, a limited number of those with whom you could have the discussion at all and when it came to the daily events of a Sex Court session, you never knew.
Celebrities turned up with fair regularity. Some of that was because the famous often falsely believed that wealth and popularity equaled knowledge and therefore, any proposal to try this was being made by an expert. Too much of the rest came about because multiple plaintiffs had purposefully tried to set up a bad encounter. After all, if you were going to sue somepony, it was clearly best to go after those with money.
Politicians were questioned under oath, generally while sweating heavily because the truth was required and the majority were at least mildly allergic. Bearers had been known to trot in and while the majority of gallery members had initially needed to be told what the mares did, that didn't change the fact that several of them had appeared in court. Including Rainbow, who had reached the point where she was on a given-name basis with the first five rows and had put most of them on her Hearth's Warming mailing list. You were supposed to send out cards, and her rookie ones from Wonderbolts trading packs obviously counted.
Normal, everyday citizens of all species held down most of the docket. The known were the minority. And it was still understood that everyone needed to feel safe, or just about none would have approached at all.
The gallery understood. But it was frustrating. Because ponies were a social species, they wanted to talk, and -- you never knew what you were going to hear.
Or who you were going to see...
The court clerk failed to clear her throat, looked at the entrance doors, and then glanced towards Judge Heartstopper.
Her expression didn't come with subliminals, because that was a word which implied that something was being hidden. In Impassi's opinion, the open nervousness on Robin's face was openly broadcasting 'Are we sure we're ready for what's about to happen? ...again?' across what was very nearly the full range of pony senses. Her dark, half-twisted features covered visual, the too-fast breathing had hearing wrapped up, sweating took care of olfactory and if the mare's blush grew any hotter, that was thermal...
The judge subtly nodded.
Robin tried another breath. It didn't help.
"The settled zone of Ponyville, District One," she shakily announced, "versus --"
The doors opened. Most of the gallery looked towards the sound and because the stadium seating meant that the majority were looking down, some of them decided to just keep following up on the general direction until their freshly half-swooned bodies collapsed into the aisles.
The unicorn, who had once been declared as The Most Beautiful Mare In Canterlot and had charged for her (now-retired) escort services accordingly, didn't deign to notice.
"-- Fleur Dis Lee," Robin finished, and visibly considered lying down for a while.
The conscious part of the gallery simply watched her move. Some were entranced by the shifting of the gently-streaked mane. Others focused on the legs, because ponies were prone to leg fetishes and when it came to this mare, you got quality added to a quantity which had been vertically extended for their viewing pleasure. There was special attention paid to the quality of her makeup, which enhanced features that had already been micromanaged on the biological level. Two mares decided to ask where she was getting her hoof polish, both tried to call out in violation of multiple gallery rules, and a pair of tongues mutually locked.
The judge impassively observed the approach, because that was her job. But she was fully aware that there were those among the attendees who had no interest in unicorns, mares, or ponies, and quite a few of them were beginning to recognize the stirrings of an internal Maybe?
Everyone looked at Fleur. For those who hadn't had the chance to get used to her, it was impossible not to watch. How could you find yourself in the presence of a mobile masterwork and not drink it in?
They watched her move.
Then they started to notice how she was moving.
To say that the unicorn was tall was to indulge in understatement as self-defense. Fleur Dis Lee was among the tallest mares known to exist, and all it took to potentially move her into the global Top Ten was factoring alicorns out. And there was no lingering adolescent aspect of having been stretched: every part of her body was in perfect proportion.
Her legs were simply long, with muscles proportionate to the overall length. But her mass had increased accordingly, and when a mare who was that tall was half-stalking into a courtroom, every too-hard impact of those sculpted hooves tended to echo.
She refused to look at anypony. Pale purple eyes were focused entirely on the defendant's bench, and the intensity of that furious gaze was doing its best to set the whole thing on fire. The mane might have been gently shifting, but the ideal styling of the tail was threatening to come apart under the force of the lashing.
When it came to the former escort's behavior, Impassi possessed something fairly rare: a basis for comparison. She had seldom been present at the sort of parties which Fleur had once been regularly hired to attend, largely because those affairs ran on gossip and judges rapidly grew tired of explaining how privacy clauses worked. But there had been a few. And it also wasn't Fleur's first time in the courtroom, because escort services occasionally led into the sort of case which was destined for Sex Court and when those who managed the district's licensed members were asked to provide an expert witness, they had to send somepony.
Fleur, during the two cases which had seen her serve as an expert witness, had displayed most of the same behaviors she demonstrated at high society gatherings. Dominating the opposition attorney was a simple matter: domineering didn't add much in the way of complexity. She would be cool, calm, collected, and utterly in control.
This mare's trot directly stated that gravity had recently found some way of pissing her off, and remaining upright was an act of pure defiance. It was very much like witnessing a secondary-school student who was stalking on the verge of a outright tantrum.
-- stalking. Fleur stalked. It took an exceptionally angry pony to move like a griffon and even then, some degree of direct experience was required.
The little giant reached the bench. Climbed up, slammed her body down, and a perfect form overflowed the wood in multiple directions.
Several dozen gallery members adjusted their fantasies. Three added ragequit options, then tried to work out whose rage it was going to be.
"Miss Dis Lee," the judge immediately began, "you are in a courtroom and as such, you will make an effort to control your temper --"
"-- let's just get this over with," the mare furiously declared. "You can skip right to the sentence if you think it'll save some time, since explanations obviously just don't work --"
"-- Miss. Dis. Lee."
There had been no true increase in volume. Only force.
Fleur's tail lashed again. Slowly stilled. The purple eyes continued to glare.
Robin's lightly-vibrating forehoof pushed a file into view. Judge Heartstopper carefully opened it, then glanced down.
"You have," she noted, "entered a preemptive plea."
"So you can just skip --"
"-- of 'guilty'."
"-- to the sentence, so I can figure out what I'm supposed to do, how anything is going to work --"
"There will be no sentencing," Impassi solidly stated, "without testimony. You will be sworn in, Miss Dis Lee: I presume you recall how that procedure works. And then you will speak."
The oath took three attempts. Emotions had a way of turning up within a unicorn's castings and no matter how calm Fleur was now pretending to be, her corona kept manifesting glowing spikes. Or rather, the second attempt had her bring it down to mere spikes. The first required Robin to swap out the usual oathbook in favor of something a little less crumpled.
"This is a Ponyville case," Impassi finally noted.
"I... live there now," Fleur carefully stated. (The tail didn't lash.)
"As the town's dedicated escort?" the judge inquired, because asking a question for which you already had the answer was a classic judicial trick. It was all about seeing how the witness responded.
"I retired," the unicorn sharply said. "It's why I haven't been sent by the commission for --" a little more slowly "-- a while."
"Your last appearance as an expert was at the end of last summer," Impassi put into the record. "And it's spring now. A season which has brought you into the courtroom on multiple charges of --"
She looked down again, and forced herself not to squint at the still-surprising words.
"-- 'unrequested sexual interaction'."
There was no point in asking the gallery to quiet down. Only eight attendees had openly gasped, and Impassi felt the reaction was justified. The rest were probably preoccupied with trying to figure out how 'unrequested' applied to Fleur.
"...yes," the unicorn quietly said. "That's what I was told the charges would be."
"Charges," the judge said, "which most typically see their trials take place within our neighbor. As felonies."
The mare was silent.
"Except that in your case," Impassi went on, "the police chief and district attorney mutually agreed to have every last charge tried as misdemeanors. While requesting privacy and discretion on what, even for this courtroom, is an unusual level. You are the sole pony who will be providing testimony, Ms. Dis Lee. None of your -- victims are present." Her snout carefully flipped to the next page. "According to this, they aren't even aware that you're here. There is no prosecuting attorney to speak for the nation, as you have chosen to leave everything to me. And the pony who initially sought charges..."
She stopped. Looked up from the paperwork, and gazed down into those steady purple eyes.
"What happened?" Judge Heartstopper asked. "In your own words."
Fleur's eyes slowly closed. Remained shut for six heartbeats, then forced themselves open again.
"It's spring," the former escort said. "It's all because of spring..."
Impassi waited.
"I've been working as --" and the pause felt slightly too short "-- a veterinary assistant."
The gasp count in the gallery went higher.
"Full-time," Fleur added. "It's -- student training. You can work in a practice before graduation, and you can take instruction from whoever operates it. It's my first spring as an assistant, and -- there's a lot of births in spring. A lot. Some of them tried to go wrong, and more had to be supervised. We've been trying to divide up the workload, but she needs less sleep than I do and it's just been constant pushing, day after day. I..."
The sigh was fully unexpected, and exceptionally soft.
"...thought the muscle cramps were just because I wasn't getting enough rest. The headaches were starting to become normal. And we've been working on improving the thermal sealing at the cottage, so feeling a little hot just meant something had to be adjusted again..."
Impassi was starting to see the shape of it.
"Your corona?" she asked. "Because the normal presumption is that veterinary work would have had you using it almost constantly."
"Was the last thing to go," Fleur quietly said. "Or the final part to come in. We cleared the last kits -- badgers -- and then there was nothing happening. Nothing at all. I went straight to bed. Just for an hour or so, or until she needed to wake me up. But I woke up on my own, just before sunset. And everything was -- stable." A little more quietly, "It was done. We'd reached the other side. And it was a beautiful spring night, there were no more animals who needed help, all the newborns were secure, it was warm and Rainbow had unofficially added a light breeze into the schedule, we'd been stuck in the cottage for weeks and I... wanted to get her outside..."
"When you didn't feel well," Impassi observed. "Headache, muscle cramps, a low-grade fever --"
"-- I'm not the sort of unicorn who uses their corona for every little thing," the former escort protested. "And I didn't want to start casting, not when I had a headache and everything was finally over --"
"-- you didn't recognize that you were sick --" the judge expertly cut in.
With a sudden fierceness, "-- I thought it was all just because I'd pushed too hard! Overworked! I didn't know!"
"That you had Rhynorn's Flu," Impassi determined.
Most of the gallery indulged in the newest gasp. The beautiful head simply dipped.
"...yes."
A disease which exclusively affected unicorns, and one without cure. It tended to strike the weary, exhausted, and vulnerable. For the afflicted, the next four to seven days would see the majority of symptoms being treated with palliatives. All but the last.
"I... went down the ramp," Fleur wearily went on. "I made sure it was over, and that we could both leave safely. I felt like the best thing we could do was get off the grounds for a while. She was nervous..." The laugh was both short and sharp. "...of course she was nervous. It's her. But she was willing to try, as long as a messenger bird knew roughly where we were going and could find us in an emergency. So I took some medication, she packed a pair of picnic saddlebags, and -- we went out. To have a meal outside. And just be with each other under Moon."
The unicorn paused.
"We wound up on the eastern edge of town. And we found a pasture."
Oh.
Impassi Heartstopper had occupied the court's judicial bench for several years, while a good portion of the gallery had attended cases which originated in Ponyville.
"I'm still new in town," Fleur's resignation offered. "It's my first spring. And she -- never had a reason to go there before."
Nearly everypony with experience had already heard the word 'pasture' enter the testimony, and were simply waiting for it.
"A pasture with oddly tall grass," the judge decided. "High enough to conceal anypony whose belly and barrel are prone against the soil." Something which would even hold true at Fleur's exceptional height.
"We both use anti-tick measures constantly anyway," Fleur wearily stated. "It's part of the business. And -- it was warm, the night was clear and beautiful, the grass was rustling --"
-- which was where the wince momentarily froze the words.
On the eastern edge of town. In Ponyville. On what probably would have been one of the first truly warm and beautiful nights of spring. Oh dear.
"Pockets of rustling," Impassi's hard-acquired expertise judged. "Widely spaced. Quite some distance away from each other. And with that much grass in motion, a number of other sounds can be concealed."
Fleur, who was still fairly new to Ponyville, instantly proved her qualifications for permanent residency.
"If Rainbow hadn't set up that breeze --"
"-- Miss Dash is not at fault." For once. "Describe your next actions."
The former escort's perfect teeth were briefly visible, because that was what happened when a pony pulled their lips back in aggression. Or -- anger. It was just a question of where the emotion was being directed.
"I've been trying to get her to be more -- adventurous," Fleur finally said. "Sexually. She's new to all of it, but -- she's shy." The snort had an almost visible force. "Of course she's shy. But I thought -- it was warm, it was beautiful, we were alone and the grass was concealing us anyway..."
The grass conceals a lot. And you didn't know that. Oh my.
"You talked her into it," Impassi verified.
"Yes."
The gallery, which was trying to reconcile the former escort being officially off the market and collectively had some idea for what was coming, decided it wasn't going to get a moment-by-moment description of the sex and patiently waited for the explosion to go off.
They knew there was going to be an explosion. The tale had a boom-shaped hole in the center. They just didn't know what the bomb had done.
"We never unpacked the picnic," the unicorn reluctantly admitted. "She just shifted the saddlebags off her body. If I'd taken anything out..."
"I'll presume you both were low in the grass?"
"It was the only way she felt safe. If we were both out of sight. She was willing, she wanted to try, but -- she was still nervous. And I thought... the best way to calm her down and get everything started..."
Three, two, one...
"...was with my trick."
"Which is?" the judge dispassionately asked.
Perfect features scrunched in on themselves.
"I -- usually don't tell ponies --"
"-- you are under oath and they are sworn to privacy," Impassi reminded her. "Your personal spell, Miss Dis Lee. The one which, at this point in the account, you are just about to cast. While you have Rhynorn's. What does it do?"
The next hesitation was much more suited to the unicorn's partner.
"...I can make my corona vibrate," Fleur finally said. "Inner or outer surface, the whole or just part of it. At different frequencies and oscillation rates."
There was a collective inhale from the gallery, which nicely counterbalanced the sound of a half-fainted Robin slumping across her desk.
Oh dear.
"A potent massage tool," Impassi neutrally observed. "With -- other uses. Which you cast while sick with Rhynorn's. A disease which makes it impossible to willfully direct a corona. Which, in fact, randomly scatters the energy in all directions, where it works itself out on anything it happens to touch."
"...yes."
The former escort abruptly gritted her teeth. Purple eyes fully opened, and an angry glare lanced towards the bench.
"You know," the little giant furiously declared, "there's certain things which a newcomer should really be told when they move into a town. Warnings. Certain restaurants. Paths you shouldn't use as shortcuts. And incidentally, there's this huge empty pasture with stupidly tall grass, maybe you might want to know about that, it's usually called Exhibition Field and when it's a warm night in early spring with a surprise soft breeze, Rainbow, because herd instinct and groupthink are two of the stupidest things imaginable, as long as they remember to keep some privacy spacing between each other, it just happens to be where every adventurous couple goes to have sex!"
Impassi didn't laugh. She completely failed to snicker, because both of those things were best given over to those who were more actively fighting off the urges within the gallery. The image which had resulted from Fleur's description was simply put away for later, and then she glanced down at the case file again.
"I will assume," the judge stated, "that you quickly learned about the presence of other ponies within the pasture."
"Those sounds weren't exactly muffled," Fleur bitterly said. "I got her out of there as fast as I could. Staying low. She wanted to know what she'd just heard, I told her the first thing I thought of, and she's still trying to get out there to see what the new bird looks like. The one which sounds so much like a pony, except for being high-pitched and really surprised and --"
The unicorn stopped, and her head went down again.
"So that's my testimony," declared the former escort. "I already signed off on the verdict. Let's hear the sentence."
"I have a few questions," Impassi corrected. "And then the sentence can be pronounced."
Fleur rather elegantly shrugged.
"You were medically confirmed as having Rhynorn's?"
"The blood test came up positive. There's probably a copy in the file."
There was -- but judges had to ask. "Has your corona strength ever been formally tested? Even with the subdivision of your energies... even for a Gifted School graduate, that would still be an impressive number of affected parties."
The streaked tail twitched with irritation. "I'm above average and I'm too old to be a first-year. That's all I want to say."
Impassi decided to let her have that. "One more, Miss Dis Lee."
The unicorn forced a nod. Waited.
"Why did you turn yourself in?"
Silence.
"According to the file," Judge Heartstopper reviewed, "your illness, when it came to its effects upon your corona, was as severe as the physicians had ever seen. Your casting hue was distorted, and that hardly ever manifests with Rhynorn's. Closer to dark purple than pink. So nopony could have recognized your corona color, your very signature was warped, and with everypony else in Exhibition Field -- distracted -- nopony saw the two of you leave. You went into the police station on the next morning, asked for privacy, and then confessed. To a crime for which not a single pony in the pasture that night had requested charges. Investigation, yes: there was some rather natural curiosity regarding events. But not charges. And yet you confessed. Why?"
There wasn't a furious syllable to be found. The unicorn, eyes half-closed, simply breathed. And that was all.
"Miss Dis Lee --"
"-- nopony knew," the rather young adult said. "Somepony probably could have figured it out. And if they did..." A slow, exceptionally deep breath. "...then this is easier. To just -- get it over with. To take the consequences and see how bad it is. Because if I hadn't confessed, and somepony just solved it -- that would have been worse, right? That's what everypony keeps saying. And they also say that Honesty is some kind of virtue. So I tried it out. I was honest. It was me. I'm guilty. What's the bucking sentence?"
And I'll let you have that one too. Just this once.
"There were other picnics in the pasture," the judge announced. "Ones which, for the actual food service, got somewhat further than yours."
Eventually, Fleur nodded.
"I asked you," the surrendered unicorn pushed out between clenched teeth, "what's the --"
"-- I understand that in addition to the other effect, you broke quite a bit of glassware," Impass observed. "Pay for it. Anonymously. Ask Chief Rights to get a total, give her the funds, and she will distribute them."
"And?"
"There is no 'and'," the judge calmly stated. "That's it. Pay for the glass."
This time, the whole of the large body twitched. Both hind legs slipped off the bench, and hooves slammed into the floor.
"That's not funny --"
"-- it's not a joke," Impassi neutrally informed her. "You were ill, Miss Dis Lee. A unicorn with Rhynorn's has one responsibility: to stop casting. And you only verified your case when the spell went wrong. You had no control over what happened: lacking control is part of the definition for that disease. And nopony was hurt." She paused. "Rather surprised, yes. At a minimum. And according to the file, a few have been going back to the pasture. Hoping that the experience will repeat, when we both understand that it will not. Pay for the glass."
An entire courtroom had to strain for the former escort's final word.
"...why?"
"Because nopony was hurt," Impassi Heartstopper said. "Because it wasn't truly your fault. Because Honesty is a virtue, and some would claim that those who practice virtue should be rewarded. So, unless somepony somehow manages to piece together clues which barely exist... The Case Of The Mysterious Magical Night Orgasms will remain unsolved."
A significant portion of what came through Sex Court was there because of the New. This was a problem. Several problems, the majority of which ended with ponies declaring that they just didn't know what had gone wrong -- but they were somehow fully certain that they weren't liable for it.
For the court's dockets, they formed a disproportionate statistical block. But when measured against the global population, 'innovators' represented roughly two percent.
The category wasn't really about inventors: those who brought the New into the world were their own consideration, especially when they decided that the best place for a trial gallop was in somepony's bedroom. That two percent consisted of the sapients who were willing to take the chances involved in trying things first: new magic, new machines, new positions and, because that percentage had significant overlap with those who couldn't be bothered to read the full instructions, some very familiar hospital bills.
The innovators could be an annoying group to deal with. Some of them felt that they always had to be on the cutting edge, treating every other innovator as a competitor in a race which could only end in one way -- and when it did, that sapient was going to be lowered into the grave by never-before-seen gear systems because that was how you got things done.
Others were happy to spend money in the pursuit of solving problems: the fact that the problem hadn't existed before the inventor had perceived a possible market in solving it didn't really matter. There had been a sponsored magazine article which claimed that the efforts involved in grape peeling could take moons off your life, and therefore a pony who didn't even eat grapes was going to weigh down their kitchen counter with a fifth-bale weight of ill-advised gears, enchantments and, after observing the process had led them to lean in a little too closely, most of their nostril hair.
Some simply fell in love with concepts. The most unfortunate in that category would be approached by a pair of stallions who had a completely new idea. There might be diagrams, a long talk full of complex terms was just about mandatory, you simply couldn't trot out on the musical number, and perhaps there would even be a tiny Proof Of Concept sample ready to go. The true key was that the real thing couldn't be brought into full manifest without some financial backing, and those who lived for the New were often happy to kick bits into saddlebags in order to see it happen. They would press a forehoof against each brother's upraised keratin in turn, smile, thank the siblings for the opportunity to invest, and then patiently await further updates. And there wouldn't be any because when it came to the brothers, Take The Money And Run was a very old concept indeed.
Innovators could be their own problem. Several problems. And yet... they were precious. Because without them, the world didn't move forward. Equestria certainly wouldn't have advanced, because the global population slice was two percent and with ponies, who took comfort in the groupthink of the herd and often felt that an idea only qualified as 'good' through celebrating its 300th birthday... in Equestria, the number was somewhat lower. Somepony had to take the lead, dragging the nation into the future or, given the countering struggles from those who felt that history's ideal period had been Before We Let Those Talk In Public, the present.
The innovators could be infuriating. They were also necessary. They were the vectors through which ideas spread.
But that presumed the ideas had been good.
And this was Sex Court.
The earth pony mare at the plaintiff's station wasn't looking at the defendant.
It wasn't an uncommon thing. For a case to arrive in Sex Court generally meant that those involved felt it could be settled in no other way. Also, trying to reach some sort of agreement was probably going to require speaking with each other, and several were convinced that was what had gotten them into this mess in the first place. Parties who weren't directly communicating would decide to pass on words through the transmission medium of Judge and once the ruling was delivered, they would leave separately. Some would never see each other again. They would certainly never touch and for both of those factors, this case would be an exception.
She wasn't looking at him. (Quite a bit of the gallery had looked at her as she'd entered: fir-green, in the prime of health, exceptionally sturdy, in proud possession of a build which was designed to treat a twelve-hour shift of hard labor as Step One.) And to be fair, there wasn't much to look at.
The unicorn stallion was... shoddy. The coat displayed the sort of olive green which was generally found at the heart of the very best bile. His grooming was on the level of somepony who had once looked up 'bath' in a dictionary and decided that was enough work for one lifetime. However, the tail flowed freely, because that much accumulated grease had a way of trying to run downhill. And the horn was oddly short, not coming to a point so much as a nubbed cone. One which seemed to be curving off in two directions.
In terms of appearance... in Impassi's opinion, a good scrubbing and some basic mane maintenance would have brought him back to 'average'. He hadn't bothered, because somepony had once told him that when it came to good looks, self-confidence could be a strong substitute. And it was. There just happened to be a subtle difference between 'self-confidence' and 'perpetually radiating an aura of smug know-it-all arrogance'.
He was an Innovator. (The capital letter served as an insurmountable cliff for others to stare at, knowing they could never reach his level. ) He basked in that status, because it meant he was Right. And the plaintiff wasn't looking at him. She was very visibly not looking at him, and would continue to not do so until the proper time came. After the ruling was nosed down.
The plaintiff wouldn't look at him. But the lush tail kept lashing in his general direction. And every so often, her hooves would twitch. The latter had the full attention of the gallery because strictly speaking, hooves weren't supposed to do that.
The judge looked from plaintiff to defendant and back again, as the gallery watched. A forehoof nudged the notebook off to one side.
"Allow me to review," Impassi Heartstopper said. "Ms. Intrinsi, you found the defendant at a bar."
The mare managed to force a tiny nod past the dual barrier of wince and fast-rising blush.
"And you decided to take him with you. As your -- conquest for the night."
The exact amount of head motion, if carried over to a breezie, would have still been barely detectable.
The judge's steely gaze once again moved to the defendant. Went back to the plaintiff, and a well-curved eyebrow very nearly went up.
"I was drunk," Intrinsi said.
Judge Heartstopper looked at the stallion again, noted that no part of him seemed to have registered the soft sentence. The unicorn's ears had a permanent downwards dip. Forward and curved inward, so they would always catch the important words.
Back to the plaintiff.
"I was very drunk," the mare clarified.
A blanket of awkward silence settled over the courtroom.
"...I haven't had another drink since," Intrinsi quietly told the world.
The courthouse (minus one, who was tapping his forehooves with boredom) collectively gave her a moment.
"He wanted to use a hotel," the plaintiff said. "I didn't mind, especially when he was paying for it. And once we got inside the room, he said..."
The stallion's ears, which were forever attuned to their favorite subject, tried to perk and almost made it.
"I've always thought of myself as adventurous," Intrinsi stated, and very carefully failed to look at the stallion again. "So when he said he -- knew somepony who taught at the Gifted School, who had something -- new... I thought... why not?" Paused. "I'm almost sure I was thinking."
The judge considered the alcohol tolerance of the average earth pony. Added a significant multiplier for a sturdy specimen, and expertly said nothing.
"I didn't mind if he wanted to use a -- sex toy --"
"That," the stallion immediately (and self-righteously) declared, "is an inaccurate description. Strike it from the record."
The stenographer glanced at Judge Heartstopper. Lavender-tinged ringlets subtly moved in negation, and hooves typed on.
The older earth pony mare calmly gazed down from the elevated bench. "And how would you prefer she describe it, Mr. Artist --"
"It's 'AIrtist'!" the stallion instantly barked. "A spell would be able to render it properly every time, but just try to find a pony who can pronounce basic Equestrian...!"
Impassi took a very careful breath.
"Your description?" she prompted, and watched half the gallery recoil from an abruptly-expanding aura.
The stallion's chest puffed out with self-importance. It mostly served to prove that he actually had one.
"It is not a mere 'sex toy'," he declared. "It is a sexual partner."
The plaintiff's jaw clenched. Powerful muscles went tight, and the tail doubled its rate of lash. None of this was noticed by the defendant.
"A partner," the judge repeated. "An -- artificial one."
AIrtist didn't need to notice what the plaintiff was doing. There was an Innovation to be discussed, and he was the foremost authority.
"In the most technical sense," the stallion mercilessly (and smugly) educated, "the spell I purchased -- which is so new as to make me the only possible expert -- takes a corona and shapes it into something fairly solid. To wit, the shape of a pony. While still allowing that shape to move as if it was a living being. And of course, that form is anatomically correct. So as long as there is something pony-shaped in the bed with her, and the proper sections are interacting --"
"-- Mr. AIrtist," Impassi carefully interrupted, "the plaintiff had chosen you as her partner for the night."
"Which was the only time she properly appreciated anything," the disgruntled stallion announced. "A one-time demonstration of taste --"
"-- so why didn't you enter the bed?"
He blinked. Sniffed.
"Because I had told a spell to do the work in my place," AIrtist announced. "And that's obviously superior."
"In what sense?" Impassi inquired, and braced for it.
"Well --" and the sternum did its best to puff out through the thin skin "-- actually... consider the question of effort! There are those who say it can take moons to learn how to be a good sexual partner! Others claim years. A lifetime! Don't ponies have better things to do with their time than master skills? Who should ever have to bother with learning about the wants and desires of others, when a spell can satisfy all of it?"
"Satisfy," the plaintiff muttered, and a very solid forehoof begin to grind against the bench. "Satisfy..."
"Quite frankly," AIrtist declared, "when compared to those stallions who put their own bodies to work, the use of an artificial partner clearly makes me the superior lover."
"How so?" the judge asked, because some things needed to be entered into the record whether anypony liked it or not.
"I didn't need to study anything," the stallion proudly stated. "I also don't have to get sweaty, or feel tired. There's certainly no need for listening to anypony. I just give the spell a prompt, and it does everything on my behalf. How is that not superior to personal effort? If anything, the results are more legitimate!"
I am a judge. Rulings are based in evidence and circumstance. I am neutral.
"During your original testimony," Impassi neutrally said, "a rather natural question arose. One which I did not ask, because I felt you would have to answer it during the course of that first lecture -- Mr. AIrtist, I would appreciate the benefit of your full attention. The question relates to the spell."
"Oh? Well, of course I'd be more than happy to educate the court regarding something so innovative --"
"-- the spell attempts to have intercourse --"
"-- succeeds!"
The plaintiff's right forehoof slipped off the now-divoted bench, slammed into the floor. AIrtist didn't notice.
"-- with whomever it is directed to interact with," the judge steered. "It makes all physical contact. According to Ms. Intrinsi's testimony, you simply watched. My question is this, Mr. AIrtist. Does the spell provide you with tactile sensation? Can you feel what it is doing, as if you were the one putting forth that effort? Do you gain any direct, personal stimulation from its actions? Can it bring you to orgasm?"
Later, in the privacy of her chambers, Impassi would decide that it would have been so much better for him if he'd looked confused.
"No. 'No' to all of it."
'Dismissive' wasn't an improvement.
"Then," the older mare asked, "exactly what do you get out of it?"
He arched a superior eyebrow.
"I activated the spell. I gave it the necessary prompt. So obviously, I get all of the credit --"
"-- you take credit for whatever it did," the plaintiff softly said, and did so without looking at him.
She was talking about him. The words got through.
"Obviously."
"So you'll take credit for it having five legs."
AIrtist very nearly frowned.
"The spell creates its form based on aggregate data," the stallion said. "Averages. So any fault in the visible limb count obviously has to be blamed on pegasi. Anyway, as long as the actual act was pleasurable --"
"The fifth leg kept trying to -- insert itself."
He almost thought about it.
"Some mares are probably into that." Proudly, "It's an adaptive spell, you know. Some might even say that it learns. So if it had ever encountered a mare who liked to have a hoof shoved into her --"
"-- navel," Intrinsi darkly stated. "Your spell kept trying to have sex with my navel."
"So you've never heard of the Wiseau Position?"
"And then the vase fell on my head."
The judge blinked.
"Your original testimony didn't mention a vase," she reminded the plaintiff.
"I just remembered," Intrinsi replied. "Because of the drinking. And also because the vase appeared out of nowhere. I got a really good look at it before it dropped, because I was on my back. It was an antique, like something you'd see in a museum. Really heavy-looking. It just popped in. Then it fell on my head. And broke. And then the pieces vanished."
"Well, yes," AIrtist readily admitted. "That's just artifacting. Nopony's sure why it happens."
"But your spell did that," the plaintiff half-hissed. "So don't you think you're at fault?"
Immediately, "No."
The air pressure in the courtroom dropped. Having the entire gallery simultaneously taking a breath could do that.
"No," Intrinsi repeated, and did so just a little too carefully.
"How am I possibly to blame for what a spell does?" AIrtist smoothly attempted to make the other side of the argument. "I just started it going. Anything which might be seen as a negative consequence -- that's clearly the fault of the spell. Which, as it's very new, is still undergoing refinement. It may need to have sex with hundreds of mares in order to produce truly consistent results. That's why I need to keep going into bars. Because escorts insist on being paid, and acquiring data really should be free."
"To be clear," the judge interjected, doing so while the gallery had still left some oxygen available, "you will freely take all of the credit for the spell's actions. But none of the blame."
"I also get the profit," AIrtist decided.
"There was no mention of payment being made for sex," Judge Heartstopper observed. (Instrinsi was already shaking her head.) "You aren't listed as a professional escort, Mr AIrtist. Accepting money without a license --"
"-- the vase was an antique," the stallion proudly noted. "If the artifacts could be made to stick around for a few days, I could sell them. Profit."
Morbid curiosity briefly took the helm. "And should they vanish afterwards?"
"Then that's the spell's fault," decided a herd's worth of misplaced confidence. "I'm sure a competent court would agree."
The defendant slowly, almost sadly shook his head, and then looked directly into Impassi's steely eyes.
"You're going to be obsolete soon," he stated for the record. "And we'll all be better off."
The gallery collectively stopped breathing.
Impassi was a marked judge. There were ways in which her deepest magic was at work in just about every minute of her working life. The effects were subtle and, for the most part, unnoticeable. Even she seldom consciously registered when those little effects were in play.
She'd never felt her talent surge that way. She was fully aware of how it desperately lunged through her body, getting in front of her throat so it could frantically block off every last word which she probably wouldn't have said anyway. Telling her to just let the stallion keep talking.
He had to talk, for his was the only voice he cared to hear.
"Think about all the things spells could do, if we just let them," he said. "A spell could write books for us. Create art. Maybe illusion spells could take the shape of actors and perform. Why does anypony ever have to do anything, when magic could lead the way? And I suppose that some would say those whose marks are for such pointless labor would be closed out. But really, isn't it their fault in not manifesting a talent for something more sensible? Like the creation of those spells. Or a mark for knowing that a sensible pony would be among the first to use those workings. Yes, there might be some initial problems with limb counts and colors which supposedly don't exist in the spectrum and characters who change gender and species six times in five paragraphs, but shouldn't that last just be a plot point? And besides, the spell only has to be purchased once. Or a few times, to get the updates. Who needs to pay for a Marble Whispers sculpture when you can just let a spell surround the borders of his results and memorize the curves? Imagine the increased profit margins on all of the created works, once nopony in the so-called arts has to be compensated for their supposed efforts again!"
An entire courtroom memorized the stallion's mark, then made plans to prevent their children from ever manifesting it.
"And with a spell... an adaptive spell could replace a judge," AIrtist decided. "Weigh the evidence without personal bias. It wouldn't allow itself to be tainted by emotional considerations, by pleas to the heart or so-called situational circumstances. It would simply render a perfect verdict. Every time. Pony judges would be obsolete. And wouldn't we be better off?"
He looked up at Impassi, with pity in his eyes.
"You should agree with me," he told the judge. "Anypony of intelligence would. And as that means you'll agree that I can't be found at fault for anything the spell did, including that moment when she claims it tried to do that thing with her ears. The ear thing is clearly somepony's fetish. So if you'll just finish this...?"
The older mare imperiously nodded.
"Ms. Intrinsi?" The fir-green earth pony, whose tail lash rate was four minutes away from having the Weather Bureau's wind division file a complaint regarding copyright infringement, looked up. "The consumption of alcohol can be a factor in determining whether consent was truly given. However, you did agree to accompany the defendant to the hotel, and to allow him to use --" the pause was deliberate "-- artificial aids."
The outraged snort was ignored.
"I know," the younger mare quietly said.
"Which does not change the fact," Impassi added, "that consent can be withdrawn at any time. Additionally, to use an example, permission to nuzzle is not implicit permission to kiss, or anything beyond. And you always have the right to tell somepony to stop. The case does not necessarily need to be in this courtroom, and there is still time. Did you --"
"I was yelling at the spell," the plaintiff bitterly stated. "He'll probably say that doesn't count as yelling at him." (He was already nodding.) "And then the vase hit me. It stopped after the vase." Just a little more quietly, "I filed here, your honor. Civil charges and damages. Not criminal ones. I picked him up for sex, that was my decision, and... I don't drink any more. But maybe it could have been good. If it had been with a pony. A spell... can't cuddle."
A judge's mark whispered to its bearer.
"Prior to the beginning of this trial," Impassi Heartstopper announced, "the defendant and plaintiff wrote down what they each wished to receive in the event of my finding in their favor. Neither knows of the other's desires. Mr. AIrtist naturally wishes to be released without any degree of penalty."
He nodded, and even that was smug.
"Whereas Ms. Intrinsi," the judge continued, "asked for the rather uncommon -- but fully legal -- award of what is typically known as the ZB Solution. Which, for those unfamiliar with it, represents a requested short period spent with the defendant in a locked, unobserved, soundproofed room."
The stallion blinked.
"You can't," and the smugness had dropped away, vibrated loose by the tremble. "She -- she would --"
"Under a ZB ruling," the judge assured him, "murder remains illegal. This also applies to battery and aggravated assault."
"Oh," he breathed. "Good. Not that I'm going to lose. A spell would know I was right --"
"-- however, simple assault, which was also described in the original Trottingham precedent ruling as 'a bloody good well-deserved kicking', cannot be charged for anything which happens for the duration of that time. I find for the plaintiff. The room in question can be reached by exiting the courtroom, turning left, and using the indicated door. Which is four down. Sentence to be carried out immediately. And if Mr. AIrtist is about to insist that the spell can take the kicking for him, then I would ask him if it can also be placed in prison for the next two moons -- alongside its caster."
AIrtist slowly turned to face the well-built earth pony. Eyes which were in the middle of rolling backwards did their best to take in the whole of the muscular form. And then he unceremoniously fell off his bench.
Perhaps a spell might have simulated a better near-faint. But there were some things which just really needed to be done by a pony.
"Ms. Intrinsi," Judge Heartstopper announced, "you will have seven minutes."
The plaintiff, who was still blinking away several layers of stun, managed to look up.
"I... I wrote down fi --"
The older mare, whose role, talent, and career were nowhere near obsolescence, simply looked at her. Doing so in complete neutrality.
"-- seven," Intrinsi finished as she turned to face the collapsed defendant. "Yes. Seven. That's exactly what I asked for. Well, AIrtist. Just like I told you that night at the bar -- shall we?"
Those who had to appear before the court would typically have a number of questions, and fairly high on the list was 'How should I appear before the court?' Was there a way of styling fur which might create a near-subliminal suggestion of innocence? Perhaps there was a particular color of mane ribbon which indicated membership in some exclusive portion of Canterlot society, and the exact portion didn't matter as long as it was the part which never, ever had to pay fines. In short, was there anything which a pony could do with their looks to make a favorable impression upon the judge? Because there were plaintiffs and defendants who were willing to do a lot in order to establish that impression upon Impassi Heartstopper. For those who were returning to the court and now fully recognized her status as the capital's leading JILF, this tended to include tail styling gels. A persistent, fully-unbacked rumor claimed the judge was into slicked tails.
Attorneys, if asked for advice on the matter, tended to sigh: those who charged by the hour might draw the sound out. This was followed by telling their clients that it was generally best to be presentable. 'Clean' was a rather solid recommendation, but it wasn't an absolute. District One covered both Canterlot and Ponyville, which meant that those heading for the latter's train station risked encountering a certain trio of fillies. They would have a cheap plank display roughly nailed together, would appear to be fully sincere about their belief in the displayed product, and they were absolutely not going to get marks for the creation of cosmetic products. Accordingly, the court recognized that those who started the journey in a personally pristine state were likely to trot through multiple layers of Life, and offered some private time to get rid of the results. Besides, the fur-curling cream worked. And because it was based in readily-available tree sap, it kept on working for up to six moons or until the pony had that portion of their coat shaved away: whichever came first.
Getting dressed up for court? You could, and there were certain days on the weather schedule which made layering into an act of common sense. But for the most part, Equestrian society was clothing-optional. Those who put on their finest garments before approaching the bench were usually trying to suggest one of three things. The first group believed the lavish wealth draped over their bodies clearly indicated they were far too important to be found guilty. Another segment were hoping for the judge to only be capable of reading surface impressions and therefore, it was clearly best to add a protective extra layer of surface. And the third category usually consisted of those who worked in the capital's fashion district. They had access to styles which hadn't been released to the public yet, proudly paraded them before the gallery, and occasionally tried to direct what they swore was a sly look of purest silent communication towards Impassi: the implied message was usually along the lines of Any Judge Who Finds For Me Gets This At Wholesale.
None of it ever worked. Impassi was a marked judge. When it came to things which might be able to influence her, Capacity For Both Defining And Properly Spelling 'Anorak' wasn't on the list. She nudged down her rulings based on Evidence and Testimony. So if an attorney was consulted on the matter, they would typically say that a pony could try to wear something fancy -- but it wouldn't mean much.
Of course, not everypony listened to their attorney. Or had an attorney. And there were those who had less common reasons for dressing up...
The vast majority of ponies treated clothing as a part-time thing at best, and it typically wasn't necessary in order to practice your profession: Impassi, for whom work drapery was effectively mandatory, happened to be one of the few exceptions.
There were multiple requirements for becoming a judge in the Equestrian court system. The possession of an appropriate mark was not an absolute necessity. Learning how to move in the robes without tripping during every other step was and when one happened to be a member of a quadrupedal species, tripping could be surprisingly easy. There were that many more legs to get tangled up.
She'd needed time to become used to the robes, because that was no part of her mark's talent suite. And the average Equestrian, when fully dressed, tended to be somewhat awkward in their movements. Bound joints hesitantly considered testing themselves against the inevitable bunching of fabric, then paused and asked what they were supposed to do next.
There was a unicorn primly striding down the courtroom's entrance aisle, and it took Impassi a moment to mentally separate the white-furred mare from her accoutrements.
She wasn't a model. A model would have trotted directly forward, eyes fixed on an invisible focal point. Models didn't check for audience reactions, because projecting an aura of perfection didn't work if you had to see whether everypony else was agreeing with you. And her build, simultaneously half-concealed and enhanced by the shifting cloth -- it was merely a pleasant one. Somewhat below average height, with not very much in the way of suggested muscle tone. The defendant simply moved in such a way as to suggest that the pony body was naturally meant to have its outermost layers as skin, fur, linen and everypony else had simply been getting it wrong. And she did look to the sides, openly peering up into the gallery's stadium seating. Gauging reactions.
Some ponies scouted the courtroom before their scheduled appearance: getting a feel for the place, trying to decide if they wanted to settle before reaching the actual trial, or simply counting off the sheer number of spectator benches in the gallery before settling all the faster. Impassi immediately suspected this mare had slipped in during the court's off-hours, because the paneling was rosewood and you didn't enter wearing that elegant mix of charcoal, soft greys, and deep ink-blues by coincidence.
She was taking her time about reaching the front. The mare looked at the attendees along the way, evaluated their gazes. And when she felt that Interest had been spotted, a thin slice of soft blue corona would dip into refined saddlebags, extract a small rectangle of cardboard, and float it towards the intended recipient --
"-- Miss Belle."
The unicorn paused. Politely glanced up at the bench, and false eyelashes blinked out a signal of equally-false confusion.
"This is a legal matter," Impassi neutrally stated.
"I am aware," the mare politely responded. "I have arrived slightly early, have I not? I was rather careful about that. One hardly wishes to hold up the proceedings of the court --"
"-- a legal matter," Impassi smoothly repeated. "Not a sales opportunity."
The sniff wasn't quite as genteel. "There are ponies within the gallery who appreciate the finer things in life," the mare said. "Therefore, I would be remiss if I failed to indicate where such things might be found. And adjusted to their own tastes, builds, and preferred setting." With a small smile, "I would also ask that recipients note the little spot of color at the lower left corner of their calling card. This not only shows me that you gained it within the courtroom, but it entitles you to a five percent discount upon display." A little more quickly, "And only upon display. There's certainly no need to say where you received it --"
"-- Miss. Belle."
The mare paused again. There was no portion of her attention which had yet been directed towards the sleek, athletic ochre pegasus stallion who was wearily regarding her from the plaintiff's bench, and that was a pity. It wasn't just the fact that he was a rather attractive specimen. Looking at his face under normal circumstances would have discovered some fairly fine features. To regard him at that exact moment would have allowed the observer to pick up on a rather unique expression. It was the face of somepony who'd just come across a full bale-weight of what had once been their favorite candy in all the world, only to find that the mere sight had brought back every last tenth-bit of the toothache.
"On the way out, then," Rarity primly decided, and crossed the final portion of distance. Several layers of color precisely settled themselves at the defendant's station. "Shall we proceed? I'm certain that this can be cleared up in very little time. I do have a business to reopen -- normal operating hours are on the card, my dears! -- and once he --" which triggered the first acknowledgement of the stallion: a small smile and precise head tilt in his direction "-- recognizes that I was simply endeavoring to assist --"
A dense left forehoof rapped against the judge's desk.
"-- of course," the designer frictionlessly changed verbal lanes, "it is your courtroom, and I am hardly attempting to initiate the proceedings without you! It all moves forward at your discretion, and yours alone. Begin when ready."
She paused. Impassi silently counted to three, and then the white head tilted back the other way.
"Do you feel ready yet?"
In the most technical sense, there was no real difficulty in getting Rarity to testify. She was perpetually prepared to present her side of the matter, at all times. Generosity nosed over any number of gifts at no personal cost, and everypony in attendance was free to take possession of the mare's exact viewpoint.
There were no issues with making her talk.
"So we made it back to my place," the stallion wearily said. He had named himself as 'Bink', and Impassi had allowed him to use the shortened version.
"I've seen far worse, as residences for single stallions go," intruded the ongoing commentary. "Certainly from the outside, at any rate."
"She insisted that we use my place."
"My apartment," the foreground track half-sniffed, "consists of the level above my shop. A place which rather seldom sees entry by stallions during business hours, and would certainly draw notice if a male were to come in when the Boutique is closed. Something which I am certain would create immediate gossip. Yes, I am aware that his wings would offer another means of entry, but my shop is in a central location within Ponyville -- easy to find, my dears! -- should I put a map on one side of the card? -- and so traffic is rather easy to spot. Not to mention that my bedroom window has a decidedly public facing."
Impassi had put aside the normal rules for when Rarity was allowed to talk within the first two minutes.
The judge could have enforced the typical order of testimony. But the designer worked with all sorts of cloth. In this instance, she had chosen a near-continuous weave of syllables. And when it was Rarity...
Ask the average Canterlot resident who the Bearers were, and... quite a few would be able to name Twilight Sparkle. Some would stammer their way to Rainbow, whose eternal drive to place her existence into the historical (and court) record, when rated for actual efficiency, typically flew along at about 5% of the average publicist. And unless they'd had the often-dubious benefit of a personal encounter, just about everypony would have to stop there.
Impassi knew about all of them. Most had passed through the courtroom, as plaintiffs and defendants and expert witnesses. The rest had come up in testimony and casual, accidentally-overheard remarks alike, because any group of mares would inevitably start to talk about the ones who weren't there.
She didn't count any of them as friends, especially given how she'd met them. Forming that sort of personal relationship with those who entered Sex Court was something a judge shouldn't do. And because the courtroom tended to focus on a limited number of topics, she hardly felt herself to know everything about them. But she listened. She took notes. There were files which had to be consulted, especially when Rainbow was due in again and previous cases had to be reviewed.
They all talked. They would freely talk about each other. And the majority of those very different mares shared a single opinion.
"He insisted on entering first. And taking a moment to himself before letting me in.' She giggled. "Obviously you were hiding something, dear! I would not have been offended by pornography in a single stallion's apartment! As long as it was tasteful. But once I was granted entrance..."
"She took this -- thing out of her saddlebags," Bink tried. "It looked like --"
"-- I brought it with me!" Rarity brightly declared. "I thought it would be needed! If I may display it before the court?"
Impassi nodded. Soft blue ignited around the white horn, and light delved within the right saddlebag for a few seconds. The results were levitated up to the judge's desk.
"So how is this to be labeled?" the designer asked. "People's Exhibit One? Quite frankly, that feels rather generic for such a stunning innovation. Even if said innovation is simply coming back into style after a thousand-year gap." Rather sternly, "Oh, and the People cannot keep that. I only have the one, and I'm going to need it back."
Impassi carefully examined the facets of the crystal cone. Noted the interior hollow, the cloth straps meant to fasten under the jaw...
"It does block some degree of casting," Rarity helpfully explained. "Not on the same level as a law enforcement restraint, of course! And to make this from metal would rather defeat the purpose. It is only through allowing a corona's light to shine through --"
The stallion was wincing. The quality of his features made the display of pain into something which was almost attractive, while in no way understating exactly how much he currently longed for the sweet release of death.
"This is the first one I've seen," Impassi neutrally admitted. "Describe its function, Miss Belle."
"Well," Rarity cheerfully said, "it's really about the way light goes through the crystal! Which explains their period of absence, of course. These only came back into Equestria after the Empire opened up, and as one of those who assisted in --"
"-- the function," Impassi carefully emphasized.
"...yes. Well, it changes the nature of corona light. Twilight told me -- and I know she has been in your presence before! -- that it shifts the frequency. Changes it into something which exists partially outside the range of pony sight. Even beyond pegasi and their ability to perceive heat." She tastefully giggled. "Not that my chosen of that night had any difficult in that regard --"
"Miss. Belle."
The unicorn paused.
"The altered light," she said, "will make a certain type of stain glow."
"The court," Impassi calmly established, "requires the testimony to be more specific."
"Well," Rarity brightly declared through the first of the eyelid twitches, "this is Sex Court, is it not? What sort of stain does one believe would apply?"
The stallion's wince had turned into a full-body cringe. Feathers were trying to press their way through the bench.
Rarity turned, regarded him with open sympathy.
"It did prove you to be an exceptionally healthy stallion," she tried to reassure him. "Just one who happens to have, shall we say, rather poor aim. And perhaps could take somewhat more care when it came to disposal of the tissues, especially when your waste basket was essentially its very own lightshow." This time, both eyelids twitched. "And it's not as if I decided to call the whole thing off right there, now did I? That would have been unfair! There was simply a degree of -- preparation required."
Bink was silent. Featherwise, several marginal coverts had almost reached the floor.
"Carpet cleaning can be erotic," Rarity told the gallery. "Especially when done in close proximity. Additionally, what is more romantic than making a bed together? Even though..." Three twitches for each eyes. "...well, I suppose you think this brings us to the matter of your sheets..."
Bink quietly nodded. The soft blue light went back into the saddlebags, and People's Exhibit Two was delivered to Impassi's desk. It was a magnifying lens placed into the upper square of a folding, staple-shaped frame, about half the diameter of the average hoof. The bottom circular hollow had multiple fine white lines marking the edges.
"And this is...?" Impassi asked.
"Optical thread count measurement," Rarity pleasantly stated. "Our pleasure would be hosted by his bed, Your Honor. Upon his sheets. A proper lady must have standards. But as it was a rather poor hour to take him shopping, I understood that we would be limited to what was in his bedding closet." There was a brief frown. "Not that I saw the whole of it. He was -- rather insistent about being the only one who looked within. I suppose that was where the pornography went, as I had ample time to discover that it wasn't under the bed."
The cringe was now on the verge of collapsing into an emotional black hole.
"I did believe him, in that he was showing me all the sheets he had to offer," the unicorn allowed. "And yet when I realized it would get no better, I nearly considered performing the act on the carpet! Except that I'd just seen the carpet. It was clean enough after the second hour, but it was still shag -- oh! Shagging on shag! I just spotted that!" Another giggle. "Still, dear... wasn't taking that shower together perfectly arousing?"
"...you were scrubbing me. Like I was a foal..."
"Everypony has trouble reaching certain spots," Rarity kindly assured him. "Even unicorns cannot readily target what we cannot directly see. And frankly, I had seen where the stain glow was in your fur. And feathers." Rather politely, with the words timed between the twitches, "You do need to work on your aim. But was the act itself not pleasurable? Once we finally reached it, of course."
"...yes."
"And I am hardly the kind of mare who sneaks out on a stallion in the middle of the night!"
"...no..."
"Not when cuddling together after sex, warm and content within afterglow -- which almost substituted for the roughness of your sheets, but not quite -- is both an act and gift of affection!"
"I -- guess?"
"I snuck out in the morning. I had to get home and feed my cat. And yet I made sure to leave you something which you could remember me by!"
Which, in Impassi's expert opinion, was the exact moment when the woven syllables united into a rope and fashionably wrapped themselves around the unicorn's neck.
"Which was?" the judge inquired.
Bink slowly got up. Nimble teeth extracted an envelope from under his bench, and he flew it up to the judge.
Impassi took some time to look over the photographs.
"May I see?" the unicorn brightly inquired. "Oh, yes! Well, I did have some time between when I woke up and the moment when I had to leave. More than enough to conduct some of the basics -- wonderful! Now that I see it in full daylight, that does suit!" In confidential tones, "Because quite frankly, that bedding? Was destined to be a tablecloth. So a little work, and a tablecloth it became! Along with some placemats, although that was mainly the pillowcases. Really, the hardest part was getting everything stripped from the bed without waking him up. It did help for him to be curled so, of course. Rather as if he was wrapping his body around something which wasn't there..." Hopefully, "Is there another picture which shows how I repurposed the curtains? And if so, could I get a copy? I'd like to have a visual record, Your Honor. Because that was a moment of inspiration."
The Bearers, on the whole, consisted of six very different mares. And five of them fully believed that Rarity was the crazy one.
"Miss Belle," Impassi calmly began, "the plaintiff did not ask you to redecorate his apartment."
"Sufficiency clause!" declared the happy voice of a mare who'd spent a little too much time in the other kind of court.
"I'll need your justification," the judge observed.
"Well, I could break into his residence if I looked through the window and saw him having a heart attack, correct? To save him! The cause would be sufficient."
Judge Heartstopper carefully allowed herself a single nod.
"So if I happened to look through the window and observed the sort of decor which would be likely to induce a coronary --"
"-- where did my layabout robes go?" Bink whispered.
"Layabout robes?" The unicorn frowned. "Oh! So those weren't scrub rags? Well, in any case, they are where they belong. And possibly now in the form of some rather fine ash. Although --" with open contrition "-- I do apologize. I made sure to send over replacement sheets, and you really could have written me back to praise the colors! And the thread count. But I only gave you new, clean scrub rags. If you give me a day, I can certainly cover a robe or two. I'll need your measurements. And in certain circumstances, acquiring them can be rather erotic --"
"-- Miss Belle," Impassi cut in.
The unicorn looked up. Waited.
"It's his residence," the judge said. "Not yours. And my understanding is that he liked it the way it was. Which is why his request for the court is that you restore everything to its original state. Something I am inclined to grant."
The twitches moved into the curled tail.
"...put it all back," the designer slowly said.
"Some of the original pieces were destroyed," Impassi noted. "By you."
"But I gifted him with replacements," wasn't the best choice of protest. "He lost nothing --"
"-- and in such cases, you will match them as closely as possible."
Rather petulantly, "It looks better now."
"Perhaps," Impassi allowed. "But it wasn't his choice."
"And if I choose not to revert one of my creations?"
"Then it's destruction of personal property," the earth pony mare observed. "A charge to which you have already confessed. And that comes with jail time."
"How much jail time?"
The judge told her. Rarity visibly thought it over.
"In which prison?"
"Miss Belle --"
"-- oh, please. I am a Bearer. There are those who would mistakenly claim that we seem to have a collective, inexplicable tendency towards winding up in prisons. But in my experience? It's just about always Rainbow's fault. Which is why I need to know which prison, because I do have preferences in that regard. In fact, as no opportunity should be wasted, I have recently begun to write down my impressions of various facilities! Rating them, as it were." Thoughtfully, "You are a judge. Would you happen to know if anypony's done that before? Because there has been some consideration towards self-publishing. I already have a title! Don't Get Arrested In This Town --'
"Miss Belle."
Generosity gifted the courtroom with a sigh.
"...very well," the unicorn finally said. "Against my wishes and while committing an additional crime against good taste, but -- very well. If you are determined to find for him, then I shall put it all back, as best I can. But my schedule is rather crowded and, as a government employee of sorts, subject to unexpected interruptions. I cannot provide you with a precise date for when I can act, and can only hope that you understand."
That much, Impassi could give her.
"One moon," the judge said. "Perform the restoration within one moon. If a mission renders that impossible, then ask the palace to contact the court. The deadline will be extended accordingly. Otherwise, you will perform the restoration under his supervision, to his specifications."
"Very well," the mare lightly fumed, and probably thought she'd gotten away with the exceptionally soft "Although if there are any more 'rags', and he happens to look away..."
"Miss --"
The curled tail nearly lashed itself straight. "...very well."
"One moon," Impassi repeated. "And then you will both return to the courthouse by appointment, to visit my chambers. And Mr. Bink will tell me how you did."
"Well, how was I supposed to know that that wadded-up ancient layer-stained crusty nightmare hidden at the back of his bedding closet was his precious colthood blankie?"
And This Is Why You Get The Six-Panel Folding Screen
The stallion who was currently testifying was doing so with something of an awkward register within his voice. And if any court stenographer had unwisely made a note regarding speech descriptors for the official transcript, with a subsequent reader simply skimming the material -- then that viewing party might have quickly decided that the stallion didn't sound awkward enough. In fact, when totally removed from context, the type of incident being described was prone to borrow from a different category of modifiers. Like, just for example, the group which included 'shaken'. 'Revolted' might have come across as mandatory, with 'terrified' lurking somewhere in the wings.
For anypony who decided to just go over the written basics without truly paying attention, several questions would have arisen. Chief among those would have been 'Why is this case being heard in Sex Court?' Because that was a place which dealt with misdemeanors and civil cases. Nothing worse. And what the stallion was describing...
"So," the young adult carefully said as an entire spectator gallery tried to subtly lean forward on their season ticket benches and almost made it , "I don't know if anypony here has ever done this, especially in the summer. And it's almost counterintuitive, I know. But when the Weather Bureau schedules a really, really hot day -- as hot as regulations will allow -- then one of the best things you can do is to take a shower."
"And that is where it officially started," the judge carefully said. "In your bathroom."
The stallion nodded, briefly glanced to his left, drew strength from a nearby source, exhaled, and then forced himself to continue.
"Because I was showering," he continued. "But for a really hot day in summer -- you need a shower that's even hotter. And I know it sounds stupid, but that's how it works. You crank up your boiler as far as it'll go -- well, almost." In tones of awkward, almost tender caution, "Test it out before you get in, everypony. Please. Carefully. I don't want to be responsible for anypony getting scalded. But... it works, it really does. When the water is exactly as hot as you can stand it, and if you stay in the shower for as long as you can... then when you get out, the rest of the world just feels -- cool." He hesitated. "And I know it's just by comparison. Because when you've driven the surface temperature for your skin and fur that high... then maybe it would take lava before you actually felt hot again. But when you step out into the bathroom when it's done... it just feels so good..."
Judge Impassi Heartstopper silently nodded, and waited for the rest of it. She always gave her full attention to any testimony: something dictated by both profession and mark. And that wasn't just listening to the words. Body position, the way ears might shift, little flicks and adjustments of the tail -- it all added up.
"He looked good, too," said a second stallion, rather matter-of-factly. "Really good."
The first male winced.
"It's why I was spying on him in the first place, of course," the pegasus added. "Look at that tawny fur! Can you really blame me? As far as I'm concerned, the first duty of anypony with taste who sees that fur? Is to get a closer look. Which is why I was hidden up in the tree thirty body lengths away, with the binoculars." Proudly, "I know... I could have hovered. But that's out in the open. What if I'd been seen? It hardly works if I get spotted, does it?"
The gallery collectively thought about that.
"Plus hovering just doesn't work when you're trying to spy that way," was delivered as Education. "It's never completely still, you know? The view just jerks around too much." Paused. "Especially my sight line on that muscular, super-tight earth pony ass."
This was dutifully recorded. And when it came to ponies reviewing the ultimate results in the files, at least for those very few who had true access to the well-secured Records Room and wouldn't know about all of the little visual cues which had arisen during the original testimony -- Impassi always advised them to read slowly and carefully.
"A dripping-wet ass," the pegasus casually kicked in. "With the fur all plastered-down..."
Context could be everything.
Another wince. The earth pony's facial fur was starting to pick up little underlights of hot red.
"Mister Scopo," Impassi cautioned. "The testimony --"
"What?" the maroon pegasus asked. "This is context!" With a grin, "And it was really nice of Scry to leave the giant window open like that, don't you think? Not even fogged-up glass to fight though. Just this clear view of pure, hardbodied, soaking-wet stallion."
"...I had to leave the window open," Scry softly told the world. "I know it makes me vulnerable..."
"Especially to pegasi," Scopo grinned. "And it's not just the open window, with that giant design which lets practically anypony get in if they happen to have a mind towards going after that tight rear. Because you were running that shower at max, weren't you? All of that heat, all of the humidity. Just billowing out into the air --"
"-- it's something I wanted to warn the gallery about," Scry quietly said. "If they want to try it some day, during the summer. Because one of the problems with using an ultra-hot shower to cool off is that the steam just builds up in the bathroom. If there isn't a window open, then you can sort of wind up choking on it. All the moisture could make you dizzy. Stagger out of the shower stall, catch a hoof on something, and then... you go down. So there's got to be air circulation. Even when it makes you vulnerable --"
"-- and puts the byproduct of your little shower into the air," declared a preemptively-satisfied Scopo. "Where any pegasus with a nasty mind could use it against you. Creatively..."
Scry weakly sighed.
"I know how it sounds," he told the court.
"I know how it looked," Scopo smirked. "It looked like a tawny stallion moving around his own bathroom with his fur all plastered down by water. Dripping. With an open window. And then he had the nerve to start grooming himself, while he was so exposed. Slick fur over tight muscles. And as far as I was concerned, it was my duty to do something about it. To get down in the grass, slink my body closer and closer. Because you don't want to approach through the air from the start, you know? Not the whole way, not where he could hear my wings going and start to wonder if that window needed to be closed. Just... sneak up. Make sure he couldn't do anything, not until it was too late. While keeping the view going for as long as possible."
The smirk was getting wider. Two gallery members were on the verge of toppling forward.
"And once I lost the view, at the base of the house wall," the pegasus announced, "that was when it was time to strike. Wings out, straight up, go through that big, big window before he could do anything at all. I got in. And once I was in..."
The feathered version of the sigh came with deep, heartfelt satisfaction, while bearing no notes of remorse whatsoever.
"I used all of that moisture in the end," he told the official record. "He was so worried about getting dizzy and falling? Then you could say that I... made him go down."
Nopony in the courtroom said anything.
"Twice," Scorpo testified, and let the smirk settle into its happy place.
"And that," Judge Heartstopper, "is your version of the event."
"Yes," Scopo grinned. "Unless you want some more details on the bathroom portions. Like what I did when I got within wingspan of that ass."
"...yes," Scry sighed. "That's pretty much all of it."
"Then," asked a wry-looking, shrill-toned senior earth pony mare, "is this finally the part when I get to talk?"
The two stallions, who had been mutually seated at the defendant's station, instantly shared in a cringe.
"Look," the plaintiff said, "I usually don't mind having them as neighbors. Nice boys, both of them. Offered to plow out my walk after the Bureau scheduled us for the usual winter dump. And as far as newlyweds go... when they know ponies are looking, they usually just keep it down to public nuzzling, and that's nowhere near as cloying as the last couple who had that house." She took a breath. "Which doesn't change the fact that the flying half of the voyeur and play-assault fetish over there is pretending to spy from my tree, sneaking across my lawn while everypony passing by on the street was wondering what was going on, I had to explain everything to the police so they wouldn't be interrupted -- which wasn't for the first time! -- and then once he was finally in there, the whole scenario never got around to the point where either of them could be bothered to close the window!"
It was a very long, extremely thorough cringe.
"The one," the senior added, "which faces my bedroom."
"But being watched is so forbidden --" Scry began.
"Can the court forbid it?" Scopo quickly inquired. "No, I'm serious. Knowing that we're actually doing something wrong might just --"
"Boys."
As cringes went, this one had clearly been intended to echo across a pair of bodies, and came with a little touch of mutual recoil at the end.
"...sorry, Esme..." Scry eventually forced out.
"...sorry?" Scopo timidly tried to offer.
"Sorry, nothing," Esme snorted. "You're nice boys. You really are. Nice, young, horny, and stupid. I can't do much of anything about the last three. But when it comes to the first one? Be even more nice and when the judge finds in my favor, keep your roleplaying off my property. Pay me back for my new blackout curtains. And when that new fence goes up between our homes? Both of you are going to paint it!"
Author Is Not Responsible For Murderous Impulses Among English Majors
There were multiple ways to regard the sex act. Quite a few of those perspectives tried to operate at a profit.
It wasn't just the escorts: an occupation for which training was mandatory, the license had to be kept updated, and any breach in a very strict code of professional conduct was going to leave the offender on the receiving end of a weapons-grade lecture -- if they were lucky. There were all kinds of items which claimed to improve sex. Some were enchanted, others mechanical, a number were potion-based, and they all had one thing in common: that there was a certain type of rather nervous prospective customer who never wanted to be seen buying that sort of thing.
Such sapients, when initially launching their tentative investigations into the world of artificial sex aids, tended to start with mail order. After all, going into a shop while wearing full clothing added to a features-obscuring hood would raise questions, especially from all of the nervous ponies who were dressed the exact same way -- but simply giving a distant seller their personal home address had to be more private.
Purchasing through the post was, at best, unreliable. There were some long-time reliable sellers among the ads, added to a few start-up companies which couldn't afford a storefront yet and had no idea where they would even be allowed to place one -- but there was also a different kind of operation to be found within the classifieds. In the opinion of those who ran such small businesses, the ideal number of times for any given customer to find them was 'once'.
They typically paid for advertising in magazines with reliably poor printing standards, because that was the first line of defense. A pony who'd only turned to the relevant page a few times while considering their upcoming degree of mistake would have very little trouble making out the payment address. Those who had received their purchase and found their now-blackened snouts were flipping paper with somewhat more panic -- those ponies often discovered that their frantic search had blurred the ink beyond all legibility. The few who forced their humiliation into the light cast by the average police station's fraud department would usually discover that they'd given money to a fly-by-night operation. (With the pegasi, this tended to be literal. Those responsible for moving the whole thing to the next address would generally be hired based on flight speed and fur which sported natural Lunar hues, all the better to get the kind of head start which could find a shadowed place to rest before Sun was raised again.) They were operations run by ponies who thought testing just slowed things down and viewed 'regulations' as an exceptionally long curse word. And there were always more of them, because the Herdbook Registry's foal documentation paperwork had proven there was a sucker born every minute and somepony had to make them pay the Surprise Life Entry Fee.
Such 'businesses' tried to change up their stock regularly, because getting the same pony to purchase an identical malfunctioning item twice was a little too much to hope for. And they paid very careful attention to the news, because even sex-related pieces had trends and they needed to know which buzzwords to use.
With the latest fad... well... 'buzzword' was exactly the right term, because changelings were very slowly being lured into the light (while not quite flying directly towards the source), and one of the first half-accurate rumors to reach the listening public was that the new species just might be the world's current masters of organic chemistry. This had led to some genuine scientific investigation, the first steps of establishing true trade -- and blurred-ink ads selling InsectRect, which swore that any stallion who drank the half-glowing orange concoction would find their turgescence now possessed the rigidity and hardness of chitin. This worked. In fact, it worked so well that those who wound up in the emergency room the next morning would have some questions. The list generally started with 'It's been over twelve hours and I just barely managed to stagger here with the street-length cloth draped over my spine: when does it stop working?' There would also be a few concerns on whether the affected area was actually changing color to nonreflective black, or if gangrene had begun to set in.
The best thing to do when making such purchases was consulting an expert. And Canterlot provided.
Of course, there were still some problems. For starters, you had to find the place, and that could be a true challenge. It was located within the Tangle: the oldest portion of the capital, which had been built in a time before zoning laws, regulated street widths, and the fashion for alleyways getting just enough light to tell if anypony was lurking within. There was no true sign over the door. Operating hours were posted, but the list of times failed to include any description of what the operation was. And the owner had tried to advertise, generally by putting posters on the exterior of the shop -- but that just led to self-proclaimed Moral Guardians asking whether children should know that such a store even existed.
The shop's sole master had responded to such semi-accusations through genially declaring that the posters weren't explicit in their imagery, he didn't sell to minors, and parents really should be willing to point at a given building while proudly telling their offspring that this was the place which had gotten them conceived. And then he would take the posters down anyway. For a little while.
Still... it was a hard store to locate, especially for those whose nerves had tried to create questions entirely out of uncountable nouns. Asking ponies 'Do you know where that one place is? The one which sells... the stuff? And -- the things?' could produce a few too many results. And just about none of them would be able to narrow it down via describing the owner, because they would have no idea what he looked like.
Unless they'd been to Sex Court.
As expert witnesses went, the operator of Steath's Erotica Emporium was among the most frequently hired. When it came to sex aids, he tested all new products while keeping a tight rein on quality control. He was also one of the very few ponies who possessed a mark for the occupation. He had decades of experience, along with a generational customer base because the foals he'd helped conceive had to grow up sometime. They were utterly loyal to the store, and the stallion who ran it. And he loved them in return.
In truth, he wasn't the best witness. He didn't quite have the flair of neutrality required for readily explaining the unfamiliar to groups. The stallion often became a little too... enthusiastic when talking about products, occasionally turned descriptions into sales pitches, and -- he talked. That was a requirement for an expert witness and he filled it admirably: it was just that his speeches had, after some generous rounding up, roughly a 1% chance to drive listeners temporarily insane. Those who'd taken a linguistics major in college put a significant multiplier on that, while adding an odd tendency to go after the tail.
When it came to providing clear testimony... there were still ways to improve that, and multiple ponies among the gallery and court staff wished he would start working on them already. But within the realm of sex toys, artificial aids, and the more established enchantments... nopony knew more. In many ways, 'Steath's' was a Name in Canterlot -- although for those who didn't know where the shop was, then it was a Name which first got mentioned while staring down at cobblestones and shuffling hooves a lot.
But for the season ticket holders in the court's gallery, he wasn't just a name. He was a face, a warm smile, and an only incidentally-maddening pattern of speech. And there were times when he spoke on behalf of the defense, while others would find him testifying for the plaintiff's case. He never minded, because it was a chance to speak about what he truly loved -- and so the regulars of Sex Court treated having him turn up in a paid position (as opposed to the comprehensively illustrated books of positions which he was so well-paid for) as an everyday affair.
Having a small-scale class-action lawsuit name him as the defendant was considered to be slightly more unusual. And, given natural pony proclivities, more or less inevitable.
There were certain preparations which had to be made before he could enter the courtroom. An announcement was made. Those who loved language would force themselves to clear the gallery rather than go through that again. The court stenographer, who didn't get as much of a choice in the matter, would wearily remove a hoofcuff and its short length of chain from a hidden drawer, then shackled herself to the bench. It did a lot to stop the spontaneous lunges.
Judge Heartstopper had already read the whole of what the filing parties truly wished to be a sworn complaint. It gave her time to use while the last locks were being secured, and she used it to wonder how the 'case' had ever gotten this far. Any truly competent attorney...
...but that was part of the problem. A competent, (optionally) marked, and compassionate lawyer would have made sure to prevent matters from ever reaching this stage. That pony would have taken the time to carefully explain why the case was going to fail, followed by offering the rejected parties some cold water and allowing to them to mope in the waiting area until the office closed. The other type mostly made sure to collect all fees in advance.
That was one reason for the suit to have reached her. The other was that Sex Court always had a busy traffic in Abject Humiliation, and there were times when the only way to make sure ponies learned from experience was make sure they went through it. Personally.
The plaintiffs had already testified. Her notebook was filled with fresh idiocy, and she internally congratulated the gallery on having maintained a collective straight face throughout most of it. The most she'd heard was somepony who'd been on the verge of choking on keratin, and that had pretty much been their own fault. You didn't try to stop laughter through shoving a hoof into your own mouth. It was considerably easier to use an ankle. The fit was better, and the fur absorbed most of the spittle.
She closed the notebook. Magnets clicked.
"The recess is now ended. Court is back in session. Bailiff," Impassi instructed, "please readmit Mr. Steath." Who'd been present for the testimony, and had visibly needed a break before taking the stand.
The back doors opened, and a still-confused stallion entered.
The course of his career had seen thousands of ponies seek him out, and just about none of them had been expecting the actual result: a unicorn of average size, well into the senior years. His coat was a bluish sort of grey which had a touch of curl to it, and the accent color became considerably stronger around the muzzle and ears. His manestyle could be described as 'something he clearly likes, since he didn't bothered to change it after it went out of fashion two decades ago'. The tail, which normally had a bit of upcurl near the tip, was limp. The mark displayed what initially appeared to be double-ended smooth wooden rod with rounded tips and as long as anypony viewing it continued to carefully keep their imagination shut down, that was what it would continue to look like.
His face was moderately lined, mostly with the creases of old smiles. There was a slight scent of cleaning products about him, because the store had pay-per-view exotic dresser booths in the back and somepony had to keep them up. (In a nation where most of the citizenry was fully nude at all times, it was 'exotic dresser'.) He looked somewhat confused, moderately worried, and quite a bit like somepony's grandsire.
"Go into the witness stall, Mr. Steath," Impassi neutrally told him as the slow tread reluctantly approached the front of the courtroom. "You need to be sworn in."
His joints didn't seem to be cooperating with the full climb onto the bench: the back legs wound up in something of an awkward dangle. The stallion's horn ignited, and the glowing oathbook flipped open --
"-- wrong page, Mr. Steath," the bailiff respectfully said. "That's the version for expert witnesses. You're not using that one today."
"Oh," the slightly dazed stallion replied. "Of... course. I apologize. I didn'tly mean to makely a mistake..."
The stenographer twitched, and the short chain rattled.
"Five pages back," the bailiff gently told him.
"Yes. Thank you. I'm sorry. No offense intendedly, I swear..."
Sparkle-covered pages flipped.
"Do you, Lelo Steath, solemnly swear..."
He did. A bad case of nerves kept it from being all that solemn, but he had the 'ly' part down pat.
To listen as Mr. Steath testified was to consider the exact placement of the subtle border between 'verbal nervous tic', 'speech impediment', and 'crime against the very foundations of language': those who decided he'd crossed the last tended to have the fastest lunges.
When it came to both the operation of the erotica shop and the ongoing connections with those who shopped there, Lelo Steath was extremely hooves-on. He always wanted to hear about his customer's lives. Their problems, especially those which manifested in the bedroom -- and there was nothing voyeuristic about that part. He simply believed himself to be in possession of the solutions and in most cases, he would be right. This expertise came with a reasonable profit margin, but that was how the shop made it to the next customer. And so on down the line, moving steadily across the years.
He attended just about every innovation show which could be reached, and that included the ones with no immediately visible application for sex because you never knew. He would order from blurred magazine ads because somepony needed to find the products which actually worked: anything truly reprehensible was brought directly to the police. Quite a few mares and stallions of all ages and interests had wondered exactly what a stallion with that mark and degree of experience could bring to the bedroom, and all of them were welcome to ask his spouse. Not that she was usually available, as teaching preschool occupied just about all of her hours.
'Degree of experience' was currently being entered into the court record.
"And how long has the Emporium been open, Mr. Steath?" asked the defense attorney.
"Fifty-five years," the unicorn proudly (if shakily) said. "One of my regularlies said it's our emerald year. I'm... not quite sure what to do for emerald." Thoughtfully, "I mean, in theory, you could make a dildo out of just about anything. But placing a material with the edges from facets into the body..." It was a slight, but very noticeable shudder -- followed by some very visible thought. "But that's with a pony. Dragons, do you supposedly? It could evenly be a repeating sale."
The stenographer's twitches were accelerating.
"Repeating..." the attorney said, mostly because somepony had to.
"A proper dildo, if used correctedly, can last a lifetime," Mr. Steath declared. "Especially one of mine. But with a dragon -- it would be emeraldly, after all. So if they were hungry after, it's right there --"
"-- objection," the prepaid attorney for the class-action participants called out. "Off track."
"Sustained," Impassi allowed. "Please keep your client on the subject at hoof."
"But I'm here to educately --" Mr. Steath automatically began -- then stopped, and the short-cut mane vibrated. "-- yes. I apologize, Judge."
She gave him a very small nod. It didn't seem to help his nerves.
"You're considered to be the erotica expert in Canterlot," the defense attorney said. "Isn't that true?"
"I'm always learning," the senior promptly said. "There's still things to learn. Cameras camely along in my lifetime. Sound recording. I want to reachly the future just so I can see what's there." With more than a hint of slightly-shaken pride, "I'm stillly trying to create it..."
Which occasionally turned into a problem. He didn't just test items. He did his best to innovate. Several of the store's shelves were filled with pieces which he'd invented.
And sadly, because he'd succeeded with so much else, the same could be said of the book rack.
Lelo Steath fancied himself as an author, and his self-declared specialty was Sentences To Masturbate By. So he wrote, bound, and published his own books. ('Edit' didn't get involved.) They tended to lack in certain literary categories. He could expend three paragraphs on the exact flow of an overfull tail -- but anypony searching for characterization was best advised to look elsewhere. Foreshadowing was treated as fully unnecessary: those who appeared in Steath publications were destined to have sex, and there was no point in taking too much time to reach it. Dialogue turned up here and there, generally with a near-heroic excess of vowels.
He also wrote the same way he talked. (Or vice-versa, as the shop had been open for fifty-five years and even the original customers were no longer entirely certain as to how the abomination had initially settled in.) The stallion was capable of adverbing anything, which he did with abandon, absolutely no conscious awareness, and a questionable jaw grip on what an adverb was. But because it was writing erotica, he insisted that his mark had allowed him to master this too. He just happened to be horribly wrong.
The majority of erotica readers weren't necessarily all that concerned with the niceties of delineation, plot (beyond the obvious), or grammar. The exceptions tended to hit a stray 'ly' at full speed and broke something. Like their immersion and concentration. Or, rather more often, their sanity.
(He'd been trying to expand into the newly-founded category of audiobooks. The hired readers kept stopping to gag.)
There were a few more questions. The plaintiff's attorney rose from his bench, trotted over to the stall.
"Please describe the Famous Steath Guarantee," the pegasus asked. A thin coat of audible slime applied itself to the capitals.
"'Get off or get back'," the shop owner promptly said.
"A translation for the masses, perhaps?"
The unicorn hesitated.
"I... try to match my customers to the right product," Mr. Steath finally said. "As bestly I can. Making sure they're happy is -- my life. But I'm not always right. My mark helps, but... there are timelies when I don't know somepony well enough to make a good determination, or the product doesn't exist yet. Or the customer insists on going their own way, or... well, when tiredly or distracted, it's hardly impossible for a marked pony to get something wrong..."
Something we both know, the judge thought. Something which still isn't the best idea to openly admit in court.
Except that there was a reason why the law firm of Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe insisted on getting paid in advance, and this case was getting close to demonstrating it.
"So if what I sold turns out to be wrongly for the customer," the unicorn concluded, "they can bring it back. For a full refund, or exchange to something which might suit them better. If the item is reusable and can be cleaned. And there's also a quality guarantee. I test my products, I try to make sure everything works and then it hasly to work for the right pony..."
The plaintiff's attorney swished his tail in the general direction of those being represented. Five college-age ponies of limited income, dusty fur, and dubious foresight collectively glared at Mr. Steath.
"You sell a dildo which extends its length and width on command?" the plaintiff attorney asks.
"Several. They all have to be testedly, of course. The enchantments --"
"-- Exhibit Nine, please. As was previously entered."
It took a while to retrieve it.
"This is a model you sell?"
There was a long pause.
"I asked you a question."
The senior was squinting. "It just takes a while to adjust for scale... yes, that's something I carry."
The earth pony mare in the plaintiff group took a breath.
"It expands, all right."
"Ms. Forage," Judge Heartstopper cautioned, "you have already testified..."
"I'd like to know how you make it stop expanding."
"Ms. Forage --"
"-- I still can't trot normally," the angry mare said. "And everypony keeps asking me when I had my tail lifted. I didn't. It's just afraid to drop back down."
The plaintiff was warned, and the four-pony retrieval team carried the implement back out. Multiple coronas strained under the weight.
Mr. Steath couldn't seem to make himself watch.
"Uncontrolled size change," the group's attorney said. "With consequences. The other dildo, which was apparently enchanted to move on its own, did exactly that. It was the part where it tried to close into a loop which brought us here today. Then we have a potion which is supposed to increase sensation for the user. I understand that it worked spectacularly, as long as 'sensation' is confined to 'the tremendous pressure of a blanket across skin'. Plus there was the orgasm extender: as per previous testimony, it extended the orgasm into the next room and, when it came to the ejaculate, into the paint. Permanently. For both sight and what, based on the reactions from the gallery when we first brought that cross-section in, is a very enhanced smell. And we could talk about the repurposed sperm collection tube, because I'm sure we're all very curious as to how it holds the temperature." The pause was vicious. "There's also a question as to where it was keeping what we can all be thankful turned to be some rather dull teeth."
The largest stallion on the plaintiff's side nearly fainted. Again.
"And as per earlier testimony, all acquired from your stock."
"...I test..."
"Exhibits, please."
The remainder were recovered. Several gallery regulars held their breath.
"All sold in your store?"
"Yes, but --"
With a hard stomp of the right forehoof, "Have you compensated any of my clients, when your so-called quality guarantee obviously failed?"
Almost desperate now, "No, butly --"
"No further questions," the attorney smugly declared, and stepped back.
Judge Heartstopper looked at the defense's bench. A subtle head motion signaled the occupying stallion to remain just where he was. And then she glanced down at Mr. Steath, who looked -- tired. Shocked, worried, and for the first time since she'd first met him, old.
The next examination was of the plaintiff's attorney. She noted his exact position in the courtroom, along with its proximity to the main exit. And then she spoke.
"I recognize that the defense would normally wish to redirect Mr. Steath's most recent answers under fresh cross," she said. "However, at this time, if the defense has no objection -- I feel it will be more helpful to the court if we can all see the written text of the Famous Guarantee."
Nopony had a copy, which surprised her. Mr. Steath wound up having to write it all out from memory, and eventually stopped trying to do so via corona. Even the light was shaking from nerves.
The final result was passed up to her. The judge read it over.
"Very well," she nodded to herself. "Mr. Steath, I need to clarify a few details."
"...if I canly..." he forced out. "What do you need to know?"
"The quality guarantee. Given the range of products you offer, how can you make sure that all of them are functional? You can't exactly personally test something designed for a mare, and you only have so many employees. Just about all of whom are ponies, which makes examination of other-species items somewhat problematic."
The gallery listened.
"I... have testing equipment," he eventually said. "I don't have to drinkly every potion or invoke every enchantment. Small samples, devices to measure and checkly the quality of thaums. Nothing withly magic in it reaches my shelves unless I know it works. I swear --"
"-- the court recorded your oath," Impassi stated. "What happens when you get a defective item?"
That triggered a small, automatic frown. "It varies."
"The options, Mr. Steath."
"Some go backly to the manufacturer," he stated for the record. "Replacement items are issued, or I'll get a refund if too many from the batchly are bad. With others..." He hesitated. "I've been in business for a long time, Your Honorly. The sellers trust me. Some of them just want to knowly what went wrong, and it can be too much trouble to return a malfunctioning shipment. So for those pieces, I documently what was wrongly, submit my request by mail, and make sure the faulty pieces are destroyed. That's -- a special procedure. I'm not directly involvedly. There's a pickup --"
"But if something faulty did reach your shelves," the judge checked, "it would be covered by the Guarantee."
"...yes."
The judge took up her quill between perfect teeth, wrote that down in the reopened notebook. Set the writing implement down, and looked up again.
"I recognize that the parties in the class-action suit are looking for compensation," Impassi Heartstopper said. "Medical bills, cleaning costs, and of course the usual payouts to counterbalance trauma. And given malfunctioning enchantments, all of the testimonies under oath, the previously-submitted hospital documents and dorm manager complaints -- yes, the compensation request can be understood."
The plaintiff's attorney was beginning to smile.
"But I noticed," the judge continued, "that the plaintiffs neglected to ask for one crucial component of the Guarantee."
The expression froze.
"So this should be dealt with immediately," Impassi said. "Damages, compensation -- those can be settled later. But when dealing with faulty products..." She looked at the five relative youths on the plaintiff side. "Please submit your purchase receipts to Mr. Steath. And then he can give you a full refund."
Nopony moved.
...or rather, none of the plaintiffs moved. There was a sudden clattering of hooves on rosewood. And by the time Impassi looked up again, the attorney count had been cut in half.
Aha was, as purely-internally notations went, not quite a note of triumph. Judges were, after all, supposed to be neutral. Or even 'supposedly'.
"The receipts, if you please," Judge Heartstopper calmly said. "I presume they remain in plaintiff possession, since nopony entered them as an exhibit. And proof of purchase is generally required for a refund. Since you all testified, under oath, that the items were acquired from the Emporium...?"
None of the college students said anything. One mare had turned all of her attention to preening dust from her wings. Two of the stallions seemed to be searching for their attorney.
"You were asked to bring all associated paperwork," Impassi noted. "Do I have to delay the trial in order to let all five of you fetch receipts from the dorms?"
There was a long silence and for the purposes of completely escaping Abject Humiliation, there was no way to have made it last long enough.
"...we don't have receipts," the largest, previously most silent, and now proven to be dumbest college stallion said.
"Is this a confession of theft?" the judge neutrally inquired.
"NO!" yelped one of the mares.
"We didn't steal anything!" insisted the other female.
"We -- acquired everything from the Emporium," tried the lone unicorn male.
"...the alley out back is still part of the Emporium," attempted the last. "Isn't it?"
Mr. Steath blinked. Impassi's steely gaze focused on the final student to speak, and the stallion flinched.
"...we're in college," the relative youth finally said. "None of us have very much money. So we... went to the Emporium at night, after it closed. To see if anything interesting had been kicked out. And there were these full bins..."
Mr. Steath blinked again and this time, it was an expression of horror.
"The goldenly bins with the brassly locking lids? And the broken horn symbol on the sides?"
"Yes..." said the doomed stallion on behalf of the virtually-damned. "Did... did anyone see where our lawyer went? Because we paid him in advance --"
"-- those are forly disposal of hazardous magical materials! I've got the pickup stop after the Gifted School! Everything in there was something I'd alreadyly rejected and couldn't safely send back!" He was starting to tremble now: nerves, anger, and fear. "You don't know how much worse it could have been! This is why I always tell ponies to talkly to me --"
The judge's dense left forehoof rapped against wood, and the courtroom went silent.
"This does bring up the question of how you got into the bins," she said. "And whether Mr. Steath wishes to press charges for that."
Five students went pale under their fur. Mr. Steath quickly shook his head.
"No," the worried senior said. "No, they've been punished enough. Just... justly let me talk to them before this ends. I have lower-cost goods. I can find something for them. Something safe. To rummage around in the Hazardous Materials bins... Sun and Moon, I'm justly happy they're alive..."
Impassi calmly nodded.
"The Guarantee covers anything sold at the Emporium," she told the courtroom. "Famously so, and that was the basis of bringing a small-scale class action suit. Claiming fraud and broken promises -- when something plucked out of the trash after it was rejected for being unsafe... has decidedly not been sold. Mr. Steath does his best to protect all of his customers, across fifty-five years and, once the parents feel it's safe to tell their adult children where to shop, generations. Those who take faulty goods from Hazardous Materials bins? Are not customers." The forehoof rapped again. "Lack of standing applies. Preemptive judgment goes to the defendant."
Mr. Steath, already looking both younger and very much like a stallion who was trying to plan a student discount line, visibly sagged at shoulders and hips. Four of the students looked vaguely ashamed. The dumbest simply seemed confused.
"...so do we get our money back from the attorney?" he helplessly asked. "The one who left?"
