Author's Note
I apologize for this chapter's length. I just wanted to see if people enjoy the premise of the story and how it's going so far, and if so, I will continue this story further with longer chapters. So, if you enjoy it, please like it, leave a comment, and give it a fav. If you happen to not like it so much, please state why in the comments.
Thank you.
1 - Octavia
O C T A V I A
I’m surprised I haven’t been caught yet; I’m not exactly clean with my work. With that said, I don’t enjoy murdering other ponies, but it’s not like I hate doing it either. I’m sort of… numb. Yes. Numb. That’s the right word, because I don’t feel anything as a slice their necks. I don’t feel anything when they look at me with their eyes pleading mercy. I don’t feel anything as their bodies fall limp and I must dispose of it. Some might call me heartless, and they are probably right.
It’s evening. The evenings are always pretty in a city like Canterlot. The signs of clubs and bars light the city in many colors. The castle glows and streetlamps line every street. Ponies walk along the streets in giant crowds. It’s a bit of a shame we can’t see the stars with so many lights, but all the colors and the beauty of the city make up for it.
Ponies continuously bump into me as they pass by and I have to resist the urge to yell at them. Really, it’s such a bother. They should be paying more attention. Why, if we weren’t the middle of a crowded street I might just take out my hidden knife and slice their necks.
Unfortunately though, there are way too many witnesses.
Even so, I suppose I should be grateful to the ponies. I’m probably a bit famous, as I sometimes play my cello for the Princesses and am often getting assigned jobs to play my instrument somewhere. I don’t want to be arrogant, but I’m pretty good, unlike the music they play in clubs. And that DJ I keep hearing about… what was her name again? I shake my head. It isn’t of importance to me.
I turn the corner. Here, it’s not very crowded. In fact, I’m really the only pony on this street. It’s much better—no more ponies to bump into me, after all.
The chatter of the ponies dies down a little as I walk to my designation. Quiet, just the way I like it.
I enter a building. This building gets little to no attention, other than from those who work here. It doesn’t surprise me. It’s sort of in a desolate location, and then there’s just the creepiness that lingers around the place. I was reluctant and scared to enter it the first few times, to be honest, but I’ve grown used to it.
The first thing I notice is the mare that sits in this room who is always typing away on a computer. Her mane is tied back into a bun and she wears thick rimmed glasses that rest on the bridge of her nose. A yellow pencil is behind her ear. She seems to always wear a bored expression.
I approach her desk and she doesn’t see me. No big surprise, so I clear my throat to grab her attention. She looks up. A silence settles over us. I realize she is waiting for me to speak. I should be used to talking first with her, but I suppose I’m just not a very sociable pony.
“I’m here to check in,” I say.
“Name?” she asks.
“Octavia Melody.”
“Code please.”
“There is no code.”
She hands me my identification card, also my key for getting into my room in this building. I take it, nodding my head in thanks. I trot to the right, not to the left. Apparently, a pony’s first instinct is to go to the left. So the left is full of many traps.
A few of the other ponies who work here wave to me as I pass by, but most pay me no mind. Understandable. We all are pretty heartless ponies who don’t really give a damn about others, after all.
I reach the end of the long corridor, where my office is placed. I like it here. I like that my room is here instead of the middle or at the front of the hall. I don’t completely understand why. Perhaps it’s just because it’s so… far, in a way. I guess it makes me feel like I’m alone. I like being alone.
I hold my key up to the scanner. It takes a few moments to read it, but soon enough I hear the voice chip that was implanted into the scanner. “Access granted,” it says. Then I hear a clicking sound. I stuff the card back into my pocket carelessly; I probably shouldn’t do so anymore, since it might fall out.
I touch the doorknob. It’s cold. It makes a small smile appear on myself. I can usually tell when a pony has been snooping around by whether or not the handle is warm, though I suppose I shouldn’t really have to worry about that. Ponies hear don’t really care about others’ business, and besides, they wouldn’t be able to get into my room anyway. Not without my key.
I pass the threshold and my hooves press against the soft carpet of my office. I’ve had this room personalized a bit. Really, though, it’s only the carpet and the wallpaper, so not too much. I could add more if I wanted to—some ponies have their own fridge—but this is enough to keep me content. Besides, I’d much rather spend my bits on other things.
A few variations of knives hang on my left wall. I have them there, just in case, but I mainly only use one. It’s a small, simple pocket knife. It makes things much easier, because in the case of being caught with it, I can get by with saying I have it for protection.
I trot over to my desk which sits in front of a window. Dark red curtains hang in front of it, though at the moment they are pulled back. I usually have them that way; I like seeing the moon and the stars, or the blue sky when it is day, but I prefer the night.
Once at my desk, I light a candle to provide some light. My eyes scan over a list—a list of pony names. Most of them are crossed off. There is only one that isn’t, but that changes quickly enough as I lift a pencil and put a line through the final one: Fleur De Lis.
I’m never told the reasons why I must assassinate the ponies I do, and I never question it. When I began working here, I was told by my boss that if I did ask, it would result in Punishment 1, but I’ve heard rumors about Fleur scamming other ponies.
Speaking of punishments, there are three levels here. They include Punishment 1, Punishment 2, and Punishment 3.
Punishment 1 is the smallest of all. It’s a simple little thing: having to kill the pony with your bare hooves. It sounds like no big deal, but it is, sorta. The ponies can struggle and possibly kick you off. But it isn’t too much of a problem if you do it correctly.
Punishment 2 is the next level. It’s simply that you will not be able assassinate a pony for approximately two weeks. It sounds like no big deal, but another thing about this place is for every pony assassinated, you earn points. With those points, you can buy things such as customization for your office, better weapons, or better food than the kind they serve for free. No assassination means no points, and I’d much rather have one of the better foods they have to offer (the free stuff isn’t even what I’d call food).
Punishment 3 is one I do not really know how to describe, so I will just say it bluntly: Punishment 3 is death. Kind of a big jump from Punishment 2. If one gets Punishment 3, the pony is tied up and taken to a room in the basement, locked in there, and is gone the next morning. No pony knows how they die, whether it’s quick and simple or slow and painful, but I’ve made my guess based on the blood on the floor I found once when I was on cleanup duty for the basement.
My eyes choose to drift over to a photo. The photo is of a grey filly and a stallion and a mare. Anyone would know from looking at the photo that the three ponies are a family. The mare is a wife of the stallion and a mother of the filly, the stallion a husband of the mare and a father of the foal. And the filly is obviously their child.
The filly looks like me. The filly has a grey coat and an even darker mane. She even has a treble clef for a cutie mark. But as much as that filly looks like me, she is not me, because she is smiling. That filly died long ago and was replaced with me—a cold, stoic mare.
At least, that’s how I’d describe myself, but I haven’t a reason to think others wouldn’t.
A knock at my door snaps me out of my thoughts. “Come in,” I say, but then I remember that no pony can enter without a key. My key. So I take a step to walk over and let them in, but the door swings open. My boss stands in the threshold. Of course. My boss doesn’t need any pony to let him in—he has a key to every door in the building. After a few moments of an awkward silence, he strides further into the room in such a fashion one could think he were walking to the Princess, not to me.
“Hello, Octavia,” my boss says, though his voice is as monotone as mine. That’s really the only thing we have in common. His mane is white with age and slicked back, though a few happen to stick out. His coat is a light blue—a very light blue. His eyes have lost most of their life, but they still occasionally sparkle like sapphires. Speaking of his eyes, they look over me like a pony who is eyeing their favorite possession or a dragon who found treasure. He eyes all of his top assassins like that.
“Hello, sir.” I make eye contact with him. Eye contact is crucial, he says, because it helps him know that you are paying attention.
“Have you completed your latest job?”
I nod. “Just tonight. They won’t be finding the body, not any time soon, at least.”
He nods in a proud manner. “Good, because I have another assignment for you.”
My ears perk up. Usually he doesn’t do this—give another job after one has just been completed. Usually, he gives the next assignment the following day, but never the same day. “Really, sir?” I ask, and I immediately covered my mouth. No questions until the end, he says, because our question might be answered while he gives the assignment. “Sorry, sir,” I say after pulling my hoof away.
He nods again—nodding seems to be his thing—and then says, “Your next assignment is to assassinate Vinyl Scratch. I assume you know her?”
I shake my head. “I’ve heard of her, sir, but that’s about it. I know she’s a DJ, though.”
Once more, he nods. “Good. She shouldn’t be too hard for you to find then.”
I return his nod. Then he says, “You begin tomorrow. Be sure to complete this job by Saturday or you will be punished.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good. Any questions?”
I stay quiet for a moment. I’m not one who usually has questions to ask, but I figure that if I show that I’m thinking, it might prove to him that I will do the job. Or at least, be more likely to do it. Though I suppose he knows I’ll always do my job. It’s in the contract, after all…
After a few moments, I shake my head. I did try to think of a question this time, but the attempt only came with failure.
He nods. “I will see you in a few days then. Goodbye.” Then he turns and leaves through the door.
Once he is gone, I release a breath I hadn’t known I had been holding. Despite knowing my boss for a very long time—ever since I was a filly—he is still quite intimidating to me. Considering my life is pretty much in his hooves, I suppose it shouldn’t be too much of a surprise.
I take one last glance at the photo of the two parents and the unknown filly before I trot out of my office to head home. I think I should get some rest now. It’s been a long day.
Author's Note
I am sorry for another short chapter, but these are just introductory chapters. Future chapters should be longer.
2 - Vinyl
V I N Y L
A smile tugs at my lips when the crowd roars. I’ve heard it so often, yet every time I get a feeling inside me, a feeling that makes me feel proud and accomplished, one that makes me feel happy.
As the ponies cheer, a few pump their hooves in the air, causing my grin to widen slightly. They’re here for me—at least, that’s what I like to tell myself. More than likely they are not; they are probably here to have a good time with their friends, or just to party. But I like to tell myself they are here for me, despite how arrogant it is. It helps my courage with being on stage. I’ve always had stage fright, yet always wanted to perform in front of a crowd, if that makes any sense. Telling myself that they are here for me, that they won’t care if I make a mistake makes being on stage and talking to the crowd much easier.
I wait until the crowd calms down, until they are eyeing me with silence waiting for me to say something. It doesn’t take long. “Are you ready to get this party started?” I shout so that everypony can hear. The crowd roars again, and my smile widens a little more. I light up my horn and start the music. As the music begins, so does the flashing strobe lights and the multicolor floor changing with the rhythm of the song.
Normally, I would stay on stage, but tonight I do not want to. Instead, I trot down the steps. The crowd parts for me as they continue to dance, allowing me a pathway. I wish they wouldn’t do that. Many come up to me and ask for my autograph or for a photo with me. I do that; I happily oblige. But sometimes, I wish they wouldn’t ask me for such things. Having ponies idolize you is great, but sometimes I want to be treated like a normal pony.
I eventually reach my destination: the backdoor. I feel as though I want to be alone right now. And I do.
I push the door open and step through the threshold. I kick the door shut with my hind leg. The music it’s loud enough to be heard from out here, though it is a bit muffled.
I look up at the night sky, lit by the moon and the accompanying stars. The stars twinkle as if to greet me. But that isn’t what they do; instead, they push a memory to the front of my mind. A memory I’d rather forget, but at the same time, I wish to hold on to it. It’s strange, but I understand. Forgetting is losing an important part of oneself.
I close my eyes, and think. I don’t choose to think about that memory; I don’t want to. Instead, I choose to think about what it would be like if I wasn’t famous. I’d be treated different. No, I’d be treated the same. Right now, I’m treated different than from how everyone treats each other. It’d be nice. I like being famous, but I’m afraid every one I meet will treat me like I’m a celebrity, not like I am me.
My head lowers, and I sigh. For now, I am alone. I don’t have to worry about signing papers and photos and taking pictures. I can have my peace and quiet, as peaceful and quiet as it will be with the muffled music.
My bliss doesn’t last long, though. I hear a spark and a shriek. My eyes open and I reenter the club. It’s dark, so dark one wouldn’t be able to see their own hoof in front of their eyes. The music has stopped. A power outage.
Ponies begin to complain. It dies down though as the lights come back on. But this time they are dimmer, and the strobe lights aren’t flashing, and the multicolor floor isn’t changing every few moments. It’s the emergency electricity generator, I realize.
They still complain, though, and don’t part for me this time, too focused on the brief power outage rather than letting me through. I weave my way through the crowd, a task easier said than done.
Once back on stage, I shout, “Everypony!” The noise dies down and they look up at me with upset looks on their face. I scrunch my nose before continuing. “I’m sorry for what happened, but—”
“What did happen?” a voice from the crowd asks.
“I don’t know, but don’t worry. I’ll get the power up and running as soon as I can. Just be patient, all right?”
They mumble as if to disapprove, but they don’t say any complaints.
I nod once, and walk off stage. The crowd parts this time, although a bit reluctantly. I pass through as they eye me. They are depending on me now; I cannot let them down.
I reach the door to the basement as the chatter of the ponies behind me rises. I lift the key that is hooked on a string looped around my neck. I insert it in the keyhole, and twist. After hearing a click, I smile, and let the key fall as I pull the door open and enter.
It’s dark; I don’t think the emergency generator works for the basement lights. Using my horn, I create an orb of light, and it sends some of the darkness away. It’s quiet, since I can’t hear the ponies out there talking. It’s quiet enough that I can hear the scurry of spider legs as one runs back to its crevice to hide.
The stairs creak under my weight. No surprise—this club is about as old as I am, which I suppose isn’t that old. Still, they creak, and it’s enough to send shivers down my spine. I’ve never been a fan of basements.
I reach the bottom and trot over to the electricity generator—the actual one. I flip the door open and see that some of the switches have been flipped. Someone did this, though I don’t take the time to think about who did. I want to fix the problem and get back upstairs as soon as possible.
I flip the switches back, and hear the generator start again. With a grin of satisfaction, I shut the door. I turn to head back upstairs.
“Vinyl.”
But a voice stops me.
I turn back and look at the darkness, where the voice seemingly came from. An unfamiliar grey pony steps out. No—I recognize her now that I can see her better: Octavia Melody, a cello player. I heard she once played at the Grand Galloping Gala.
An unsettling silence follows. After I realize she will not speak, I say, “You… were you the one who turned off the generator?”
She doesn’t say anything. Her silence is proof enough. I frown. “You know you aren’t supposed to be down here.”
Again, nothing. I choose to say nothing now. If she will give me silence, I will return it.
Finally, Octavia says, “You’re an interesting pony.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Uh, thanks?” I don’t know what to say. I’ve been complimented before, if what she’s saying is supposed to be a compliment. But with her, it’s… different. She’s a bit…nerve-racking; I suppose is the best way to put it.
I feel her eyes boring a hole into my head, though I have a feeling that’s not what she intends. Or maybe it is. I don’t understand other ponies very well, especially ones I haven’t talked to at all/very much.
“How’d you get down here?” I ask.
“I have my ways,” she says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the answer I have chosen to give.”
She’s odd. Her expression hasn’t changed—nor has her monotone voice—this entire time.
I raise an eyebrow, and then I sigh. “You’re weird, you know that?” She doesn’t say anything, as if she already knows. “Well, please leave. Only workers are allowed down here.”
She says nothing. Instead, she turns and trots towards the stairs. As she passes me, she says, “We’ll meet again, Vinyl Scratch. I look forward to our next meeting.”
I stand there for a few moments, and then I turn to see her halfway up the steps. I wait until she is gone for my turn.
I walk slowly, as if I’m afraid of what awaits me upon my return upstairs. Perhaps that’s it, perhaps it’s not. Either way, I’m thinking.
Octavia had to have a reason for coming down here. She’s definitely not the type who’d turn of all the power off a club just for a silly prank. With the way she talked to me and looked at me, it was as if she was trying to draw me down here. But why?
I stop, sigh, and shake my head. I will know soon enough.
Halfway up the stairs, the music begins to play again. It’s loud; it causes the steps to vibrate.
At this time I realize my glasses are still on top of my head. I slide them back over my eyes before walking back through the doorway.
I make my way back to the stage. For now, I wish to just play the music, and forget about that whole Octavia thing for a while.
Fortunately, it seems my mind will be off her for a while.
Ponies ask for the same thing they were before, and now I am grateful for it. It helps. Now I don’t think of Octavia; rather, the ponies who ask for a photo and an autograph. I almost thank them, but I stop myself. I know how weird it would sound—a celebrity thanking a fan after signing something.
For now, I am a celebrity.
