The Prince's Hounds

Chapters

Prologue: It Moves in the Dark
Who is the Armor?
Therapists Are Useless
A Socialite Kicks Flank
Lights Out.
Listening to Metal Move Across Wax
I'm fine. I'm busy. I'm sorry.
Vinyl Wants A Pet

Prologue: It Moves in the Dark

"Where is it!" A stallion cried in the dark. "Where is it!"

"I can't see it," One of his companions responded, "It took out the lights!"

"I know it took out the lights," The stallion snapped.

They huddled in a dark corner of the warehouse. All five of them breathed heavily, and held desperately to their rudimentary weapons. Tire chains and billy clubs were all they had to defend themselves with. Cowering together, they flinched at a distant noise. A clank.

It was an ominous rattle, a clicking of metal on concrete, and grating metal rubbing against metal. With each clank, they backed further into the corner. Holding even more tightly to their inadequate weapons, their eyes darted around the warehouse. In the darkness they saw nothing. The clanking grew louder.

"Oi, Club," One stallion called out, "How about some light?"

"Light?" Swift Club raised his club with his magic. "How you expect me to do that?"

"You're a unicorn!" The stallion thumped him on the head.

"Fine." Club concentrated. "Y'know, I don't hear the clanking now." He released a sigh. "Do you think it's gone?" He concentrated, and built up warmth in his horn. "I think it's gone." He released the magic, and their small corner was filled with dim light.

Looking around, they found nothing. They sighed collectively. Club smiled, and turned to face his partners.

Behind them was a metal clad pony. He could barely make it out in his insufficient light. It looked rusted, and where the horn might be was a spear head. The Armor raised a hoof, and brought it down on his face. Once again, they were surrounded by darkness. Their screams, the piercing of flesh, the snapping of bone, and that dreadful clanking pervaded the air.

Prince Blueblood lounged on a leather sofa. Some might be afraid of leather, but not him. He appreciated the feel, the fine texture, the smell that it added to a room. Some ponies might be afraid of leather, but some ponies end up as leather. He found it fitting. Those who failed him in life, could serve the prince in death.

Prince was a title that was legally stripped of him. Celestia had claimed that he had no right to it, but he still chose that title anyway. He had already done quite enough that was against the law. What was one more thing to him?

He tugged on a leash. This particular leash was tied to a collar that fitted snugly around the neck of a young musician. She was not of the class that he normally kept, but his pickings had been slim lately.

"Play," Blueblood ordered.

The leashed mare obliged quickly. She raised her lyre, and began plucking a soft tune. Blueblood nodded his head to the rhythm. It was far from the quality he was used to, but he had learned how to make due in the past few months. He listened to the entire song, and when she was finished he reached into a small satchel.

He pulled a flower from it, and set the flower on her muzzle.

"Take," He ordered.

She snapped at it, devouring it greedily. Smiling to himself, Blueblood indulged in the implications of this action. She had been disobedient when he had first acquired her, but, like those who had came before her, she learned quickly. Blueblood patted her on the head, and resumed relaxing on his leather sofa. He considered his bare walls for a few moments. Perhaps he could acquire some artists as well.

"Prince!" Swift Club yelled through the pain of a broken jaw as he rushed through the crude wooden double doors. "We have a problem."

"I would say so." Blueblood set the handle of his musician's leash on a peg. "Do you really think it's appropriate to barge in like this?" He stood up. "Where are your manners?" He grabbed Club's jaw, and looked down at him. "Surely, you know better."

"We was at the warehouse," Club explained quickly, "There was a problem." He looked Blueblood in the eye. "The guys... they started disappearing." He began screaming, "Damn, we found a body. I think it was Snake." Club placed a hoof on his forehead. "Looked like he was put through a wood chipper."

"A rival gang?" Blueblood released Club's jaw. "This is troublesome." He sat back down on his sofa. "Do you have any idea who might have done this?"

"I don't know," Club admitted, "I think it was only one guy." Club began wringing his hooves together. "A guy in a suit of armor." He looked down at the rough stone floor. "He got all of us."

"Swift." Blueblood shook his head. "Did you steal from me?" He stood back up, and pulled Club in so that they nearly touched muzzles. "Because I can only think of one reason for such a ridiculous lie." He sprayed Club's face with spittle. "And that is a cover-up!"

"No, sir." Club prostrated himself, covering his head with his hooves. "The goods were still there when I left." He shivered on the floor. "The armor got the boys, that's all."

"Really." Blueblood placed a forehoof on Club's neck, and leaned down, speaking softly, "It's alright." He helped Club to his hooves. "I still have a position for you here."

"Thank you, boss." Club wiped tears from his eyes. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome." Blueblood straightened his tie. "You're doing me a grand favor." He raised a knife with his magic. "I've been in need of a new sofa."

Who is the Armor?

Blueblood pulled tightly on five leashes. Five musicians followed behind him as he walked the garden rooftop of his compound. His hired help had taken to calling it The Kennel. He supposed it was an apt description, a significant improvement over compound at least, but he did not care for their naming system.

He had not implemented it, but his hired help now referred to themselves as his 'hounds,' and had implemented a rank structure based on that premise. He passed a few lowly thugs, 'mutts' as his help called them. He nodded to a few dachshunds, or more precisely, his small scale brawlers. He sat down on a park style bench, and tied off the five leashes on a nearby post. He considered his view of the surrounding city, and smiled to himself.

From here he could see almost everything that happened in the city. The Canterlot skyline glistened in the rising sun. There was nothing quite like an early morning walk. His musicians would agree with him if he allowed them to speak. But he knew better than that now. His pets must not speak, that had been their first lesson. He gazed at them, they did not return his glare. That had been their second lesson.

There had been countless lessons after that; 'Play', 'Take', 'Sit', the usual sort of thing pets were taught. Teaching them had been difficult. They were intelligent, but also stubborn. An intelligent pet was still a pet, but a stubborn pet was more easily put down than taught. However, with his slim pickings, he had no intentions of putting any of these pets to sleep. He had to build up his collection first, and then he could afford to be a little more selective.

The pianist would probably be the first to go, unless he stopped being so stubborn. He would never tell the pet of his intentions. That would break his first rule: only use one word commands. They had to know what they were to him, and he would never be able to train them if he made the mistake of treating them like ponies. No, he would not tell the pianist of his intentions.

But perhaps he could let them overhear a few choice words of his. He could simply mention it in passing to a hound. Yes, that would do. Perhaps one of the mutts would do. He could make it appear to simply be casual conversation.

"Heavylift," Blueblood addressed a buff stallion, who abruptly stopped his morning run.

"Yes, Prince," Heavylift trotted in place. He was quite focused on his morning exercise.

"What do you think of this little ensemble?" Blueblood gestured to the leashed musicians. "They're very well trained." He smiled. "They make a nice little pack." He relaxed on the bench. "Wouldn't you say?" Blueblood gave Heavylift a sly wink, and subtly pointed at the pianist.

"I don't know, boss." Heavylift stopped trotting. "That scrawny one doesn't obey very quickly." He looked down at the cowering stallion. "Might have to put it on a tighter leash."

"True." Blueblood nodded. Heavylift was always quick to pick up on these things. He was perhaps the only earth pony who could understand the finer details of social interaction. "Perhaps we should begin looking for a new one." He urged Heavylift to continue by rolling a forehoof.

"I'm not sure, Prince." Heavylift poked the pianist in his ribs. "This one might just pull through, but it's so stubborn." He looked back to Blueblood. "That's a bad sign for a pet." He agressively rubbed the pianist's mane. "I hate having to put one down." He scratched the pet's chin. "I can start looking for a new one."

"Just keep an eye out, Heavylift." Blueblood untied the leashes from the post, and handed them to Heavylift. "Would you see to it that they get their morning exercise?" Dusting off his hooves, he stood quickly. "I would do it myself, but I'm expecting a guest."

"Of course, Prince." Heavylift tightened his grip on the leashes, looking the pets over. "I'll work 'em hard." He began trotting in place again. "Can't have 'em getting weak on you."

"Indeed." Blueblood nodded as they parted. He liked the way Heavylift immediately caught on to things. Perhaps he could promote him to Dachshund, maybe let the boys know that he approved of their ranking system. Make it nice and official. Yes, it would give the gang a sense of solidarity. He did not much care for theme naming, but it worked well. He always set aside personal feelings when they interfered with what worked. For example, he didn't enjoy kidnapping those who would not be his pets, but it didn't stop him from doing so.

He pressed the call button for the lift at the far corner. Tapping his hoof impatiently, he raised his head to look at the wall clock situated on the lift. He scowled, and trotted into the lift. He hated how slow it was. For thirty stories he tapped his hoof impatiently, beating out a slow simple tattoo. He took a moment to consider the beat.

It was a section of a refrain from a once popular work. Unable to remember the name of the piece, he considered the pet who had played it for him. Scowling at this thought, he considered the musician who was now lost to him. Her name did not matter, but her talent was incredible. So young, but quite capable. He regretted losing her. She had been stubborn, but she would have been worth the extra effort. It was shameful that he had lost her. Seething, he cursed the pony's name who had cost him his last collection of musicians.

Blueblood had lost his pets, wealth, estate, and title because of that fiasco. Because of one white knight he had lost it all.

"Fancy Pants." He muttered as the lift opened to the basement level.

He was to blame for this. He was the reason that Blueblood now resorted to more brutal methods. Without his vast sums of money, his methods were all he had left. He despised getting his hooves dirty, but honest work was impossible to come by, especially for a fugitive. He fumed as he entered his spacious bare office.

He took a moment to regard his new sofa. He had quite enjoyed making it. Working with his hooves was something he rarely indulged in, but he liked to make an exception for his little projects. Not to mention that no artisan would work with the material he preferred.

Leather. He rubbed a hoof across its smooth texture, and reflected on the hired hoof who had so graciously provided the material. Well, some of the material. One pony was hardly enough for an entire sofa. Fortunately, Swift Club's family had a remarkably consistent coat pattern. Blueblood sat down on the mauve leather sofa.

Glancing at the clock, he realized that his guest would be here any minute now. Assuming, of course, that his escort was timely. He hated wasting hired hooves, but he was in need of an armchair for his study. He didn't particularly enjoy his more barbaric methods, but he always acted as was necessary. Five minutes until their time was up. Five minutes until he could make plans for some new furniture.

Three thugs -Retrievers, as the others called them- entered his chamber. Two of them bowed low, and the other thrust a large sack on the floor. After doing so, the other bowed as well.

"Prince," One of them said as they lifted their faces. "Mr. Keeper is here to see you."

An old stallion struggled his head out of the large sack. He spat blood, and wiped more from his nostrils. Gasping for air, he revealed that he was now missing several teeth.

"Fact Keeper," Blueblood addressed him, nodding to the refrain caught in his thoughts. "I trust your trip went well." He lounged on the sofa. "Were you comfortable?"

Fact finished struggling out of the sack, and sat upright. "Where am I?" He looked around.

"That's not important, Mr. Keeper." Blueblood tossed a photograph to him. "You are the curator for the Canterlot Museum, correct?" He waited for Fact to nod. "I want you to take a close look at it." He stomped a hoof. It was not out of anger. It was a mere repetition of the maddening refrain stuck in his head. He still did not know what work it was from. "I need to know if you recognize that armor."

"I..." Fact patted down his vest pockets. "I seem to have lost my glasses."

One of the Retrievers placed a pair of cracked bifocals on the old stallion's face. Blinking, Fact adjusted them so that the large crack in the right lens was no longer directly in front of his field of vision. Lifting the photograph to his face, he began scratching at the blood on his chin.

"This is sixth century Unicorn Tribe ceremonial armor." He looked closer. "Rather, a reproduction of it. The head lance actually acts as protection for the wearer's horn." He ran a hoof along it. "It's quite a piece. If it were original, I'd be amazed." He looked up at Blueblood. "The rust is clearly faked though. It's a very well done fake." Fact laid the photograph down. "If you have the piece I can take a closer look."

"Unicorn?" Blueblood nodded. He was at least one step closer to confirming the identity of the armor. "No, I don't have the armor." He dismissed them all with a wave of his hoof. "Hounds," He addressed the Retrievers, "See Mr. Keeper home. It's hardly safe for a fellow to walk alone these days."

They thrust Mr. Keeper back into the sack, and bowed to Blueblood before leaving. Blueblood took a moment to appreciate the muffled screams of the old curator. It was a nice break from the refrain embedded in his mind. Realizing that he was still tapping out the rhythm with his hoof, he paused.

A unicorn. Most likely male. Most likely someone he knew, or had wronged in the past. Some pony with enough income to create a reproduction of sixth century ceremonial armor. Some pony who knew Canterlot well enough to track down his gang. Adding these facts in his mind, Blueblood came to one conclusion.

"Fancy Pants," He raged to himself.

Therapists Are Useless

"Doctor Daisy will see you now." The secretary gestured at a wooden door. Frosted glass was set in the pane, with hand painted yellow flowers across the edges.

Octavia nodded to the secretary as she stood up. She picked her messenger bag off of the bench, and walked into the office. It could hardly be called an office though. There was something of a homey feel to it. Lace doilies rested beneath vases filled with flowers. China dolls lined the shelves. Octavia winced. She did not appreciate the clear attempt to make the room as non-confrontational as possible. Well, she appreciated the thought. It was the execution that bothered her. She could only think of one word to describe it. Tacky.

As tacky as the mare who sat at the simple desk. She had clearly made a decision to avoid appearing professional. Her sport coat had the air of a business pony, but that hot pink blouse ruined the image, and that cornflower in her lapel did her demeanor no favors. Her grey mane was done in a simple bun. Octavia understood the idea. The Doctor was clearly making an attempt at being a 'cool granny'.

"Doctor." Octavia nodded as she sat down in an overstuffed chair.

"Daisy is fine," The Doctor informed her, and put on her reading glasses. "How are you today, Octavia?"

"As good as can be expected." Octavia did not look her in the eye.

"I'll forgive you because this is our first real session, but let me explain something." Daisy leaned on her desk, looking directly at Octavia. "I understand that it's normal to just respond like that." She leaned over her desk. "But when I ask a question like that, it's because I seriously want to know." She waited for Octavia to look at her. "How was your day?"

"Vinyl stopped by my office today," Octavia admitted, "It was a little awkward."

"Go on," Daisy instructed as she bit down on the end of a pen, and held up her clipboard.

"It's just," Octavia looked out the window. There was nothing interesting to look at, but she was determined to look outside anyway. "It's just that she doesn't seem to understand that this is my life now." She sighed, and slumped in her chair. "Like she thinks I'm some filly playing pretend."

"Can you give me specifics?" Daisy asked, and gestured at Octavia with her pen. "Something relevant to your statement?" She peered over her desk. "Maybe something Viny said?"

"I-" Octavia held her head. "-I honestly don't remember the specifics." Octavia tapped her head. "Wait!" She looked up. "She called my old cello a 'big violin'." Resting her head on her hoof, she wondered, "She knows what it's called. Do you think she was just trying to get a rise out of me?"

"Hrm." Daisy considered her clipboard. She had no notes on Vinyl's character. Notes were always difficult to take in preliminary sessions. She would be able to sort it out later. "Well, I don't like to speculate with this sort of information." She scribbled on her notes. "I would also caution you against doing so." Daisy shook her head, knowing what sort of thing could result from that line of thought. "That action only serves to drive a wedge between friends." Tapping her clipboard with her pen, she advised, "Other ponies' motivations are rarely what we think they are. It would just drive you mad if you tried to do it with every pony."

"Mad, huh?" Octavia looked up at her. "I think we're past that point."

"Why do you say that?" Daisy crossed her legs.

"The armor," Octavia answered flatly, "I don't always see it, but I hear it all the time." She held herself. "I know it's not there, but that doesn't mean I can handle it."

"Why would knowing it's not real make you mad?" Daisy's eyes narrowed behind her spectacles. "You've experienced a very stressful event." She wrote some more on her clipboard. "Auditory hallucinations are to be expected." There was no mention of the visual hallucination. "Just give it a few more months. I'm certain that it will go away." Flipping back through her notes, she asked, "Now, how are your dreams?"

Dreams? Octavia couldn't honestly speak of them. As often as Vinyl had asked her about them, lying about nightmares had just become second nature at this point. In her nightmares there were white faced demons, collars, candles, and cellos. Her subconscious seemed to have even picked out a fitting theme for it all. Danse Macabre. Shame about that. It had been one of her favorite songs to play for Nightmare Night.

"Miss Melody!" Daisy's words finally cut through her thoughts.

Octavia blinked a few times. "They're fine."

Recognizing a lie was easy for Daisy. She had raised three foals, and had seven grandfoals. Lying was something she had learned to detect a long time ago. She used a technique that she had perfected a long time ago. A technique that was looked down upon by those in the psychiatric community, but appreciated and understood by mothers and grandmothers everywhere. A wordless stare was often all it took to oust a lie.

Perhaps some therapists would consider it abusive. Some therapists thought it would bring back harsh memories of silent judging authority figures. Some therapists thought it would be emotionally damaging. Daisy knew it would do all these things. It was why the wordless stare worked.

Octavia sighed, "They're not very good." She let out another sigh, this one longer than the other. "I don't really want to talk about them." She scratched her foreleg, and sunk deeper in her chair. "They're just-" She sighed again. Daisy scribbled in her notes. "I..." She trailed off, unsure of how to word her complaint.

"We can talk about it later, dear," Daisy suggested. Unlike other therapists, she understood just how far to push. There would be no prying, but honesty was an absolute must. Even if that honesty was only through silence. "There's no need to talk about it." She rose from her chair, and walked over to Octavia. Daisy understood professionalism. Other therapists touted on its importance constantly. She would admit that it was important, but for her it always took a backseat to the most important part of her profession: Making her patient comfortable. "Octavia." She placed a hoof on her shoulder, and sat in the chair across from her. "What would you like to talk about?"

"I don't really know," Octavia admitted. It was not something she had really thought about. She was only here because she had promised Vinyl she would be. Mostly she had just focused on getting this appointment over with. "Work is going well."

"I'm glad to hear it." Daisy used a wrinkled hoof to lift the lid of a silver candy dish. "Tell me more." She pushed the dish of hard candies towards Octavia. Daisy knew that it was a cheap trick. But it always worked, and that was what she focused on. It was simple: you had to make the patient comfortable, and let them talk. So many therapists made the mistake of attacking the central issue. Daisy knew better. She knew how to be subtle.

"Well." Octavia selected a soft peppermint. She didn't like the taste of it, but it reminded her of summers spent at her grandmother's lake house. "We're implementing some changes on the production floor." She bit into the peppermint. Even the silver candy dish reminded her of those summers during her foalhood. GramGram had had one just like that little dish. It had set on the kitchen cabinet, underneath a similar doily. "We expect manufacturing to increase greatly." She rolled the peppermint against her teeth. She laughed, "The boys in the accounting department crunched some numbers." She leaned on the coffee table, laughing until she felt ready to burst. "They're not based in fact at all. They think I don't know that, but I do." She picked up another peppermint, and looked to Daisy.

"Have all you like, dear," Daisy instructed, and pushed the dish even closer to Octavia. "That's what they're there for."

"Thank you." Unwrapping the candy, Octavia continued talking, "I just find it funny. The investors want numbers, so I give them numbers." She popped the peppermint in her mouth. "Then I get praised when the actual results are higher than what the numbers indicated." She laughed, "Isn't it funny? So long as I make the money, they don't care how wrong I am." Octavia smiled. The peppermint was terrible, but she enjoyed it anyway. It reminded her of long talks with GramGram. "I wish that it was that simple with Vinyl."

"You mentioned her earlier. Is she important to you?" Daisy asked, "Who is she?"

"My... roommate," Octavia paused, and looked to Daisy.

Recognizing a lie was easy for Daisy. She had raised three foals, and had seven-

"Marefriend," Octavia corrected herself, and sank just a little deeper into the couch.

"And what makes it complicated?" Daisy did not reach for her notepad. She would have to write it down later. It would make things a little more convoluted, but playing the therapist wouldn't do much good at this point. "Is she supportive of your work."

"Not really." Octavia resisted reaching for another peppermint. She found herself enjoying the taste, but moderation was the key to success. At least, GramGram had always said that it was. "Vinyl thinks I should go back to playing for the orchestra, but I don't want to." She sighed, "We're making so much more money now." Octavia looked at the floor. "I'm just trying to make life better for us. Is that wrong?"

"No, dear," Daisy put the lid back on the candy dish. Moderation was the key to success. At least, that was what she always told herself. It didn't hurt to encourage it in others. "But have you talked to Vinyl about it?"

"We're supposed to talk about it when I get home." Octavia scratched her ear. "I'm just not sure."

"You need to be honest with her," Daisy encouraged, "Honesty and love work well together." She placed a hoof on Octavia. "I'm sure that she'll listen."

"Thank you, Gr- Daisy." Octavia blushed at her slip-up, and happened to glance at the clock. "Do you think we could call it a day? I have to get home."

"Of course." Daisy nodded, refusing to comment on the near slip of the tongue. It happened sometimes. Mostly because Daisy used her grandmotherly image to her advantage. After all, ponies had to be made comfortable. "You can schedule our next appointment with-"

"I'd like to apologize," Octavia interrupted, "I skipped out on what was supposed to be our first real session." She felt a lump in her throat. "I thought that therapists were useless, and I'm sorry."

"It's all right, dear." Daisy patted her hoof. "Therapists are useless," She explained, "I'm a terrible therapist, but I make for a good granny."

A Socialite Kicks Flank

The charity auction had gone well. Feeling quite pleased with herself, Fleur pecked her husband on the cheek as they walked the gas-lit streets of Canterlot. The moon seemed to balance itself on the edge of the buildings. Fancy Pants straightened his tie, and returned his wife's kiss. She amazed him in a way that no other pony could. Some suspected that he loved her for her looks. Some considered her a trophy wife. He knew better than that.

As they walked the cobblestone paths of Canterlot, he considered his reasons for being with her. Her looks? Certainly not, but that elegant figure did prove to be quite provocative to his mind's eye at times. Her social graces? No, but he admired her ability to speak to anyone. She often said more with five words than he could say in fifty. Was it her sense of charity that so befuddled his mind? No, but it was a part of it. What was it that drew him to her? He had never been quite able to put his hoof on it, but he loved her more than he could ever love himself.

She gave him another peck on the cheek, which turned to a nibble at his neck. He blushed, and appreciated the effect that gas-lit walks had on his wife. She was slow and gentle. Running her hoof along the inside of his black tail-coat, she kissed him with only a small amount of force. Tenderness was something of her specialty.

"Not here, Fleur." Fancy Pants regretfully pushed her hoof out of his coat. He kissed her on the forehead. "It's improper."

"That's improper?" She leaned up to his ear. "I'll tell you something improper."

As her lips brushed his ear, Fancy Pants blushed deeper. He remembered why he liked her. She could do that one thing with the other thing that felt awesome. He struggled to maintain his composure. Even his thoughts were not allowed to be inappropriate in public. He desperately wanted to be in private, where his thoughts and his actions could be as wild as his desires.

"What are you doing?" Fleur asked as he took a sudden turn. "This isn't the way home." She trotted after him as he sped up. "Fancy!"

"It's a shortcut," Fancy explained, "I just want to get home quickly." He silently cursed himself for choosing not to take a carriage. His staff would have had them home by now. "Very quickly."

"Fancy, this isn't a good place to be taking shortcuts." Fleur's eyes darted across the refuse in the brick alleyway. "Dear, think about this."

"We'll be fine," Fancy insisted. "There's nothing out here tonight." He stopped quickly, and looked at the dead end of the alleyway.

"Don't be a foal, dear," Fleur chided, "We can just take a-"

"Ain't no cabs where you two's is goin'," A gruff voice spoke behind them. His shadow covered the wall, and was soon joined by five more. "Ain't no funny business either, but that's da least of your's worries."

Fancy slowly turned around to regard the ponies behind him. They were clearly a rougher sort, and each of the six wore collars around their necks. Hounds.

"Well," Fancy laughed nervously. "Can we talk about this?"

"Nope." Heavylift tossed his cigarette behind him, and blew one final smoke ring. "Boss says you need to disappear." He cracked his neck. "Boss says bite, well, we bite." He looked behind him. "Isn't that right, fellas?"

The other five roared in agreement.

"I suppose my hooves are tied," Fancy Pants laughed, "Fleur, I'm afraid I would just get in the way." His voice was no longer nervous. "Would you please take care of this?"

"What?" Heavylift sputtered, "You gonna send a filly to do a stallio-"

A well placed hoof to the face interrupted him. There was pain, and blood. It poured down his face and onto the cobblestone. He raised his head, only for Fleur to slam it against a brick wall. She ducked underneath an oncoming hoof, and shifted her entire weight into the assailant's belly, knocking him off balance.

The narrowness of the alley provided her with a distinct advantage. She was able to fight one on one without interference. Still, she couldn't help but take advantage of the situation. Using her magic, she took the rear guard, and dragged him to the front, knocking every other pony down as well. She bucked him in the face as he was dragged to her, knocking him to the ground.

One pony was left. The others were down. Fleur knew that she could not act simply when dealing with an enemy. Enemies had to be taught fear. The stallion cried, and raised his hooves in protest. Fleur grabbed them with her magic, and pulled them in four random directions. Fancy Pants winced at the sound of blood splattering.

Fleur wiped the blood from her muzzle, and smiled to herself. There weren't many opportunities for violence now. She walked back to Fancy Pants, and nuzzled against him.

"I haven't had that much fun since my ESS days," She breathed, and pushed him against the brick wall, kissing him forcefully.

"Damn it." Heavylift twitched his leg, and struggled beneath the bodies of his comrades. "At least let me go!"

"You'll watch." Fleur tossed Fancy's tailcoat to the side. "And then you can tell your boss about it."

"So." Blueblood watched the alleyway from his tower. "Fancy didn't lift a hoof." He lowered his binoculars from the view of the guards placing a body bag in the back of a cart. "I'm still certain it's him."

The guards were still in view from his location. Just another thing to worry about. He would have to remind his hired help to avoid committing crimes in the general area. Erring on the side of caution was essential to success.

"I don't know, Prince." Heavylift lifted an ice pack to his bloody muzzle. "That Fleur de Lis did all the work."

"He must know that I'm onto him." Blueblood raised his binoculars again. "Fleur might simply be his accomplice." He snarled, "I don't trust either of them." He looked back to Heavylift. "How did you get back again?"

"After they..." Heavylift dropped his eyes. "After they were done with each other the bitch splinted up my leg."

"I'll have the Retrievers acquire a doctor," Blueblood informed him, "You'll be back on your hooves in no time." He patted Heavylift on the head. "Next time? Bring a weapon." He looked back down to the alleyway. "We'll need something resistant to magic."

"Only ponies who have something like that are the guard," Heavylift reasoned, "I don't know if we can get that."

"Let me put it this way, Heavylift." Blueblood slammed the binoculars down, and stared at his goon. The Prince took a moment to calm himself, breathing deeply, and then he re-affixed his fierce gaze. "You will get me those weapons." He leaned in closer. "Or I'll have new furniture."

Lights Out.

Blueblood lounged on his leather sofa, and nodded to the stallion in front of him. He regarded those in the room around him. Six retrievers made for quite an impressive entourage. He considered the quadruplets in the corner. Singers.

Singers were significantly more difficult to train than musicians. The inherent nature of their talents allowed them to hold on to their psyche longer. It was troublesome to say the least, and nearly impossible to convince them that they were less than what they imagined themselves to be. Of course, he did not keep singers. They were certain to rebel. However, that did not mean that he was incapable of training them.

He considered the bruises on their white hides. Yes, it was necessary to be more forceful with them than he was with his musicians. Essentially, physical reinforcement of lessons had to be increased to ensure their obedience. They cowered in the corner. He repressed a sigh at that show of emotion. Emotion was wasted on animal. It was not fit for them to show it. Unfortunately, he could not discipline them at the moment. That action would make his guest uncomfortable.

"So, twenty thousand bits." Harsh Sentry thoughtfully nodded. He placed his gold helmet on the coffee table, and let his blue mane free.

"And the weapons," Blueblood added, "You mustn't forget about the weapons."

"Right, right," Harsh Sentry agreed, "Do you think your-" He looked up to the retrievers. "-help can handle them?" He straightened, visibly uncomfortable on the leather armchair. "Shock batons aren't easy to use."

"They'll learn," Blueblood insisted, "These dogs are young, after all." He waited for his hired help to give their rough nervous laughter. "Tricks are easy for them."

"Are you sure?" Harsh Sentry leaned over the coffee table. "Because for a mere five thousand more I'll train them in proper usage."

"Three thousand," Blueblood offered, "You will receive your first ten thousand upon our receipt of the weapons." He looked over his sofa at the four yellow maned mares in the corner. "The rest of your bits and your bonus will be delivered after you train my hired help."

"Deal." Harsh Sentry extended his hoof, and Blueblood bumped. Sentry considered the cowering mares in the corner. "So, uh?" He rose to his hooves, and walked over to them. "They'll do anything? Anything I want?"

"Once their re-education is complete, yes." Blueblood lounged back on his sofa, and crossed his hooves behind his head. "I'll have them ready soon, I assure you." He rested his head lazily. "They'll do anything for you after that." Blueblood hid a grin behind his foreleg. They would obey, perhaps for a long time, perhaps not, but they would never be the pets that musicians were. Harsh Sentry did not need to know that, of course.

"D'you think I could take one for a test run?" Harsh looked back to Blueblood. "See how well they do the deed?"

"Sing," Blueblood ordered.

The four looked to each other. They knew the word, but they did not know what he specifically wanted.

Blueblood sighed, and then screamed, "Solfege!"

"Sol do do," One of them began, and was joined by another, "Do re mi sol re do."

Blueblood went back to lounging. He considered this form of singing to be of the lowest caliber. It could certainly not be called art, but he could not allow them to sing anything with real words just yet. They would have to be better trained before he could allow that. Solfege allowed for them to maintain their voices, but would keep them from thinking of themselves as actual ponies. Sighing to himself, Blueblood closed his eyes, and tried to enjoy the singing. If it could really be called that.

"That's nice, but-" Harsh Sentry rubbed the back of his head. "-I meant something a little different." He stroked the mane of one of the nearest singers, putting an abrupt end to the foray into solfege. "Well, very different."

"Oh." A scowl appeared on Blueblood's face, but only for a brief moment. "I suppose you could, but not now." He leaned back. There were many undesirable things he had to do. He supposed this was just another one. "Personally?" He clicked his hoof on the floor. "Solfege," He ordered again, and waited for the mares to continue. "I would never do that with a pet," He resumed speaking to Sentry, "It's demeaning."

"They're just animals, right?" Sentry tickled one's chin, causing a slight waver in the singing. "You can't really demean them."

"I didn't mean that they would be the ones lessened by your action," Blueblood explained.

"Well," Harsh Sentry harrumphed, "The weapons will be ready by the first of the month." He walked to the door. "Do you want them delivered here?"

"No," Blueblood straightened up, "I think it best if we meet in a neutral territory." He stretched. "We'll contact you on the first."

"Very well." Harsh slammed the door behind him.

"Heavylift?" Blueblood addressed one of his retrievers. "Do you know what I hate more than anything?"

"I wouldn't want to make any assumptions, Prince," Heavylift dodged the question.

"Go on," Blueblood demanded, "It's fine." He looked up to Heavylift. "Guess."

"Disrespect?" Heavylift asked.

"Disrespect," Blueblood agreed, nodding his head in tune with the singing, "Do you know what happens to ponies who disrespect me?"

"They get turned into furniture," Heavylift stated. There was no need to phrase it as a question. The entire collection of furniture in the Prince's office was a testament to his hatred of disrespect. It was also a testament to the Prince's disturbing love of leather, but Heavylift would not comment on that. "And their families might end up in your work if they disrespect you bad enough."

"Yes, I suppose that's true." Blueblood patted his sofa. It wasn't actually based on a certain level of disrespect, but based on whether or not the family members had matching coats. Still, he wasn't about to point that out. "Did you know that Harsh Sentry just made a mistake?"

"I certainly think so, Prince." Heavylift knew better than to act certain around the Prince. It was just a bad idea. Bad ideas could get a pony turned into furniture.

"He did. He certainly did." Blueblood looked at his walls. "Have you ever been to the Canterlot Culture Museum?"

"When I was a colt," Heavylift admitted, "School trip."

"The griffon exhibit had something I always found fascinating." Blueblood smiled. "A tribal design on hide, that featured all their gods. I would like to see if I could recreate it from memory."

"Yeah, couldn't hurt to give the walls a little decoration," Heavylift agreed with what he believed his boss to be thinking. "Y'want me to rough him up first?"

"Wait until we have our weapons," Blueblood ordered, and then turned to the singing mares. He raised a hoof, and they were silent. "Heavylift, I seem to be out of treats. Pick some up tomorrow."

"Yes, Prince." Heavylift nodded.

The lights flickered. Everypony raised their heads, looking up to the dimming lights.

"Redhoof," Blueblood barked, "Go check the gas main."

"Yes, Prince." Redhoof trotted to the door, only to stop when the gas line hissed, and the sconces on the walls fizzled out. "Shit."

They paused in that dreadful darkness. They winced at a snap in the dark. Soon the gas began hissing in the lines again, and the sconces were lit. It did not bring them any relief.

In front of the doorway, Redhoof hung with a noose around his neck, and rocked back in forth. The others heard an echoing clank in the distance.

"It's here," One retriever whispered, "How did it get here?"

Blueblood pulled a knife out from between the cushions of his sofa. "Keep calm." He raised the knife, and looked around. "We'll be fine." No pony was in the room besides them. "Guard the door, don't let anything through." He waited for his men to shimmy over to the doorway. "Keep it shut, I'll keep my eye on the merchandise." He looked at the singers.

The gas line hissed weakly again. Blueblood wished desperately that he had paid more attention in his magic classes. He could use another source of light right now. The sconces went out again, and came back on a few seconds later.

"Everyone still here?" Blueblood asked. He looked at his hired help.

"Prince?" Heavylift looked behind Blueblood. "The merchandise..."

The singers were gone.

"D'you think it killed them too?" A retriever subconsciously put more of his weight against the door.

"I'm not sure," Heavylift admitted. "When it gets you, it just leaves you where it found you."

"Shut it," Blueblood demanded.

"Yes, Prince," Heavylift complied.

The lights began to dim again. One of the retrievers whimpered, and began crying when the lights went out. The crying was interrupted by a sharp snap. The lights came back on.

"Damn." Blueblood looked up to the ceiling. "How did..." Two bodies were nailed to the ceiling. Blood dripped down onto the floor. He was down two guards. "That's impressive."

The lights went out abruptly. There was no dimming, but a sudden pitch blackness. Whimpering by the doorway, the three remaining retrievers crowded against each other. Blueblood snarled at this, and the room was again filled with light.

"Cowards," Blueblood commented, "Every last one of you. Cowards" He stepped forward. "What is wrong with you?"

"Prince?" Heavylift raised a hoof.

The Armor tackled Blueblood from behind, and slammed his head against the coffee table. It pressed a hoof down on the nape of his neck, forcing his top teeth on the edge of the table. It raised one hoof, and slammed down hard, spraying and scattering blood and teeth across the leather armchair.

It left his unconscious form, and hopped over the armchair, landing just beside the retrievers. They looked up at it, fearfully. It faked a lunge at them, and they winced, shutting their eyes. It was gone when they opened them.

Fancy Pants awoke to a knock at his front door. He found that quite odd. It was rather rare for him to receive visitors at this time of night, and Fleur never left without her key. He took a moment to check his mane in the mirror. Regardless of the time of night, it would never do for him to answer the door looking disheveled. Perhaps the guards had more questions about the events of last night.

He threw on his house coat. Some things were acceptable at these hours, and promptness was more important than answering the door in his full ensemble. Not to mention a social habit that he took advantage of. No pony seemed to want to spend more than a few minutes with a stallion in a house coat. He descended the gilded staircase, and used the brass handle to open the mahogany doors.

Ordinarily, he would not accept female guests without his wife around. That action was frowned upon in society, high or low. But these mares looked particularly exhausted, and that bothered him. Four lithe mares with white coats and platinum blonde manes rested at his door. They could pass for quadruplets. They also appeared to be unconscious.

"Oh, my." Fancy Pant's eyes narrowed as he picked up a letter from his welcome mat.

Listening to Metal Move Across Wax

"Vinyl has a problem with my staff," Octavia quickly admitted as she sat down, "Well, not with all of my workers." She set her messenger bag beside the chair. "I hired Blueblood's old chateau staff."

"Good to see you." Doctor Daisy tore herself away from the window, and set a porcelain doll down. "But I don't have any background to work with on that." She took her place at her desk. "The police reports and your previous psychiatrist's documents only told me so much." She raised an eyebrow. "Seeing as you have an issue that needs more explanation, perhaps it would be best if you start from the beginning?"

"The beginning?" Octavia looked down. "I'm not sure I can do that." She raised her head. "I can't talk about it with anyone."

"Oh," Daisy lifted the lid off of the silver candy dish. "Is it not worth talking about?"

"It is, but-" Octavia stopped herself. "That was rhetorical, wasn't it?"

"Yes, deary." Daisy nodded. "I'll tell you what." She opened one of her desk drawers. "You can talk-" She pulled out a dictaphone, and loaded a smooth wax cylinder onto it's spindle. "-and I'll just listen later." She rose up. "I'll come by your office tomorrow after listening to it."

"That's a little..." Octavia paused. "Unorthodox."

"Sometimes, I find it best to just get out of the way." Daisy explained as she pressed the needle into place. "I'll be waiting in the lobby. Just let me know when you're done." With that said she set the candy dish in front of Octavia, and left the room. "I'll listen to it then."

I suppose I should start with my job. I was a cellist for the Grand Canterlot Symphone, the lead cellist I might add. I was quite proud of that at the time. I played well, and the pay was... alright. Nothing compared to what I make now.

But after one night at the symphony, I went home. Vinyl wanted to go out drinking, but I was too tired. I had been practicing for hours on end already, and those symphonies go late into the night. I decided to make myself a pot of chamomile.

Some pony knocked at the door. No pony was there when I opened it, so I just assumed it was a foal pulling a prank. I went back to the kitchen, and poured myself a cup. That's the last thing I remember about being home that night. I'm not entirely sure what happened, but I have my suspicions.

I don't know how long it was before I woke up. I was in a small room, no bigger than this office. It was pretty much empty. I had a cot to sleep on, a single candle on the floor- Oh my... the armor. That's when I first saw it. I thought it was just some sort of display piece at first.

I met Blueblood- I don't know how many hours later. Don't get me wrong, I had seen him before. I played at the same sort of function he frequented, but I only saw him then, just that simple minded uppity elitist snob. That's all any pony thought he was. But I met him then, the real him, not that upper class prude he pretended to be.

He was there in my cell- I know to call it a cell now, it fits the very definition of it. He handed me a cello. Not my old cello, but a cello. He told me to "play." Just that simple word, over and over again. It was all he would say to me. I would cry, and I would beg him to let me out. "Play." That's all he ever said.

He brought in a sandwich with him the next time. I reached for it, but that one damn word was all he would say. I knew what he meant. I tried to play, but I was too hungry to focus. I told him that, and he struck me. Not hard, but the way you might snap a newspaper across a dog's nose. He left with the sandwich.

My candle burned out after that. That's when the armor started moving. I could hear it. Just constantly moving around the room. A 'clank', just that dreadful constant noise. Just- moving on from that.

Doctor Daisy paused the spindle, and jotted down a few notes. She took a minute to think this through. Unable to make any serious analysis from what she had been given, she sighed. She released the spindle.

Blueblood came back. He had a candle, a sandwich, and a bowl of water. A bowl! But I was tired of being in the dark, hungry, and thirsty. I hate to say it, but when he said play I obeyed. I obeyed like a damn dog. After that I couldn't disobey him. He said that one word, and I would oblige. Every single time. I lost myself then. I even thought of myself as a pet. I know now that he wanted that. That was how he did it to every other pony as well. I found that out before the trial- I'm getting ahead of myself.

We had our routine. Once a day, he would come in, I would play, and he would leave the food, water, and a candle. Every day. I think it was every day. I didn't have anything to tell time by. I could do without the food, but I needed that candle. If the candle burned out before Blueblood gave me a new one, the armor would clank around the room. I would play, he would leave the supplies, and he would lock the door when he left.

He forgot to shut the door one time. One time. I was excited when I first saw it, but I wondered if it was just a test. I thought that Blueblood was waiting just outside the door. Waiting to see if I would be a bad dog. I was terrified then. By the time I worked up the courage to leave... something shut it. After that, the armor didn't just move in the dark. It moved when I couldn't see it. It clanked around whenever I wasn't looking at it.

I got no sleep after that. My sleep hadn't been well before that, but after the door incident I had to watch the armor constantly. If I didn't, it moved. So if I started to doze off, I would hear a clank, and I would wake up. I had a waking nightmare a few days after that.

It started off as just seeing Vinyl again. Then the armor got her. It killed her right in front of me. It gored her with its horn. She was torn apart by it. Trampled by it. The waking nightmares continued for so long that I couldn't tell anymore.

I heard shouting one night. I thought it was part of the nightmare. A guard- I never got his name -opened the door, and he tried to get me out. He didn't understand that the armor moved when I wasn't looking. I tried to explain it to him. He lifted its visor, and showed me that there was no pony inside. I found that silly at the time. I knew there was no pony inside. That had never stopped the armor before.

After that Fancy Pants asked me to testify at the trial-

"Red Velvet," Doctor Daisy called for her secretary as she stopped the wax cylinder. "Get me the court cylinders for the Blueblood Trial."

Daisy resumed playing the cylinder.

I'm fine. I'm busy. I'm sorry.

Octavia sat down at the mahogany desk in her office. She took a moment to consider her view of her factory floor. The large windows allowed her to oversee production without interfering with her employees. They worked hard for her, and she paid them well. Rolling her chair over to the window, she considered her establishment. The Melody Candle Corporation was doing quite well now; thanks in small part to her settlement with the Equestrian legal system, and thanks to her benefactor.

Fancy Pants did not normally stop by here though, despite having a large sum of money invested in the business. He was quite content to allow Octavia to handle the affairs, and did little to interfere with her way of handling things. Still, she found that she appreciated his advice, his words of encouragement, and his friendship. She wished that all ponies could be as helpful as he was.

"Miss Melody." Her secretary peeked through the door. "Miss Scratch is here to see you."

"Send her in, Daisy." Octavia took a moment to straighten her bow tie. It was best to look presentable. Vinyl had the oddest way of fretting over the tiniest details. She was in no mood to deal with any pony's fretting, least of all Vinyl's.

"Hey, Tavi," Vinyl called as she waltzed into the room, and took off her sunglasses. Octavia noted this tiny detail. Vinyl only took them off when she had an issue to press. "How's the business?"

"It's going well, Vinyl." Octavia smiled proudly. "We've recently implemented a new production system that will increase output by forty percent." She tapped a clipboard. "And with these kinds of profits, we should be out of the red by the end of next quarter."

"That's great." Swinging around the desk, Vinyl began giving Octavia a back rub. "So, can I expect you home tonight?"

"It's going to be another late night for me," Octavia sighed, "Another board meeting." She swung around in her chair, and placed a hoof on Vinyl's cheek. "This bruise." Her voice became stern. "What happened?"

"Just a little tumble at the club," Vinyl laughed, "It's alright, the other guy got worse." She scratched the back of her neck. "I'm fine."

"Just..." Octavia kissed her bruised cheek. "Please, be careful."

"Fine." Vinyl stuck her tongue out at her. "Mom."

"Hmm." Octavia propped her head on her forehoof. "I think my therapist would have a field day with that comment." Octavia took on an even somber tone. "So, tell me why you find your mother to be the objec-"

"Ok." Vinyl raised her hooves. "No more mom jokes, got it." She laughed, and then smiled at her, stroking her mane. "How is it going with your therapist, anyway?"

"Ah." Octavia shook her head. She now knew why Vinyl was actually here. "Fine, I suppose."

"Fine?" Vinyl frowned. "She came by the apartment today." The frown became a scowl. "Wanted to know why you didn't show up to your appointment." Her scowl deepened. "Does that sound fine to you?"

"Yes, it does." Octavia wheeled her chair back around. "Now, if you don't mind, I have a factory to run."

"Why didn't you go, Tavi?" Vinyl stroked her mane.

"I didn't feel like it," Octavia insisted, knocked Vinyl's hoof away from her mane, and pretended to read some graphs. "We can talk later."

"I'm worried about you," Vinyl admitted weakly, "I never see you eat, you haven't touched your big violin in months, and you hoard those candles."

"First of all," Octavia snapped over her shoulder, "It's a cello." Her back went rigid. "And those candles are prototypes. They have to be tested. They put food on our table, and keep a roof over our heads." She slammed her clipboard down, and turned back to look at Vinyl. "Now, I'm busy. We can talk later."

"Alright." Vinyl put her shades back on, and made her way to the door.

"Wait." Octavia raised an objecting hoof. "I'm sorry." She stood up. "Work is keeping me real busy. It's put me a little on edge, but I still shouldn't have snapped at you like that." She walked over to Vinyl. Wrapping a hoof around her neck, she kissed her lightly. "I'll reschedule with Doctor Sage." She nuzzled Vinyl. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

Vinyl returned her kiss, and walked out the door. She nodded to Daisy as she passed the reception room. Navigating through the factory was difficult. It was as if the designer had made the building as convoluted as possible. She shook her head at the thought. Octavia was not a business pony, she was a musician. She should be playing her cello, and talking about her favorite composers. She should be doing the things that she used to do. Things that would make her happy. Vinyl just didn't know how to make her see that fact.

Canterlot's streets were pristine, and every corner had a smiling face. Smiling seemed to be Equestria's national past time, and Vinyl loved it. She loved the way every pony seemed to greet her, the way the sun seemed to bestow something of a blessing on the city, and the way you always seemed to bump into acquaintances. Every single corner turned just increased the chances of seeing a familiar face.

Fancy Pants waved her over from a nearby cafe. Sitting underneath the shade of a large umbrella, he and his wife looked like the happiest couple in the city. Vinyl had no doubt that they were just that. She returned their waves, and their smiles, in kind.

"Miss Scratch." Fancy sat upright in his wicker chair as he called her. "Come join us." He gestured between himself and his wife. "Fleur and I were just having some midday cocktails."

Vinyl hopped the short black fence, and pulled up a chair beside them. She was never one to pass up on alcohol, regardless of the time of day, mid or otherwise. Not to mention that Fancy was quite hospitable, and she had no intention of insulting a stallion's hospitality. Especially when that hospitality paid for her drinks.

"I'll have a tequila sunrise," Vinyl informed the waiter, and turned to the happy couple. "So, what's new with you guys?"

"We're taking a little time off from work." Fancy sipped his black velvet. "I must say that it's quite good to see you." He smiled again. Partially due to being pleased to see a friend, and partially due to the alcohol. "How are you and Miss Melody faring?"

"I'm alright." Vinyl rubbed her foreleg. "Octavia's been holding up." She looked up at him. "She's been working real long hours lately."

"I don't think it would hurt if she took some time off," Fancy surmised, "We've set up that business to practically run itself." He shrugged. "Though, if I may say, some ponies have different ways of handling things." He sipped his drink again. "When things get tough, well, they just throw themselves into their work. It's unhealthy."

"Enough of that, dear," Fleur de Lis interrupted, "I believe you might be gossiping." She shotgunned her martini. "It's unbecoming of a gentlecolt such as yourself." She smiled at him, and turned to Vinyl. "Have you read the paper recently?"

"I stopped," Vinyl admitted reluctantly, "I stopped keeping up with it since that 'armor' stuff started." She rolled her eyes. "It's all that's ever in the paper anymore." She accepted her drink from the waiter, and sipped it. "Why can't it have some happy things once in a while?"

"Actually, I was hoping to brag about my charity," Fleur chuckled, "The Canterlot Press did an article about it, and I was hoping for your opinion on it."

"Oh." Vinyl sipped her drink a little faster. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"Now that I think about it." Fancy scratched his chin. "How is Miss Melody taking this armor news?" He shuffled in his chair. "I understand that-"

"Let's not get into that, dear," Fleur interrupted. She didn't particularly enjoy interrupting him, but sometimes he left her no choice. "Miss Scratch, I must say that you have good taste." She gestured at Vinyl with a hoof. "I'm fairly certain those sunglasses are quite iconic at this point."

"They're how I'm recognized," Vinyl agreed, "And they add a little bit of mystique to my stage persona." She hoped that she was using that word correctly. "You have to play it up a little bit." She nodded in agreement with herself. "Make them see you as more than what you are."

"Fine advice for any role." Fancy found himself nodding as well. "Oh, I forgot to ask. How is your new apartment?"

"It's real..." Vinyl found herself struggling for the correct word. "Secure, I guess." She shook her head. "The doors have more deadbolts than a ..." Failing to find a suitable analogy, she decided to use understatement. "Well, than a normal apartment." She rolled her eyes. "Double cylinders on all the doors. Vertical cylinders too." She sighed in exasperation. "It's like Tavi doesn't think anywhere is safe."

"Can you really blame her?" Fancy asked, "Blueblood is still a lamister." He sipped his drink just a little more quickly this time. "The guard can't locate him." He shook his head at this. "Honestly, I'm thinking about increasing security in my own residence."

"Alright, new drinking game," Vinyl decreed, "I drink, and you guys talk about normal things."

Vinyl Wants A Pet

"Wake up." Vinyl, dressed in nothing but an apron, stretched herself over the bed, and nuzzled Octavia. "Breakfast."

"Tired," Octavia muttered, and rolled over, wrapping herself in the blankets.

"I didn't even see you come in last night." Vinyl nudged her. "That's what you get for being out all hours of the night." She pushed Octavia a little harder. "I made waffles."

"Waffles?" Octavia's eyes opened. Perhaps she could get up for waffles. "Coffee?"

"Brewing right now," Vinyl told her. "I was going to make you a cappuccino-" She smiled. "-but I couldn't figure out your machine."

"It's alright. Coffee will be fine." Octavia pulled her robe from a hanger on the valet stand. "How late is it?" She blinked, rubbed her eyes, and looked at the clock on their nightstand. "I need to be at the office in two hours."

"Not today," Vinyl kissed the Octavia on the cheek. "Fancy Pants said that you're taking a day off." She wrapped a hoof around Octavia's neck, and kissed it tenderly. "We got the whole day together."

"I wish he would have let me know earlier." Octavia blushed at Vinyl's advances. "You said something about waffles." She looked in the mirror. Octavia did not feel like she deserved a day off, but the countenance of the mare in the mirror seemed to disagree with her. The bags underneath her eyes certainly indicated so. "Yes," She admitted to Vinyl and herself, "I could use a day off."

"I know that," Vinyl proclaimed, "Which is why we're doing this." She nodded, and walked into the kitchen. "You just take a seat in the breakfast nook," She yelled amid the clattering of plates and silverware. "I'll be there in a second."

The breakfast nook was not as large as their dining room, but that was really the point of it. Coziness. Even in this high rise apartment, Vinyl and Octavia still tried to have a few rooms that were cozy. While other rooms were a clear attempt to intimidate or awe guests with their abundant wealth, the breakfast nook was only meant for them to share. A white wicker table and two matching chairs with green cushions rested on pink rose marble floor. A few potted plants decorated the interior of a large bay window.

That bay window had a view that would take a pony's breath away. No other high rise in the city afforded a view like this. From that window she could see the white alabaster walls of the palace, the lush greenery of the palace, and a grand view of the bustling market street some thirty stories beneath them. Octavia could not help but smile to herself as she watched the hustle and bustle beneath her. She took a moment to appreciate not partaking in any herself, at least for today. Sometimes a brief rest was necessary.

Vinyl came in with plates, silverware, and toppings firmly grasped in her magic. She set them down gently on the wicker table. Octavia lifted her fork, and paused. Butter and maple syrup, or strawberries and cream? Octavia furrowed her brow, hopefully this would be her most difficult decision to make today. Her concentration was interrupted when Vinyl made the decision for her. A large spoonful of strawberries was plopped onto her waffle, followed by a dollop of whipped cream.

Octavia took a moment to appreciate the blend of flavors as Vinyl waved a fork just underneath her mouth. She did not normally allow Vinyl to feed her, but she had been somewhat neglectful lately. Octavia would allow it just this once. The cream was clearly fresh. The strawberries had been preserved, but that only served to make them sweeter. The waffle was light and fluffy, with just the right amount of sugar in it. Vinyl had outdone herself.

"Vinyl," Octavia plucked the fork from the air. That was enough of that, enjoyable as it had been. "This is wonderful." She used the side of her fork to cut off a small section. "When did you learn this?"

"I've been taking a few classes," Vinyl admitted. "Do you really like it?"

"I love it," Octavia placed the morsel i her mouth. "It's amazing." She chewed thoughtfully, and, without an adherence to etiquette, said, "Do you know what this means?"

"What?" Vinyl asked.

"I'm never eating out again," Octavia told her.

Vinyl smiled, stood up, leaned over the table, and whispered in Octavia's ear. Octavia blushed.

"Race you," Octavia challenged, and placed a final bite in her mouth.

Octavia and Vinyl rested in hot water in their large copper tub. They were dwarfed by it's size, but that only helped them bathe together. Octavia leaned back, and rested her head on Vinyl's chest, staring up at the engraved ceiling tiles. The bathroom was likely the most elegant room in their high rise apartment. Copper fixtures were polished to a bright shine, tasteful artwork lined the walls. Rose scented soaps filled the air.

Vinyl poured water over Octavia's mane, and scrubbed lilac scented shampoo into a lather. Octavia took a sip from her champagne flute, and set it beside the bottle on the banister. She lifted herself up, and splashed some water on Vinyl. Grinning madly, Vinyl took her empty champagne flute, and used it to splash water on Octavia.

Octavia quickly downed her champagne to avoid getting bathwater in it, and retaliated. The giggling pervaded the house. The splashing of water continued.

A particularly embarrassed mailpony knocked on the door to the high rise apartment. He had not seen anything, but he knew what those noises meant. Had it not been for the sheer importance of the letter's sender, he might have simply left it at the door. The absence of a mail slot prevented this.

He coughed as multiple locks tumbled, and chains rattled. He hoped the chains were used to secure the door. On his last delivery he had seen things. The door cracked open, and Octavia angrily eyed him through the crack with the door secured by one last chain.

"Miss Melody?" He raised a letter, and extended it to her.

"Who's it from?" She did not take it from him, and continued eyeing him.

"Fancy Pants," The mailpony responded, "He said it was most urgent."

"Urgent?" She eyed the letter. "Did he say what it was about?"

"I believe it's an invitation." He inched the letter closer to her.

"Hold it up to the light," Octavia ordered, snapping the last chain off the door, she craned forward. Looking intently at the letter, she traced its edge, feeling for weight without taking it from his grip. "Very well." She took it from him. "Are you supposed to carry my reply?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am," The mailpony waited.

"Stay here." Octavia slammed the door, and snapped the locks and chains back into place.

"What is it?" Vinyl walked out of the bathroom with a towel around her neck.

"An invitation," Octavia explained, and ripped the letter open. "To Arion's at the River." She picked up the engraved invitation. "For lunch. Fancy Pants already made the reservations."

"Isn't that one of those fine dining places?" Vinyl asked skeptically, "Can we really afford that?"

"I'm certain that our account will be fine." Octavia glanced over the gilded statues in their foyer. "We're not exactly strapped for bits."

"But don't those places have dress codes?" Vinyl vigorously dried her mane. "I don't have clothes like that, Tavi." She threw the towel back around her neck. "I've never had clothes like that."

"You can wear something of mine." Octavia reached for a pen. "Fancy Pants and Fleur has been to good to us for us to turn them down."

"I was kind of hoping we could stay in bed today." Vinyl took off the towel, and batted her eyelashes. "Please?"

"Tempting, but we need to be social." Octavia wrote out a brief reply on the back of the invitation. "Let's get dressed. We don't have much time."

"Fine," Vinyl whined, and snapped the towel at Octavia's flank.

Octavia dropped her pen, blushed, and shooed Vinyl away. She began the long tedious process of unlocking the door.

"Alright," She commented, and slid the letter through the crack. "Off with you."

She shut the door, placed every horizontal lock, every vertical lock, every and chain back in place. She trotted off to the bedroom, and laughed at the sight of Vinyl trying to tie a bow tie. The silk was bunched up around Vinyl's neck into a square knot.

"Vinyl," Octavia sighed, raising a hoof to her face. "Arion's is a fine dining restaurant. A bow tie over your bare neck is not enough." She untied it for her, and tossed it over the mirror. "Let's find you something a little more suitable." She pushed Vinyl into the walk in closet.

"I'm not wearing a dress," Vinyl stated, "I'm not wearing anything frilly."

"But this would look so good on you!" Octavia raised up a pink sundress.

"Tavi, it's like thirty degrees out." Vinyl put it back on the hanger. "I hardly think that would work."

"Alright." Octavia held up a black v-neck cocktail dress. "How's this."

"I said I'm not wearing a dress," Vinyl repeated her earlier statement, "And nothing frilly."

"If you do this for me." Octavia pushed the dress closer to her. "I'll do that thing you like."

"The thing." Vinyl's ears perked up, and a mad grin appeared on her face. "The thing with the thing?" Vinyl kissed Octavia. "Tonight?" She waited for Octavia to nod. "I'll wear anything."

Octavia helped Vinyl into the dress, and handed her a thick blue coat to go with it. She rifled through her jewelry box, until she found a gold hat pin with a sapphire stud at the end of it. She then lifted up a hat box from the top shelf, and gave both to Vinyl.

"Do you know how to use a hat pin?" Octavia asked her, sighing at Vinyl fumbling with the blue bucket hat. "You pierce the hat, and put the pin through a section of your mane." She guided the hat pin, so that Vinyl would not stick herself. "And then you bring it through the other side."

"Now for you," Vinyl insisted, "We're gonna make you look awesome."

"Professional," Octavia corrected, "I need to look professional constantly."

"Sure," Vinyl tossed her a cream blouse. "Put that on."

Taking a close look at the blouse, Octavia ran a hoof across the lace cuffs and placard. A little bit of lace made it feminine, and she appreciated that the collar was only lined with it. She threw it over her back, pulled on the sleeves, and ran her hooves across the mother of pearl buttons. It was a fine blouse of stiff cotton.

Vinyl handed her a long black skirt. Octavia pulled it on, appreciating the feel of the wool fabric. She ran a hoof across the cream silk piping at the hem.

"Don't you think I should add a bit of color?" Octavia asked, "Black and cream needs something to add a little pop to it."

Vinyl rummaged through the black felt jewelry box, and handed Octavia a gold hair brooch with an enamel light purple stylized chrysanthemum in the center. She affixed it to her mane, just in front of her left ear.

"I think I'll need a coat," Octavia informed Vinyl. "Will you be a dear, and hand me one?"

Vinyl went through the insane amounts of coats in the closet. Most of them were the exact same design with minor variations, black single vent coats with notch lapels. A few had topstitching, some had welted pockets, a few had patch pockets, some had double welted pockets, and others had no pockets. She paused at one final coat. It was as if it was made to go with Octavia's current ensemble. A stiff two button coat with black enamel buttons, and silk cream piping at the edges of the lapel and the cuffs. She beamed as she handed it to Octavia.

"This is lovely." Octavia smiled as she threw it on. "I had forgotten about this one."

"That's because you have more coats than brains," Vinyl teased, "Let's go."

They stepped into Arion's at the River. It was a large place with high red walls, spotless table cloths, waiters in white smoking jackets and black ties, and perfectly dressed smiling patrons. Octavia nodded to some of her board member as the maitre d' escorted her and Vinyl to a table on the second floor.

Fancy Pants stood as they approached the table, and joined the maitre d' in scooting back chairs for the mares. He shook their hooves, and sat down. Fleur greeted both of them with a kiss on the cheek, and sat down as well. Scooting her chair closer to her husband, Fleur leaned her head against him.

"It's so good to see the two of you." Fancy Pants opened his menu. "I recommend the fontina polenta. They don't make it better anywhere else."

"Darling, won't you try something new?" Fleur raised an eyebrow. "You just eat the same thing every time."

"Is the wild mushroom ravioli good?" Vinyl asked, doing her best not to gawk at the prices on the menu.

"Nothing quite like it," Fancy Pants commented, "Though apparently I'm in no place to judge." He nuzzled his wife. "Some pony here thinks I'm a foal when it come to food."

"I never said that." Fleur turned to Octavia, and mouthed, "He is."

A while later, they gazed at their plates. Vinyl was quite pleased with her wild mushroom ravioli, Fancy Pants enjoyed his fontina polenta and stuffed peppers- much to Fleur's chagrin -Fleur took small bites of her eggplant parmagiana, and Octavia pushed around her butternut squash mezaluna.

"So, Miss Melody." Fancy Pants looked up from his meal. "How has your day off been?"

"Quite good," Octavia admitted, "It's the first I've had since we started up the factory."

"That's what I would like to talk to you about." Fancy straightened his tie. "I'd like for you to take at least one day off a week." He set down his fork. "Preferably two, but at least one."

"I'm not sure that I could do that." Octavia sat her fork down as well. "The business is only just coming out of the red."

"It's a young business, Octavia." Fancy sipped his tea. "But do you know why most businesses fail?" He raised an eyebrow as he spoke, "The owners work themselves to exhaustion, thinking that burning the midnight oil is the only way to get ahead." He paused to let that sink in. "It's not. What we're doing right now? This is business, but it doesn't have to feel like work."

"Do you want me to be a socialite?" Octavia asked, "I'm not sure if I'm cut out for that, Fancy."

"But you are," Fancy insisted, "And it would be very good for the business if you became one." He smiled. "The company doesn't simply need a paper push, Octavia." He took another sip of tea. "It needs a face, someone that every pony sees, and says 'That's what this city needs'." He smiled. "And this way, when you're working all night, you can bring Miss Scratch with you."

"That sounds promising, Fancy." Octavia nodded. "But who would take care of all that paperwork?"

"You do remember that you have a secretary?" Fancy reminded her, "Paperwork is her job."

"I suppose," Octavia agreed, "But I have to admit that we might need more employees. Who will take care of the hiring process if I don't."

"I..." Fancy paused. "I took care of that today." He looked over to Fleur, who nodded to him. "More of Blueblood's captives escaped last night." He winced. "Four of them. I hired them as our worker relations department."

"I see." Octavia noddded. "I agree, but I hope that you'll inform me before making decisions like this. I want to see that-" She looked around, and whispered, "-Bastard suffer more than anyone else." She leaned back, and sighed, "Did you hear that the Princesses are looking at reinstating the death penalty?" She laughed, "Just for when he gets caught." She shrugged. "But next time? Let me know."

"I assumed you wouldn't have a problem with it," Fancy explained, "Seeing as you hired Blueblood's old chateau staff." He sipped his tea again. "But I apologize. I overstepped my bounds, and I won't do it again."

"Wait," Vinyl deadpanned, "Blueblood's staff? The ponies who ran the kidnapping ring?" She looked at Octavia. "You hired them?"

"They interview very well," Octavia insisted, "And only one of them actually ran the kidnapping ring." She shrugged. "I didn't hire that one."

"But they should have told somebody," Vinyl objected, "You can't trust them." Vinyl paused for a moment. "Wait, how do they interview well? They can't even speak."

"Do you have something against the handicapped, Vinyl?" Octavia teased, "I assure you, they're wonderful stallions." She smiled. "I have them in the research and development wing. They do wonders down there."

"I've met them," Fancy added, "They've never seemed like bad ponies."

"Blueblood didn't seem like a bad pony, either," Vinyl snorted, "We can see how that turned-"

"Yes, I was abused for a few months, and then we got a massive court settlement," Octavia interrupted her, "Now we're having an amazing lunch at a place we might have gone to once in our lifetime." Octavia shrugged. "Now we could afford to eat here everyday for every meal." Octavia frowned. "Oh, and we have two wonderful friends we wouldn't have otherwise."

"Well, thank you." Fleur patted her mouth with a cloth napkin. "But I think we're making Vinyl very uncomfortable." She looked around the table. "I think a change of subject is in order. Would any pony like dessert?"

Octavia and Vinyl walked the gas lit streets of the city, still dressed in their finery. Octavia wished that she had worn a hat. The cold December snow whipped around their legs.

"Octavia?" Vinyl stopped.

"Yes?" Octavia looked over her shoulder. "What is it?"

"Are you happy?" Vinyl looked at her. "I mean- back at the restaurant. You made it sound like you were happy about life now." She paused. "But sometimes I hear you crying at night." She looked up at her. "When you think I'm asleep." She moved closer to Octavia. "I would get up then, but I know you don't like for me to see you like that."

"Vinyl." Octavia hugged her tightly. "Some days are harder than others." She tightened her embrace. "I want to be happy, I really do." Her voice wavered. "I have the best marefriend in the world, more money than I can wrap my head around." She shivered, but not from the cold. "I want to be happy, but it's hard." Tears streamed down her face. "I know I sound terrible. I have everything I've ever wanted, but-"

"Hey," Viny shushed her, and wiped the tears off her cheeks. "Y'know what makes me happy when I can't get out of it?"

"What?" Octavia rubbed at her own face.

"Pet store," Vinyl decreed, pointing in a shop window.

"I can't do that, Vinyl," Octavia objected.

"Yes, you can," Vinyl insisted, and pulled her into the shop, "Think of it as one more way of socking it to Blueblood." She smiled. "You made a candle factory. I know you can handle a few pets."

"You're right," Octavia agreed, and looked across the animals. "Are we buying?"

"Can we afford a pet?" Vinyl asked.

Octavia stared at the large sapphire in Vinyl's hat pin. "I think we'll manage."

Vinyl looked at a small ferret, running around its pen. He was a long, lanky thing. Giggling at the way he bent over himself, Vinyl pointed to him ecstatically, and grinned madly at Octavia. Octavia gave her a deadpan look. Vinyl's grin fell, and she began making puppy dog eyes at her marefriend. Octavia sternly shook her head. Giving Octavia the deepest pout she could muster, Vinyl silently pleader with her. Octavia shook her head again, even more sternly this time.

"They're not good pets," She explained, "They smell, and they eat meat."

"Actually," The mare at the cashier interrupted, "That one has had his scent glands removed." She pointed to some bagged food on the shelves. "And their food is actually a protein synthetically laced with the nutrients they need."

Vinyl bolted to the pin, and extended a hoof. The ferret ran along her leg, twisting its way onto her back. He nibbled on Vinyl's collar.

"A ferret?" Octavia laughed to herself. "Do you like ferrets, Vinyl?"

"Love 'em," Vinyl stated, "Can we keep him?"

"Only if I get to name him," Octavia insisted.

"Done," Vinyl held the little guy up to her face, "What's his name?"

"Well." Octavia thought to herself. "I'm not sure, but I think I have one." If this was a way to stick it to the dis-entitled prince, then she would need a name to show that. "Blue."