Title:           Minty Tails
Author:          Nop3
Pastebin link:   http://pastebin.com/vESPX0Fz
First Edit:      Tuesday 2nd of December 2014 07:01:27 PM CDT
Last Edit:       Tuesday 2nd of December 2014 07:01:27 PM CDT

>It was what you would call a normal day for yourself.
>Normal enough to say, at least.
>Then again, nothing that interesting usually happens when working as an auto mechanic.
>It was January 22, 2015, and one of the most bitter winters ever had decided to wreck havoc on the small town where you worked.
>You lived in a small cabin on the edge of the forest not too far from the town, though.
>The radio station flickered in and out as you lumbered down the old snowy road.
>Large, thick flakes of snow were plastering themselves against the windshield of your old Ford as you trundled onwards.
>The old truck didn't have heat, and quite frankly you were surprised it had come with a radio, and one that worked, no less.
>The lack of heat was quite bad, so you had bought a small electric converter for the battery, and you were able to set an electric heater on the dash, and a warmed blanket in your seat.
>you thought of home, and your squashy sofa by the fire, and of rest.
>Sweet, sweet rest.
>Another reason you dearly wished to get home was your project.
>You'd been working on a 3D model of a part in AutoCAD for your truck (a side mirror strut) as yours was essentially snapped clean off.
>and you didn't want to duct tape a hand mirror to your door redneck-style as you'd seen done before.
>You were a civilized mechanic.
>There were many instances of shifty repairs you'd seen on 4chan, one of which was a replacement of the main intake manifold on a 1969 Dodge Charger with a Pringles can.
>Another was the steering wheel being replaced with a toilet seat, or a shifter replaced with a dildo.
>You chuckled to yourself, and thought eagerly of your warm home.
>That's when you saw it.
>Something that looked too artificially green to be a plant, in the ditch.
>In the dead of winter.
>Well it can't be a plant, this is strange.
>It was an unusual green, almost minty.
>A color that doesn't appear in nature.
>You pull over in front of it, about 20 feet away.
>With just a corner of the headlight shining on it, there's no way to make out what it is.
>It's dark, and you're hesitant about getting out of your truck in the middle of a forest, but screw it.
>You step out onto the side of the road, and immediately the icy knife of winter cuts through you, making you regret your choice of a thinner coat that morning.
>Pushing yourself against the unrelenting wind, you trudge toward the minty green thing in the ditch.
>Then, logic takes over.
>As you walk, you begin to think.
>'Why am I so unnaturally interested in a green thing on the side of the road?'
>'Why did I even think twice about seeing something GREEN in a FOREST?'
>'Well, it is winter,'
>'Shut up.'
>There it was.
>You nearly yelled aloud at the sight in the ditch, and you slipped in the slushy dirt and fell back onto the hard-packed snowy road.
>It was.. Lyra.
>But that was impossible-?
>As soon as you took another look, and your brain verified that you indeed were looking at the real Lyra, a thousand questions exploded in your mind.
>But reality bobbed to the surface, as well as the memory of your survival training.
>She could die in this cold.
>You quickly make your way to her, and observe her state.
>She was unconscious, but you weren't sure how she'd gotten to be so.
>She's breathing, but her heart is slow.
>Not good.
>At this point, the best turnout would be mild frostbite.
>Any longer in this cold, and it would turn into full blown hypothermia.
>You hoist her over your shoulders with some effort, and fireman's carry her to your truck.
>It's still running, and fairly warm inside.
>You place her in the fetal position, lying in the passenger seat.
>You turn the electric heater full blast, and wrap her cold body in the electric blanket.
>You buckle the seatbelt, just in case.
>The truck lurches forward, and you're off, towards warm, towards home.
----------
>The trees fly past, and snow is smattering the windshield as you plummet down the forest path.
>You'd been glancing over to Lyra every so often, evermore nervous about her condition.
>If you didn't know any better, she could've been sleeping.
>You could see the lights of your cabin through the trees, and soon, you were pulling into the garage.
>Tools, parts, and various assortments of garage commodities littered the floor.
>You hurry around the front of the truck, anxious to get her inside.
>You lift her out of the seat, still keeping the warm blanket wrapped around her.
>Her heart rate is now somewhat normal-ish, and her breath is steady.
>She's still quite cold though, and you don't have a fire going yet.
>You turn your kitchen light on with your elbow, and move to the living room to lay Lyra on the couch.
>You switch a lamp on, and then slide the couch a little closer to the fireplace.
>It's already set up, you prepare your fires before you leave for work.
>Thankful for this age-old ritual born of living in a Pennsylvanian arctic forest, you throw a lit match into the kindling and paper below the dry logs.
>You sit down on the couch near Lyra's head, and stare into the growing fire.
>Soon, the flames are reaching upward, and heat begins to radiate around the room.
>You simply sit, waiting for something to happen, while thoughts and ideas of your current situation turn themselves over in your mind.
>This was a very odd happening.
>That was the only phrase you could formulate at the moment, the rest of your brain was focused on deciding if this was real or not.
>Surely this was just some kind of dream?
>You look down at your arm.
>Yep, that's definitely an arm.
>You pinch that arm.
>Fucking ouch.
>Yeah, you just felt that.
>You look over to the mint-colored pony on the couch next to you.
>This is some trippy shit.
>You reach a hand out and place it on her plush back.
>Yep, that's definitely there.
>You move your hand up, and run your fingers through her slightly lighter minty mane.
>It's airy, and soft.
>Her cutie mark, the lyre harp, stood out, white and gold against her minty green hindquarters.
>You knew her her eyes were the same glossy white-gold, and a pang of worry struck you as you realised she hadn't woken up yet.
>You look her over again.
>Her breathing was normal, as was her heartbeat.
>Maybe she was in a coma?
>Ohgodpleaseno.jpg
>But then, you saw, that she was not, in fact, in a coma.
>Her eyes were moving under their lids, she was dreaming.
>The relief was nice, but it was immediately extinguished by the thought that if she was in fact dreaming, asleep, she could be woken at any time.
>And what would happen when she did?
>There was no way to be sure.
>God, I need a stiff drink.