Octavia Takes The Bus

by TheDorkside99

Rating: teen
Tags: Tragedy, Slice of Life, Alternate Universe, Sad, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Octavia
Length: 74031

Ever imagine what a certain pony cellist would think if she had to take the bus?

Her car's a mess, and so is her life. What better way to start making sense of the cruel world than to take the city bus? Octavia is in for a bumpy ride as she journals her observations and feelings about using the Equestrian Transit System. What will she discover? Only one way to find out!

Published 2012-04-03 13:44:02 UTC
Last updated 2012-07-15 23:22:39 UTC

April 4

April 4, 2012
First Bus Ride – 8:00am
Location – Southwest corner of N. 43rd Ave and W. Bell Rd.

Well then, shall we get started? Oh my, this is quite the interesting start to a new personal activity, isn’t it? I have to admit, I am not well versed in the art of journaling, and after reading as much as I could find on the internet, I only stumbled upon a few helpful notes. One of which being a peculiar suggestion by a fellow named “Writer’s Blockhead” to write as though writing to a close friend or relative. Given this approach, I have decided to direct my thoughts and observations to you, father.

Now then, on with the journaling. You must excuse my horrible hoofwriting. Keeping a steady hoof while this beast of a machine stops every Celestia forsaken minute is nearly impossible. Despite the recent technological boom in the past decade or so that led to inventions such as the one transporting me to rehearsal as we speak, it’s boxy design and obnoxiously loud engineering is quite annoying. In fact, as I noticed the bus approaching my stop, I could hear it’s braking system squeal like the blackboard my old music teacher used to scrape her hoof across whenever we became too chatty. And the sound it made when it finally came to a resting stop was as if a hose meant to fill a tire with air were jammed into my ear and pressurized to its maximum volume. Needless to say, I would not allow a city bus to play in any brass section I conduct.

While the physical attributes of the bus were certainly an eye and earsore alike, there is something that needs to be said of its conductor. Upon entering the sliding doors, I couldn’t help but notice the large bulbous mass of fat sagging over his obviously too tight pair of work pants. His eyes were like a pair of raisins sinking into a bubbling bowl of oatmeal and the corners of his mouth dipped down at an unnaturally steep incline. I stepped inside the bus and pulled out a printed itinerary naming all of the routes I needed to take and the hour I was to do so. I asked him if this was Route 43 leaving at the approximate time of 8:00am. The conductor didn’t even look my way and answered with a gruff “yes.” I then asked him how the seating arrangements were given. Normally, I would expect a vehicle with this size of a passenger load to have some sort of system to place ponies in an assigned seat. However, since I couldn’t find such information on the Equestria Transit System website. I decided to ask the conductor directly. You should have seen the look on his face when I did, father. It was like a volcano erupted under his seat. He turned his beady eyes in my direction and gave me a frightening look like he would swallow me whole and spit out my bones like the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk. He rudely demanded that I stop asking stupid questions and pay my fare. Well, not one to take such rudeness, I firmly told him that this was my first ride on public transportation and that some courtesy on his part was the least he could offer or, if he so chose to continue his rudeness, he would hear it from his supervisor. He then slithered his monstrous mass back to his former position and instructed me to place two bits into the machine and take whatever seat I choose. I paid my fare, thanked him, and then took my seat in the very front of the bus. Very much to his audible dismay.

Now to talk about the interior of the bus. My, where do I begin? Shall I describe the hideous design of the seats? Or perhaps I should tell you how uncomfortable they make my back feel? How about the very inappropriate words written all over by what can be best described as immature and highly uneducated high school children? And despite the very clear sign prohibiting the presence of food and beverages, very clear stains can be seen just about everywhere. In fact, and I write this holding back fierce digestive urges, I nearly stepped into a used piece of old chewing gum as I took my seat. I say, are there no ponies in the transit whose jobs are dedicated to the upkeep of these machines? I suppose it could be the conductor’s job to maintain some form of cleanliness. Then again, perhaps not. In all sincerity, something must be said of the way the system cleans their buses, or should I say lack thereof.

Have I mentioned the way the city bus works? From what I could gather during my observations, a pony pays an exact fare into a machine and sets herself in a seat of her choosing. Once all paying customers board the bus, the conductor shuts the doors then pulls the large machine out of the wedge in the street, careful not to cut off an unsuspecting driver, then slowly accelerates up to speed down its predetermined route. This happens several times within a span of minutes, as there are stops of approximate equidistance lining the entire route, and every (and I do truly mean EVERY) stop bears passengers eager to get on board. Once a pony is aware that her destination is approaching, she positions her hoof over a cord that runs along the sides of the bus and waits for the right moment. As soon as the bus rumbles past an empty stop, the pony pulls on the cord and a high pitched “bing” that shatters the ear drum sounds, followed by an unrecognizable voiceover naming the street of the impending stop. The pony then arises from her seat, checks to make sure she has gathered all her belongings, and promptly waits by the back door for the bus to come to a slow and complete halt. The back door is opened with the push of a button, and the pony is released back into the world to carry on her day’s missions. I must say, it is a very efficient system for transporting a large amount of ponies. Now if they could only work on their customer service and presentation…

Alas, father, it is now time for me to talk about what is perhaps the most eye opening and riveting aspect of riding the public city bus: the passengers. Now you know me, I am a very pleasant and easygoing pony who holds no prejudices against anypony anywhere. That you have taught me well. That being said, I cannot remember a time when I was more uncomfortable than I am at this very moment. I do not wish to sound prude, but these ponies were the types I would not normally label as compatriots. They are far too different than I. I want to avoid using the words “inferior” and “poverty stricken”, but even my extensive vocabulary fails me at this moment. Suffice it to say that the population represented in this bus would rival a drug rehabilitation center.

For example, there is an old mare sitting in front of me carrying a large bag filled with groceries. She is sound asleep. If only I could find the ricktey, rumpy ride relaxing enough to catch up on the hours missed last night. She is accompanied by a small filly that releases the most putrid smell in the air that has ever graced my nose. It’s a wonder the old mare would travel the town with this child.

Then there is a young stallion seated in back of me who can’t seem to grab hold of his coffee cup. I do not joke when I say every ten seconds he drops his paper cup, and it rolls with the momentum of the bus towards the front. I do believe the young stallion is perhaps “driven” by a different spirit as his clumsy attempts to retrieve the cup proved to be quite the amusement.

Not all of the ponies on board are peculiar of course. There is me. There are also two stallions seated out front facing each other. One is wearing a nicely pressed polo and a golfer’s hat. The other in a drab jersey sporting one of the local sports teams. I am not familiar with any sort of organization within the realm of professional sports, but I believe it was a baseball jersey. Anyhow, the two stallions were engaged in a rather spirited conversation about things I could not for the life of me comprehend. At one point, the stallion in the golfer’s hat mentioned the name of a team and said that they would “go all the way.” The other stallion responded with a scoff, and pointed proudly to his chest which bore the logo of his favorite team. He then said that this team was going to “take it.” I quickly lost interest in the conversation, seeing that I had no clue how far this particular team was going to go or what the other team was going to take.

There aren’t very many ponies on the bus this morning, and I am quite surprised on how laid back the atmosphere is. If you were to ask me last night how I pictured the bus to be during working hours, I would tell you it would be akin to a rave party complete with blinding bright lights and the choking smell of cigarettes. I presume the “real” fun does not start until the late night runs. I am not looking forward to the ride home, father.

We have come to the halfway point of my trip to the music hall according to my printed map. Several ponies are lined outside the sliding doors as they wait to board. I notice an influx of elderly ponies shuffling their way down the middle of the bus, and so I courteously offer my seat to one of them. I am now sitting in the middle of the bus. Celestia forbid I take a seat in the back and experience the horrors that lie in wake for me. No, the middle is just fine. One last couple have finally boarded and taken their seats just in front of me. They look interesting to me, father.

They are two mares. One sporting a blue and pink hairdo, and the other a more sea green colored hairstyle. They are both very much in tune with each other, which leads me to believe that these mares are in love. Intriguing. Not that I find their relationship offensive, quite the opposite really. I feel great joy in witnessing how confident they are with letting the world see their love. Of course, not all of the ponies feel the same as I, evidenced by the glares coming from those in the front of the bus. The elderly ponies. The ones I offered my seat to. The two mares in love don’t seem to mind though, and for that I am truly glad. But I cannot help but feel contempt for the ladies in front. I can see the corners of their mouths moving discretely as if what they had to say were only for choice ears. A choice I would not make in a hundred years. I prefer my progressive and evolved thinking to your close minded and hateful world, thank you very much. I will not tarry any longer on those outdated brutes, for there is a matter much more serious I believe about these two mares.

The sea green haired one. The one sporting a lovely lyre for a cutie mark. She is wearing a mask. One of those masks given to those ponies who are stricken with a highly contagious aura of some sort. She’s slouched in her seat. She looks worried. I gaze quickly at her hooves and notice a written prescription. In all sincerity, how is it that every doctor in the world has terrible writing? I suppose they have so much to accomplish in one day, penmanship is the least of their worries. Perhaps these mares have come from a doctor’s appointment and are on their way to a pharmacy to purchase her drugs. At least she has a recovery period to look forward to aided by the correct medication. It is my hope the stallion or mare behind the counter can read such chicken scratch of course.

The cute sea green mare is now weeping softly. Tears are streaming slowly down her cheek like a lonely creek. I am afraid that there is perhaps more to her ailments than meets the eye. I noticed that the mare sitting next to her holds a book in her hooves, the title of which seems very unfamiliar to me. It is a copy of “Supernaturals: Natural remedies and cure-alls that are simply super.” It seems to me that these two ponies are in desperation for a cure, for I cannot think of any other reason why she would rent out such an obscure title. The look in her eyes spells it all out.

I am at a loss for words to transcribe what is happening at this moment, my dear father. It is as if someone has twisted the knobs for hot and cold water to full blast in my heart. In front of me sits two mares locked in a hopeful embrace, weeping tears of hopelessness. The book which provided a faint glint of shining hope now sits idly on the floor gathering dust and filth. I haven’t the courage to even gaze upon them. I feel it to be unnecessary and even disrespectful during this moment. If only the other passenger shared this sentiment with me. You would think the television was switched on to a day time soap opera, and they are all just sitting there observing the problems of the two. It’s revolting. To me, if you are not to involve yourself, then it is best to look away than give a false hope of genuine interest. How it sickens me to see them.

But the crying has now stopped. I looked up briefly from my furious writing to behold what can only be described as a moment of peace. Pure, unadulterated peace. The two mares were locked in a gaze. They were smiling. Their eyes were lit up like the first gentle rays of morning that burst through the window pane and warm your face. The ponies in front continued their inane chatter. The book still lied useless on its side. And I sit here dumbfounded with a paralyzed pen, staring into the faces of these two mares for the first time. The yellow one whispered something to her partner, of which I could not make out. I am not a reader of lips. But from what I could glean from the way Lyra’s mouth revealed a childlike grin told me that perhaps they were words that brought more healing than the words printed on any other page in the world. It occurred to me that these mares were more than just in love. These two ponies were one.

I am afraid I will have to close this current session of journaling as my stop is fast approaching. There are so many other items of interest to delve into, but that will be reserved for another time. I still find the bus undesirable, but it is serviceable to know that perhaps there are some decent ponies who take the bus. Until next time, father.

Octavia

April 4, 2012
Second Bus Ride – 3:30pm
Location – Southeast corner of N. 43rd Ave and W. Northern Ave.

Perhaps I should comment on the weather. It is a rather breezy day today. The clouds are partially blocking the sun, leaving several small blotches of sunlight to decorate the streets. It is a nice feeling day, the kind where the wind is a welcome embrace and the sun a wink and a smile. A pleasant day indeed.

You must excuse my musing over the weather, father. I’ve been sitting at the bus stop for about fifteen minutes with nothing to do. Another pony is yet to join the desolate situation and all I have for entertainment is this pad and pen. I don’t feel safe about letting my cello out to practice here for obvious reasons. Though I feel a little uneasy about recording outlying observations, leaving me less room for the true objective of my new found hobby. I shall stop then.

An additional five minutes have passed, and I have finally convinced myself to record something else in order to save my sanity. I am starting to enjoy recording my thoughts. It’s a pleasure to look back and see what past Octavia was thinking.

Alas father, another pony has decided to join me here at the bus stop. Though I am not one for much socializing, this one seems rather interesting. She is a unicorn with a delightful purple mane with a pink streak. She looks informed. She has a saddlebag attached to her waist and is setting it down on the floor next to her. She is pulling out a few pages and looking them over intently. Oh my, look at me! This is absolutely stalker like of me to record every little detail about this poor, unsuspecting mare! Very uncomforting if she were to find out.

My word, she found out. As I was writing, it seems our little pony could not help but snoop her little inquisitive muzzle over my shoulder. How dreadful it was to explain to her the reasons for my notes. I of course did not delve into detail, but this one has a good head on her shoulders. She understood what this was all about. Luckily, she seems to be at ease about it, and even asked if I wanted to ask her any questions for my notes. Odd, I thought. But nonetheless, it was either an impromptu interview or spotting all of the red vehicles that pass down the street. I chose the former.

Her name is Twilight Sparkle. She is an apprentice of her Royal Highness, Princess Celestia. I must say, for somepony with almost direct access to the princess, I am quite charmed by her humble presentation. She isn’t snobby or stuck up. Neither is she a push over. She seems confident with a touch of grace. A very rare combination. She’s also very smart as I mentioned before. She lives inside the Ponyville library where all of her life’s work is accomplished. She is on direct command from Princess Celestia to record everything she discovers about friendship. I made an off shoot comment about how odd it sounded, and quickly apologized. She took no offense. In fact, she told me that was her exact sentiment when she first arrived in Ponyville. However, after battling and succeeding against the Nightmare Moon with the aid of her five best friends, she came to comprehend the true power of friendship. She now has a deep, vested desire in finding out the true potential of her friendship with the other five bearers of the Elements of Harmony. I asked her what she has found out so far. Her eyes became very wide. Her mouth slowly formed a crescent smile that both shocked and frightened me. The next five minutes were a barrage of words and terms that reminded me of chemistry class first year. I nodded quite a bit then and did the same now.

I asked where she was from. I was surprised to hear that we both originated from the city of Canterlot. I asked her which district. Once again, we shared the same district. I had to know where she went to elementary school, in hopes that perhaps we were classmates without even knowing it. Unfortunately she didn’t. What a joy it would have been to match three for three, but still, it’s not every day you run into a complete stranger who grew up where you did. A delightful conversation ensued about familiar landmarks and pleasant memories. Canterlot Park was the first place to come out of her mouth, and how could I forget such a majestic place? The tall red trees lining the circular dirt path surrounding a large lake that burst with fowl and fish. Seaport Village was another name that brought out the nostalgia in the form of sighs. The lovely little shops that dotted the pristine boardwalks and the bright white sands that always warmed and never burned. And who could forget the clear blue waters of the mighty Equus Ocean. I can still taste the salty air and hear the thunderous claps of the crashing waves. I remember as a filly running up to the edge of the shoreline and stopping just before the cool waters tickled my hooves. What a wonderful feeling we both share at this lone and desolate bus stop.

The next logical question of course was why she was taking the bus in Canterlot. Surely of all ponies, a unicorn could manage to travel all over Equestria without the use of public transportation. How lovely it must be to teleport at will, whilst us earth ponies gag with ferocity inside a waste basket with four wheels. She’s just curious. Really, of all the possibilities running rampant in my mind, this was one of the weaker ones getting trampled all over.

The bus has arrived and we are both seated in the front, side by side. This bus is much more crowded than the morning bus. It is also filled with tens of schoolchildren. We were lucky to find a pair of seats so close to the entrance. Many ponies are standing in the hallway, using one hoof to grip the overbar. It is quite amusing to see them try to keep their balance in such an unpredictable mode of transportation. Even Twilight agrees with me as dictated by her stifled giggles.

We continued our interview as best we could. It was hard to hear amongst the chatty teenagers. I asked Twilight about her living conditions. She said that the library is a wonderful place, complete with a room upstairs accommodating all her needs and even a small kitchen that’s placed so discreetly on the floor level that many a pony have missed it. Of course, her favorite room of the whole abode in a tree remains unwaveringly the library. This is where she spends most of her time researching magic, writing her reports to the Princess, and reading books of interest to pass the time. Before I could ask, she told me with a quirky smile not to even think about asking her what titles she favors most. I suppose the fact she lives inside a library should have tipped me off.

I then asked her if she lived alone or with somepony else. That question brought a grin to her face as she began to describe to me about her little assistant, Spike. By the way she describes him, it seems to me he is a very keen helper with an eye for detail and a stomach for jewels. I always wondered what the diet of dragons was. He can also be a tad jealous at times, and he is very sensitive about his position as number one assistant. Still, as Twilight recounts for me, she loves him very much and says that there is never a day that passes when she is not grateful for her little helper. I asked her how old Spike is, which she gently responds that while he’s still a baby, he is already beginning to outgrow his little basket bed. She tells me that while she knows Spike will not be little forever and that he will have to choose his own path when that time comes, she cannot bear to think upon running the library without the light patter of small dragon feet eagerly following close. The sparkle in her eye subsided a little after her last comment.

To lighten the mood a bit, I asked about her work with the Princess. I had to pause for her answer as some misguided pony bucked my cello case for no apparent reason. Luckily no damage was done. Twilight cleverly used that to describe how she was feeling about working with the Princess. Bucked. I wasn’t expecting that answer coming from a pony who dedicated her whole life to the princess’s service. She seemed teeming with joy and excitement when she was telling me about what she discovered about friendship. To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I asked her to expound.

Well, I certainly fail as a friend. Not that I ever considered initiating a relationship with Twilight, but if I did I wouldn’t know the first thing about cheering somepony up. What I intended to spark a sweet conversation turned out to be a bitter confrontation. It turns out that the talented unicorn is at odds in her heart with the regal teacher and feels bound with no way to escape. She doesn’t know to deal with it as this marks the first instance of such opposition between the two. She’s tense now, and I for one do not blame her.

After a few moments of silence, she spoke with a slight gruff in her voice. Apparently, a mishap involving a first year magic student set up the self-constructed boundary between the star pupil and her teacher. He was caught looking through top secret archives, and as punishment the Princess banished him from reregistering as a student of the prestigious Canterlot School of Magic. The unicorn pled his case, stating in her royal highness’s presence that he was merely looking for a spell to reverse a cancerous growth that had afflicted his poor mother for years since his birth. In fact, the doctors believed that his birth was the cause of the growth. When a cure was not found, he made it his goal to study hard all throughout school so he could have a breathing chance at entering the Princess’s prestigious institution one day and learn all he could about magic to give his mother a breathing chance at life. Celestia would not overturn her decision, and thus the young stallion was never seen on campus again. His mother died a few days later.

This was the reason why she elected to see the Princess today. She wanted to let her thoughts and feelings about the decision made known. However, she’s so scared about the results of such confrontation; she wanted to take the bus to give some time to think. I asked why she didn’t just think in the comfort of her home before teleporting to the princess’s quarters. She said she would never have the strength to move after giving the situation more thought, and that by taking the bus she’d have to go. It was her way of motivating herself to do the unthinkable, she couldn’t turn back now. She was already on her way. She wanted the truth. She wanted answers.

I asked her what she thought of the situation. She simply looked at me with those large purple eyes that sparkled with life not ten minutes ago. She didn’t need to say a single word. Her face said it all. She was torn. Her entire career she’d been Celestia’s number one supporter and everything her master teacher said and did, she was always there to nod in approval. Every word she spoke was a sonnet of wisdom. Every step taken was a path to follow. Every day lived was history to pen down. In her words, she was a goddess to me.

Now however, she fears a bit of turmoil brewing in her heart. While she understands that the law of the land must be upheld, she couldn’t understand why the punishment the young stallion received was deemed fair. He was simply doing a service to his dying mother. Wouldn’t she expect the same from her? Not that the Princess would fall ill to that extent. Celestia knows how she keeps her youthful appearance after a thousand years. She feels that the Princess’s decision to maintain the permanent suspension, even after staring into the face of defiant love and loyalty, was unacceptable. It led to many sleepless nights. It led to countless overdue friendship reports.

We paused for a moment so Twilight could pull out her pages from her saddlebag. This time it was me snooping over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of this prized information. To my gleeful surprise, she too had printed an itinerary of her trip to the Royal Palace. I could not contain my excitement as I too pulled out my itinerary and showed them to her. We shared a few chuckles of relief, realizing we weren’t alone in our quest for a smooth traveling experience. It was good to see her smile again. I was afraid I had dampened her feelings and reversed whatever resolve she had to talk to the princess. She pulled on the cord and got up from her seat, careful not to bump into anypony. We said our goodbyes and she kindly invited me to stop by the Ponyville library one day. She had an entire section dedicated to the musical works of famous composers such as Amaredeus Mozart and Tchaihorseky. I said I would try my best. The bus came to a stop and off the magical unicorn went to face her fears. To face her teacher. To face life itself.

An interesting thought just occurred to me, father. Are the princesses we dearly serve goddesses? Are they truly descendants of deity, or are they mere mortals like us? My discussion with Twilight Sparkle makes me doubt everything I’ve believed up to this point. I would like to believe that goddesses could heal all and feel compassion on their subjects who carry heavy burdens in their hearts. Surely, the raiser of the sun could resurrect the life of this mother who clearly meant the world to this unicorn and done her part in being a good mother. And beyond that, why would a healing spell be kept safeguarded from millions of loyal subjects who tire of their afflictions? What is her reasoning for keeping them hidden? Is it possible that perhaps there is more to those spell secrets that nopony knows? Or worse yet, perhaps there is less to their powers than they present them to be. Could it be that the princesses that we serve and protect as goddesses are nothing more than an illusion of hope, and that they are really just physically gifted circus performers meant to entertain us until our bitter end? How much of the fault lies in their act? How much of the fault lies in our blind obedience?

Alas, my stop is within eyesight and I was beaten to the punch by a young mare. Seriously, some ponies treat the pulling of the cord like some sort of race with a prize for having the quickest reaction. Could it be that we all see life as a game? Is there any fruitful meaning to life aside from survival? My, such depressing thoughts! My doctor will have a field day with me today! Until next time father.

Octavia

April 6

April 6, 2012
1st Bus Ride – 8:00am
Southwest corner of N. 43rd Ave and W. Bell Rd

Good morning, father. So far, the day has been deliciously pleasant. The sun is shining brightly as if it couldn’t wait all night to show its brilliance once more. There are no clouds to speak of so that all of Canterlot can bask in the wondrous warmth of our greatest gift. If there is anything I could be grateful for since being tasked by misfortune to ride the city bus, it would undoubtedly be enjoying our world famous weather. And this muffin with a healthful slather of butter tops it off very nicely. Anyhow, back to the order of business.

A lot has happened since I last boarded the bus. Allow me to start with my afternoon appointment with the doctor. Well, he did have a field day with my notes, but he was gentle. It is his signature way of doing his practice, but for some reason I couldn’t help but feel anxious about what his reaction would be. It is never easy to delve deeply into my thoughts and feelings and to have them read by somepony else was absolutely racking. It was like somepony was reaching into the murky depths of my soul and observing its imperfect intricacies. Nothing was sacred. He seemed to pick up on this rather quickly. I’m not sure what gave him the idea. Perhaps it was all the sweat I left on his couch or the fact that his stress ball now functions doubly as an hourglass. At the end of the session, he offered to give me a ride to my apartment and vowed to do it every single night after our appointments. I am so lucky to have such an understanding professional by my side.

May I be blunt with you for a minute father? Where is the appeal in keeping a pet? I do remember you purchased a hamster for my seventh birthday and I do not wish to sound like an ungrateful brat. However, I believe it was since then I developed a sort of distaste for the little animals that plague the hearts of many ponies with neediness masterfully disguised as love. The endless feeding, the grotesque cleaning of the cages, and the exhausting amount of time spent looking for the wayward soul. I just realized I am a pony that finds disfavor in the sight of an animal. Is that ironic?

Now, before you question my sanity and my doctor’s credentials, I must inform you of the reason for my ramblings. I am no longer alone at my bus stop. I have been graciously joined by a four legged creature with a ragged appearance, a sloppy presentation, and a mouth that cannot help itself from smacking its lips incessantly as if it were devouring the air. Oh, and she also brought her dog, an equal abomination.

Well now, perhaps I should not be quick to judge this rustic pony. After all, she did have the decency to bid me good morning. Or in her tongue, good mornin’. I simply smiled and resumed my writing before another animal wanted to greet me as well. Oh my, what a dreadful encounter that was! My legs were assaulted by its damp nose snuffing out warm pockets of doggy air and its dusty little paws were all over my pad. Then, it had the nerve to climb me as if I were some sort of obstacle and plant its furry face into my own. I could feel its spastic tail ping ponging against my lap. If this dog were any bigger, I would surely have been knocked over. Then, came the tongue. I saw with my own two eyes as it slithered out of its putrid cave and wriggled towards my face. I had two choices: Throw this pest off my lap and demand that it be handled properly, or, allow the inevitable to occur and keep silent. I decided perhaps it’d be better if I kept silent. Oh, how I did not want this dog’s slimy tongue to touch me! Heaven knows what it licked this morning.

The rustic pony came to my rescue. After she screamed at the miserable cur to get off at once, she scolded the repentant rascal with a pap to the plot. She apologized to me for her unruly pet, and it sounded very sincere with a touch of embarrassment. To put her at ease, I told her it was no problem and that it was no fault of hers. The dog was simply excited to make a new friend. She let out a relieved chuckle and turned her face to the lone streets of the morning.

Anyways, as I was mentioning before, the doctor appears to be very pleased with my notes. He is especially thrilled that I had the courage to talk to somepony on the way to the office. Though I felt the responsibility to share that it was her who initiated the conversation, it was liberating to know I had that kind of resolve to do something that was different. He suggested that I allow that to feed my daily goings about. He shared a staggering statistic after that: Only ten percent of what we fear comes to fruition. Therefore, it is necessary to overcome those fears of the unknown, lest we paralyze our best intentions and vitalize our worst inventions. He was quite impressed with my writing and felt I should consider a double major in music and English. That was nice of him to mention, and yet while I do see the potential, music is steadfastly my priority. My waking dream and my last thought.

And now, my dearest father, the bus has arrived promptly on schedule. If I could give the transit just one, and I truly mean ONE, remark of praise, it would be that it has always arrived on time. As it should be. After all, I would not imagine that a conductor would be able to keep his or her job if they were consistently tardy all of the time. Perhaps it is because the day happens to land in the middle of the week, I am not sure, but this morning bus holds more passengers than the one two days ago. No matter, I am accustomed to sitting up to the middle of the bus, and so I have set my cello in the seat next to me as I place myself near the window. Correction. I have set the cello in my lap since the rustic pony has decided to take the seat next to mine. Her dog is thankfully seated in the hall away from me.

Well, I guess this is simply another testament to the barbaric upkeep this fine transit system continues to demonstrate to its paying customers. Yes, I find the words “BUCK DA REST” to be extremely rude. And of course, the stains of whatever junk food was ordered in the middle of night are absolutely revolting. And who could forget the gum that I nearly stepped on two days ago? Yes, all of that is worthy of the most fiery condescension words can concoct. But this! Allowing a dog to board the bus with tens of other ponies is the cherry on that spoiled sundae. Where is the concern for those ponies with allergies? Do they not care for the well-being of their passengers? And what of the risk of that dog attacking somepony while in transit? Do they not fear a potential lawsuit on their hooves? This is an unbelievable outrage! I fear for whatever poor soul finds this creature when its natural inhibitions strike!

Father, you know the saying “I stand corrected”? Well, whoever invented that was probably never a passenger on the city bus. For here am I, sitting dumbfounded once again at the sight of what was occurring before me. I know this may be hard to believe, but it seems our doggy passenger is quite the little charmer amongst the passengers. Ponies left and right, young and old, all are absolutely gushing over this little rat. One stallion sporting tattoos all over even scrunched up his hooves and remarked how cute it was in a pitch as high as a C9. It was highly disturbing. Children toting half open backpacks and lunch boxes pored over the creature and doused it with love and affection. And the owner? At complete ease with it all.

Now here is something to think about. If I were to put my hooves into this pony’s shoes, I would never allow strangers to wipe their hooves all over my pet. Why, that would be like these same children grabbing at my cello! Curse the thought! I would offer my mane to be mishoofed by the public before anypony lays even one peeping eye on my precious instrument! No, I would never allow that to happen to me. In fact, I wouldn’t have even entertained the thought of bringing my cello with me on this bus had it not been for the circumstances at hoof. Now that I think about it, why has this pony brought along her pet? Now that is a good question. A very good question indeed.

Now, I could just ask the rustic pony like any normal civilized citizen. Simply tap her on the shoulder and wait for her responding twist of the neck. No. I am going to put my observational skills to the test. Surely this pony has left certain clues for me to figure out why she brought her dog for the ride. Let’s see. The harness that limits this creature wraps around the entire body frame as opposed to just its neck. I assume this particular breed is a feisty one. Of course, I experienced that first hoof earlier. A call for more control perhaps? This may indicate a lengthy journey. The way the straps cling tightly to the creatures body creating ripples of furry skin tells me that the pony was in a rush this morning. This indicates importance, no doubt about it. Perhaps she is off to visit somepony who is in grave need. Perhaps this grief stricken pony is wailing the hours away in the hospital. Will she be visiting Lyra? She does seem to be the sort who would. It could be she’s just a rough and tumble sort of gal who laces them up nice and tight. Maybe she’s taking her pet for a change of scenery. Goodness knows I could use one. I’m getting so tired of my little apartment. Two and a half weeks, Octavia. Two and a half weeks.

Please do not misconstrue my sentiments, father. I do not want to come across as an ungrateful daughter for all you and mother have done for me. There is not a doubt in my mind you two have worked diligently to ensure I would have everything I needed to live out on my own. I mean, you own the complex I live in and the car I drive, or drove in this case. And you did present to me the wonders of music with this fabulous cello. I am forever in your debt. It’s just, well, I don’t know. Perhaps this isn’t the opportune time to write of such matters. I am in the city bus after all. Now where was I?

Look at them, father. They are laughing. Well, the pony is laughing. I am not of the belief that dogs are capable of demonstrating emotion the way ponies do. But, they are enjoying themselves quite a bit. As if they had no cares in the world. Just look at how they smile at all the passengers. And the passengers smile in return. I may as well concede this: Pets have a powerful effect on ponies to turn any situation into a bright one. They can bring any two together. They can make silent lips move. They can make stale eyes focus.

How is it that a simple animal such as a dog can bring ponies together like that? I would presume that it is because unlike us, their brains are incapable of holding prejudices. Just look at the way it happily rests in the laps of complete strangers on this bus. Never mind that the high pitched stallion boldly wears a tattoo on his chest which reads “Marez and Carz”, it cradles just like any other. The children who will probably never be able to escape the slums they grew up in are like seasoned travelers with great stories to share of grand adventures. No wonder so many dogs are taken to hospitals. They have the uncanny ability to brighten anypony’s day. I suppose when you have nothing much to go on besides medication, a furry friend who will snuggle in your hooves and listen to every word you say is a gift from heaven. I wonder if Lyra would want to see a dog right about now. Why am I bringing her up so much?

You know father, there is one aspect of the bus that I have not delved into whatsoever. The windows. Not that there in any way spectacular. In fact, quite the opposite is true. More than seventy percent of their square area is covered with the transit system’s tacky logo and the parts that aren’t covered are too high up to look through. I was lucky enough to sit next to a small area of window that was exposed to the outside world. You know, I never really looked out of windows before. I mean, for safety reasons of course. Nopony likes a driver that looks out their window leaving the front windshield to their right ear. Come to think of it, this is the first time I was a passenger for a long time. It’s kind of a surreal feeling to be looking out of a window. So many sights of my commute pass me like the wind. For example, I never noticed that on the corner of 43rd Ave and Peoria stands a large temple, erected for the praise and worship of our duo rulers. As I gaze upon the stained glass windows that reflect a spectrum of colors upon the sidewalks, I cannot help but ask how the Princesses feel about this sort of dedication. At least to me, they seem to be very humble rulers and would rather their subjects esteem the powers of love and tolerance rather than the embodied representations. I am also reminded of that wonderful unicorn Twilight Sparkle. I wonder how her discussion went with her teacher. The sun is up and doesn’t seem to be hurtling towards our delicate land, so I will assume it went very well!

Well father, I have done it! I have successfully pulled the cord to signal my stop for the first time in my riding career! I am so honored to finally have had the privilege of notifying the conductor that I wish to depart and continue on my busy day! What a thrill! Can you feel the sarcasm just dripping from my pen?

Octavia

April 6, 2012
2nd Bus Ride – 3:30 pm
Southeast corner of N. 43rd Ave and W. Northern Ave

Oh dear. It seems that I am growing tremendously weary of this new lifestyle, father. And it’s only the second day of riding. I suppose it is because this has been a terribly busy week for your daughter. I am constantly on the road now since I’ve gone carless. If I’m not running my hooves over my cello or confiding my secrets to the doctor, then I’m sitting at a bus stop or riding the bus. I cannot imagine what it’s like to have to do this every day of your life. I’ve noticed many regulars who board the bus and from the looks of them it seems to be very taxing. They cannot drive for one reason or another and are forced to place their transportation needs in a time based system. I imagine that their days start early, even before the sun rises. What would happen if a pony woke up late? Perhaps they had a terrible confrontation at work the previous night that required more time with their head on a pillow. Such transportation would not wait for anypony regardless of the excuse. They simply show up and go. I’m sure it is common for passengers to be breathless as they charge as fast as their tired legs can towards the trailing bus, only to have their desperate clops on the side of the frame fall on deaf ears. A silence that isn’t silent.

Well, it seems the rustic pony has appeared once again, this time to grace route 81 with her animal. Lucky for me, she has elected to stand with her back to the stop while her pet roams around the radius her harness allows, at a safe distance. This is a very different pony accompanying me than the one who rode the bus earlier. She isn’t smiling this time. She isn’t even looking up. Her straw hat covers all except her muzzle which droops like a flower in need of water. Her hooves are crossed, and my guess is that her attitude is the same. Just looking at those toned back legs is sending warnings to not interfere with this hard working mare. Perhaps it would be best to not touch the subject. I don’t want her to find me writing all of these observations, right?

My word, she found out.

Do not fret, father. All is at ease. This mare, though rash in appearance, is a very levelheaded pony. When I noticed she had caught me looking her way, she saw the pen in my hoof and connected the dots. She began to walk my way. To say that my heart was thumping would be a gross understatement. It was thrashing and banging the insides of my ribs like a door that wouldn’t let it escape. The moment she stopped right in front of me the pen in my trembling hoof slipped and dropped to the ground. I didn’t dare bend down to pick it up and near my delicate face to those pair of legs, strong as pillars. Looking up at her, I noticed that her gaze was fierce and narrow like the path of an arrow. But she wasn’t looking at me. Instead, her eyes were fixed on my bow tie. Before I could mutter a single sound, the small creature hopped its front legs onto my lap, surprising me with its smiling eyes. Carrying my pen in its mouth, the dog offered that I take it back on terms of friendship. I looked back up at the rustic pony. Her eyes were still fixed on my bow tie. When she finally noticed her pet’s friendly gesture, she couldn’t help but relax into a chuckle and say with a heavy accent that it was safe to remove the pen from her mouth. It would not bite.

She introduced herself as Applejack, and her dog was named Winona. She lives and works at Sweet Apple Acres, a large apple farm just outside of the Everfree Forest. Memory served me at that moment to remind me that the forest lied next to the town of Ponyville. I asked her if she knew Twilight Sparkle out of curiosity. Come to find that she does, in fact, know and is very good friends with the magical librarian. In fact, she formed part of the extravagant team of the mighty Elements of Harmony that defeated the likes of Nightmare Moon. I asked her which of the elements she represented, which she responded with her head held high: Honesty. I have no trouble believing that to be true. Something about the way Applejack carried herself speaks volumes in the tones of honesty. Her grin was proud, but not arrogant. Her eyes were sharp, but fair. And the way she talked was strong but friendly. She seemed like an honest pony that made an honest living. I’m kind of glad we got along well so fast.

The next question, as with Twilight Sparkle, was why she was taking the bus in Canterlot. It’s funny how I’ve run into two ponies from Ponyville who are taking public transportation in a faraway city. To this question the farm pony lowered her hat and returned to her former somber state. I regretted asking that question. After a brief pause, Applejack finally spoke in a whisper, barely audible among the noisy street life of bustling cars and talkative pedestrians. She was visiting somepony who lied ill in the hospital with a terrible sickness. I almost couldn’t believe it. My prediction was right. I wondered then if she went to see Lyra. She didn’t actually. She was visiting one of her own kin. Her smallest sibling. Her sister, Apple Bloom.

It all began about a month ago. Applejack and her sister were busy in the kitchen washing plates and spoons and the sort. They had had a delicious meal of baked apple fritters, filled to the fullest with fresh apples and crisped to perfection. As she placed the last clean plate onto the drying rack, she heard a crash. Fury shot through her veins like an electric shock. If the little filly wasn’t arriving home at late hours covered in tree sap, she was breaking something in foolish disobedience. She quickly turned on a hoof to address the young Apple Bloom. The yelling stopped as soon as it started as Applejack witnessed a most horrendous sight. Apple Bloom lied on her side, kicking her stomach with her little legs. She would not stop kicking and she would not stop crying.

Immediately another crash rang throughout the farm. It was the sound of the front door and the relatives of sweet dear Apple Bloom bursting through it. The three of them, Applejack, Big Macintosh her elder brother, and even Granny Smith, the hobbling old timer, hurried along the fertile soil in the middle of the night to get their precious little family member to a doctor. They placed Apple Bloom in a large wagon and carried her off in the direction of the nearest emergency center. Applejack and Granny Smith stayed next to the suffering filly, while Big Macintosh pulled and pulled with all his might.

The mares in the back had a difficult time trying to contain the little filly. She tried desperately to roll around and continued to kick her aching stomach. Applejack remembered how she tried to pin her little sister’s legs to the floor, but all that served was for her own stomach to receive a barrage of furious kicks. Little shrieks of pain and frustration echoed out into the night. It was a little embarrassing for Applejack to ride that way into Ponyville. But alas, they made it to the emergency center.

Before I could ask what the diagnosis was, the bus arrived. How anticlimactic. We boarded the bus and to my surprise there were very few passengers. Was today mix up day? Anyway, we took our seats near the front and the bus roared away down the busy intersection. I asked Applejack if she was accustomed to riding the bus. She replied that this would mark her second trip in her whole life, the first being the morning route we took together. I had to know how she was able to navigate the systems without some sort of guide. She simply stepped outside and determined which routes to take by studying the placements of the stops and the directions of the routes. Amazing. Not only is Applejack sensible, but astute. Ready for whatever challenge the day brings. I feel some sort of remorse for my comments of her earlier. It is evident she is like very few ponies I know. Not only would I not mind riding next to her. I would feel safe lost in the depths of the cold, blistery tundra as long as she was on my side.

She continued her tale of the eventful night. Apparently, the doctors sent the Apple family home with a diagnosis of colic and a bottle of antibiotics. The treatment was to last ten days with a dosage given after breakfast and another before settling into bed. Because the patient was a grade-schooler, they decided to give her the liquid form of the medication. However, as Applejack recounts in a rather annoyed tone, this did not make the administration of said prescription any easier. The family tried everything to coax the little filly into taking her medicine. They bargained with her. They begged her. They promised her a new ribbon. They made Big Mac promise he would wear a ribbon throughout the day. They mixed it into her favorite breakfast: oatmeal with apple slices. Unfortunately, this did not sweeten the bitterness of the prescription, but embittered the sweetness of the breakfast instead. The only method that consistently worked was for the elder brother to hold the squirming filly in his strong legs while the elder sister navigated the spoon cautiously through the air until it landed safely inside its destination. Needless to say it was ten days of some of the worst mornings and evenings the family went through in a while. For Apple Bloom, it was the medicine. For Applejack, the administration. For Granny Smith, a lack of sleep. And for Big Mac, mocking catcalls and whistles from the colts in town.

I tried so hard to conceal a grin, but it proved fruitless. I quickly apologized to Applejack for my lack of decency. She smiled and said it was alright, that it was good to laugh at somber things to relieve the stress. If she could only do the same, but it was difficult when your sister was in the hospital. That comment framed my next question. Applejack sighed and began by saying that the medication was not bringing any good results. Apple Bloom was far from better and it seemed she was becoming more restless every day. There was that annoying habit of hers to continually kick at her stomach to somehow ease the discomfort that no matter how many times it was explained to her that it would only make matters worse, she ignored the sage advice and continued. During this whole time she was confined to her bed, only allowed to get up to use the restroom and to walk around the property for some exercise. Also during this time, the school teacher, Cheerilee, would bring Apple Bloom her assignments and readings for the day. On the tenth day, the caring school master became concerned about her star student, and asked Applejack about her progress. After hearing the bad news, she recommended that Apple Bloom be taken to the leading Canterlot Medical Center, where a friend of hers worked. He was a specialist in digestive problems and offered to give him a call to see if he could make an exception in his schedule. Applejack thankfully agreed with the proposition and by early next morning, Applejack and Apple Bloom were on the train en route to Canterlot. Her brother and grandmother stayed behind to look after the farm.

They arrived at the medical center last night, and Apple Bloom was admitted immediately. The doctor was a kind stallion that spoke in a way that informed Applejack and soothed Apple Bloom. Because of the sensitivity of the preliminary testing, Applejack was asked to expect results in the waiting room. It was there where a phone call from the front desk interrupted her nervous pace. It was her brother. Apparently, the family dog had gone missing the minute the two left for Canterlot, and it was his guess that it followed the two ponies’ scent all the way there. In light of the fact the tests would take hours, she decided to go out and look for the devoted family pet. And that is how she ended up near my side of town, for it was around the complex where she found Winona sniffing the ground at seven thirty in the morning.

If my calculations are correct, that would’ve meant Applejack has been not just awake, but active for a whole day and a half. This mare must be absolutely exhausted!

I asked her if she got any rest at all when she returned to the hospital earlier this morning. Another question I wish I could take back. Her face fell once again, this time accompanied by a single tear. I was afraid of what was coming next. I almost wanted to tell her she didn’t have to say a word if it would hurt that much. She spoke anyway, against the tension that hung densely between us.

Pelvic flexure impaction.

A large mass of undigested food was found blocking Apple Bloom’s small intestine, causing it to narrow. It had grown so large that it interfered with normal digestion. The doctor was so glad Applejack brought her in when she did, for the severity of this case required major surgery to remove the obstruction.

The problem? It’s an expensive surgery. One that would not only put the Apple family in debt, but possibly cause them to lose some of their hard worked land in order to fund the operation. I was inclined to ask her why she couldn’t try to raise money in other ways, such as a fund raiser or a donation pool. Another tear trickled down her rugged cheek as she answered the unasked. Apple Bloom only had three days and hospitals are notorious for expecting same day payment. A choice had to be made now.

Applejack looked up and pulled the cord. She was getting off at the same stop as Twilight Sparkle did two days ago. I asked her where she was going. She requested to speak to the Princess herself to see if there was any way she could help her dying sister. She stood up and walked to the back door. An idea came into my mind.

Before she got off, I offered Applejack to room with me if she so chose. I found it a little odd offering this, but this was a moment where my aching heart overruled my protective mind. She smiled and thanked me for the offer, but declined it in favor of being near her sister. We bid each other farewell and she and Winona hopped off the bus to seek the Princess’s help.

It is my sincere hope the Princess will aid the Element of Honesty, and perhaps for this one time, for this one precious filly, she could break code and mend hearts.

Octavia

Saturday practice, Sunday rest

Saturdays were always the same for Octavia. They never changed.

She sat on her couch, bow in hoof, mane unkempt, and cello against her knees. Practice notes filled the air and only stopped when the strings needed adjusting. The door was firmly locked and every window was shut so the cellist could concentrate exclusively on her playing. It was not uncommon for her to skip meals until the late, black hours of the night and then binge on whatever was left of the week’s provisions inside her bachelorette refrigerator before bed.

Playing at the concert was now the rule, even after the earth-shattering news of her former group’s betrayal. Nopony would convince her she couldn’t. She worked too hard on her song to let it drift from the charcoal smudged pages into the air of forgotten memory. Besides, who would show up to see a quartet of three ponies? There was no excuse in the world not to present her creation in front of an audience hungry for genius, thirsting for brilliance, and desperate for direction.

She would feed. She would quench. She would play. But now, she needed to practice.

Just as Octavia was about to hit the first note for the thousandth time that day, she heard a knock coming from the front door. That’s odd. I don’t remember inviting anypony to my apartment on a Saturday.

She opened the door. It was Susie Tuba.

“Susie? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’m sorry for interrupting you, Octavia,” she replied, looking rather ashamed. “I-I was just wondering if maybe we could talk for little bit. I mean, if that’s okay with you.”

“Um, sure. Come inside.”

Octavia led her nervous guest to the couch where she took her seat right next to the cello. She stared at it, mesmerized at the crafted beauty of wood and string. She wouldn’t take her eyes off of it, which Octavia found to be a tad disconcerting. In fact, this whole scene she found to be a bit odd. Even so, she never forgot her manners or common hospitality.

“Would you like something to drink, Susie?”

“Oh, no thank you, I’m fine. I just wanted to ask you, I mean, talk to you about s-something.”

Octavia nodded. She took her cello and placed it against the wall, noticing Susie following it with her eyes. She took a seat on the couch, awaiting Susie’s words with clasped hooves.

“Octavia, I just wanted to know if you would ever reconsider coming back to the Sunshi- I mean, the quartet again.”

“Susie…”

“I mean, I know you left us and everything, but if you ever decided you want to come back. You know we would accept you back with open hooves, right?”

Octavia rolled her eyes. “You’re not serious are you?”

Susie just sighed, defeated.

“Look Susie, if Frederic sent you here to try to convince me with your pleading eyes to rejoin the ‘Sunshine Quartet’, well, you can tell him that he failed miserably.”

The cellist got up from the couch and made her way to the door with intentions of escorting her guest out. How dare that bastard Frederic send poor Susie Tuba undercover to do his evil bidding? Her she was shaking like an autumn leaf, and he most likely sat somewhere with his hooves up to his eyes, grinning as his imagination carried out the discourse for him.

Octavia was just about to open the door to her apartment when she felt Susie’s hoof cover her own.

“No, please Octavia. I came on my own, not because of Frederic. And believe me when I tell you that I find him just as stupid as you do.”

Octavia turned. “Really,” she responded, shocked.

Susie took her hoof off the knob, cowering. “Well, yes. I mean, I don’t hate him, but I think he can be a jerk sometimes.”

“I do hate him,” Octavia replied. Looking back at Susie, the cellist’s expression softened. Susie was a very meek soul, akin to a doormat where everypony brushed their dirt and filth and left her to crust. Frederic was particularly the one who took advantage of her the most, evidenced by the self-righteous complaints of the sousaphone player’s performance he would carelessly toss in the air.

The horn is coming in too strong, it rattles my ear drums.

If I were a blind pony, I’d say we invited a wee little mouse to play Susie’s part.

I feel personally that the horn shouldn’t come in at this part, or in any part for that matter. It’s simply too peculiar a sound to accompany the strings and piano. Perhaps we should exclude it altogether.

Octavia felt a rush of relief relax her tense muscles after that comment.

“Let’s sit back on the couch and talk some more, shall we?” Octavia offered.

It began to drizzle outside, but the mares sat comfortably on the couch, each holding a mug of hot tea. This was the first time Octavia had any guests over at her apartment, but she enjoyed it.

Perhaps this is more of what I need. Socializing. That’s what it’s called, no?

“I hope the tea is to your liking, Susie.”

“Oh, it’s delicious. Thanks.”

Susie put her drink down on the table and held her chest tightly, diverting her eyes away from her hostess. She took a deep sigh and looked up into the cellist’s eyes.

“Octavia, I know you want to have your own career and stuff. And that’s great, I’m very happy for you. You can make whatever decision you want. But, I think that if you leave, things just won’t be the same. In fact, they might get worse. I can’t stand to see you go like that. It hurt so much to just see you walk out the door like it was nothing. I felt like my heart broke or something. I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay. You’re the reason I’ve improved so much.”

“I would hardly think I bear all the credit for you improvements, Susie,” said Octavia. “You’ve practiced about as hard as anyone else in the group, and betterment is the natural result.”

“No, you don’t understand, Octavia.”

Octavia didn’t understand. She didn’t understand why Susie attributed all her success as a competent sousaphone player in one pony. She didn’t understand why she appeared so needy of her being there at the practice sessions. She didn’t understand why Susie begged her so much.

“Please, enlighten me.”

Susie took a deep breath. “I love you, Octavia.”

“What?”

“I mean, I love what you do, Octavia. The way you play and the way you carry yourself with everypony. You’re so full of grace and beauty, I c-can’t stand it. I don’t know anypony quite like you. You’re so special, and I’m not.”

She couldn’t mean that. Could she? Does she really love me? This is all so bizarre.

“I’m so sorry. Everything came out so wrong. I’m sorry…”

“Susie…”

“You know what? I’m sorry I wasted your time. I am so mixed up right now and I think I should just go.”

Susie stood up to leave, but not before Octavia stood in her way.

“Susie, wait.”

Susie just stood there. Mouth closed, eyes open.

“Look, Susie, I don’t love you.”

Susie bowed her head. Mouth open, eyes closed.

“I mean. It’s not that I hate you or find you despising.”

“Then what?” Susie asked.

“I’m not in any position to be looking for that sort of relationship right now, and I don’t see myself having one anytime soon.”

“What makes you think I wanted one?” asked Susie, raising her voice a little.

“Susie…”

Susie turned her head away. The tension was too much.

“I’m sorry if I took your comments out of context. It was an honest mistake. But please understand that I am finding all of this a little confusing at the moment. My mind hasn’t processed everything yet.”

“Is that all you do, Octavia,” said Susie. “Process things with your mind?”

“What are you implying?”

“I mean, do you ever stop to feel for once? Do you listen to your gut feeling or follow your heart at all? Or are you like some kind of heartless robot who plays cello all day?”

“I’d like to think that I convey a lot of heart when I perform on my cello. So no, I do not think I should be likened to a heartless robot.”

Heartless robot? Hard working, yes, without a doubt. But heartless?

Susie didn’t respond.

“Susie, don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic about all this?”

Susie scoffed. “Dramatic? Since when does somepony sharing her true feelings mean dramatic?”

“Well, I mean…wait, you weren’t lying?”

“Now I’m a liar!”

“Didn’t you just say before that you didn’t mean it when you said you loved me? Now you’re going back on your word? I am so lost right now, it’s quite ridiculous!”

Susie pushed Octavia away and shot her a disgusted look. “What do you mean ridiculous? Are you saying I’m ridiculous? I was talking about me calling you a robot! But now I see that maybe you are one since you don’t even know how to carry a normal conversation.”

Susie brushed past Octavia and headed for the door, but not before Octavia slid her hoof over the knob.

“Wait.”

“Just let me go. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on here.”

“There’s nothing left to say,” Susie stated.

“Of course there is! There’s a lot left to say!”

“Well, I don’t feel like saying it okay? Just let me go.”

Susie tried to move Octavia’s hoof off of the door knob, but the grip was too strong for the feeble sousaphone player.

“Are you going to let me go or what?”

“Not until you explain to me what is really going on with you.”

“Dear Celestia, you’re starting to get really annoying!” Susie huffed. “Do you want me to scream for help or something?”

“To your heart’s desire, if you want. But I will not let you go until we get this matter settled,” Octavia replied, in a sort of schoolteacher manner.

“There is no matter to settle! You already said what you wanted to say, so now let me go home.”

“What did I say?”

“Stop it!”

Susie grabbed the knob with both hooves this time, successfully removing Octavia’s firm grip. As soon as she stepped out of the apartment, Octavia wrapped her hooves around Susie’s petite body.

“Susie please, you’ve got to understand!”

“Are you mad? Let me go!”

“Not until you tell me how you really feel!”

“I hate you!”

“That’s a lie! Now tell me the truth. The honest truth!”

“I want to go home!” Susie started to cry.

“Do you love me or not?”

“Leave me alone!”

“Tell me. Tell me right now, dammit! I want the truth, I need the truth! Do you love me, yes or no?”

“Yes!”

Octavia’s embrace began to loosen at the sound of that word. Susie managed to break free from her brief imprisonment, and then met her captor with a firm hoof to the face, the sound as rock meeting cold floor.

“I hope you rot in hell, Octavia! I never want to see you again.”

Susie turned and started down the flight of stairs. Octavia pursued the quartet member as a small colt chases a paper boat down a rushing rapid.

“Stop,” Susie screamed.

Octavia obeyed as she saw Susie’s hoof suspended in the pouring rain. “Susie…”

“Go back inside, Octavia,” she said without turning. “You might rust.”

Susie left, disappearing into the hazy rain. Octavia, with her mane matted and messy, tried to find words to repair what had been severed but she couldn’t. Her mind was failing her at a moment when she needed it most. She had nothing.

Octavia closed the door to her apartment behind her, resting her back on its cold face. She stood there for several minutes in complete silence. Hey eyes didn’t move. Her lips didn’t quiver. Her ears picked up no sound. She looked over at her cello, but any desire she had before was beaten out of her like sand out of a punching bag. She looked at the two mugs of hot tea that sat on the table. One was empty, the other barely touched.

“She did say she wasn’t thirsty,” Octavia said breaking the silence. She grabbed the two mugs and carried them over to the kitchen sink. She tried squeezing out a little soap onto her sponge from an empty bottle which proved to be useless. She threw the bottle across the kitchen into the living room, where it collided with her cello, creating a jumbled sound.

Her face crumpled into a scowl as she let out a scream.

It’s such a strange feeling when all your life you’ve always had something to do for every minute of it, only to find yourself with nothing important to focus on.

Sundays were always the same for Octavia. They never changed. Until today.

The restless cellist lied on her stomach, eyeing the digital alarm clock that sat on her dresser. Five thirty. The blue of the dawn seeped into the room and sprawled all over the floor, reflecting off of a mug lying on its side where Octavia’s hoof dangled from the bed, empty. She got up from the bed and walked into the restroom and stared into the mirror.

Suddenly, the phone rang. She peeked at the caller ID.

Restricted.

Octavia picked up the receiver and slowly held it up to her face.

“Hello?”

“Octavia. This is your mother. I need to talk to you about an important matter.”

“Um, okay. Isn’t this a little early though?”

“I am inviting you to have brunch with me at the house no later than eleven thirty. I have arranged for Bailey to pick you up promptly at eleven. Please be ready by then.”

“Mother…”

Octavia’s mother hung up the phone. The tired cellist put the phone back into the dock and let herself fall on the couch, running her hooves over her eyes, the memories of last night still fresh in her mind.

Eleven thirty.

“Good morning, Miss Octavia. It is a delight to see you again.”

Octavia smiled at the sound of the cheeriness of the chauffeur’s greeting. She sat in the seat of the luxurious limo and buckled her seat belt. With a smile and a wink, Bailey shut the door and scurried his way around the limo to the driver’s seat. As he started up the machine, Octavia rolled her window down and placed a leg out of it.

“Oh, I would suggest you keep the window shut, Miss Octavia. The forecast calls for another heavy downpour this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Bailey,” Octavia replied, rolling her window back up.

The seasoned driver pulled the limo out of the parking lot and into the cloudy streets of Canterlot, eyeing all the mirrors at timed intervals. Octavia never forgot how he ensured the little filly was buckled nice and tight after every practice. He had a gentle voice that rasped at the end of every sentence, and a wrinkly smile that never faded. But what pleased her most about her faithful driver was his right ear. It always bent down at the middle so that it resembled a withering plant. He would always remind his tiny observant passenger that it was so that he could listen to every word she had to share. And that was true. He was a fantastic listener.

“I take it that your mother has something important to tell you, Miss Octavia?”

Octavia jerked her head. “I’m sorry?”

“I said it seems that your mother has something important she wants to talk to you about, am I right?”

“I suppose. She called me very early this morning, seemingly out of the blue.”

“Well,” said Bailey in a loud whisper. “If you want to know the truth, your mother has been up all night. She hadn’t slept for a minute, I don’t think! I presume whatever it was that gave her the jumps last night might have something to do with you.”

“Perhaps,” Octavia replied. She looked at herself in the chauffeur’s rear view mirror. She looked so small.

“I would also imagine,” Bailey continued. “That she has something to share with you about your father.”

Octavia jerked once again. “My father? Has something happened to him? Please, Bailey. Do you know anything about him?”

“You’ll have to forgive me, Miss Octavia. But I was strictly informed upon possible termination that I not share any details with you before you spoke with your mother.”

Octavia took a deep breath, tapping her hoof on the part of the car where the window rolled in. She twitched at the thought about what the old driver had heard, or possibly seen, but then relaxed in the honesty of one of the few ponies she admired. How long had he been the family driver?

“I hope you understand, Miss Octavia,” Bailey said, looking at her through his rear view.

She nodded. She looked out the window and noticed that they had arrived. Octavia could feel her heart sink deep inside her chest as the golden gates opened wide for the limo to stroll through.

Bailey dutifully hopped out of the car and made his way to where Octavia sat. As he reached for the door handle to let his passenger out, the door opened on its own taking him slightly aback. As she stepped out and closed the door behind her, she was met with a raised brow and that signature smile.

“You’ve grown up quite a lot since I last saw you,” he said.

The old chauffeur got back into the limo and pulled out of the driveway, probably to run one of the many errands Octavia’s mother often sent him on. When she was sure he had disappeared for the day she turned around and faced her former home. The large statues of griffons that frightened the filly long ago looked as menacing as when they went as high as the heavens they descended from. Their weathered teeth and crackling skin sent chills down her spine. Walking past them felt like an inventory was being taken, far past due.

“Oh, Mademoiselle Octavia! It is such a joy to see you again,” cried the head chef, Crepes.

“Thank you. It is good to see you too,” she grinned.

“Why, I remember when you were just a petite girl. Oh, you were so cute! And very polite.”

Octavia blushed at the passionate chef’s compliments. What a reversal of roles!

“Well, let’s not keep your mother waiting, right? Please follow moi!”

Octavia followed the bouncing, bubbly chef closely down the long hall. As they got closer to the dining room, the cellist looked up at the walls of the elaborate mansion. Paintings of country sides, busy cityscapes, and autumn seasons still peered down at whoever walked down the halls. Paintings that decorated much of her childhood with pleasant memories of trips to the art museum with her father, and hanging them on the walls when a mutual favorite was discovered. Her favorite? A seagull soaring through a marine sunset, it’s body blackened by the sun.

“So, where is Crumpet?” asked Octavia.

The cheery chef scratched his head. “Well, it appears he has been sent by the Madame to perform some duties. That is why I came to get you at the door and bring you to the table.”

“Oh, well, where was he sent?”

“I wish I knew, Mademoiselle Octavia, but you must forgive me,” he said, twirling his hooves in the air as if freshly pounded dough were being crafted into another masterpiece. “I have the canelé and the croissant cavorting in le cerveau. I do not know very much things.”

Octavia stifled a playful giggle. He hasn’t changed at all. Just like a lot of things around here.

When they reached the dining room, Crepes putted to one side of the long table to pull out a seat for Octavia. Much to his shock, she had already found a seat for herself, which was pulled out and rested, all on her own. As if splashed with a pot of boiling water, the chef shook his head and shuffled quickly to the side of his young guest.

“Mademoiselle Octavia, I think it would be best for you to sit over there,” he said, pointing across the table.

“Oh, don’t worry about being formal with me,” she replied. “I’m perfectly fine where I am.”

“No, you don’t understand, you need to sit on the other chair. The one I pulled out for moi petite belle.”

“You’re such a flatterer, Crepes!” Octavia stood to her hooves. “Well, if it makes you feel better, then I will change my seat and let you pull it out for me. Sound good?”

“I believe that is a wise choice,” said a deep voice from behind.

Both Octavia and Crepes turned.

“Mother!” Octavia gasped.

“Crepes, get our brunch immediately,” she said flatly.

“Oui, Madame,” he said, skittering away to the kitchen.

“Take your seat, Octavia. We have much to discuss.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, setting her rump on the chair slowly.

The tall, dark mare took her seat and sat straight as a flag pole. Octavia sat slouching forward, hooves brought up to her face as if she were praying.

“Sit straight, Octavia. And put your hooves on your lap and off the table.”

Octavia obeyed, eyeing her mother with every movement.

“Now then, on to the topic at hoof. Your standing with the quartet.”

How does she know about that?

“You will honor your commitments and rejoin the Sunshine Quartet effective tomorrow.”

“But, I…”

Crepes waddled into the dining room and set a silver tray in the middle of the table.

“Here they are, Madame and Mademoiselle Octavia,” he said, lifting the cover off the tray and placing a plate of salad and a cup of iced tea for each mare. “Bon appetite.”

“You may retire now, Crepes. We do not require of your services at the moment.”

“Oui, Madame,” he replied, sputtering out of the dining room.

“Thank you, Crepes,” Octavia yelled before picking up her fork to pick at her salad.

“Now then,” said Octavia’s mother, ignoring her daughter’s grateful comment. “About you returning to the quartet. I will not have a quitter as a daughter. You know better than that and I expect you to treat your compatriots as professionals demanding respect from you.”

Octavia chewed slowly, methodically. Wish I could demand the same thing.

“You are a cellist after all, not some wayward disc jockey that changes music like they change mane styles.”

“You’ve never met Vinyl yet,” she mumbled again, stabbing the lettuce.

“I expect to hear back with a report of your attendance at the music studio, is that clear?”

Octavia slammed her fork on her plate, and for the first time, her mother displayed a face other than bothered disinterest, but to say she was shocked was too dramatic to describe it.

“What on earth was that, Octavia?” she asked softly.

Octavia continued to stare at her salad, her breathing rising and falling like a caged animal set to attack. The sight of the dark mare, eyes small and squinted, mane wrapped in a perfect bun, knees off the table, posture straight, dress pressed and clean, teeth whiter than snow, spectacles brassier than a trombone, it made her want to duck her head behind the table. The mare from across the table knew so little, and yet, she wielded an invisible power over Octavia that came from years of imposed wisdom.

“Forgive me, mother,” she whispered.

“Very well,” she said, picking up a piece of lettuce and bringing it to her mouth like a ring bearer presents the prized jewelry to the delighted groom.

The two mares finished the rest of their meal in complete silence. Octavia’s mother rose to her hooves and turned to leave the dining room. “I expect to hear a report from you tomorrow after practice no later than my bed time. It has not changed you know.”

As she began to leave, Octavia scoot her chair back and stood. “Wait.”

Octavia’s mother froze.

“How did you know rehearsals were moved to a music studio?”

She didn’t move. “What?”

“You heard me. How did you know?”

Octavia’s mother turned, grinning. “Don’t you know, Octavia? Mothers know all things.”

“Who told you?” Octavia repeated, feeling a little strength coming on.

“Why, your little friend Frederic of course. I know how much you like him,” she replied, tauntingly.

“That disgusting rot pile? What makes you say that?”

“Oh I know all about your little encounter last night with your special visitor,” she said, walking closer to Octavia. “He told me all about it.”

“What in the world are you talking about, mother? That wasn’t Frederic. That was…”

Octavia held her breath. She couldn’t reveal who it was that showed up at her apartment last night. She wouldn’t dare test the waters of her mother’s reactions.

“Who, Octavia?” she asked, walking closer still to Octavia’s trembling frame. “Who paid you a delightful little visit to you apartment last night? A lover? A pleasure?”

She ducked her head and whispered in Octavia’s ear. “A mare?”

She knew.

Octavia’s mother pulled back and stared coldly at her daughter. “Don’t think for a second I don’t know what’s going on. If you think just because you are out of this house you can frolic with anypony that waltzes into your heart, think again. I will always have my eye on you.”

She couldn’t move. Fear and anger paralyzed her efforts as she couldn’t help but feel she were being treated like a disobedient filly that needed a scolding. She could feel every ounce of strength deplete from her body like mist on a hot day.

At that moment, Crumpet entered the kitchen. He was startled by Octavia’s presence and she by his. Octavia’s mother broke the silence, “What have you found out, Crumpet?”

“Oh,” he finally said. “Well, things aren’t looking very good for the Master. It seems that he may be on his last legs. Possibly his last week.”

Octavia gasped.

“Very well,” she replied, nonchalantly. “You may retire to your other duties.”

“If it pleases you ma’am I would like to speak with the lady for a…”

“I will not allow this insolence to reign over this house,” she said, raising her voice for the first time. Even the thunder that boomed outside paled with insignificance to her bellowing voice, throwing both the butler and the musician off guard. “Go and do as you are told!”

“Y-yes, ma’am. Excuse me.” Crumpet shot Octavia an apologetic frown and hurried down the hall.

Octavia’s mother turned to her daughter. “See what you have brought upon us?”

“What happened to Father?” Octavia asked, regaining strength.

“You are in no position to ask me in such a manner.”

“He is my Father, and I want to know what is wrong with him.”

“Your Father is fine, now go and ready yourself for tomorrow. I am weary and need my time alone.”

“Not until you tell me what’s happened to him,” Octavia replied, gritting her teeth.

“You heard the old bloke,” she replied. “He’s enduring his last moments. That is all you need to know.”

The grieved daughter remained still as her mother glided across the dining hall towards the door, flicking her hoof before landing it on the brass knob.

“Why do you hate him so much?” the mourning cellist screamed.

The tall, dark mare turned once more.

“Why do you hate me so much?” she asked, softer, shaking, tears.

A grin spread over the wrinkled face wider than any Octavia could remember. “We are all just products of our experiences. We cannot change who we are, only our decisions. Wouldn’t you agree, you heartless robot?”

And with that, the indifferent mare shut the door, leaving her daughter standing, hurting in the dining room.

Crying.

Alone.

Octavia allowed Bailey to open the limo door for her. The rain was more than willing to pummel her head with a most rude welcome, but it didn’t matter to her.

“Please, take my umbrella. I wouldn’t want you to get home soaking wet.”

Bailey stuck out his umbrella to her, but she just remained still.

“Octavia, darling. I am so sorry about your father. Please accept my sincere sorrows.”

Bailey placed a hoof on Octavia, which brought her out of her funk and looking up into his old face. The raindrops that pattered all over her grew deathly cold, and she couldn’t help but shiver slightly. She nodded to Bailey then started the trip up the stairs to her apartment. As soon as she heard the limo pull out of the parking lot, she looked back. For the first time in her whole life, she saw her chauffeur frown.

Hers.

Octavia stared at her door from the inside of her apartment. She turned around and scanned every square inch. It brought her anger.

This whole apartment is hers.

She froze for a minute, replaying the events of the day in her mind. Suddenly, Octavia bucked a dent into her door.

“Hers!”

She marched into her kitchen like a wildfire and opened every one of her cabinets.

“These plates. Hers!”

Plates, glasses, mugs, and vases crashed into tiny crystalline pieces all over the kitchen floor.

She stepped into her wardrobe and pulled out all of her sweaters, suits, bow ties, and anything else she could find. She stepped into the kitchen, lit a match, and set the fireplace ablaze.

“Hers!”

She grabbed every article of clothing and threw them into the fire, one by one, watching as the flames devoured everything with delight.

She didn’t stop there.

Jewelry.

Picture frames.

Bed sheets.

Lamps.

Dolls.

Anything.

“Hers! Every damn thing is hers! I don’t want it! I don’t want it!”

In a matter of minutes, the once calm and organized single bedroom apartment became a war zone of broken pieces and lost memories. In the middle of the floor, Octavia sat over a pile of classical music CD’s, mint condition and signed by various musicians. She raised a hoof in the air, which happened to grip tightly onto a hammer, and she brought it down with fierce retaliation. Her wrath spread over to pieces deemed too big to survive on her emblazoned and fractured mind, and more casualties were added to the piles. A survey around the room revealed a complete victory of the emptiest kind, that which brought tears of sorrow as opposed to the kind that accompanied joy in winning, which was until she spotted the only object that sat untouched and unharmed, unproven and unchanged.

She crept closely to her instrument, careful not to slice her knees on the shards of glass. Sweat trickled down her face, stinging her eyes and wetting her lips, giving her the salty taste of her own unbridled rage. She brought the hammer over her head, aimed directly above the neck of her cello.

She hesitated.

She sobbed.

His.

She brought her hoof down slowly and the hammer slipped from her hooves. She let herself fall to the ground, her tears joining the fray. The fire finally rested after gorging on the spoils of her battle, the light of the flames danced in her eyes, burning her tears deep as a reminder of her foolish quest for vengeance.

The phone rang. She picked it up and brought it down to her face.

“Well, howdy Octavia! How’s my favorite patient doin’ tonight?”

She hung up. She continued to cry.

What am I going to do?

Where am I going to?

Why am I going?

Who am I?

April 11

April 11, 2012
8:00 am
Southwest corner of N. 43rd Ave and W. Bell Rd

Another day. I have my cello in hoof, bow tie strapped onto my neck. My compatriots await me. Let’s go.

It’s hot today. The sun is crushing my face into an arid flat land like the street top. I can feel the sweat trickle down my back, kissing the end of my tail. I don’t remember reading in last night’s forecast that the Princess would be in a bad mood this day.

There’s a couple sitting behind the bus stop, shading their scrawny bodies from the scorching light. Smart. It looks as if they hadn’t eaten anything filling in weeks. Their hooves are clutched together as if they have uncovered the last crumb of nourishment in the entire world and they do not mean to share with anypony. Their eyes are squinted hard, menacing. It could be due to the sun that filters through the holes of the bus stop, but I think not. They look mad. Maybe they are mad. Furious even. Perhaps fate has given them the bad end of the stick. A stick outweighed on the opposite side with all the answers to their problems while they desperately reach for the exalted edge of nothingness, promised to them by everypony. Yes, they are mad. And I would not blame their sentiments.

I look down at my hooves and I realize they are mere centimeters from touching dirt, riddled with animal droppings and cigarette buds. Is this what I have to look forward to every morning? Coming within a soft step to touching the lips of somepony with a pair of black lungs? And this concrete block I rest my rump on. I feel like a toddler balancing on a teeter totter that sways from side to side. It’s aggravating my neck pain for some reason. I need to get up from here.

I am now standing in front of the bus stop, and still the sun blinds my pores with streams of perspiration. I can see the steam that arises from the remains of what used to be a product of my own body’s attempts to cool down, hitting the scalding slab below. Another shot of pain down my shoulder. I craned my neck backwards. Mistake. I need to invest in a pair of sunglasses.

The bus is here. About bucking time.

We didn’t even go half a mile and the bus has overheated. The conductor (a new one) has no radiator fluid. We are forced to leave and wait for the next route. Well for Celestia’s sake, I think I’d rather make the trek of five miles to the music studio on hoof than to wait for another stupid bus, just to end up stuck in the middle of the bucking way with my shitty neck cramping up from siting in those damn awful seats for another hour!

I need to calm down. I need to think.

I need to move.

Well, every long journey begins with a step.

Why am I so hesitant?

What waits for me beyond? Will something happen?

They’re just streets, Octavia. Why the hell are you so nervous for?

Ten percent.

Just walk.

Take a step.

That’s it. Keep walking. Keep taking steps. It’s not hard.

I thought walking in the heat would at least expose me to some self-generated wind that would ease the searing heat at least a little. Instead, what I bear now are not only pools (yes pools) of sweat in the pockets of my eyelids and on my back, but aching and burning hooves that my brain is practically forcing them to move. Now the sun is really being a bitch, or maybe it’s the raiser. And if that wasn’t enough, the cello on my back is imposing a most unnatural curvature on my spine that would make a chiropractor call a doctor. It may seem to be a mystery as to how I could write under so much pressure. Trust me, it isn’t easy. However, I am utilizing a clever device devised by my third grade teacher in which the pad is sustained and positioned perfectly by a necklace-like system that hangs on the neck. I am writing in the way we were all taught as schoolchildren: with a pen in my mouth. I’m a little out of practice, but at least it’s legible. This sure brings back many memories.

One block down, four more to traverse.

Walking on solid ground sure is more taxing than doing so on a treadmill. Even after months of cardiovascular training in the apartment gym, this is becoming quite the chore. I’ve already had to stop twice to rest my hooves. I really should consider investing in a set of harder horseshoes in addition to the sunglasses. Perhaps one of those “rock solid” ones I keep hearing the weight lifting stallions brag about, as they pile on the wheels of metal onto the bench press bar. I can’t imagine how painful it must feel after a harsh workout with so much weight involved. But then, perhaps I would be much more prepared for this unexpected little journey. I have a feeling this will not be the last.

This is a onetime occurrence, Octavia. For the love of Luna, get yourself together.

Just think of something else. Look around you. There must be something of literary value.

You know, it’s a funny thing. I’ve been walking for about half an hour and there is absolutely nopony around. None. It’s like they were all abducted by pony aliens or something. However, I believe I know the clue behind the mystery of the vanishing ponies. I live on the north side of Canterlot, where for the most part law abiding citizens such as me make our homes. It’s usually when somepony passes three or four blocks down 43rd Ave when things start to get peculiar. Graffiti on the walls, broken windows in broken homes, ninety-nine cent stores, and hole in the wall restaurants start to pop up like weeds in the crevice of a sidewalk. It’s like a completely different world. Ponies are much more, how should I put it nicely?

I don’t know.

Three more. Nearly halfway there.

My word, will you look at this apartment complex? My left side can be no more grateful than now that it is not the right side. The trees are brown in a season when they should be green. There is no grass to speak of, and I’m afraid there hasn’t been for eons. The playground looks more like a war zone, metal rusting from nucleic contact amidst the uneven patterns of the sand. A lone plastic shovel sticking upright in the fray speaks of the lone survivor’s feeble search at entertainment. The pool is littered with leaves, cigarette buds, and lifeless insects of all shapes and sizes. Certain trash cans are filled to the brim with slosh while others tumbled on the ground, half excavated. There is a young colt sitting at the bottom of a crumbling flight of stairs holding onto a device. It makes noises and beeps and brings a neutral lip line across his face. A friend, older, has decided to join the fun and he brings an object of his own to share.

That’s not what I think it is. Is it?

It is.

Dear me, what have they taught them?

Ponies pushing shopping carts. It has to be the most hilarious sight all day. Don’t they know those are supposed to be returned after use?

There’s a homeless pony just staring at my neck. Not saying a word, just staring. My word, how eerie. Do I have a wicked spider bite or something? Speaking of my neck, I have to adjust this strap a little.

Where was I? Oh yes, enjoying the sights.

Young mares walking, swishing their hips side to side. Advertisement? They’re stopped by a much older stallion. He’s got a crooked walk himself and unnatural stains mark his entire body. He’s casting an evaluative eye on each of them, eyeing them up and down, scrutinizing what I believe to be their appeal. Recruitment?

Passing them, I noticed the young mares were wearing backpacks. School children?

Truly, what have they done to their children? Is there no value in innocence anymore?

Was that a whistle I heard? In my direction?

I dare not look. Surely it was for somepony else.

There it is again. It’s not directed to me, is it?

Just keep walking, Octavia.

“Hey, baby”?

Oh Celestia, don’t turn. Don’t turn. Whatever you do, don’t turn.

It’s getting louder.

“Where you going, baby?”!

Don’t pay attention. Just ignore it.

“Hey, wait up!”

It’s getting louder.

Go faster. Do it. Just do it!

“Hold up, damn!”

No. Oh no. I can hear him gaining on me. Run Octavia! Run!

Get

Well, that was rather embarrassing. It turns out that the ragged-looking stallion was just trying to return my bow tie. I suppose that while I was adjusting the strap attached to my pad, I absentmindedly dislodged the hooks on my bow tie and it ended up on the ground. One of his “bitches” (he used that term, please note) noticed and told him he should return it.

I flinched. He was kind enough to apologize for scaring me and mentioned rather off hoofedly he thought I looked very pretty. He spoke with such an immodest flair of pride; it both disgusted and entertained me.

I wonder how he spends his time. I wonder where he learned how to be polite. Nevertheless, I thanked him for it and wished him the best in his “endeavors.”

I pricked my neck. Stupid bow tie. Or perhaps I’m the stupid one for trying to put this accessory on whilst walking!

Looking back, he’s returned to his flock of fillies and is leading them with hooves over their necks down the street in the opposite direction. My word, they look more like a flock of geese, their flanks rocking to and fro. Is this some kind of learned response or something? A mating call? A survival gesture?

Two more blocks.

My pen is starting to get moist. I can see small streams of spit running down the sides making its strides towards the paper. I better dry it.

What the hell was that!?

My word, did somepony just throw something at me from their car? Oh god. My heart.

Okay, get ahold of yourself, Octavia. Don’t panic. Let’s assess the damage.

Nothing. I don’t feel a thing. It doesn’t hurt. There’s nothing to worry about. Just keep walking. Don’t give those brutes the satisfaction of a reaction.

What the buck.

I can see their car speeding down the street, away from the scene of the crime. Their tires pointed well in the opposite direction of the confrontation, set at vehicular high speeds carrying their demanding masters to flee. Flee like a villain who attacks the enemy when weak and retreats to safety when good is strong.

What cowards.

Their weapon of choice? A newspaper. Yes, a newspaper! Today’s edition wrapped firmly into a weighty tube, then wrapped in what appears to be masking tape, and lunged from the passenger window directed at the unsuspecting mare.

Why?

Here’s my theory: Perhaps they got frustrated by the long words on the sports column that they decided to inflict their illiterate wrath on the next pony they spotted.

Those maggots.

You know what I’d like to do? Here’s what I like to imagine would happen. Perhaps I should arrive home from my doctor’s appointment and spot the vehicle parked across the street in front of a convenience store. I would crouch, look left then right, and sprint like a ninja across the black tar, silent as night. I would plant myself right next to the vehicle in question, and wait. As soon as I spot the driver of the hell wagon approaching his car as he sways his head back and forth, sipping from a straw, I would jump from my silent hiding place, plant one hoof on his neck and another on his chest, press his nervous system at the right place, then watch him fall flat on his ass in trembling defeat. The look in his eyes would spell fear and bewilderment. Then, I would near my face, flash him a sly grin, then pull the newspaper out of my bag and make red marks all over his face. When all is said and done as so, I would turn around and buck him. Right in the mouth.

Detestable ingrate! I hope he crashes into a school bus and gets charged with the deaths of all the students on board.

I wish this fate upon his family, that they be discovered by a troubled stallion, then have their orifices shredded and maimed by his unbridled rage against an older relative.

Even better.

It brings me much joy to picture his head thrust hard upon a table. A set of four stallions, dark as black, eyes of red. A sander is pulled from beneath, bearing the coarsest grade available, and is slowly inched closer and closer to the perpetrator’s face until it becomes a bloody pile of sludge and bone. All the meanwhile, a drill is prepared at the highest rotational frequency and put in the hoof of somepony from behind. As the screams continue to pang the silence, the bits are spun creating a high buzzing sound, then it is lowered into position and then thrust right into

Ah, my neck! Oh it hurts! I have to stop writing. I have to stop walking!

Just one more block. We’re almost there, Octavia.

Now I really look like a limp. This is dreadful. The moment I get back home, I am filing a complaint to the ETS with a curt demand that every bus be fully inspected for potential mechanical failures before embarking on a ticking bomb route. Perhaps I could even coerce them into paying for my medical bill for the aggravated neck pain! No, now that would be ridiculous. Besides, it was my incessant practicing from which the aching originated. To fault them for that would be irresponsible and irrational. Besides, at least it’s subsiding a little. I can inch towards the left now.

What on earth?

Oh dear me, it’s one of those sign twirling fellows.

Somepony call the mental hospital, one of their patients got away.

How much are they paid to look like dolts?

This is a most unbecoming profession, much like car wash fillies and the like. All looks and absolutely no substance.

How can anypony even see what they’re attempting to advertise? All I can see is the cardboard arrow twirling aimlessly in the air. Nothing can be read when you’re doing that, don’t you know?

I will admit one thing. The pony certainly has “style.” I mean look at him.

Dark aviator shades.

Earbuds that run down his chest.

Backwards cap.

Dance moves learned from chickens in the 80s.

I suppose If I could credit him with one thing, it would be that he’s about as eye catching as his managers could possible want him to be. Perhaps that is the point. Now if he could only stop the forsaken arrow from spinning in the air I could actually see what he’s advertising. A store? A restaurant? A club?

“Make Your Own Cigarettes! Pack Of 20 For Only $15!!”

Oh I see, they’re litterers. Right, they’re advertising littering the ground with more buds. Not to mention staining your lungs with sticky, sludgy black tar and making your teeth rot like

He’s coming towards me.

Great. Now what’ll happen to me?

No seriously, stop stallion. Stop!

He’s smiling.

Here he comes.

Here he is!

Don’t hit me with that thing!

Well, I’m here. Finally. That was quite some workout. My neck feels a lot better though.

Street smart. That’s it.

Their IQ in street knowledge is very, very high. They’re the ponies who know how to run a family on a single pony’s budget, who know how to start a vehicle with the hood propped open and no key, who know which ponies are the honest peddlers and which are the scummy panhandlers.

They’re adapting to the environment they have found themselves in, whether it was imposed or not. Even the idiotic sign twirler, who by the way when he saw me he popped out one of his ear buds, pointed a hoof at me and stated, “I like yo style!”

Style. That’s another way I’d describe the ponies here.

Octavia

April 11, 2012
3:30 pm
Southwest corner of N. 43rd Ave and W Northern Ave

How is it that music possesses the power it does? Who sanctioned sound with its life changing properties? Was it design? A gamble? A coincidence? Perhaps it was marvelous mistake. A folly that the gods do not mind to count as a fortunate fault on their part. And what a fault it was!

I've always wondered why only choice classes within nature have evolved to appreciate the harmonic blend of sound, and it equally puzzles me why others have not. Are we to assume that those creatures whose ears fail to relay the message to the heart are misfortunate to miss such a blessing, or are we the ones to be pitied for falling prey to a predator with an invisible form? Nay, how can something as precious as music be meant for ill, for that would assume it’s evolved state would have been created to rid the world of its subjects, for how can one remain still when music’s blinding influence dances sweetly in the air? How can creation stay silent when one sound and another become harmony? It is not possible to ignore sound. Even the foliage of the land sway to the beat of the wind. Even the smallest critters react to the rumbling bass of the ground as it trembles above and below. If I were to be asked why music exists, I’d say it is to serve two important purposes: The first, and the most primitive, is for creatures to survive for without sound, it is impossible to survive. The second, and the most advanced, is for reflection on the created world around us. It reminds us of beauty. It reminds us of peace. It is silence with a name. It is love with weightlessness. It is music, and I adore it.

And I’d like to add that today, Susie played wonderfully, even if a little timidly. It is understandable, given what had occurred the other day. It was difficult meeting eyes, but she persevered. We persevered. I should note, though begrudgingly, that Frederic continues to bully his way through the pieces, and Strings is only happy to assist. They’re like Dr. Frankenstein and Igor, only their instruments are literal and their likability metaphorical. They’re such a show. But I didn’t relegate my attention to them, or my words. In fact, words weren’t shared apart from greetings. We spoke through our instruments. It is the only tolerable noise that our pompous pianist can produce anyhow. But Susie today was wow. She came in strong when she needed to be strong, and she was gentle when it was called for. She had perfect balance. I only wish I could say the same for my play. Perhaps I was too preoccupied at the start, but as the rehearsal went on, it all blended rather nicely. The piano. The harp. The cello and sousaphone. All came together and made music. Beautiful music.

I tried speaking to Susie afterwards, but it was for naught. She brushed right past me, ignoring my eyes. The boys were next. They said something, cackling as they left, but I did not pay any attention. I just lingered in silence.

The bus is back on normal terms, and when I say normal I mean teeming with smelly children. I used to wonder why their parents would let them ride the city bus as opposed to the school bus. I used to think that perhaps these children’s parents were not informed of the government-mandated service and since they have no car, they’ve had to wake their kin early in the morning, place a couple of bits in their backpacks, and send them off to school on the ETS, leaving their safety to fate. However, after experiencing the bus for a little over a week now, I have seen many little things that suggest this is not of ignorance or even need. These children talk excitedly amongst their travelling buddies about how cool it is they get to ride the bus. They tout their bus passes in the air like they were tickets to a forbidden fantasy land only deemed worthy of the bravest of adventurers. Every new street learned was a mark of trailblazemanship. And the colt or filly to first pull on the cord is deemed the hero of the day. I cannot help but smile to watch children in packs jump off the bus and linger in the group awhile longer before departing ways to their own homes. I can imagine their mothers eagerly awaiting their arrival as the soap suds fly off the sponge, dropped to receive the arriving guests. What tales they must share!

As I was writing, a pony asked me if the seat next to me was taken. I looked up and was surprised to find a familiar face covered partially by a mane of many colors. If I’m not mistaken, this mare is named Rainbow Dash, also from the Gala. Self-proclaimed fastest flier in all of Ponyville. Who could forget the streak of rainbow colors dashing to save the pillar of the Royal Palace from complete destruction, only to have her efforts be fruitless and everything crumble over her. I gladly said it was all hers and she demonstrated her gratitude with a smile. And a grunt. Rainbow looked like she was in pain by the way her eyes shut creating wrinkles on her lids. She slowly descended on the seat, and turned her body to face away from me. At first I felt perhaps she couldn’t bear witness of my countenance, but then right there in front of me was the reason for her shunning position: Her left wing was bandaged, tender I presumed to the touch.

I was going to ask what had happened, but the wounded flier volunteered the information. She was performing an advanced trick in the air close to some trees when she accidentally ran into a particularly trafficked area of the forest. She tried to escape unharmed, and for the most part the expert flier excelled at bobbing and weaving her way through the foliage. However, as the light began to burst through her vision, her left wing got caught on a thick branch, halting the pegasus’s speedy exit. A loud crack rang throughout the forest as the opposing forces collided, and Rainbow Dash hung there, screaming for recognition. She couldn’t move a single muscle she said, she didn’t dare for intensifying the already intense pain. Luckily some earth ponies were walking by and spotted the fastest flier in Ponyville and she was promptly removed from her bind and taken to the hospital immediately. I asked her how long she had to wait until the help arrived. She sighed.

Four hours.

She shuffled in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position, which was proving difficult. I could sense her face scrunching with every inch of movement. I was also given a clearer view of the damage done. I am no physician, but I could see the effects of her elongated suspension were not a mild matter. The feathers surrounding the bandaged area crust, and red bled through the swaddling cloth that kept the blood in its place. Though the wing itself was completely obscured from view, I noticed the placement of the bandage was close to the belly. Dislocation. Will this mare be able to fly again?

After a few moments, Rainbow Dash added that after she was fixed, she made the trip to Canterlot on hoof to be in time for the Wonderbolts Tryouts today.

I couldn’t help but blurt out after hearing this bit of news. She came to Canterlot all the way from Ponyville on her own? On hoof!? She responded that there was no way she was going to miss the Wonderbolts Tryouts, even after a minor setback as this. I could hardly believe a dislodged wing socket to be categorized as minor, but she pressed on. She’s been travelling for a week, stopping at key cities only to rest. With no money, she’s spent many hard nights resting on benches, under trees, or even on the cold, cobblestone floor. She always had to care not to roll on her injured side, which throbbed even during rest. Walking was the greatest chore, as the impact with the ground thrashed into the area like a tsunami wave with every step. At one point while crossing a section of the Samarea desert, the sun dried the cloth around her body, causing it to itch terribly and sting as if being stabbed by a hundred knives. But still, she said, the athlete presses on.

As the lights from the outskirts of Canterlot broke into Rainbow Dash’s cracked eyes, she felt her legs give way to the exhaustion and crumble under her weight. The next thing she knew, she was trapped in a bed, wires and tubes running from her skin to a machine with buttons and switches she couldn’t make out. When the reality of the situation hit her, the resting pegasus spotted a calendar across the room. A beautiful rose announced the month of April. The date was the eleventh. The day of the tryouts. Like a mare on a mission, she pulled off every foreign object off her body and stepped onto the floor. Immediately, she entered a world of dark sparkles and moving blocks. After regaining composure, the disconcerted mare bolt through the emergency exit, ripped off the hospital gown, and continued her trek.

An exhausted Rainbow Dash couldn’t make it past two blocks before almost collapsing near the bus stop, so she decided to ride the rest of the way. That is why she is here. This is why she was not back home, resting as she probably should. I couldn’t help but stare at this incredible mare in shock, but of course she couldn’t see me. By now, she was completely facing the other way, nursing her side, wincing every time the bus bumped and rumbled down the road. I was tempted to ask her why she would put herself through so much physical pain just to show up at a tryout that, given her condition, she would not be able to participate in. As if interpreting my silence, Rainbow accused me of belittling her resolve. I replied, respectfully mind you, that I found it hard to believe that a flightless pegasus would sacrifice well-being to the point of hospitalization for a chance at nothing. She sighed and began. Though I couldn’t see it, I could sense the emotion carrying itself down her cheek in the form of a tear.

Have you ever discovered something that was bigger than life, even bigger than you? It feels like a flood of uncertainty rushing over you, leaving you no room to rest. No room to breathe. No room to live. The only thing that matters is to survive. And the only way to survive is to keep pushing. Push against the uncertainty. Push against the doubt. Push against the others more successful than you. Push against the pain. Push against common sense. There is no way I’m going to miss this, and there is no way I’m going to fail. My life depends on it.

I was inclined to ask what this risky pony was going to do with only one functioning wing, but once again, she shattered the silence with her preemptive words. There were trainers and medical staff at the Wonderbolts Training Facilities, and they wrap up injuries all the time, surely they could help her too. This time I was able to intercede, saying that what she bore was more than just a simple wrap up job. This could put her future ability to compete, let alone fly, in grave jeopardy. Slowly she turned her body to face me. One eye stared into my two, a blazing magenta stabbing me with a narrowed conviction that transcended the spectrum by miles.

I will not lose.

Period.

There is competitiveness, and there is obsession. This was none of those two. This, as it poured into my ears, was epiphany.

Or was it delusion?

It can be hard to tell the difference, and many times it all rests on the results.

Or does it. Should it? Is winning all that matters to the competitor, drenched in sweat and tears, or is it a personal hurdle that one seeks to overcome with unwavering conviction? What does it mean to lose? What does it mean to win, for that matter?

I asked the athlete.

She didn’t respond immediately. Then, she looked up and reached over for the cord. Instinctively, I held up my hoof to pull it for her. A hard slap came across my foreleg as I once again stared into the eyes of conviction itself, mingled with pain. She leaned further, the bandage starting to unravel. I caught sight of the wound that limited her intentions of winning it all.

I gasped. The wing socket wasn’t dislodged at all.

It was gone.

She pulled the cord, and the sound broke me from the trance.

The most profiled flier in all of Ponyville struggled to her hooves, hobbled her way to the back exit, and turned to face me one last time before leaving to try out for the Wonderbolts.

I will not lose.

I will not lose.

I am reminded of a memory from my childhood.

Late afternoon.

I was sitting in class. My cello rested against my shoulder. I was crying.

I heard several hoofsteps outside. Some words being spoken. Some eyes passed over me.

I continued to cry.

Then you came in, father.

I remember you stooping down on all four knees and I remember you running a hoof over my mane. And I remember you whispering in my ear, over and over.

You did your best.

I cried even harder. I said I wanted to stop.

You asked what.

I didn’t respond.

Then, I remember, you put your hoof under my chin and lifted my head so that I could see your face. You smiled. Then you spoke words that confused me.

The greatest force in all the world…is love.

I will not lose was the athlete’s way of saying it.

Octavia

April 13

April 13, 2012
12:00 pm
Southwest corner of N. 43rd Ave and W. Bell Rd.

There has to be an end to this dark tunnel. There has to be.

Then suddenly, I was suspended in the dark air by an unnamed source, a sort of reverse gravitational pull hurling my helpless body towards the unknowable sky. I stopped. Then, like a flash of the stage lights I was blinded by the presence of ponies appearing out of the unknown into what turned out to be a circular stage, akin to the styles of William Manespeare’s Old Globe Theatre.

Everypony I met on the bus was there.

Twilight Sparkle.

Applejack.

Pinkie Pie.

Vinyl Scratch.

Even Rainbow Dash.

Then, in a misty swirl of amethyst crystals, my cello and my bow materialized at my side and plopped to the ground, echoing a jumbled sound. I reached down to grab it, and it was then I noticed the attendees that sat in the front row.

Frederic.

Strings.

Susie.

Fancy Pants.

The ponies of the streets.

My mother.

Lyra.

The conductor below tapped his baton onto the stand, and raised his hooves in the air. I stumbled to bring my hooves into position. At the conductor’s command, the wind section started the piece, exactly as I planned it. The soothing notes glided from the mouths of the flutes and clarinets, giving the eerie, black theatre a sense of peaceful night. Then the strings ventured through with a brute force, disturbing the calm with its conquering instincts. Everything was going according to my original design.

And now, the percussion, bringing beat and order to the conflict. The slow rise in volume brought urgency into the blowing and entangling fray. All the while, a lone arbiter stands on stage, the savior of the struggle long prophesied from the depths of my room, her remarkable entrance imminent. The audience sat motionless, spectating, waiting to see if the heroine of the tale would come to the rescue. I stood as stone next to my cello.

Then it came. The time for the heroine to stamp out the chaos with her guiding hoof over her instrument.

But it fell silent.

I couldn’t move a single muscle across the prepared strings. They were paralyzed with…fear.

The audience gasped.

The audience laughed.

Mother remained silent.

Lyra cried.

Then, I woke up.

This was the dream (or nightmare rather) I had when I fell asleep on the doctor’s couch during our session Monday afternoon. No, I am being serious father, I actually fell asleep on his armoire! I had just walked into his office when he instructed me to lie on the vinyl furniture while he went out to the front desk to gather some documents. And so I did. And I fell asleep.

Needless to say, I was very embarrassed when I found myself crawled into a fetal position facing away from the desk and snoring like a newborn. And if that wasn’t shameful enough, the very shock of the occurrence knocked me onto the ground, flat as a pancake. The doctor was kind enough to help me up to my hooves and he didn’t hold the time I was in slumber against me. A quick glance at the wall clock showed I was asleep for about twenty minutes, and in that time the doctor took the liberty to read part of the first entry of that day’s journaling. So, at the very least, he knew my exhaustion was a direct effect of my strenuous walk that morning.

He took a long and hard look at my journal. Every page flip was a flutter of heartbeats assaulting my chest. The second hand on the wall clock seemed to lag mockingly behind its scheduled movements, as if it knew in its little pin brain that I so desperately wanted the seconds to fly.

Alas, he put my journal down on his cherry colored desk and brought his spectacles down to its side. He rubbed his temples then looked up at me. He smiled.

You are too damn stressed he said.

I chuckled. One need not be a doctor to come to that conclusion.

He recommended that I take a break from my routine. He said I should call my music group and inform them that I would be taking the day off Wednesday in order to “refresh” myself. At first I rejected the idea, pointing to the day of the concert on his little calendar, remarking that it lay only five days away from the current date. Countering my argument, he said that all of the stress I was feeling from the various angles of my life would capitalize the opportunity to bring my exhausted mind and body down to a paralyzed state, rendering me useless even in the most basic of life’s contexts. He said a break from the norm would not only give me some breathing room in all of the craziness of life, but that it would also give me a chance to reflect on many things and begin the road of self-discovery. He recommended that I go out and do something I’ve always wanted to do that I haven’t had the chance to since being burdened with a most hectic schedule.

I felt inclined to share my nightmare from only moments ago with the doctor. As I expected, he slapped his thigh and let out a reaffirming laugh. It appears my tired mind has proved his point, and so with everything stacked against me, I admitted to the soundness of the idea and promised to take the entirety of Wednesday for myself.

So here I am, taking route 43 beyond my normal stop en route to my vacation date. I must say, its rather strange riding the bus without my cello at my side. In fact, I keep looking to my left to make sure it is sitting securely at my side. Then after recovering from the short shock of its absence, I remember that today is a day to relax and to take my mind off of my current preoccupations. And, with a new pair of sunglasses to boot, I am on my way to a magical place where my fondest memories lie and where I have never discovered its peace anywhere else.

You remember the place father! Our place. I am on my way to Seaport Village.

Oh my, am I really here?

Yes! Yes I am!

The soft breeze from the sea rushes over me, embracing me in its coolness as if it were welcoming back an old friend. The rays of the sun sit very nicely on the rooftops of the little shops that greet me warmly with their old wooden faces. Thankfully, the sun is not as fierce as it has been, and with the aid of my new sunglasses and this lovely little white sol hat I could not resist purchasing, I am ready to enjoy this glorious day!

Alright, first things first. Did somepony say “Cookie’s & Cream’s Ice Cream Parlor”? I remember how the minute we stepped hoof into Seaport Village, I would always ask (okay, more like implore) you to take me to get my favorite flavor: black cherry with sprinkles. You would always get coffee and pralines and no matter how many times I would ask (okay, maybe more like beg!) you to let me have a try, you would always shake your head and say “Coffee is not for little growing fillies like you, milady!” Perhaps I will break with tradition and finally savor a forbidden scoop of coffee and pralines! No, that wouldn’t be right. That was your flavor after all. And besides, it’s been ages since I had a scoop of their smooth black cherry flavor. Now if I remember the way correctly, it should be right where I am standing.

It’s not.

All that remains is a generic wooden bungalow boarded up in all directions. There’s a note tacked on the front:

“To all of our wonderful customers and their kiddos,

We regret to inform you that we have decided to close our little shop of ice cream wonders, and pursue our retirements. Our hope is that you will never forget the smiles this beautiful place brought to your faces, because we surely never will!

Best wishes,

Cookie & Cream

Oh my. Well, I suppose they have that right. The sisters were quite elderly the times I’ve been here. I’ll never forget Cookie’s bubbly attitude and Cream’s smooth demeanor. And perhaps store bought black cherry will do from now on.

Now, what came next on our fun filled days at Seaport Village? Ah yes, the carousel!

I remember that the carousel lies on the other extreme of the boardwalk because whenever we arrived, our ice creams were heartily devoured cones and all. I remember very well how my steps would feature an extra bounce as we made our way to the carousel. Very much how my steps look right now as I write! And as I recall quite fondly, you would always bob your head as the peppy orchestral arrangement that filled the salty air became louder and louder as we got closer and closer. A crease in your mouth would turn upwards, and so would my spirits. I felt like we somehow connected that moment here at Seaport Village. It was like we became one. And that would bring me to ecstatic hops and skips and little squeals of joy would escape my sticky lips. You would ask me if I were excited about riding the carousel. And I would respond that I was excited to ride it with you. Then you’d kiss me on my head, which would send my tiny little heart into a flurry of flutters. My childlike insecurities would quiet for the rest of the night; for I concluded then and there that you were just as happy as I when we got to spend our time together here.

My favorite way to ride the carousel? The angry dragon that stood on its back two feet whilst the front two it brought up to its blood-curdling grin so as to warn the riders of its unfriendly instincts. I can’t put my hoof on it, but something about its powerful design shining under the bright lights brought the wonder and magic of the carousel to my eyes. While the other parents placed their squirming daughters onto the celestial pegasi and elegant swans, I eagerly climbed on top of the magnificent beast while you watched from below. You would always remind that the carousel made you ill, causing you vertigo to the point where you used to find yourself on your flank. I used to feel bad, but then you would smile and say “Pretend I am the king, and you’re riding back from another one of your adventures on your magnificent dragon.”

And here I am.

Where did all the carousel animals go?

The swans?

The pegasi?

My magnificent dragon.

There was another note on the wooden ticket booth. It was lengthy, but to summarize, the owner of the carousel decided to donate every one of the wondrous animal crafts to a faraway museum in light of this area of the boardwalk being purchased by a clothing retail.

No more bright colorful lights.

No more peppy music.

No more riding home to my king.

Well, there’s only one place left to memory that, hopefully, has not also given way to age or greed. The Seaport Village Art Gallery. Surely, that place was saved in order to preserve at least a fraction of the legacy that made Seaport Village the place I thought it was.

Thankfully, it has been spared. Unfortunately, it is undergoing renovations, and entrance is temporarily suspended until they are complete.

I am now sitting on a bench overlooking the whole of the shops that decorate a large part of the boardwalk, and I am now noticing that it’s not just the art gallery that is renovating. All of them are. All of the shops are trading in their rustic, wooden charm for a more modern, chic look. It’s like they each took a look at themselves in a mirror and thought it was too ancient for the current times.

This bothers me to no end. What happened to the family friendly experience? What happened to the sense of belonging and the warmth of the familiar that each store brought in its own unique way? It seems now they care more about setting a trend and punching their mark in the concrete than making a lasting legacy that rests in the hearts of their grateful patrons. That is all gone now.

There is one more part of this once majestic place that I know cannot change. Perhaps there’s still a chance to relive one of my fondest memories.

I planted my hooves into the white sands that always warmed and never burned, basking in their heat. I could see the ocean waving to me, beckoning me to come closer.

I walked to them. The waves came to me, kissed the tip of my hooves, and swam back. I walked closer to the shore, and with every step I felt the cool waters rise higher and higher up my legs until it spit at my knees.

I ran to the waves.

The waves crashed against my body and kissed my face.

The wind felt cool all over.

I stopped. Then I looked back to see you. That was when I realized.

The sun was perfect.

The wind was gentle.

The sands were warm.

And the waves were playful.

But you weren’t there.

That’s when I realized this place would never be the same.

Would never taste the same.

Never look the same.

Feel the same.

I need to see you again.

Where are you, daddy?

Just then, I heard a shriek. I turned my neck towards the sound and I spotted a young filly reaching down between two large boulders that sat against the shore on the east side of the beach. I stepped out of the waters and walked over to her, keeping my focus on her balance.

As I got within a few feet of the large rocks, the young filly looked up at me and gasped. A few traces of pink mane blocked her large green eyes, which she flicked away with a quick hoof.

I apologized for startling her, and asked her if she had dropped something. She looked down and brought a shameful hoof up to her cheek. She did drop something important and she was having the hardest time retrieving it. I offered to assist her which she quietly rejected, insisting that I not waste my time on her petty troubles. The wind pushed the few strands of mane back in front of her face and she gave up trying to fix her look. She picked up her hat and walked back to the shore, disappearing into the bustling boardwalk with a toy bucket wrapped around her body, bouncing against her side.

Out of pure curiosity, I peeked down where the filly was hunched over to see what the fuss was all about. I had to squint and shield my eyes from the setting sun to get a decent view of the space below me. All I could see was darkened sand and little blotches of sunlight poring through the surrounding cracks. I leaned closer to the hole, sticking my whole face into its personal space, using the surface of the rock to keep my balance. I searched for anything of value to a young filly: toys, tokens, tickets, coins, candy. I didn’t find any of those things, but what I did spot was a small heap of white and sandy brown sea shells. I could see the indents surrounding their placement in the sand, and determined this was what the filly had dropped. Unfortunately, they were very far down beyond the reach of even a stallion. I didn’t even attempt a grasp having no extension capabilities with me.

I poked my muzzle out of the crevice when I noticed a pair of yellow hooves staring right at me. The sight startled me, and I quickly stood to my hooves, tipping to one side of the jagged boulder. I thought for certain I would fall off the edge when I felt the same hooves reach out and grab me gently across the neckline, hugging me back to safety. I froze for a second. I looked up.

That pink mane.

Those large blue eyes, matching the ocean.

The slight crevice of her mouth that dipped down.

She quickly let go of me and apologized over and over for her actions. I shook my head and said there was nothing to apologize for. In fact, I thanked her for saving me from what would’ve been a nasty drop to the sandy bottom below.

She blushed, and I could feel color rushing to my own cheeks as well.

It was then I noticed that standing next to her was that same filly. A unicorn it turned out. She pointed to the crevice and told the pegasus her story of the bucket that was knocked over by accident, and of the plunging sea shells. The pink maned pony peeked over and let out a sympathetic sigh. The little unicorn had spent hours searching, digging for the perfect sea shells and in the end, it was for naught. The filly, Sweetie Belle was her name, began to sniffle when the pegasus knelt and ran a hoof over her wind stricken mane. She promised that next time they would search for sea shells again. The unicorn implored the pony, Fluttershy was her name, that they stay a little longer, that she needed to find more sea shells for her special friend.

A moment of silence passed as Fluttershy pondered the situation. Alas, she gave in to Sweetie Belle’s lower lip and off they went into the direction of the shoreline. I was about to turn the other way when I felt a light tapping on my cutie mark. I turned around to find the little unicorn’s eyes smiling up at me. She thanked me for trying to help her get her sea shells and asked me if I wanted to help. The shy pegasus and I shot the same embarrassed looks at each other at the filly’s brave request. I looked back at the tiny unicorn and she tried the same lip trick with me. With a sigh, I said that I would, and immediately the filly grabbed my hoof and Fluttershy’s as we all charged towards the sand. I looked over at Fluttershy, and I could see her small lips mouthing words of gratitude.

I just smiled.

And the sands were warm once again.

“Look at this one! Isn’t it cool looking?” asked Sweetie Belle.

Fluttershy nodded in approval. The three shell hunters were taking a break from their search, resting coolly on three wicker chairs just outside of a beach side restaurant. Sweetie Belle huddled over her sand bucket, which burst with sea shells of every shape imaginable. She grabbed one, examined it against the setting sun, and passed it to Fluttershy.

“I don’t remember getting this one. Do you, Fluttershy?”

“Hmm,” she replied, taking the shell and turning it on its side. “I think this is the one Octavia pulled out from the ocean.”

“What was that now?” said Octavia, breaking from her writing when she heard her name.

Fluttershy held up the sea shell to the journaling mare. “Is this the one you got from the water?”

The cellist lowered her sunglasses and stared at the oceanic souvenir keenly, recollecting the memories of the hour and a half spent with Fluttershy and her unicorn friend digging all over the white sands of the beach for the perfect group of shells.

“I think you’re right, Fluttershy.”

“That was a great find, Octavia,” exclaimed Sweetie Belle. She snatched the shell back from Fluttershy and plopped it back into her full bucket.

“Thank you, Sweetie Belle,” she replied.

The young filly mumbled and nodded her head as she continued to pore over her collection of sea shells, sifting through the whole ones and tossing out the broken pieces.

“Um, hey,” said Fluttershy, directing her words to the pony writing elegantly in her small black journal. “What are you writing? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking you.”

“Oh,” she said, closing her book and scratching the back of her sand filled mane. “Just some thoughts on the day. That’s all. I promise it isn’t anything vulgar or controversial.”

“Oh, I wasn’t worried about that,” replied the yellow pegasus with a smile. “I was just curious since you looked so drawn in to what you were writing.”

“Hey, I’m kinda hungry,” said a unicorn with a rumbling stomach. “Can we get something to eat?”

“Oh, I wish we could,” said Fluttershy. “But I didn’t bring any bits with me. I guess we’ll have to go back to the hospital and get something there.”

The hospital?

“But I hate their food!” she replied, crossing her front legs and pouting. “It tastes like garbage.”

“Now now, Sweetie. Not all of their food is bad. Remember the cheese pizza slice we shared last night? Those ponies worked so hard to make that especially delicious for us after we returned the last four slices we bought.”

I wonder…

“Yeah, because those other four slices tasted like garbage!” The restless filly got up from her chair and stomped her little hooves on the wooden floor.

“Now, Sweetie, there’s no reason for you to act like this,” Fluttershy said calmly.

“But I don’t wanna go back to the hospital! I wanna eat something here, right now!”

Octavia raised her sunglasses and watched as the filly pounded the ground with her hooves. Soon other ponies turned their attention to the annoyed unicorn, which set the older pegasus trying to calm her down in a state of unease.

“Come on, Sweetie. Please, can we go back to the hospital? I promise to bring you back tomorrow.”

“No! I don’t wanna go! No, no, no, no!”

Sweetie Belle began to scream as more and more ponies came to watch the spectacle unfold outside the restaurant. Fluttershy tried to hug the screaming filly, but was brushed off. At that moment, a burly stallion wearing a greasy apron stepped outside of the restaurant’s palm frond door and stood in the pegasus’s face, scowling at her.

“Excuse me ma’am, but I’m tryin' to run a business here, and I can’t do that when your kid is screamin' like a banshee and making holes in my floor!”

“I am so sorry,” she replied, trembling. “I-I’m trying really hard to calm her down. See, she’s just a little hungry so…”

“No I’m not. I’m really hungry!” Sweetie responded, pausing from her high pitched squealing.

“Then buy something here, or else shut her yapper and get her outta here,” boomed the stallion.

Fluttershy’s eyes began to water. “I-I know sir, but you see, I don’t have any bits, and so I…”

“Ah! My shells!”

The shaking pegasus turned her neck and gasped at the sight of all of Sweetie Belle’s shells tumbled on the floor.

“I-It’s okay Sweetie. Let’s just pick them up and…”

“Hey, who said you could make a mess on my floor!?”

“I’m so sorry sir, I’ll just be really quick and…”

“They’re broken! All of them are broken!” Sweetie yelled, then proceeded to scream even louder.

At this point, Fluttershy hunched over the broken mess and tried to brush all of the remnants into the toy bucket. Several of the pieces fell through the cracks of the plank floor, which sent the little unicorn into a frenzied fit.

“You’re dropping them!”

“I’m so sorry Sweetie. I’m trying really hard.”

“Hey lady! I ain’t got all day! Either you buy something now, or I’ll throw the two of you outta here!”

“Oh!” Fluttershy stopped her gathering and searched through her saddle bag for any bits she could scavenge. When she turned over a hoof revealing two bits, the stallion scoffed.

“Is that it? You expect to feed your starvin' kid with that?”

“Well, I…”

“Listen. Not only are you a bad parent, but you’re a lousy cleaner too! Get offa my porch, you and your bratty little twerp!”

Fluttershy burst into tears. A respectable crowd had gathered in front of the beach side restaurant during the whole ordeal, which aggravated the cellist sitting still in her wicker chair. She stood to her hooves and planted her face up into the burly stallion’s.

“Excuse me!”

“Huh? And whadda you want, mare?”

Octavia took her sunglasses off. “I demand to see the manager.”

“You’re lookin’ at him.”

“Really,” she shot back. “I would expect the manager to be a kind and courteous pony, not some bloated bag of moldy scraps like you!”

“Hey, I won’t take none of that from you or your little fillyfriend here, missy!”

“And just who do you think you’re talking to, hmm Barney?”

The stallion jerked back. “Huh? How’d you know my name?”

“Does the name Oliver mean anything to you?”

He cocked his head to one side and scratched his head. “Well, I used to know an Oliver. He came around quite a bit with his little filly. Nice ponies, him and his…” He peeked at the cellist’s cutie mark and gasped. “Wait a minute. Octy!?”

“Hello, Barney,” she said flatly.

“Oh my gosh! Octy! Hey! How ya been!?”

“Oh, I’ve been a lot better.” Octavia jerked her head towards Barney’s nervous expression. “Especially better than now after you’ve treated Fluttershy and Sweetie Belle like trash!”

“L-L-Look, I’m real sorry about all that, but I gotta business to run, and they’re…”

“Then I suggest that you act like a competent manager and learn how to deal with inconveniences like this one with more professionalism.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“I am going to ask you to do three things that will make up for your stupidity, and you better get them right or else,” she said, pointing a hoof in his face.

“Y-Yeah sure, whatever you want. Consider it done!”

“First,” she began. “You will apologize to Fluttershy for your unnecessary rudeness.”

“Apologize to the fillyfriend, got it.”

“And after you’ve apologized to my fillyfr- I mean, friend,” she shot a quick apologetic to Fluttershy, who grinned. “You will send somepony out to clean up this mess.”

“Consider it done. Lenny!”

“And lastly, and this is very important.”

Barney didn’t move a single muscle as a much smaller stallion made his way past the two and swept up the shelly mess beside a stunned Fluttershy.

“You are going to prepare the finest, tastiest, scrumptious, crispy, juicy veggie tenders and fries you can make. And, you will add an extra-large strawberry milkshake with extra sprinkles free of charge. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yay!” shouted Sweetie Belle.

Barney brought his chef’s hat down and wrung it between his hooves. “I really am sorry for all of this Octy. I didn’t know I was bein' so rude. Times have been tough and all with all these changes to the village. You understand.”

Octavia’s face softened. “I do, Barney. And I appreciate the hard work you put in to keep the legacy of this wonderful place alive. But acting the way you did doesn’t help. Now, will you pretty please do as I requested.”

The large chef repositioned his hat and gave his long lost customer a wink and a smile. “Sure thing, Octy! One order of the best veggie tenders around with a strawberry milkshake coming right up!”

“Yay!” shouted the crowd, along with rousing applause.

“Oh,” said Barney, turning on a hoof before bolting into the kitchen. “And, uh, sorry about my attitude towards ya, Fluttershy. That was wrong of me. You want somethin’ too. It’ll be free of charge.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said, wiping her eyes. “And I forgive you.”

Barney shifted his attention to Octavia. “How about you, Octy?”

“How about the usual,” she said, winking.

“You got it, kid!”

“So, how did you like your meal, Sweetie Belle?” asked Octavia.

“They were amazing! The best veggie tenders I ever had!” cried Sweetie Belle.

Octavia and Fluttershy smiled at the ecstatic filly’s response as they walked down the moonlit boardwalk next to the ocean. Ponies were leaving the closing shops and making their way to the parking lot, toting large bags of souvenirs and special occasion clothing. The trio however lingered behind, watching the moon rise over the black waters.

“It’s so beautiful here at Seaport Village,” remarked Fluttershy. “I wonder if any sea creatures lurk around these parts.”

“Well,” Octavia said. “There have been times where my father and I spotted a sea serpent or two skimming the surface of the water like a lightning bolt. But other than that, it’s mostly annoying sea gulls.”

“Wow, that’s amazing!” said the pegasus, surprised at her own volume.

The cellist just chuckled. “Yes, it was quite a sight. Are you interested in the marine wildlife?”

“I love all animals,” she replied. “I spend almost all my time with the woodland creatures back home. I love to take care of them when they’re in need.”

“I see. And where is home, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Ponyville. I live very close to the Everfree Forest in a cottage built out of a tree.”

“Ponyville, you say?” Octavia let out a laugh. “What a small world we live in!”

Fluttershy squeaked in confusion. Just as Octavia was about to enlighten the perplexed mare, Sweetie Belle came running full steam with a large grin on her face.

“Fluttershy! Can I have a bit please?”

“What do you need a bit for?” she asked.

“There’s a telescope thingy right over there, and I need a bit to see through it. Can I have one, please?”

“Of course.” She hoofed the small filly a bit. “Have fun!”

The filly snatched the bit and was off.

The yellow pegasus let out a soft chuckle then redirected her gaze to the open sea. She paused to look out into the dark night and spotted several tall ships bobbing peacefully over the surface. The cellist stood next to her and watched the ships as well.

“She’s not your daughter, is she?”

“Oh, you mean Sweetie Belle?”

Octavia nodded.

“No, she’s actually the sister of a good friend of mine. I’m just watching her until she gets here tomorrow.”

“Your friend is coming to Canterlot tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she replied, flicking a few strands of pink mane from her face. “All of us are here in Canterlot really. To see the sister of another friend of mine.”

“And this sister of another friend lives in Canterlot, too?”

“Huh?” Fluttershy shook her head. “Can you repeat that please? I got a little confused.”

“Of course, sorry.” Octavia paused to put her words together. “This sister that you all are coming to see. Does she live in Canterlot, or is she also from Ponyville?”

“Oh, I see what you mean. She’s also from Ponyville. All of us are from Ponyville.”

“So why is she here, in Canterlot?”

“Who, the friend or the sister?”

“The friend. I mean, the sister’s friend. No I meant…Ugh!” The confused earth pony stopped.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to mix you up like that,” Fluttershy said.

“No, it’s alright, it’s not your fault. Why don’t you explain to me why it is everypony is here.”

“Gotcha! Well, we are all here visiting Sweetie Belle’s friend, who is in the hospital.”

Octavia pointed a hoof in the air. “The sister of the friend from Ponyville who is also from Ponyville, correct?”

“Yes!” the yellow pony replied, pausing to think. “She got a terrible stomach problem that needed advanced medical attention, so her and her big sister (my friend) came to the Canterlot Medical Center by train to admit her.”

“So the friend’s sister is the one hospitalized. And you are watching the sister of another friend until that friend, not the one with the ill sister, arrives tomorrow, right?”

“Exactly!”

“Whew,” exclaimed the cellist. “Glad we got that straightened out!”

A moment of silence passed until something clicked in Octavia’s mind.

“Wait a minute.”

“Yes?” Fluttershy asked.

“This pony that is admitted to the hospital. Her name wouldn’t be Apple Bloom, would it?”

The pegasus’s eyes grew wide. “It is. How did you know?”

“It truly is a small world.” Octavia explained to Fluttershy her encounter with Applejack on the bus last week.

“Wow, it is a small world.”

“How is she doing, Fluttershy?”

The yellow pony sighed. “Well, the surgery was a success, but she still needs to spend about two weeks in the hospital before they let her go. The poor thing. She gets tired so easily and never wants to eat a single bite, even of her favorite dishes from home. It’s a side effect from all the pain killers they’re giving her, but she still has to eat by force. Poor Sweetie Belle got so stressed watching one of her best friends suffer so much, I thought it would be nice to take her out for walk to get her mind off things. That’s when we ran into Seaport Village. It was like an answer to prayer. I mean look at her.”

The two talking mares turned to face Sweetie Belle waving wildly at them from a distance, stooped behind a white telescope pointed right at them. Both waved back.

“So,” Octavia began. “Do you think that perhaps the Apple family wouldn’t mind if I paid a visit sometime in the near future?”

Fluttershy’s eyes widened again, then her face burst into a smile. “Of course! That would be wonderful! I’m sure they’d love to have you come and pay a visit to Apple Bloom. I know Applejack would appreciate some new company as well. And Sweetie Belle would like to see you too, I bet.”

“And you?” Octavia asked.

Fluttershy couldn’t help the color rushing to her cheeks. “Oh, uh, well, yeah. I guess I’d like to see you too, again, as well.”

Before Octavia could clarify, Sweetie barged in. “Hey Fluttershy, can I have another bit? It ran out and I still wanna spot all the ships going by.”

“I’m so sorry Sweetie, but it’s getting late and we need to head back to the hospital.”

“Do we have to?” Sweetie pouted. She began her little stomps on the ground, but stopped when she felt Octavia’s hoof come over her shoulder.

“Hey Sweetie Belle, can I ask you something?”

“Uh, sure. Whaddya wanna know?” she said, turning.

“Well, I wanted to know if you wouldn’t mind if I came over to the hospital to visit Apple Bloom and you this Saturday. Maybe we can come back and I can show you all of the great things Canterlot has to offer. What do you think of that idea?”

The little unicorn’s eyes lit up. “Really!? You’d do that!?”

“Of course! What are friends for?”

“Oh, thanks Octy! You're the best!” Sweetie Belle threw her hooves around the cellist’s neck and crushed her bow tie against her chest. Octavia returned the favor with a single hoof, patting the filly’s head.

“But you have to listen to Fluttershy and go back to the hospital, got it?”

“Yessir!”

Sweetie Belle ran over to Fluttershy and hopped onto her lowered back. The yellow pony looked up at Octavia and mouthed the same words from earlier. As Fluttershy was about to take off, Sweetie Belle tapped the pegasus on the head.

“Oh wait Fluttershy, I forgot something.”

Fluttershy didn’t move.

Sweetie hopped off and sprinted to Octavia, grasping a small book from her saddle bag with her mouth.

“Here. You left this back at the restaurant. I don’t think you wanna lose it here if you got important secret stuff in it.”

“No I certainly wish not to! Thank you Sweetie Belle!”

The little unicorn nodded and returned to Fluttershy’s back, and the two took off into the night sky towards the hospital. Octavia smiled walked slowly down the boardwalk towards the streets where her bus stop back home lay. She was about to open her book when something fell out of it and landed softly on the ground.

“Hmm? What’s this, a napkin?”

Octavia picked it up and shook it open. Inside was a crude drawing of three ponies, one unicorn, one pegasus, and one earth pony, all holding hooves surrounded by a heart. And written in messy hoofwriting were the words:

Sweetie Belle

Fluttershy

Ocktavia

BFFs

April 15

April 15, 2012
8:00am
Southwest corner of N 43rd Ave. and W Bell Rd.

Octavia put her pen down and stared out into the gray, hazy sky. The bus stop dripped from the early morning rain that the cellist arose to, and a biting chill brought her hooves across her chest. A slight gust of wind touched her face as she swung her scarf around her neck.

“Such an odd time for cold, wet weather,” she muttered to herself.

The cellist grabbed her pen and redirected her attention to her diary.

“Let’s see. What to write. What to write.”

An exasperated writer let out a white puffy sigh into the foggy air. She opened her cello case and placed her diary snuggly into its own place.

“Perhaps I should wait until the bus arrives,” she said to herself.

The cellist pressed her hooves onto her lap and looked all around her. Several cars zoomed across the puddle-ridden streets, casting small bursts of rain water onto the sidewalks. Across the street, there was an old mare hobbling along, carrying a paper bag filled with groceries. At her side was a small filly wearing one of those pinwheel hats they give off at the fair. Octavia couldn’t help but smile at the heartwarming scene against the dimly lit sidewalks of a wet Canterlotan morning.

The bus rumbled across the intersection and stopped further from its original stopping point, which had accumulated a large body of rain droplets creating a puddle paper boats could comfortably sail across. Octavia grabbed her instrument and walked to the door. While waiting for the door to open, the cellist looked down at her hooves and noticed several scuff marks lining the bottom parts of her normally refined hoofwear.

“I suppose that’s what I get for riding the bus so much,” she said, grinning.

“Battle wounds, if ya ask me,” called out the conductor, winking at the mare in a scarf.

Octavia smiled at the bus driver’s cheery comment. He had replaced the overweight driver ever since the incident with Pinkie Pie. Though she never found out why, she guessed that perhaps other passengers that day shared her thoughts about the bloated bully and called to complain about his unruly antics. Nevertheless, she was happy to have a much more delightful conductor at the helm.

The musical pony found a seat in the middle of the bus and shuffled in place, sitting her cello next to her. She took out her diary and set it on her lap. With a pen in hoof, she began to write within the crisp, white pages:

April 15, 2012
8:00am
Southwest corner of N 43rd Ave. and W Bell Rd.

“Oh wait,” she said. “I had already written down the heading.”

The cellist scribbled out the extra words and continued:

Well, it is certainly a rainy day today. The sky is gray and misty, and the cold nips at my hooftips, and has brought out my favorite scarf from its hiding place.

Octavia looked up and scanned the seats around her.

Oddly enough, there are no passengers to write about. It seems they all have slept in this Friday morning, and I would not blame them. Such a crisp morning would send anypony back to bed, perhaps with a hot tea and a good book. Heaven knows that’s what I would want.

The journaling pony stopped her musings over the weather and looked out the large front window of the bus. She closed her diary, allowing it to sit on her lap bouncing to the rhythm of the cracked streets.

“Maybe something will happen later. Then I will have something noteworthy to write about.”

She remained quiet and waited.

Two minutes.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

The bus slowed to a grinding halt and its doors opened to the sound of pressurized air. Octavia stepped down onto the moist concrete and walked away from the door that slid shut behind her and rode away to the next stop, leaving smoky fumes in its wake. The cellist walked the familiar half mile west of Northern Ave. until she reached the brick-by-brick steps leading to the music studio. She started on the first step when a sudden realization paralyzed her next move.

This is the last practice session until the concert this Sunday. Only two days away.

The cellist felt her breathing quicken, her heart beats following suit.

She stood still for a minute, letting this fact sink in like the agony of a quick sand death.

Tears collected under her eyes.

It’s okay, Octavia. Get ahold of yourself, girl. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

The cellist shook her head and continued up the steps in a slow, steady pace. She reached for the door and opened to a blast of chilly air.

Blasted air conditioning! Don’t they know it’s freezing out here?

Octavia tightened her scarf and stepped inside the studio. Before she let the door close on its own, she heard a high pitched voice calling from outside.

“Yoohoo! Excuse me, could you be a dear and please help a lost and distressed soul for one minute?”

The musician poked her head out and saw the cloaked and hooded figure who called out to her.

Lost and distressed soul? That’s quite the dramatic way to put it.

Octavia set her cello on the ground inside the studio and made her way down the steps towards the pony.

“What seems to be the problem?” she asked.

“Well,” the mysterious figure began. “I can’t for the life of me locate the world renowned Canterlot Medical Center. I’ve been all over town and I’m getting quite restless of ending up in the wrong spot every time.”

“Well, if you go down this street you’ll hit 43rd Ave. Make a right and drive for about ten minutes, and you should arrive at the medical center on your right hoof side.”

“Oh thank you, darling.”

“My pleasure. Have a nice day.”

The music pony trotted back up the steps and let herself inside. As she bent down to retrieve her cello, she saw the cloaked pony still standing outside not having budged from her spot. The cellist went back outside with concern written on her face.

“Excuse me, but are you alright?”

“What?” The cloaked pony rattled in surprise.

“Did you forget my instructions, perchance?”

“Oh no, that’s not it at all, my good lady. You see, I’ve been traveling all morning and I am absolutely exhausted beyond belief! I just sort of dazed here for a moment. Kind of embarrassing if you ask me.”

Octavia smirked. “Well, didn’t you arrive by car?”

“Oh no, I don’t own a car.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Ponyville, of course.”

The cellist jerked back. “You didn’t walk here from Ponyville, did you?” My word, another crazy pony from Ponyville who thinks they’re invincible!

“Heavens, no! I teleported here from Ponyville, my dear.” The mystery pony removed her hoodie and lashed her magnificent purple mane back and forth, revealing a shiny white horn protruding from her forehead. “You see, I am a unicorn.”

“I do see.” My, she’s very beautiful.

“I have depleted nearly all of my magical energy wandering aimlessly around town and I’m afraid it may be awhile until I can teleport to the correct location. You wouldn’t mind helping out a weary mare such as moi, would you?”

Octavia smiled at the unicorn’s batting eyelashes. “Unfortunately, I do not own a working car. Although, if you walk down to the intersection here, you can rest at the bus stop and allow the bus to take you there. It should only take you about fifteen minutes to arrive pending normal passenger numbers. And you may being luck this particular morning since there was hardly anypony on board when I rode this morning.”

“The bus?” the pretty unicorn asked. “As in, public transportation?”

“Um, yes. Is there any other?”

“So, you ride the bus?”

“Indeed. Although, I’m in actual need of taking public transportation since my car’s transmission gave out on me.”

“Why don’t you just get it fixed?”

“Too expensive. I drive a rare breed.”

“Expensive? For you!?”

The cellist was beginning to get a little annoyed by the mare’s over the top reactions.

“Yes, there are some things a Canterlotan cannot afford. And honestly, the bus isn’t that bad.”

“Speak for yourself, bus rider. I’ve heard all the horror stories. The seats. The walls. The smells. And worse, the ponies on board!” The unicorn’s face crumpled into a disgusted scowl.

“Believe me when I tell you that it’s not all grime and slime when it comes to the bus. I mean, I’ve been riding it for two weeks and I’ve grown accustomed to its…uniqueness.”

“Well of course, after two whole weeks of weathering, you would become a mangy bus rider.”

Did she just call me mangy?

The pretty pony donned her hoodie and walked prissily away from the cellist. “No no no no no. For somepony of my standards, I would rather walk than be caught dead using public transportation.”

Octavia scratched her head. My word, what a prude pony. I wouldn’t be caught dead standing next to her!

“Octavia,” called Frederic. “I would not have expected you to arrive late.”

“Yes, well I am.” The cellist made her way past the studio door and walked to the front of the sound booth and set her cello on the ground. She looked up to find Frederic and Strings sitting inside the booth with microphones facing their instruments.

“Would you care to explain to me what is going on?” she asked with a hoof on a button and the other on her hip.

A bothered cellist rolled her eyes as she saw the harpist’s useless attempt to answer her question through the sound proof glass.

“Speak through the microphone, you dunce bucket!”

Feedback assaulted her ears.

“Oh yeah, right? Sorry ‘bout that Octavia,” said Strings.

“Very well. Now then, what were you trying to tell me?”

“I was sayin’ that we’re recording today.”

“Obviously. Care to explain why?”

“Well,” interceded Frederic. “As per the contract we signed, today marks the first day of our recording session for our first CD. Fancy Pants is dropping by later this morning to pick yours up.”

“What do you mean contracts? I didn’t sign a contract.”

“Well, my good mare, that is because I have not given it to you yet.”

Frederic stood from his playing bench and walked out of the studio, holding a pair of thick packets of white paper. He hoofed one to Octavia, who snatched it from the air and began bowling over the fine print.

“I’ll never agree to this!” she exclaimed, throwing the contract down on a table.

The pianist grabbed the contract and pushed it in the cellist’s face. “Well, if you want to continue to be a part of the group and participate in Sunday’s concert, you will have to sign and record today before Fancy Pants arrives.”

“What a bunch of bunk! I thought I made it very clear that I was not going to record my music for a bunch of money grubbing business ponies,” she replied, pushing the contract out of her face.

“Then why, pray tell, did you to return to us?”

Octavia glared at the pianist. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Well,” he said, hoofing the contract back to a suspicious cellist. “You don’t have much choice now either. If you want to play your ‘special song’ then you must sign.”

The pianist hoofed Octavia a pen along with the contract and stepped back into the booth with Strings. The music mare placed the contract on the table and hunched over it, peering into the dizzying number of words it presented and getting dizzy herself. She hovered the pen next to a printed “X” and dabbed a dot next to it.

I don’t have to stay in the quartet forever. I can leave when the contract expires. Renewals would be out of the question.

She started on the top half of the letter “O”. She lifted the pen and started on completing the letter when she stopped midway.

I never write my O’s like this. What on earth is wrong with me?

She completed the letter, and started on the following:

C

T

A

V

She paused.

What the hell am I doing!?

“Have you signed the contract yet, Octavia?” The pianist peeked over the cellist’s shoulder. “Or should I say, Octav!” He stifled a giggle.

“I-I can’t. At least not now.”

“But you must! Fancy Pants could arrive any minute now, and he does not like to wait.”

“I just noticed,” began Octavia, placing the tip of the pen on her teeth. “Susie isn’t here.”

“What does her absence have anything to do with this?”

“Well, Mr. Horsehoepin. If it is so vital that Fancy Pants get these ‘golden’ contracts today, then why pray tell is she mysteriously absent from this all-important first day of recording?”

Octavia closed her eyes midway and flashed a devious grin to the pianist pony.

“Uh..uh.” That was all he could say. He turned around and pushed the studio button on the panel. “Hey Strings, you know what happened to Susie?”

The harpist was moving his lips, but nopony could hear him through the thick glass.

“Into the microphone, you twat,” screamed Frederic.

Octavia looked on, not amused.

Strings recovered from the loudness of Frederic’s annoyed voice and gingerly reared his face to the microphone. “Well, I was just sayin’ that ol’ Bruisey Tubes ain’t here no more ‘cause she got fire-“

Frederic slammed the button on the panel. “What was that, Strings? Something about her being sick today?” He shot a nervous glance at Octavia.

“Huh? I coulda swore she was...”

“Actually Strings, if you could step away from the microphone, then we can hear you better.”

The dim witted harpist obeyed, and as expected Frederic managed to keep the truth away from hearing. He breathed a sigh of relief but turned to find an irked cellist right in his face.

He chuckled. “Um, lovely scarf your wearing today. It really brings out your…eyes?”

She brought her eye lids even lower, until they pierced his own which were wide open.

“Yes sir really brings out those beautiful peepers of yours.”

“Where is she?” she asked in a low voice.

“Who?”

Her breathing began to become more noticeable, her chest falling as quickly as it rose.

The pianist swallowed. “Oh, I presume you mean Susie?”

Octavia charged at him, checking him into the shatter proof glass. She gripped the sides of his collar and held him against his will. The pianist froze, staring into the eyes of his oppressor with the tiniest pupils.

“Where is she?” she asked again, louder and with more ferocity.

“Well, last I heard she became very ill, and so…”

“Don’t give me that lie, you idiot. Tell me the truth. What happened to Susie Tuba?”

“Now Octavia, let’s not become hasty. This is no matter over which to engage in roughhousing.”

“Then I suggest you tell me what’s going on, or Celestia help me I crush you!”

Frederic held his breath for a moment before exhaling in defeat.

“Alright. She’s not sick. She was dismissed from her part as sousaphone player for the group since she refused to sign the contract on Wednesday, the day you were on your break.”

Her muscles tensed in her forelegs and neck. Octavia tightened her grip on Frederic’s collar and rattled her hooves. The pianist couldn’t help but give a quick, faint cry at the furious mare standing before him.

“How could you?” she whispered.

“How could I what?” he whispered back. “I had nothing to do with this.”

“Your incessant ridicule of Susie’s playing is what drove her out of this group, and you know it!”

“What? You’re insane! Did you not hear me? She was fired for not signing the contract.”

“And what do you think motivated her to do so, you bastard!?”

Octavia rammed Frederic back against the glass with more force. At this, Strings rushed out of the booth and over to the two ponies. He grabbed Octavia across the chest and pulled her off of the assaulted pianist, grateful for his friend’s intervention.

“Octy, calm down will ya?”

“Let go of me, you brute! This doesn’t concern you!”

Strings tightened his grip while Octavia tried to pry his forelegs with her own. The cellist was successful in escaping from the harpist’s grasp, but her intentions for Frederic were halted by the sound of the door opening.

It was Fancy Pants.

“What on earth is going on here?” he asked calmly.

“Ask her!” said Frederic, leaning against the wall massaging his neck.

Octavia shrugged off the comment and turned her glaring eyes to the business pony. “What happened to Susie?”

“Is that what all this is about?”

“Where is she?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“Why did you fire her?” she pressed.

“As I said, that is none of your business. And need I remind you that this is a music group, not a fight club?”

Octavia brushed off the question with a huff.

Fancy Pants cleared his throat. “Now, I’m sure you have already signed the contract that Frederic showed you, hmm?”

“She sure did!” piped Strings, pointing to the table.

Fancy Pants looked over the table where Octavia placed her packet of fine print. His lips formed a slow grin as he walked towards the contract.

“I see that you have,” he said.

As he reached out to take it, Octavia swiped her hoof across the table, taking the contract just as Fancy Pants was going to grab it himself. The business stallion shook his head and looked at the cellist with annoyance.

“I need that.”

“Not until you answer my question,” she replied. “What happened to Susie?”

“I will reiterate. It is none of your concern. Now kindly hoof over your contract which you signed.”

“Tell me what happened to her,” she said, holding the contract up pinching the top. “Or you can say farewell to your deal.”

A smile broke out on Fancy Pants’ face, then he began to chuckle. It grew into a laugh so loud, even the two other music stallions joined in. Octavia was not pleased with how her threat was being taken humorously.

Fancy Pants regained his composure and sighed. “Really Ms. Octavia? I would not have expected you of all ponies to resort to a brash tactic such as this! Surely you have more class than this!”

The business pony broke into a laugh again, this time with a hoof against his head.

Octavia’s face softened, and her hooves fell slowly to her sides along with her face.

“Oh my, thank you for the laugh my dear! Now, will you please do me the favor of hoofing me your contract?”

Octavia looked up, a stern grimace reappearing on her face. “No.”

“Please my dear. I think we’ve had enough laughs for one day. Give me the contract now.”

Octavia didn't flinch. “I said no.”

Fancy Pants’s smile vanished and was replaced with a serious expression. “Do not test my patience, young lady. I would advise that you do as you’re told.”

“I am not a filly. Tell me the truth. I want to know.”

“I am a very powerful pony and I can ensure that your life becomes a true living hell if you do not cooperate.”

“What are you, the devil?”

“I can be.”

The grin he was wearing returned to his face, more menacing than before. The musician gritted her teeth and tensed her right hoof until it visibly shook. Then, she felt the contract in her left hoof zip out from her grip as if somepony snatched it. Sure enough when she recovered from the shock, Strings was placing the contract in the hooves of a very pleased business pony.

“Thank you, Strings.”

“Welcome, boss!”

The harpist made his way back to the booth, grinning at Octavia. The cellist scrunched her nose at him, making his grin even wider.

“Pest,” she mumbled.

“I didn’t know you changed your name, Octav!”

“I haven’t. But I did change my mind.”

“That’s what I thought.” He shut his eyes and brought a hoof up to the bridge of his muzzle. “Don’t make this any harder for you, my dear. You have no idea of what I’m capable of.”

The cellist grabbed her instrument and slowly walked towards the exit. She paused right next to Fancy Pants without looking up.

“Then I guess I’ll find out, won’t I Fancy Pants?” she said coolly.

Octavia broke into a brisk pace and was out the studio heading straight for the outside exits.

“What a putz,” exclaimed Strings.

She didn’t pay attention.

“Hardly a musician if you ask me,” sneered Frederic.

She didn’t react.

“You will regret this, Ms. Octavia!” Fancy Pants called out.

She didn’t turn.

She kept walking.

“He really said that as you were leavin’?” asked the doctor.

Octavia nodded. She rested a leg out of the passenger side window of the doctor’s car and watched the streetlamps slowly run past at a predictable rate. The rain finally stopped, but not without leaving behind a chilly reminder that numbed the cellist’s face, but she couldn’t pull away from it no matter how teary her eyes became from the stinging cold.

“Enjoying the air, Octavia?”

“Perhaps a little…too much.” She closed the window.

“Aw, ya’ll didn’t have to do that. I was just askin’. ‘Sides, I know why you’re enjoying it so much.”

Octavia chuckled. “I’m sure you do!”

The car stopped at a red light and several pedestrians walked out in front of the mare and her doctor. The driver took the opportunity to reach into his pocket and pull out a cigarette and a lighter. Within seconds, the stallion puffed a gray cloud out of his own window and drove off at the green light.

“I never knew you were a smoker, doctor.”

“When you’ve been in the royal guard for as long as I have,” he said. “There’s some things you just can’t quit. But it’s not like I tried to, either.”

“Why not? I mean, no offense to you.”

“I understand.” The doctor placed the cigarette in his mouth one last time before putting it out in his ash tray. “Thing is, even when you know something’s bad for ya, if it feels natural then the body does whatever it takes to maintain that harmony, or homeostasis if you’re into big words. That’s why coffee addicts get headaches and moody if they skip one day without it. It’s a mental thing just as much a physical issue.”

“So, which is it for you, doctor?”

The doctor sighed. “Even psychiatrists like me have hidden demons we struggle to get rid of. But like I said, it ain’t like I’m tryin’.”

Octavia paused to look out the window.

“So, how does it feel to help other ponies out of their problems while struggling with your own?”

The doctor didn’t answer.

“I-I’m sorry if I offended you, doctor. I was just…”

“Curious?”

The cellist rubbed her knee while avoiding eye contact with the doctor. Another moment of silence passed before he gave another sigh.

“You know Octavia? You’ve changed a lot the past couple a weeks.”

“Really? Good or bad?”

“Good of course!” the doctor chuckled.

Octavia exhaled in relief.

“Everypony’s got somethin’ they ain’t proud of. Bad decisions. Poor judgments. Sometimes, someponies had badness just thrown on ‘em for no damn good reason. But regardless of how it got there, it’s there. You just gotta deal with it. Make it as small as possible so it don’t get in the way.”

“You mean there’s absolutely nothing that can be done for ponies like me?”

“What I’m sayin’, Octavia,” he continued. “Is that it takes time. Workin’ through emotional problems is nothin’ like surgery. We can’t just reach into the brain and mush it all up until it turns into somethin’ pretty. We gotta work from the outside, without any special tools. And you know what they say about doctors…”

“They make the worst patients,” she said.

“Exactly.”

The doctor pulled into Octavia’s complex and parked alongside the fire lane. The cellist reached for the knob, but hesitated half way from pulling the handle.

“You know something doctor?”

“Yes?”

Octavia faced the doctor. “I just realized. Not once did you offer to put me on any medication.”

“Yup, that’s right.”

“Any reason why?”

The doctor put the gear into park. “Drugs only subside symptoms of emotional distress. They don’t help the problem much. And the ones that do have terrible side effects. If I get a patient that insists on me prescribing them their dosages, I ask them to leave. They can accuse me of anything they want, but just as much as I reserve the right to prescribe medication, I have the right to refuse it.”

“So, you’ve never prescribed before. Is that fair to say?”

“No, I have. Just to the extreme nut cases that set their houses on fire.”

“You’d never think me to do it?”

The doctor stared at her for a few moments then broke into a smile. “Not in a million years.”

“Oh.”

The cellist opened the door to the car and closed it with both hooves. Before she turned to leave, the doctor lowered the passenger side window.

“You know Octavia? I think you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?” she asked, turning her head to the sound of a door being unlocked.

“Ya’ll know when it happens.”

“Okay!” A rather odd statement. “And how do you know that I’m ready for said event?”

“It was all in today’s journal entry.”

“Today’s journal entry? What could you possibly have gleaned from that? It was the saddest excuse for an entry thus far!”

“It was what you didn’t say that tells me.”

Octavia scrunched her face into a confused smirk. “I don’t follow, but okay.”

“Have a good night, Octavia!” The doctor put his car into gear, and drove out of the parking lot.

The cellist looked up into the dark night and took in a deep breath of cool air.

“Oh yeah,” she said, exhaling.

She walked up the cold stairs to her front door. She reached into her cello case and pulled out her keys.

“What am I going to do with you?” she asked herself, staring at the key to her father’s car.

“I could get rid of you, but that would only leave me with one key. What pony in the world only carries around one key at all times?”

Octavia took her apartment key and stuck it in the door knob. She gave it a twist.

It didn’t turn.

That’s strange.

She tried it again, adding more force to her twist.

Nothing.

She tried jiggling the key. Then she tried shaking the whole knob.

It still wouldn’t turn.

“What the hell?”

She pulled out the key and examined it against the light. There were no chips, no crookedness, no alterations. She took a look at the brand name of the key.

Schlage.

She turned and looked at the name engraved on the door knob.

Kurzweil.

“Oh no.”

Octavia reinserted the key and tried to turn it again. It wouldn’t budge. She grabbed the knob with both hooves and tried forcing it to turn, but it was fruitless. She walked to the window and noticed that the blinds were opened.

“I n-never leave those open,” she stammered.

She pressed her face against the window and cupped her hooves over her eyes. She gasped.

“Everything is gone!”

The living room was empty and the kitchen was completely bare. She ran over to the bedroom window and sure enough the blinds were open and the room was completely cleaned out.

“But…who…”

Just then, a janitor stepped out of Octavia’s door and locked it with a key. She sprinted over to him, giving him the jumps.

“Celestia, lady, you’ll give me a heart attack!”

“I’m terribly sorry sir, but you must let me inside.”

“Why? You thinkin’ of robbin’ the place?”

“What? No! I live here!”

“So where’s your key?”

“It’s right here.” Octavia pulled out her key and stuck it in the knob. She demonstrated to the old stallion the trouble of opening it. “As you can see, it doesn’t open anymore.”

“Yeah, I can see that alright.” The janitor turned away from Octavia and headed towards the stairs.

“Wait! Aren’t you going to let me in?”

“And how do you expect me to let some stranger just walk into any apartment she says is hers, eh? You’re nuts.”

“No you don’t understand, I live here. My father, Oliver, owns the complex and this is the suite that they gave me to live.”

The janitor turned. “Oh really? Is that so?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed.

“Oh my, I am so sorry ma’am. You’ll have to forgive me for not believing in fairy tales!”

The old janitor turned back and ignored the frightened cellist.

“No, you’ve got me all wrong. I do live here, I can prove it.”

“Oh yeah, how?”

“Well, if you let me into the office to use the telephone, I can prove to you I am the daughter of the owner of this complex and that is my apartment.”

“Dontcha have a cell phone or somethin’?”

Octavia looked down. “Well, no I don’t.”

“Geez, even I have a cell phone.” The disgruntled stallion reached into his back pocket and threw the cell phone at Octavia. “Hurry up and give him a call. I ain’t got all night.”

“Oh thank you, kind sir!” Octavia quickly dialed the number to her mother’s house.

The old stallion tapped his hoof impatiently. “You done yet?”

“It’s ringing, just give it a moment.” Octavia bit her lower lip as the ring tone continued its monotonic routine. Finally, it picked up.

Hello?

“Mother, it’s me, Octavia?”

What do you want.

“Listen. There’s a janitor who needs confirmation from you that I am the daughter of the owner of this apartment complex.”

And why would he need to know that?

“Because my key isn’t working and he thinks I’m here to rob my own apartment. He doesn’t trust me so I need you to speak to him. Please?”

A moment of silence passed.

“Mother?”

Pass the phone to him.

“Of course! Thank you so much, mother!”

Octavia passed the cell phone back to the old stallion.

“Here you are. She’ll tell you!” Octavia said, with a slight elegance in her tone.

“Sure.” He ripped the phone from her hoof. “Hello?”

I do not know her. She’s crazy.

“Alright. Sorry for troublin’ ya.” He hung up the phone and continued his way to the stairs.

Octavia gasped. “H-Hey, where are you going? Aren’t you going to let me in?”

“She said she doesn’t know ya. So you better scram or I’ll call the police on you!”

Octavia walked frantically towards him. “B-But that’s nonsense! What do you mean she said she didn’t know me? I’m her daughter! Perhaps you heard wrong and…”

“I know what I heard, lady,” he replied, turning and pointing a hoof in her face. “Now I’mma tell ya one last time. Get offa this property or the cops will take your ass to jail, ya hear me!?”

“But…but.” That’s all she could say.

The old stallion put a hoof on the first step when he felt a pair of hooves fall on his shoulders and grip tightly.

“What in the name of Celestia? Get offa me!”

“No! You don’t understand! She’s lying!”

“Get offa me, you crazy bitch!”

“I need to get into my apartment! Please, for the love of Luna, let me in!”

“Let go of me or I’m callin’ the cops!”

The old stallion pushed away from Octavia whose grip gave way. His back hoof landed on the corner of the second step, which threw off his balance completely. He tumbled all the way down the stairs, hitting his head hard on the ground. All that was heard was a low moan and a piercing shriek.

“Oh my god! Are you alright, sir!”

The frantic cellist rushed down the stairs and knelt next to the injured janitor. He didn’t move a single muscle.

“Oh god, please say something. Anything!”

Octavia rolled the stallion on his back. His short gasps for air sent her into a panic.

“Back…pocket,” he managed to say.

“What?”

“Back…pocket.”

Octavia reached into one of his back pockets and found a bottle of prescription medicine.

“How many?” she asked.

“O-Open…it.”

“Okay.” Octavia twisted the top, but it wouldn’t budge. She tried again, but it proved to be too hard for the mare. She tried scanning the bottle for instruction, but there was no sign of writing on the bottle. She tried opening it a third time.

“I can’t open it,” she screamed. “I can’t open it!”

“Push…down.”

“What?”

The janitor made a pushing motion with his hooves. Octavia took the bottle and pushed the top down before turning it.

It opened.

“Oh, thank Celestia!” she said.

The janitor motioned a hoof to his mouth, his movements significantly weaker than before.

“Here, take one of th-“

She tipped the bottle to one side into her hoof. Nothing came out.

It was empty.

“Oh. Oh no. No. Why is this…no!”

She turned to the janitor whose eyes were as wide as her mouth.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll call an ambulance with your phone and we’ll get you to a hospital.”

She reached into the other pockets of the janitor’s clothes, but found no cell phone in either of them.

“What? Where’s the cell phone!?”

She jumped to her hooves and looked all around her. She went up the steps and looked on the second floor. She raced back down and went under the steps and searched through the decorative bushes. There lying in a pile of brown leaves was the phone.

“I found it! I’m calling the ambulance right now!”

Octavia dialed the number and put the phone to her ear.

Hello? What's your emergency?

"Yes, I'm calling to report an old stallion suffering a heart attack, I think. I'm not sure but, please get here. He needs help fast."

Okay, sweetie. We're sending help right away. Can you please tell me your location?

"Yes. Canterlot Square Apartments."

Okay. A crew is being sent out as we speak.

"Oh, thank you so much!"

Can you tell me how he's doing right now? Any signs of breathlessness or broken bones or anything else we should be concerned about?

"Um, I'm not sure. Let me go check."

She walked back to the old janitor to check on him.

He didn’t move.

“Sir?”

He didn’t pay attention.

“Sir, can you hear me?”

He didn’t react.

“Sir! Sir! Can you hear me!?”

He didn’t turn.

“Oh my god! I-I killed him!”

Ma'am, is he alright?

Octavia dropped the cell phone and sprinted away from the scene, leaving the old janitor lying motionless on the cold ground.

Hello? Hello? Ma’am are you still there?

Saturday: Hospital Visits

“C’mon now, Apple Bloom. Work with me.”

“I don’t wanna eat! I’m not hungry!”

Apple Bloom pushed the spoonful of vegetable soup away from her mouth, causing some to spill on the white floor of the hospital room.

“If you don’t eat your food, you ain’t gonna feel any better!”

“But I don’t wanna! I feel sick.”

“I know, sugar cube,” said her big sister, running her hoof over her red unkempt mane. “But it’s important to keep your body strong so it can fight off the bad stuff in your lil’ tummy.”

“Well that don’t make much sense. How does putting stuff in my sick tummy make my tummy feel better? Wouldn’t it hurt it more?”

“Dontcha wanna get outta here and see your friends again?”

“Of course I do,” the little filly yelled. “I miss goin’ to Miss Cheerliee’s class. I miss Scootaloo and Snips and Snails and Pipsqueak, and even Silver Spoon and Diamond Tiara!”

“Then eat your food.”

Applejack dug up another spoonful of soup and carefully reared it towards Apple Bloom’s mouth. The filly opened her mouth reluctantly and allowed her big sister to rest the spoon on her tongue while she did the rest.

“See? Ain’t it yummy in your tummy?”

“I guess so.” Apple Bloom swallowed hard and grimaced. She stretched her back on the raised hospital bed and looked up at the television hanging above the two farm ponies’ heads. “Gosh. Isn’t there anything else on besides weather and news?”

“I don’t know, Apple Bloom,” said Applejack. She held up the remote controller to her eyes and squinted. “I still haven’t figured out how to work this here doohickey.”

“Where’s the movie we were watchin’ the other day? I liked that one.”

“Oh,” she said, biting her lower lip. “You mean the one we watched like thirteen times in a row? I-I think another little filly requested it across the hall.”

“Can you go get it, big sis? I really wanna watch it again.”

“Why don’t we let another pony enjoy the movie for once? Celestia knows you got the most out of it yesterday. And so did I, involuntarily.”

“Hmph!” Apple Bloom crossed her hooves and stuck out her lower lip. “I wanted to watch it again with Sweetie Belle. And where is she anyways? She said she was comin’ right back.”

“She went to get somethin’ to eat with her sister, remember? And speakin’ of which,” she scooped up another spoonful of soup. “You aren’t done yet.”

“Can I take a little break, Applejack?” she asked, rubbing her stomach. “My tummy’s gettin’ a little sore.”

“Alright, that’s fine I s’pose.” Applejack set the bowl of soup on the elbow table and rolled it away from the bed. “You ate almost half of it. That’s more than yesterday’s supper. That’s good.”

A couple of doctors walked past the open door of the room, comparing notes on a clipboard. A nurse in between them just rolled her eyes and sighed.

“So,” Apple Bloom began. ”Since I’ve been eatin’ good and all, can you go get that movie for me now?”

The older farm pony put a hoof on her forehead. “For the last time, Apple Bloom, I said no!”

“Why not?”

“Because, somepony else has got it!”

“You can go ask nicely for it.”

“I am not about to Applelloosa Two Step into some little filly’s room and take it away from her like that.”

“Why would you do that? Just walk over and ask for it. It ain’t hard, ya know.”

“I’m not going to do it, Apple Bloom. And that’s the end of it.”

“Wouldn’t kill ya to try,” Apple Bloom mumbled. The little filly grabbed her pillow and rammed it into her face. “I’m so bored!”

“Why don’t we catch somethin’ on the TV?” Applejack grabbed a remote control off of her little sister’s bed and pored over it. “Now which is the channel button?”

Apple Bloom’s face burst off the pillow. “No wait, Applejack! That’s the…”

As soon as Applejack pushed a button with an arrow pointing upwards, Apple Bloom plunged backwards into a lying position on her bed, eliciting an “oomph”.

“…bed remote.”

“Oops. Sorry.”

“Owuh!”

Applejack slowly brought her sister back up using the remote until she was sitting up like before. Her little pout resurfaced on her face.

“You alright, Apple Bloom?”

She didn’t respond.

“Come on, Apple Bloom, it was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

Tears formed in her bright orange-red eyes.

“Apple Bloom?”

Soft sobs escaped her pursed lips.

“Oh baby. C’mere you.”

Applejack opened her hooves and Apple Bloom fell within them. The smaller farm pony broke into a soft cry into her bigger sister’s shoulder while her mane was gently rubbed down. A nurse walked inside carrying a pitcher filled with ice cold water which she set on the table. She motioned to the bowl of half eaten soup, which the orange mare nodded away.

“There, there sugarcube. It’ll be alright. Ya’ll see.” She gently set the filly against the bed and wiped the tears off her small, cream colored face. “Hows ‘bout when Sweetie and Rarity come back, we’ll let you and her choose what we watch together?”

“You mean it?” asked Apple Bloom, her breaths shaking.

“Absolutely!”

“Thanks, sis.”

She fell into her big sister’s strong embrace again, but lingered a little longer this time.

“Ew! My word, this pizza is absolutely revolting! It tastes like garbage!” Rarity pushed the Styrofoam plate greased by the thick slice across the table, away from her.

“That’s what I used to say,” said Sweetie Belle, grabbing a slice from her own plate. “But then Fluttershy told me that the chefs here at the hospital worked so hard on feeding us, that it wouldn’t be very nice to reject it.”

The white unicorn’s face crumpled into a disgusted frown as she witnessed the sight of her little sister placing the pizza in her mouth and biting off a piece. The squishes that came from her tiny chews made the unicorn regurgitate in a very unladylike manner.

“Oh! Sweetie, stop eating that, you’re making me sick!”

“What else do you want me to eat, Rarity? This is all they’ve got that I like.”

“Perhaps we should eat elsewhere.”

Sweetie scratched her head. “But where? I thought the hospital had only one cafeteria.”

“No, I meant somewhere else entirely.” Rarity stood from the table. “Surely there’s a restaurant outside of these hospital walls that will accommodate our tastes. This is Canterlot after all.”

“I know where we can go!” exclaimed Sweetie Belle, popping out of her chair.

“Please Sweetie Belle, not another pizza place.” She placed a well-fined hoof up to her delicate face. “I hardly think I could ever look at a pizza the same way again.”

“No, we can go to Seaport Village!”

Rarity squeaked. “Seaport Village? You mean the Seaport Village?”

“Yeah! It’s not far from here and I know the way.”

“I’ve only heard of Seaport Village and read about it in my monthly subscription to Pony Fashion. All of the latest fashions are sold in their exclusive outlet shops! And they feature only the finest dining in all of Canterlot! And did you know it lies right next to the glorious Equus Ocean?”

“Uh, I think so. All I know is that Fluttershy and I went there for a day and we had these delicious veggie sticks and…”

“Rumor has it that Hoity Toity goes there every Saturday to shop at Le Boutique Magnifique!” The prettified pony stomped excitedly.

“That’s great and all, but I…”

“Quick! What’s today little sister?” The older unicorn grabbed her sister by the shoulders and flashed a wide and disturbing grin.

“It’s Saturday,” she responded, shading her eyes from the sight.

A gleeful shriek that pierced the ears shot out in the simple hospital cafeteria, causing nurses filling bowls with cereal and chefs chopping vegetables for salads to turn their heads to see what all the commotion was about. An embarrassed Rarity, red in the face, quickly played it off with a lash of her magnificent mane.

“Well then,” she said, clearing her throat. “We should be on our way to Seaport Village if we want to find something of some value to eat.”

“Great!” Sweetie Belle led the happy march down the spotless halls of the hospital and out through the sliding doors into the warm evening. “I’ll show you where I ate the best fried veggie sticks and extra-large strawberry milkshake with sprinkles ever!”

“Oh,” Rarity said, a slight flutter in her voice. “That sounds…lovely.”

Just as they were about to cross the street, Rarity spotted Twilight and Fluttershy walking towards them from the left. They wore soft smiles that burst into wide grins as soon as they spotted their fashionable friend and her little sister.

“Twilight! Fluttershy!” said Rarity.

“Hello girls,” said Fluttershy.

“Nice evening here in Canterlot, eh Rarity?” asked Twilight.

“Ah yes. A nice little break from yesterday’s completely unorthodox cold and rainy day.”

“How are you, Sweetie Belle?” asked Twilight.

“Great! Hey Fluttershy! Me and Rarity are going to Seaport Village to get something to eat! Wanna come?”

“I’d love to, but I think I’ll stay and check on our girls instead.”

“You must try Barney’s Bungalow,” Twilight said to Rarity. “They serve the best milkshakes in all of Canterlot.”

“Oh, yes. Sweetie was, uh, telling me earlier. So, how did the second meeting with Princess Celestia go?”

“Great! Princess Celestia’s going to…” Twilight cut herself off as she remembered a particular member of the group with young ears that probably wouldn’t want to hear of such mature themes. She looked at Rarity and then at Sweetie Belle. “Um.”

Rarity understood. “Sweetie Belle. Could you be a dear and get my sunglasses from the dining area? I left them on our table.”

“What are you talking about? They’re on your head.”

Rarity looked up. “Oh! Well, I meant my sunglasses case! Can’t walk around Seaport Village wearing my fabulous eyewear without its case…right?”

“Alright, I’ll go get them,” Sweetie huffed.

Once Sweetie Belle was out of sight, Rarity urged her unicorn friend to continue.

“Well, Princess Celestia has decided to overturn her decision to banish the student from the Canterlot School of Magic and work on a more lenient punishment.”

“What a relief!” Rarity sighed. “ It’s so good to hear that even the Princess felt her ruling may have been a tad harsh for such a loyal pony to his mother.”

Twilight nodded. “Better yet, she’s even decided she wants to help the family out by funding whatever funeral plans there are for the mother.”

“I see,” said Rarity. “You don’t think the Princess felt obligated to do so because of her earlier ruling, do you Twilight?”

“Well, she did seem a little downtrodden while I talked to her. But, I’m sure that she’s doing all of this from the goodness of her own heart.”

Rarity and Fluttershy nodded.

“So, I take it you had no trouble finding Fluttershy waiting for you at the bus stop?”

“Well,” Twilight said grinning at Fluttershy’s direction.

The shy pegasus blushed. “I may have been a little, uh, too quiet with my calling.”

Rarity chuckled. “That’s why we love you, darling!”

The three pony friends shared a laugh when Sweetie Belle arrived, her face furrowed with annoyance.

“Ah Sweetie! Ready to go to Seaport Village?”

“There was no sunglasses case you know,” she responded in a low voice.

“Oh really? Silly me, I must have left it in Apple Bloom’s room. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to carry them on my head for now.”

“You know you could’ve just asked me to leave you and Twilight and Fluttershy to talk. I know when I’m not wanted.” The small filly walked in a huff away from the group, leaving a white unicorn shocked and the two other mares stifling giggles.

“Sweetie Belle, don’t be such a flank hurt! Wait for me, dear little sister!”

Rarity chased after her little sister and they disappeared into the late afternoon bustle of downtown Canterlot.

“Oh that Sweetie Belle,” Twilight said. “Just like her sister.”

“It’s kind of cute when you think about it,” added Fluttershy.

The two mares walked into the hospital and made their way to the elevators, passing by several ponies in the emergency waiting room. There wasn’t a single empty seat in the stuffy waiting room with many more standing, waiting, and coughing into their hooves.

“Oh my,” muttered Fluttershy as an old stallion hunched unnaturally in a wheelchair shot a painful glance in her direction.

“Kinda sad, isn’t it?” asked Twilight.

“Why are there so many sick ponies and not enough space for them all?”

“It’s just the way the system is, Fluttershy. Ponies get sick and there aren’t enough emergency rooms to take care of them.”

“But, they’re all so cramped. That can’t be healthy. Why are there so little emergency rooms?”

“Hospitals are expensive, and since the emergency room is the only thing many socioeconomically disadvantaged ponies can access, they fill up quick.”

Fluttershy sighed as a small foal wrapped tightly in the arms of her mother sneezed loudly. “Can’t anything be done to fix a problem this big and dangerous?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll bring that up the next time I talk to the Princess.”

The two mares left the emergency room and arrived in a pocket of the hallway with two elevators on each wall. A young doctor stepped out of one arriving from the topmost floor.

“Ready to go?” asked Fluttershy.

“I’ll catch up with you in a little bit,” said Twilight. “I’m gonna get a juice from the cafeteria. You want something?”

“Um, well if it’s okay with you, I’d like a cherry soda.”

“Coming right up!”

The two friends went their separate ways. Twilight walked into the cafeteria and stopped in front of a small refrigerator. She spotted the two coveted drinks and picked them out with her magic. She turned around to make her way to the cashier when she bumped into an unsuspecting mare carrying a bowl of oatmeal. They both went to the floor.

“Ooh. Gooey.”

“Oh, I am so sorry about that,” said the mare.

Twilight stood. “No that’s okay. Here let me help you up.”

The purple mare pulled the other pony up to her hooves. She wouldn’t look up.

“Is everything okay?” Twilight asked.

She didn’t say a word.

“Hey, it’s alright. It was an accident. I can help get you some more oatmeal if you want.”

“It’s not that.” The mare finally looked up at Twilight. Her blue and pink mane drooped over her deep blue eyes filled with tears.

“Oh my goodness,” Twilight exclaimed. “Bon Bon!”

“Hello, Twilight.”

A moment of silence passed between the two before Twilight asked the obvious question.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with…”

Twilight didn’t finish her question, but she didn’t have to. The cream colored earth pony burst into tears and fell into the unicorn’s chest. Twilight wrapped her hooves around her, consoling the hurting earth pony with rubs to her back.

“Oh, Bon Bon.”

“She was so close, Twilight! So close! Why did this have to happen?”

“I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” she replied, breaking away and wiping her eyes. “But I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you could come visit her in the room sometime before tomorrow morning.”

“You can count on me,” said Twilight.

The yellow earth pony nodded at her magical friend, then made her way out of the kitchen, disappearing around the corner.

The room was dimly lit, only the bright lights of the hall ways provided a little illumination.

“Please Rainbow Dash?” asked Pinkie Pie.

“Pinkie,” said Rainbow Dash, rolling her eyes. She switched on the television to the sports channel and relaxed on the bed. Pinkie Pie reached up to the small screen and turned the television off.

“I was watching that game.”

“Everything’s a game for you, Rainbow Dash,” she said.

“You don’t have to turn everything into some huge drama party, you know.”

“Just answer me this one question, Rainbow Dash,” she said. “You can do that, right? I mean, your brain hasn’t been damaged too, has it?”

“Okay, now you’re just being a total jerk.”

The pegasus reached for the remote on the bedside table, but before she could grab it, Pinkie swiped it across the room until it hit the wall, sending the batteries in all directions.

“Geez. Now the remote thinks you’re a jerk too.”

“Rainbow,” Pinkie screamed. “Quit it!”

“Quit what, Pinkie? It’s you the one who’s being the pain.”

“No.” Pinkie’s face softened. “I mean, stop being so sarcastic and realize the mess you’ve made of yourself.”

“Mess? Are you kidding? This is the stuff made of legends, Pinkie.”

“What!?” Pinkie shouted. “You mean showing up to the tryouts with one workable wing and almost no energy is legendary?”

“Damn straight,” Rainbow replied.

The pink pony sighed. “You could’ve really hurt yourself, Dashie. Even worse, you could’ve died!”

“All the more reason why I am so champion!”

At that moment, the doctor casually walked in holding up a clipboard. “Good evening, Ms. Dash. And how are we feeling?”

“Pretty good doc,” she replied, ignoring Pinkie’s scoff. “Can’t feel a thing.”

“Well, that’s good. That means the low dosage of anesthesia is sufficiently working. Let me just check a few things here.”

“Go for it!”

The doctor proceeded to unwrap the large bandage around Rainbow’s body until it fell on the bed in a soft heap. He examined the area where, days earlier, a group of specialized surgeons repaired the disfigurement of the wing mechanism. He took hold of the wing and slowly extended it. “Does this hurt, Rainbow?”

“Not at all, doc!”

“Good. How about this?” The doctor put the wing back in its resting form and pushed lightly against the socket.

The pegasus grimaced, causing her earth pony friend to gasp.

“Still tender, Ms. Dash?”

“A little. It’s not too bad.”

“Okay.” The doctor took out a pen and scribbled some notes on his clipboard. “Well, it looks like you’re recuperating at a much faster rate than average. That’s a good sign. I would estimate that we could probably start rehabilitation early next week.”

“Awesome! Does that mean I can start flying pretty soon?”

“He said rehab, Dashie. That doesn’t mean you can start flying all crazy-hazy,” said Pinkie.

“What do you know?” Rainbow shot back.

The doctor placed his pen on the crooked bed side table. “Actually Ms. Dash, she’s right. Though you are improving at a dramatic pace, the path back to normalcy is still a long one. You’re looking at eight to ten weeks of rehabilitation therapy before you can even begin to fly on your own at controlled intervals. I would say your high flying days won’t return for a good three to four months.”

“What!?” Rainbow’s mouth nearly hit the floor. “Are you sure, doc? Isn’t there some magic spell or something that’ll speed up the process?”

“I’m sorry Rainbow, but bone regeneration magic is still in its infancy. Until then, we will have to rely on traditional medical interventions. But don’t fret. Those months will go by quicker than you think.”

“You don’t know how much of a bummer that is to hear, doc,” she said lowering her head.

The doctor rewrapped the injured area and excused himself from the two mares and made his way out of the room. Rainbow Dash gave a long, exasperated sigh and slouched down the upright bed, rubbing her tender area along the mattress. She groaned as she slowly tried to pick herself up with her legs.

“Dashie! Are you okay?” Pinkie rushed to her friend’s aid. “Let me help you.”

She reached out her hooves, but they were met with a hard slap.

“Rainbow?”

“I don’t need your help.”

“But Dashie…”

“Just leave me alone, okay?” She turned away from Pinkie. “I’m having a really bad day right now.”

“You think my day has been lollipops and sarsaparillas?”

Rainbow Dash looked up to find a scowling Pinkie Pie. “At least you’re not the one with the surgically repaired wing who has to wait like a million years to fly again.”

“No! But I do have a really good friend who has a surgically repaired wing! And it hurts me so much to see her in so much pain!”

Rainbow didn’t respond.

Pinkie’s face softened. “Rainbow, why can’t you understand that I’m just so worried about you?”

“Well, why can’t you understand that I don’t care if you think I’m crazy?”

“What?”

Rainbow Dash straightened up. “Yeah. You just don’t get me. In fact, all of you don’t get me.”

“Rainbow, listen…”

“No you listen.” Her voice got louder and began to crack. “I am an athlete. I love competition. Nothing gets in my way. Nothing. Not broken bones. Not extreme weather. And definitely not super annoying friends who don’t give a shit about what I do.”

“Rainbow, please!”

“And if you had half a brain,” she continued. “You would know to get out of my fucking way and leave me the hell alone!”

“Rainbow…”

“All you care about… is your stupid parties and dumb shit like that.”

A deflating sound filled the room as Pinkie’s springy mane collapsed into a drooping straight style. Her eyes burst with streams of tears that ran down her face and spilled onto the floor. She knelt silently on the floor.

Rainbow appeared repentant, but maintained her composure.

“Pinkie, I…”

The earth pony got up and walked to the door.

“Hey.”

She stopped without looking at her injured caller.

“Weren’t you gonna ask me a question or something?”

“I…forgot.”

She lied.

I was just gonna ask you.

What color balloons you wanted for you get well soon party tomorrow.

“Did you make sure to lock the sound booth before you got out?” asked Fancy Pants.

“Sure thing, Pantsy Fants!” said Strings, tossing the key into the air.

“Good,” he said, snatching the key out of the air and placing it in the pocket of his suit jacket. “We don’t want anything misplaced or stolen, do we?”

“N-No, of course not!”

Frederic was the last one to step out of the studio, locking the door behind him and giving the key to Fancy Pants. His eyes were narrow and fierce.

“Why so glum, chum?” asked the business pony.

Frederic straightened his collar and, without saying a word, turned and walked down the street.

“He could’ve at least said goodbye.”

“Ah, don’t worry about him, boss,” said the harpist. “I mean, he’s just a little ticked since you cancelled the concert and all.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, what I meant to say was, you see, um, that because Octy and ol’ Bruisey Tubes is gone, that you had to cancel the concert, you know? By force.”

“Precisely.” Fancy Pants took out his pocket watch and walked down the steps. “Well then, I shall see you tomorrow at nine, Strings?”

“Heh, you got it boss!”

“Very well.”

The two stallions went their separate ways, one to the parking lot where his late model luxury car basked under the streetlamps, the other on a trek of five miles to his humble apartment complex hidden behind tall, bare trees.

A cell phone rang in the pocket of a suit jacket.

“Hello?”

Well?

“She didn’t show up, as planned.”

Good. So it worked.

“Like a charm, milady.”

Don’t ever call me that again.

“Alright. So, we’ll talk tomorrow?”

Yes. And one more thing, Fancy Pants.

“Yes?”

The old stallion? Nice touch.

“Just another show of brilliance, my good mare.”

The business pony ended the call and stepped inside the car. He shut the door and started the engine, prompting the radio to play classical music from the local public broadcasting station. He rode the vehicle out into the streets and entered the freeway just as the traffic dwindled to a few cars per lane.

“My, what a glorious evening to be brilliant,” he said to himself. He adjusted the rear view mirror and immediately, a mare riding in the back seat jumped into view.

It was Susie Tuba.

“My word!” He jerked the steering wheel, nearly side bumping another car in the fast lane. “But, how did you…”

“Really? Questioning how on earth I got in here?”

“W-Well, it’s just that I was not expecting you to...”

“Have you truly forgotten that you gave your own daughter a spare to your own vehicle?”

“Alright, what is it? What do you want?” he asked, starting to calm down.

“The truth.”

“The truth of what? Be specific.”

“I want to know,” she said, shifting closer to the back of her father’s seat. “What you did to Octavia.”

“I swear, if I had a nickel for every time a mare asked me for the truth…”

“Don’t joke with me, father!”

“Susie, this is none of your concern.”

“It is so my concern. Octavia is my friend and I will not stop asking until you tell me what you did to her.”

“What makes you think I did something to her?” Fancy Pants scoffed. “You make me sound like a murderer.
”

Susie gasped. “No. You didn’t…”

“What? Of course not, you stupid filly! What profit is there in murdering a pony who plays the cello for a living?”

“Then what happened?”

He didn’t respond.

“Tell me what plan you and whomever you were talking to earlier plotted against Octavia.”

“My dear, this is none of your concern. Therefore, it would be wise for you to stop asking silly questions and remain buckled in your seat.”

“But, I…”

“Do it, Susie!”

The sousaphone player threw herself against the back seat and crossed her hooves. She was looking out the window when she noticed the lock protruding from the panel.

An idea entered her mind.

“Now see here, Susie, I had nothing to do with your…little friend. She left the group on her own terms and I had to remove her name from the Sunshine Musical Group. Thus, also cancelling tomorrow night’s performance. We are continuing sessions at the studio with the remaining members, and that is all there is to it. In fact, if memory serves me correctly, you refused to sign the contract yourself. Isn’t that right?”

She didn’t answer back.

“Susie, did you hear me?”

He heard the sound of the door becoming unlocked.

“What on earth are you doing back there?”

He peeked at the rear view mirror and met eyes with his daughter.

She had a hoof on the lock, and another on the handle.

“Susie…”

“Just imagine what all the ponies back home will say when they read in their morning papers that the daughter of world renowned business pony Fancy Pants threw herself out of her father’s car.”

“Susie…”

“Everypony in the world will know the name. Fancy Pants! Not because they were charmed out of millions to add their name to the rotting stink pile of stupid stock options, but because he was a horrible father to his little girl!”

“That is enough of your pranks, young lady. Now lock that door this instant!”

“This isn’t a prank, daddy!” She began to sob. “They were never pranks! They were desperate attempts at your attention, your love! A little girl shouldn’t have to do that!”

“That is enough out of you!”

“You never wanted me! I was just an incurred debt from one of your many, many floosy transactions.”

“Do not accuse me of being dirty,” he shouted, pointing a hoof. “You have no right!”

Susie laughed. “I’ve held that right for the last twenty years. Twenty lonely years!”

The anxious driver looked at a sign on the side of the freeway. Two more exits.

“Now Susie dear,” he began. “Be a reasonable young lady and take your hoof of the handle and lock the door. You will accomplish nothing if you do this.”

“Would you change?”

Fancy Pants gulped, and didn’t respond. Sweat trickled down his forehead.

“Tell me what I want to know.”

“I…can’t.”

“Suit yourself.”

Susie gripped the handle and pulled.

“Susie!”

She pushed her weight against the door.

Nothing happened.

“W-What?”

She tried again, repeatedly.

Nothing.

“Child lock?”

“Thank Celestia,” said Fancy Pants, exhaling.

“B-But…”

“I knew there was a reason I kept those on!” Fancy Pants wiped his brow and slapped his thigh.

She tried opening the window.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” teased Fancy Pants. “Those are on lock as well.”

“For twenty years…”

“Now, let this be a lesson for you, my dear daughter, to never pull off a stunt like that again! Now sit back in your seat and buckle your seat belt!”

Susie silently obeyed, grabbing the belt at her shoulders and pulling it down across her chest.

Fancy Pants pulled out of the freeway into the exit lane, stopping hard at the red light. “Judging exit speeds: My only fault,” he chuckled.

Several cars lined to the left and right and back of the luxurious car. He flipped open the glove compartment and pulled out a cigar, lighting it in his mouth. He opened a window to let out a puff of smoke and was shocked to hear screaming coming right at him.

Horn blasts soon followed.

“What is their problem?” he asked himself. He peeked at his rear view. “Do you know, Susie?”

Susie didn’t respond.

She had the seat belt wrapped around her neck. She had pulled it completely out.

She wasn’t moving.

“Susie! Susie!”

He unbuckled and shook her.

“Susie! For the love of Celestia, Susie!”

Nothing.

“Susie! You stupid filly, wake up!”

He slapped her across the cheek. Twice.

“Wake up!”

“Hey!” yelled a voice outside.

Fancy Pants turned. A police stallion with a badge reading “Chief Good Guy” knocked on the window of the car, beckoning the rich pony inside to let him in.

Fancy Pants opened the door. “Officer. Thank goodness you’re here. I have no idea what happened.”

“Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to step out of the vehicle.”

“What?”

“Sir, please. Just step out of the vehicle.”

“O-Okay, sure.”

Fancy Pants crawled his way out of the car, allowing a team of four pony paramedics to carefully retrieve the motionless body of Susie Tuba, place her on a stretcher, and carry her gently to a nearby ambulance. Fancy Pants watched from a distance as the ambulance wailed off at breakneck speeds down the street towards the Canterlot Medical Center.

“Um, excuse me, ma’am?” he asked a police mare standing nearby. “H-How soon can I leave?”

“Sorry sir, but you’ll have to wait until the chief comes out.”

“Comes out? What is he doing in his car?”

“He’s running your plates.”

“Oh,” he replied, a touch of uneasiness tainting his normally arrogant baritone.

The chief officer stepped out of his squad car and walked towards the business pony carrying a pad, pen, and a determined look on his stubbly face.

“Cuff him, 5-0.”

“W-What?” gasped Fancy Pants.

“You got it, chief.”

The police mare walked behind Fancy Pants and cuffed all four hooves together.

“W-Wait, there must be some kind of misunderstanding here. I didn’t kill her. She’s my daughter!”

“Mr. Fancy Pants?”

“Um…yes, chief?”

Chief Good Guy took of his cap. “I ran your plates through the system. Apparently, your car was spotted at the time of a crime at Canterlot Square Apartments. We’re just gonna take you in for some questioning.”

“Questioning? I didn’t do anything wrong officer. Honestly.”

“Well, we’ll let the interrogation determine the validity of your claims.”

“Is that all that will occur? Just questions and then you’ll let me go?”

“No. We’re also gonna look into your background and run some history searches to see what kinda pony you are.”

Fancy Pants gulped. “I-I demand that I speak with my lawyer before answering any questions.”

“What you so scared about, if you really are innocent, Hot Shot?” Chief stared at the trembling business pony cold blooded. “You got something to hide?”

“No, of course not! But I do reserve my right to my attorney’s counsel before speaking with any of you!”

The chief flashed Fancy Pants a sly smile. “That’s fine.”

Chief and Fancy Pants made their way to the side of the squad car, where the door was opened for the business pony to slide into his seat. The door was shut and the police stallion walked over to his subordinate, leaving a nervous pony pressing his muzzle against the window.

“5-0, I’mma take Hot Shot here down to the station for some breaking. Search the vehicle and write up a report of whatever you find. Radio me if it’s anything interesting.”

“You got it, chief.”

The police stallion went back to the squad car and pulled away from the scene. Not two minutes of driving passed before Fancy Pants tried to speak with the street-hardened cop.

“You know officer, I am a very distinguished individual.”

“Sure you are.”

“You don’t understand. I am a very successful business pony, and as such I’ve had my run-ins with certain ponies who would want to see the demise of my financial empire.”

“So, you’re saying you were set up or something?”

“Yes. I’ve had several cases with the law, but every one of them was overruled in my favor because of manipulation against my favor.”

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, Hot Shot.”

“It’s Fancy Pants,” he said, begrudgingly.

“Whatever.”

A call to the chief’s radio interrupted the conversation.

“Chief here, over.”

This is 5-0. You’re not gonna believe what I found in the trunk, over.

Chief glared at Fancy Pants in his rear view mirror. “What you find, over.”

A body. Old stallion dressed like a janitor, over.

“Lovely. Dispatch some CSI ponies then meet me back at the station, over.”

Got it. Over and out.

Chief Good Guy dropped his radio on the passenger seat and let out a hard chuckle. “Looks like you’ve got some explaining to do, Hot Shot.”

“I had nothing to do with that, Officer,” he shouted. “Nothing!”

“Keep it down back there! Don’t make me whip out the stick to beat you into a silent pulp!”

“I don’t know who put that body in there! I swear it, I never even heard of the stallion!”

“I said that’s enough!”

The suspect in the back seat remained quiet for the rest of the ride. Upon arriving at the police station, the black sky produced a light patter of ice cold rain. Small droplets slithered down the slightly tinted window leaving a trail of intermittent drops in their wake. When he stepped out of the vehicle, Fancy Pants walked a few moist steps into the station, where he was directed to sit and wait in a small jail cell.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Oh-So-Distinguished Fancy Pants,” said Chief Good Guy with a laugh.

Fancy Pants surveyed the area around him, which included a small hoofful of ragged hoodlums and not much else. The rich stallion took a seat on the floor of the cold cell and buried his face into his hooves.

“You stupid filly,” he whispered.

“And then she said that all I cared about were my parties and poopy stuff like that,” Pinkie wailed. “But she didn’t say poopy! She said something really, really, bad!”

The mane six minus one gathered closely inside of the sleeping Apple Bloom’s room. Sweetie Belle dozed soundly in a recliner next to the farm filly, so the older group of ponies took the opportunity to talk and comfort their hurting pony friend

“Aw, sugarcube,” said Applejack, holding the crying pony in her comforting embrace. “She’s just a little high strung right now. She didn’t mean none of it.”

“Perhaps not,” said Rarity. “But still, that was a very rude thing to do, even for somepony as brash as Rainbow Dash.”

“This just isn’t a good time for any of us right now,” added Twilight. “So many ponies are hurting. But we need to stick together and comfort one another, even if we do seem a bit rude or unruly. That’s the important thing”

All the girls nodded except for Fluttershy.

“Fluttershy?” said Rarity.

Her eyes appeared glazed, staring at the floor.

“Darling what is it?”

“Is something wrong, sugarcube?” asked Applejack.

She continued to stare at the floor.

“Fluttershy?” said Twilight.

“I-I’m so sorry,” she finally said. “I-I just can’t take much more.”

All the girls nodded.

“When will this be over?”

“I don’t know,” said Twilight. “But rest assured that it will be over. You’ll see. We’ll all come out of this stronger than before.”

“She’s right, sweetie,” chimed Applejack, caressing Pinkie’s mane. “Ain’t nothin’ that can break us apart. Not Nightmare Moon. Not Discord. And not any ol’ sickness either.”

“It’s not the sicknesses I’m worried about,” said Fluttershy, beginning to sob. “What if Rainbow is never the same again?”

“Whatever do you mean, darling?”

“You heard Pinkie Pie. Rainbow said all of these horrible, horrible things to her because she felt like none of us understood her. Well, what if after she’s all better, she leaves us to go for her dreams?”

Twilight spoke. “I highly doubt that will happen Fluttershy. Rainbow Dash is the Element of Loyalty, remember? She would never...”

“But loyal to who, or what?” the pegasus posed.

“Fluttershy…”

“Ponies can change you know, Twilight. And after something as traumatic as having your wing nearly ripped off and making a weeklong trip on hoof on your own, I can’t imagine Rainbow ever being the same again.”

“But how can you be sure that Rainbow will change so dramatically?” asked Rarity.

All the ponies nodded in accord with the unicorn’s query.

Fluttershy sighed. “You girls are looking at the pegasus who vowed to live on the ground after she met her destiny.”

The words hung in air for a minute before crashing down on the shoulders of everypony present. Twilight Sparkle stared at the shy yellow pony speechless. Rarity looked at the ground and scratched it with her hoof. Applejack didn’t say a word and Pinkie Pie restarted her cries into the farm pony’s shoulder. After a long moment of silence, the yellow pony spoke.

“Maybe Rainbow Dash doesn’t want our support anymore.”

“Or perhaps, Fluttershy,” said a voice from outside. “She needs you support now more than ever.”

Every eye darted over to the entrance, and every mouth let out a gasp.

Sweetie Belle blinked her eyes and looked as well. Her sleepy lips formed into a pleased grin.

“Octavia! You made it!”

Saturday: Hospital Visits Pt. 2

“That’ll be fifty dollars.”

“I-I beg your pardon?”

“Fifty dollars. Now are you gonna pay me or what?”

The cellist reached into a cheap purse she found and scavenged for whatever loose bits she still had to her name to pay for her taxi ride to the Canterlot Medical Center. She pulled out the entire content of the purse, two ten dollar bits.

“That’s all you got?”

“I’m terribly sorry sir, but I’m afraid it is.”

The rumpled stallion sighed then set his eyes on the horrendously configured imitation bag. “That’s a nice bag you got there. Would really look good on my wife. How’s ‘bout you give that and your money to me?”

“Uh, sure. Take it.”

The taxi driver snatched the purse away from the befuddled mare and sped off down the illuminated parking lot of the hospital.

“Dear Celestia,” she muttered, staring down at her now empty hoof. “What a rip off.”

Octavia walked into the hospital and stopped on the padded blue mat. A long, sweeping survey of the inside revealed a bombardment of sights toppling over each other for her attention, including a multicolored tile floor, equally decorated walls, a front desk surrounded by flyers of all sizes, and towering palm trees whose fronds nearly greeted every walking patron with a brush across the cheek. The waiting hall was completely empty, save for a few cushioned chairs, accompanying tables, and monthly subscriptions scattered by ponies with more pressing matters to attend to. The bedazzled mare shook her head and made her way to the front desk.

“Hello, may I help you?” asked a cheerful young unicorn wearing bright red glasses.

“Yes, I would like to visit a friend this evening. Her name is Apple Bloom. Would you do me the favor of locating her room?”

“One moment.” The unicorn swiveled her chair to face a computer and began typing quickly. “What was that name again?”

“Apple Bloom,” Octavia responded.

“Okay, just gimme a minute here,” she mumbled as she searched for the name on the registry. “Is she a relative or a friend of yours?”

“Actually, she’s the little sister of a friend.”

“Oh really? What happened?”

“Well,” Octavia began. “Apparently she was diagnosed with a stomach complication. Pelvic fracture impaction or something along those lines.”

“Oh, you mean pelvic flexure impaction?” she asked, touching the rim of her spectacles.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“So she had surgery and everything?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, poor baby!” The young mare ran a hoof over the bright screen that reflected off her lenses and stopped about midway. “Aha! Apple Bloom. She is on…the third floor, room three fifteen.”

“I see. Well, thank you very much.”

“No problem! Say hi to Apple Bloom for me! Hope she gets better!”

The cellist turned to grin at the request before continuing her way to the elevators. After passing a quiet cafeteria and several yellow signs warning of a slippery floor, the mare turned a corner and found herself in a small pocket of the hospital where the elevators stood. She pressed a button and waited patiently for whichever elevator arrived first. She looked up at an analog wall clock, the only wall with no elevator on it, and read nine thirty.

“I hope I’m not arriving at too late an hour,” she whispered to herself.

The cellist turned back to the elevator in front of her when out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a colt of about nine with a Mohawk-styled mane sitting in a wheelchair in front of the elevator next to hers. He wore a cast on his right back leg which was suspended by a mechanism particular to the wheelchair’s model, but the mare made nothing of it.

“Hey,” the colt said to the mare.

She slowly turned to face him and raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

“Which one do you think is gonna get here first?”

The cellist smiled. “Honestly, I don’t particularly care so long as one gets here.”

“I think it’s gonna be this one,” he said, ignoring her comment and pointing a healthy hoof to the elevator in front of him.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Because this one always comes first.”

“Any specific reason why, you think?”

“It’s because,” he said. “Whenever I come here and push that button, this one always gets here first.”

The intrigued mare smirked at his response. “That’s interesting. You know, it could be different this time. Another elevator could arrive sooner.”

“No,” he said with a smile. “I know this one will come first.”

“Well,” she said, grinning. “I think mine will get here first!”

“Nope! Mine will.”

“Really? Care to wager?”

The colt turned serious. “You mean like a bet?”

“You’re a smart colt.”

“My mom says that betting is a sin.”

The cellist could hardly hide her laugh. “Well, you have a very smart mother!” She thought for a second. “Tell you what. How about if your elevator wins, I buy you whatever you want from the cafeteria later?”

“Okay!” The little colt squirmed with excitement in his seat at the prospect of getting whatever he wanted from the poor, stupid mare.

“And if I win,” she continued.

“What?” he asked looking up.

“You have to give me a kiss on the cheek.”

“Gross! Are you a cradle rocker or something?”

The cellist let out another hearty laugh, which was cut off prematurely by the arrival of an elevator that, at her disadvantage, opened in front of the young colt sitting in the wheelchair.

“I win!” he squealed. “You owe me whatever I want from the cafeteria!”

Octavia smiled. “Okay, okay. You win.”

The young colt turned on a wheel in his chair and zoomed out into the white halls.

“Hey,” she called out. “You’re going to miss the ride up!”

“But you owe me something from cafeteria, remember?” he yelled back.

“I said later, you impatient patient!”

“But I want it now! Please?”

The mare looked back up at the clock and sighed. I suppose Apple Bloom can wait a few more minutes.

“Alright, I’m on my way.”

“Yay!” He scooted away.

“Hey, wait for me!”

The elevator opened up to the third floor, and from within its glossy titanium walls came the cellist and her new found friend, happily smacking his lips.

“I can’t believe this time it was MY elevator that got there first,” she said audibly so the colt could hear. “Why couldn’t it have been that way before?”

The young colt giggled as he took one last taste of his prized treat before disposing the remains into a waste bin.

“I take it you enjoyed the extra-large non-fat yogurt, hmm?”

All she heard in response was a very sticky “mm-hmm.”

“Good,” she chuckled. “Well, I suppose this is good bye, um…”

“Crash,” he said, filling in the blank.

“Oh, that’s…interesting,” she said, biting her lower lip.

“That’s okay. I know my name makes a lot of sense. I’m kind of a daredevil and I’m always getting hurt. Like this leg here? Scooter off two flights of stairs right into a wall. Snap!”

The mild mannered mare shuddered at the sound of his clop proving his point. I wonder how your mother sleeps at night.

“In fact,” he began with an air of pride. “When I grow up, I’m gonna be a stunt pony!”

“That sounds lovely, I guess.”

“What’s love got to do with it?”

The cellist stifled a giggle over the obvious reference.

Crash just frowned. “Well, I gotta get back to my room. My mom’s probably going crazy since I haven’t been back for a couple hours now.”

“As she should be,” she exclaimed. “What on earth is a young colt like you doing out and about on your own in a place like this?”

“Come on, it’s not like we’re in a dark alley or something. Besides, when you’ve been here as long as I have, you know where everything’s at. You even know some things you never wanted to know.”

“Really,” she said, feigning interest. “Like what?”

“Well,” he said, waving her in. “You see that laundry room over there?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s always locked and a doctor and a nurse are always seen going in.”

“That’s strange,” she said, no longer faking her curiosity.

“You know why around here it’s known as the ‘dirty sheets’ room?”

The mare smirked “Isn’t that where they wash used linens?”

“Well duh! But you know how the ‘sheets’ get ‘dirty’ with a doctor and a nurse in there together?” he asked, nudging her.

The mare in a bow tie took a second to think about her little friend’s cryptic clues. Soon enough, like bread baking inside a sweltering oven, her face grew into a shocked smile.

“My word,” she said, hitting the colt on the shoulder. “How on earth do you know these things?”

“Hey, word gets around here! And calm yourself!”

“I think somepony needs to have their television taken away from their room at nights!”

“Never,” he said, grinning deviously. He grabbed the large wheels of his chair and started his way down the hall. “Well, I gotta go. See ya later, babe.”

“Alright, have a good night, Crash.” The music pony walked in the opposite direction towards a small waiting room when a sudden realization stopped her once again.

Did he just call me babe?

She turned around to find a long hallway minus one pleasantly defiant colt in a wheel chair.

Dear Celestia!

She walked for what seemed like hours.

Do these white walls ever stop? It’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven.

An excruciating moan from one of the open rooms halted her cautious steps for a moment.

Or maybe hell.

She continued walking until she reached the end of the long hallway. Two hallways stretched on either side of her, but the cellist kept her weary eyes peeled on the sign in front of her. Two arrows pointed the way, the left leading to rooms five hundred to five hundred forty-nine, the right up to five hundred ninety nine.

Let’s see. What was the number again?

Five fifteen? Five fifty?

Five fifty. That sounds right.

She turned right. The large pale door marked with the deep blue numerals appeared immediately to her right.

The door was closed.

...

She put a hoof on the knob and breathed in a long sigh.

Okay. Here we go.

She opened the door and poked her head inside. The room was completely dark save a single light coming from a lone lamp sitting crookedly behind the curtain that separated the two beds. The bed closest to the entrance was bare and so was the entire room. Octavia stepped inside, careful not to create too much disturbance for the motionless figure that lied on the veiled bed. She stepped on something smooth and cylindrical, like a pen, and nearly lost her step.

“Oh,” she squeaked.

The shadow behind the curtain jerked its head to the unexpected visitor. “Hey! Who goes there?”

“Huh?”

“You heard me,” said the patient rather brashly. “Who are you and why are you here?”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” replied Octavia, realizing the voice sounded nothing like a small filly with a stomach problem. “I must have the wrong room. I’ll be on my way then.”

“Hey.” The mysterious voice straightened up and flung the curtain aside to address Octavia directly. “Can you refill my water really quick?”

“What?” The musician looked up to find a familiar looking mane of many colors rustle over a pair of fervent magenta eyes. No way. That’s not…

“Oh my bad,” said Rainbow Dash, falling back into bed. “I thought you were a nurse or something.”

“No, I’m just visiting somepony.” Octavia straightened her mane and looked at the injured pegasus with interest. “Rainbow Dash?”

“Yeah? What’s it to you?” she replied, paying no attention to her and electing instead to read a book in her hooves.

“Well, don’t you remember me?”

She didn’t look up. “Yeah. You’re that one pony from the bus asking me all those weird questions.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling a little ashamed from the response. “Well, what happened to you?”

Rainbow Dash closed her book and sighed. “Isn’t it obvious? I had surgery on my wing.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” She reopened her book. “So, isn’t there somepony else you need to bother with your stupid questions?”

“W-Well, I…”

“Door’s behind ya, sweetheart.”

The concerned mare felt a rush of embarrassment come over her. She thought about leaving, she even pictured it. But she also pictured another scenario. A different one. A bold one.

I think I’ll put her in her proper place.

“I don’t know ,” she replied, a grin appearing on her face. “If I can find another pony stupid enough to answer my questions.”

The cyan pony put her book down and glared at the grey mare. “Whaddya mean by that, egghead?”

“Come on Rainbow Dash,” she said, gaining confidence. “You and I both know you love answering questions about yourself. You’re probably in love with that pesky little rasp in your voice that annoys the hell out of just about everypony.”

“Hey,” she piped, her voice cracking. “I’ve got fans all over the place just from my voice alone!”

“Of course you do.” The bluffing cellist brushed her hoof on her bow tie and shot a proud look at the upset flyer. Am I selling it enough?

“How much you wanna bet?” Rainbow threw the covers off her body and stuck her flaming face into Octavia’s cool countenance. “We’ll march right down the hall and I’ll have every cripple in this damn hospital crawling just to hear me talk.”

Yes.

“Really? Then calling for help out of your inept flying accident shouldn’t have taken so long, am I right?”

“W-What?”

She had her.

“Please, Rainbow Dash. Your voice is like an ambulance siren: it causes ponies everywhere to stop reluctantly just so you can rush into another accident.”

“B-But…”

“In fact, they should just rip your head off and stick it on every single ambulance. Nopony would miss that spectacle on the road. I mean, you already know what it’s like to have something ripped from your body, no?”

Ouch. Was that too much?

Who cares? It felt good.

The cellist could not help a sly grin from emerging on her hot face. The flyer, meanwhile, let her flank fall on the mattress and a look of utter shock extended from her crunched brow down to her wobbling chin. She didn’t speak for several moments, of which the cellist was glad for since the emotions that bubbled inside her was a mixture of pleasant relief and expectant nervousness.

I cannot believe I pulled this off so easily! How will she react?

“Damn,” Rainbow Dash finally said. “That was…harsh.” A small smile emerged from the former wasteland that the initial shock left behind on her face. “It was kinda awesome too.”

The refined mare hid the urge to squeal behind a proud huff.

“I never pictured you as the trash talking type,” said Rainbow, now fully relaxed and putting up her front legs behind her head.

“I’ve been told I had a way with words.”

“Yeah, but what you just said. I mean, the whole ambulance and rip-off-my-head thing was beastly!”

Octavia polished an invisible apple. “Well, I do have a competitive spirit flowing through my body. It’s rather dormant most of the time, but it does rear its feisty head every once in a while.”

“Competitive? You?” At this the athlete laughed and laughed nearly to the point of tears. She looked up to find a mildly upset mare with a hoof on her hip. “Oh come on, don’t take it that way. I mean, you’re like a musician or something, right? Isn’t everything you do all artsy-fartsy stuff?”

“You would be surprised, Ms. Rainbow Dash.”

The sudden turn to seriousness caught the laidback flyer off guard.

“I wake up every morning at five. One hour of scales. One minute of breakfast. Another two hours of scales. If I’m feeling generous, I’ll throw in a minute break or two. Then it’s off to the bus stop to practice with the boys from the group for six hours. Come home, another round of scales until I play myself to sleep.”

Rainbow didn’t say a word.

“Dinner is optional.”

“Geez. Do you ever go to the bathroom?”

“Didn’t I mention I take a minute break?”

“Do you do anything else with your life? Like have a hobby or take naps?”

“Why bother?”

“Are you ever satisfied with a day’s work?”

“Nothing satisfies the musician,” she responded walking towards the window. “Not even their own work. At least, the ones that are worth their salt will find something to improve upon. It is very easy to be content with mediocrity in the world of music. Just turn on your radio and you’ll find it in almost every single production that filters through your speakers.”

“So, you’re saying they’re not trying hard enough?”

“No. I’m saying they aren’t good period. And they will never be good without that fervent spirit of competition driving them to become better than anyone else. Music, Rainbow Dash, is like anything else. You can be happy with what you have, or you can become the best through hard work and determination.”

The cellist sat on the edge of the bed while her listener scooted closer.

“Unfortunately, the world of music is rife with so-so performances doused with a gold coating by greedy ponies and bought by the ton by the general public. It would be like a politician making empty promises to better their standing with the voters, or a stock broker fudging numbers in his favor to make a sale.”

“Or an athlete who uses steroids to gain an advantage during the competition, even though it’s totally bogus,” added Rainbow Dash. “Boy, do I hate that!”

“Precisely,” said Octavia with a smile.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” said a nurse holding a pitcher of water. “I don’t mean to interrupt but would you like me to exchange you pitchers?”

“Yeah, go for it,” answered Rainbow, waving her off.

The elderly nurse switched the pitchers and excused herself.

“So it’s you against the world, eh?” she asked, stretching out far for the water. “I c-can relate.”

Octavia obliged to serve the thirsty patient a glass of water and hoof it to her. “Not exactly.”

The pegasus took a quick sip and raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Music to a musician like me is like a drug. Some ponies get hooked. Other don’t. The ones that don’t find it to be an unnecessary conglomeration of harmonized noises that is useless from a practical standpoint. But for the ones that do, it is life itself. And it is very dangerous to avoid the addiction that can unravel your life of pleasant curiosity and morph it into an endless struggle for that wonderful high that first song gave you. You look for it anywhere. In disorganized shelves. In shady stores. In ponies you never met before. You make deals that would be suspicious to anyone else with a sane mind. But to you, it is a passport to the land you once knew. And like many addictions, it wears your body down until you can’t even rise from your own bed. The dealers breathe down your neck every second for their dues, and there you are trying to work something out. It’s fruitless really, because they own everything that you have and everything that you are. They created you. Music has become not an experiment, but manufacturing. It has lost its savor and originality and has been given a DNA easily replicated. It doesn’t matter to them though. The dealers will make their money, the public will get their tasteless music, and all that you’re left with is an insatiable hunger that will never go away.”

Octavia paused for a moment to watch the ice cube swirl endlessly in her plastic cup. The mare lying next to her hadn’t picked up her own cup of refreshment for the entire talk, and her eyes locked squarely on the musician seated next to her.

“You could say,” she continued. “That all of my battles for perfection, for fulfillment, for peace, are against me.”

“I think I know where you’re coming from now,” said Rainbow, straightening up. “It’s kinda like what I go through with my flight training. I know I can be the best. I can feel it. It’s this amazing high that nothing else can bring to me. The chance of being the greatest flyer in the world is what keeps me pushing harder than the rest.”

Have you ever discovered something that was bigger than life, even bigger than you? It feels like a flood of uncertainty rushing over you, leaving you no room to rest. No room to breathe. No room to live. The only thing that matters is to survive. And the only way to survive is to keep pushing.

She looked at her repaired wing and ran a gentle hoof over it. “And this is what happens when you push for that feeling too far.” She sighed. “I probably need help.” The pegasus felt a soft hoof perch on her shoulder and looking up, found a pair of purple eyes embracing her fallen face with empathy.

“No. You just need to reevaluate.”

“I guess. But my friends probably think I’m a jerk now.”

“In an effort to sound as non-cliché as possible, I will say that true friendship is unconditional.”

Rainbow chuckled. “Yeah, I gotcha.”

The cellist looked up at the wall clock. Ten fifteen.

“Well, I will leave you to rest. I need to go back down and ask where my friend is staying since I misunderstood the first time.”

“What’s your friend’s name? I might know since she seems to be pretty close to where I’m staying.”

Octavia thought for a moment. “Her name’s Apple Bloom.”

“Oh, Applejack’s sister? She’s in three fifteen down the hall.”

Octavia let out a laugh. “Of course! Three fifteen, not three fifty! How did you know she was Applejack’s sister?”

“Applejack’s a really close friend of mine.”

“I see.” Octavia walked towards the exit.

“Hey!” A grin appeared on the Rainbow Dash’s face. “You know for a musician, you have really bad hearing.”

Octavia stared at the pegasus’s wrapped wing and sneered. “Do you really want to go there?”

Rainbow chuckled a second time. “Guess not. Thanks”

The grey mare smiled then walked out of the room in pursuit of room three fifteen.

“Papa, am I going to die?”

“What?” Octavia blurted.

The sweet, still voice froze the mare in her steps, but she didn’t dare disturb the heart wrenching scene unraveling to her right with her curiosity. She could feel the gazes from the family inside burning like a sweltering camp fire. Her initial reaction was to look at her hoof as if searching for the time, but of course she didn’t own a watch, making the scene even more unbearable. She walked away slowly from the open door and stopped right next to it out of sight, eager to hear the rest of this seemingly normal hospital conversation.

“What kind of stupid question is that?” asked a gruff bass voice. “Of course you will not die, you foolish filly.”

“Honey, please,” said a softer, more feminine voice.

“I’m scared, mama.”

“You have no reason to be scared,” boomed the tough-guy stallion. “You should be ashamed for doing what you did.”

“I-I’m sorry, Papa.”

Octavia mustered the courage to peek her purple eyes inside. She could see a small filly in a greenish gown and yellow hair tie huddled with a fair looking mare with bright blue eyes. The filly’s father, sporting a fiery red mane, took his time to answer, brushing off a few hairs on his wrinkled jacket.

“Sorry’s not enough. You have put your entire career in jeopardy. This is going to require double skating training to make up for the time you lost.”

“Firestorm, please,” the filly’s mother pleaded, brushing strands of loose blonde mane off her eyes. “She’s only a little girl. Don’t make her worry so much over a petty thing as training.”

“Shut up, mare!” The sudden burst in volume shook even the grey pony incognito. “You do not understand the magnitude of this incompetent filly’s actions! She will never be able to compete like before. She is now useless in the heat of competition. She will never turn professional when she grows up. And she will never have any sympathy from any judge in this whole world because she only has three legs!”

“Papa! I said I was sorry!”

“I don’t need your apologies or your tears!” he shouted, straightening the ends of his sleeves. “You’ve really done it this time. You just couldn’t follow a few simple rules. And now, you’ve thrown away your entire future. You are worthless to me.”

“Papa, wait! Don’t go!”

“Let him leave, Summer Breeze,” said her mother, smoothing her crying daughter’s bow tied mane. “He doesn’t love you the way I do.”

My god, no! Why did you say that?

“Hey!”

The bellowing voice caught Octavia by surprise. “W-What?”

His face crumpled just like his jacket. “Were you spying on me?”

“I was just, well I mean, you see…” The cellist began walking backwards creating some much needed space between her and her accuser. Then, like a sudden shock of electricity, an eruptive urge assailed her stomach reaching to the bottom of her throat. She placed a hoof over her mouth and charged past the stallion, leaving him confused and cursing to the air.

The lights in the restroom flickered without end. Scribbles of black and blue crawled all over the flimsy walls surrounding her. She gripped the crusted sides of the porcelain seat and held her head in impending suspension over the septic water. The cold, hard tile floor bruised her knees, but she waited patiently, tensely for the incoming release.

Another pony walked into the restroom and Octavia could hear the rhythmic bumps of a bucket rolling across the uneven floor and the water mixed with a cleaning agent sloshing against its sides. She could see the pony park the bucket on the far side of the wall and begin mopping the floor with long strides, left and right. Left and right. The pony got to the middle of the bathroom before retreating to dunk the mop into the bucket and continue where she left off.

Octavia faced the toilet again and shut her eyes. She looked deep in prayer.

Come on. Out with it, then.

She rattled the seat and clenched her teeth. The digestive juices made their movements known, loud and clear, but nothing came out. The warm saliva continued to fill the pockets of her mouth, but they were behaving like nothing more than a tease of real relief. She thought about gagging herself, but quickly scratched that idea.

How embarrassing would it be to alert the janitor of my presence like that?

Convinced that it was a losing battle, the cellist stood to her hooves and turned to leave the stall.

“Hey, you okay in there?” she was asked to her face.

“Er, yes. Thank you.”

Octavia tip hoofed away from the curious janitor and picked up the pace noticeably out the door. The stabilized lights of the hallway blanketed the troubled mare with a sense of restored order. The feelings to vomit subsided little by little as she made her way across the hall in the direction of Apple Bloom’s room.

Three fifteen. Not fifty.

Three twenty.

Three nineteen.

Three eighteen.

Laundry Room. Dear Celestia, that colt.

Three seventeen.

Three sixteen.

“I highly doubt that will happen Fluttershy. Rainbow Dash is the Element of Loyalty, remember?”

She stopped at the door.

Was that Twilight Sparkle?

She took a quick peek.

It is! Does she know Rainbow Dash? If she knows Rainbow Dash, she must know Apple Bloom and Applejack as well.

She poked her head inside, remaining hidden from plain sight.

Element of Loyalty?

“Ponies can change you know, Twilight. And after something as traumatic as having your wing nearly ripped off and making a weeklong trip on hoof on your own, I can’t imagine Rainbow ever being the same again.”

Fluttershy. Dear sweet Fluttershy.

Admittedly, I agree with you there.

“But how can you be sure that Rainbow will change so dramatically?”

That voice. It rings a bell. Well, perhaps more like yanks the rope so ferociously it deafens the ears of every pony within ten miles. Where did I hear her from?

Wait a minute. The pony from outside the studio. The one who teleported all the way from Ponyville. Could it be her?

She knows the Apple family too? And Twilight Sparkle and Fluttershy and Rainbow Dash? Is she another one of the Elements of Harmony?

Octavia withheld her thoughts when she realized a heavy silence fell over room three fifteen. She shuffled closer just enough to see everypony inside while still keeping herself hidden.

Twilight Sparkle.

Fluttershy.

The white unicorn.

Applejack and Pinkie Pie.

Sweetie Belle.

“Oh.” The cellist laid a hoof over her heart when she spotted the filly she had only heard heart wrenching tales about. She was fast asleep, her chest rising and falling to the beeps of the monitor from which spread dozens of threatening-looking wires.

A hospital is no place for a child. But at least she has much love and support in her family and friends.

Love and support.

Not like the other little filly. That poor filly.

Love and support.

“Maybe Rainbow Dash doesn’t want our support anymore.”

I disagree with you there, my dear Fluttershy.

The cellist came out of her hiding place and stood in the doorway of room three fifteen.

Sunday Morning: Lyra

“Octavia? Hey Octavia, are you asleep?”

The sweetness of Sweetie Belle’s voice aroused the weary cellist from her slumber. She stretched out her legs and let out a respectful yawn. “Good evening, Sweetie Belle.”

“Good evening? It’s morning.”

“Really?” She looked up at the wall clock and, sure enough, both hands indicated the ninth hour.

“You slept for the whole night.”

“Oh now Sweetie Belle,” said Fluttershy, setting down a tray with three bowls on the table in Apple Bloom’s room. “Octavia’s probably really tired. Maybe we should let her sleep some more, don’t you think?”

“But the breakfast we brought for her will get cold.”

“Breakfast?” said the gray mare, perking up in her chair.

“We could always reheat it later in the microwaves in the cafeteria.”

“No way! Re-microwaved food is not the ideal thing to eat,” the filly responded lifting her head.

“As a bachelorette, I am quite used to the taste of reheated foods.”

“We could buy her another one later.”

“And waste this other bowl of oatmeal? I cannot stand for such waste.”

“You know, I’m quite a big fan of oatmeal, with slices of apple especially…”

“I guess I could eat it if no one else will,” offered Fluttershy.

The little unicorn’s eyes grew like saucers. “Fluttershy! How can you so easily submit yourself to gluttony! You must take care of your body!”

“Wait a second, who said that I wouldn’t want to eat it? I’ll eat it! Raw even!”

“B-But like you said Sweetie, it would be a waste. I don’t mind eating two bowls of oatmeal. I like oatmeal very much and…”

“You will do no such thing,” responded Sweetie, making her way to Fluttershy so as to corner her. “You will return this bowl immediately and ask for a full refund, or I will personally see to it that you never set hoof in that cafeteria again.”

The cellist scratched her head. “You…what?”

“But Sweetie, I…”

“That is enough out of you! You’ve wasted my money on this extra bowl of oatmeal and you shan’t waste another second of my time with your petty concerns. Now take this extra bowl of oatmeal at once to the cafeteria. I expect the price paid in full to be in my hooves no later than five minutes.”

“You know,” began Octavia. “This seems to be a very petty concern Sweetie Belle.”

“What do you mean, plebian,” she shot back. “I don’t see wasting money as something to be taken lightly.”

Octavia smirked. “Are you trying to prove some kind of point with this? Because, while I admire your expressive talents, it’s not making a very convincing sell.”

A look of shock exploded onto Sweetie Belle’s face, which she quickly shook back into an arrogant scowl. She turned to Fluttershy. “And what are you doing still standing there like a crumpled leaf? Get down there and get my money back!”

“My word, this all just turning into a ridiculous mess of…” Octavia paused her verbose observations. The shy pegasus rapidly nodded to her mini-master and walked slowly to the door, her long pink mane grazing the floor as her head came within inches of touching the linoleum.

“Fluttershy?” called Octavia.

She didn’t answer.

“You’re not actually going to follow the scripted words of a child, are you? I mean, can’t you tell she’s faking?”

Sweetie Belle huffed. “Well, she did spend that money. And if no one’s going to eat it, I don’t see the problem with asking for the money back.”

“This is so absurd,” said Octavia. She went to Fluttershy and placed her hooves on her shoulders, a smile of comical disbelief shielded by strands of loose mane. “Fluttershy, please, for the love of cold oatmeal; tell me with a straight face that you’re actually going through with this!”

Fluttershy kept her head down, her own mane concealing her true facial emotions.

“I knew it! You’re trying hard not to laugh, am I right?”

She didn’t move. Sweetie Belle held her breath.

“Show me your face,” asked Octavia with a glint in her eye.

Alas, the pegasus pony lifted her head, and her teary gaze was greeted with a soft, corrected gasp. Two sleek streams ran over yellow cheeks, and gave themselves into a free fall and splashed on the cold floor.

Her breathing was jumpy.

“I-I was wrong, and she-she, I mean, Sweetie Belle needs her money back. I don’t want her to lose something because it was my fault. I couldn’t live with it. I won’t.”

She stared into Octavia’s wide eyes. “I won’t.”

The shocked cellist cleared her throat and pointed to the table. “Sweetie Belle, bring me those bowls.”

“Why?”

“Just bring them to me, child,” she said, not taking her eyes off Fluttershy.

Sweetie faltered. “B-But I told Fluttershy that…”

“Bring me the bowls of oatmeal and I will take care of it. This is such an insignificant matter to be causing sweet dear Fluttershy to shed tears for.”

Sweetie reached for the tray and gave it to the cellist. “What are you going to do with them?”

She grabbed one of the spoons. “Eat them.”

“What?”

“Look, if you put so much stock into something as trivial as a couple of dollar bowls of manufactured grain, then allow me to save you and Fluttershy from any more of this emotionally wrenching nonsense and devour them in one haul. Besides, I’m so hungry I could eat all three of them if I wanted.”

“No wait,” screamed Fluttershy.

The cellist stopped the course of the spoonful of oatmeal and watched the large pleading eyes of the pegasus.

“You don’t have to do this, Octavia.”

“Trust me, this is a small price to pay for your well-being.”

“No it isn’t.”

A soft hoof perched on the grey mare’s shoulder. “Oatmeal represents the staple diet of the greater pony population. To give such a vital nutrient to waste would be like a day with no sun, or the rain that falls with no water. Your willingness to put virtuous principles to the side in favor of my well-being is something not to be taken lightly. I am grateful for your sacrifice, but I must return the oatmeal.”

“Fluttershy…”

“I will bear the burden of shame that spreads like the darkness over infidelity by night. I will return the money like nature returns growth and prosperity to creatures blanketed by snow. Yes, Octavia, I will make things right. Like the North Star that guides the lost to be found, my beacon of determined righteousness will show the wayward simpleton the path to fruitfulness.”

Octavia passed the bowls to Fluttershy. “Very well. I-If you insist.”

“Oh, thank you Octavia. Your noble sacrifice will not be forgotten. And now, I go.”

The pegasus walked out of the room, but not without flashing the struck cellist a playful wink. The musician turned to face Sweetie Belle, whose eyes grew three sizes and were filled with tears.

“Fluttershy, wait! I’m so sorry!” she cried. She chased down the larger pony out in the halls as loud sobs could be heard inside the room.

“My word,” Octavia said. “What a strange series of events. What on earth was that all about?”

“Good morning Octavia. Sleep well?” said Twilight, walking into the room.

“Oh, hello Twilight Sparkle. Good morning to you too. And yes I had a relatively good night’s rest on that ergonomically unfriendly chair. A bit of a rude awakening I should say.”

“Was that why Sweetie Belle just bolted out of the room crying like that? I thought something interesting might have happened here.”

“You haven’t the slightest idea.” She peeked behind the magical unicorn. “I presume the others are still with Rainbow Dash?”

“Yeah.”

“Everything going well?”

“Let’s just say there are a lot of happy tears being shed,” she said with a smile.

“I’m glad.”

“The only reason why I left early was because I got an invitation to visit a good friend who’s also here and I wanted to stop by Apple Bloom’s room to make sure she was doing well.”

“Well, as you can see,” she said, looking at the sleeping filly’s direction. “She is still fast asleep. Amazing that she slumbered through the whole debacle this morning.”

“I’m sure when you spend all your sleepy nights at a noisy farm, you can sleep through pretty much everything!” chortled Twilight.

“I suppose. Say, what friend are you visiting? Another pony from Ponyville?”

“Actually yes. She’s a very talented musician, much like you.”

“Ah, a fellow cohort in spirit!” The cellist sighed. “It’s been awhile since I talked to any other musicians.”

“Well, would you like to accompany me? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. In fact, this is her last day here before they move her and I’m sure she’d appreciate any company she can get.”

“I would love to, but, who will stay with the little one?”

“I shall,” said a voice outside.

The two mares turned to find Rarity walk in with a sparkling grin on her face.

“Oh, hi Rarity,” greeted Twilight.

“Well then, don’t just stand there dawdling over nothing. You have an ailing friend to go make their day brighter! Go, for I shall stay and guard the sleeping Apple Bloom with my watchful eyes.”

“Whatever you say, Rare. See ya!”

The two ponies walked outside of the room, Octavia following Twilight’s lead. They got to the elevators when the normally reserved cellist burst into laughter.

“What’s so funny?” asked Twilight.

“I’m so sorry Twilight, but Rarity and Sweetie Belle have so much in common despite their differences in age! You’d think they were sisters or something!”

“Well actually, they are!”

“Not surprising news at all,” she responded, still chuckling.

The elevator door opened and, after waiting for a few nurses scurrying to their posts, they entered accompanied by a doctor.

“Degenerative diseases, please,” he asked.

“I’m sorry, what floor is that,” asked Twilight, scanning the buttons.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I forgot I was in the main elevator! Second floor, please.”

“No problem! We’re going there too.”

The unicorn pushed the button and within a moment, the elevator plunged into the slow descent to the second floor.

“I take it this friend of yours doesn’t have very much time,” said Octavia.

“I’m not sure. I’m not very keen on the details, but she was fighting something awful as told to me by her girlfriend, Bon Bon.”

The elevator came to a halt and the signal resounded inside.

“I just hope it’s nothing too serious.”

Everyone stepped out of the elevator and the two mares made their way down another white hall, Octavia following Twilight’s lead.

“And this friend of yours,” the cellist asked. “What’s her name?”

“Lyra? Hey, wake up sleepy head.”

Bon Bon rubbed the resting pony’s shoulders, arousing her from her morning nap. She stretched out her legs and opened her eyes.

Two blinks.

“I know you were sleeping, but some ponies are here to see you.”

Lyra lifted her head and squinted through the bright light of the sun filtering through the window. Standing next to Bon Bon were two ponies dressed in long green gowns wearing masks of white. One she quickly recognized as Twilight Sparkle. The other, Octavia, she had never become acquainted with.

“Hey Lyra. You remember me, right?” asked Twilight.

One blink.

“Um.”

“That means yes, Twilight,” explained Bon Bon.

“Oh, okay! Well, I just wanted to see how you were doing and, uh, wish you the best of luck. Hope you get better!”

The warmth of embarrassment rushed over the magical unicorn’s face like a heat wave, and it was apparent to the other unicorn in bed. But she just smiled and nodded her head, which was her way of saying thank you.

“She really does appreciate you coming over to see her,” added Bon Bon. “She really does like having company. I mean, whenever it’s allowed of course.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” asked Twilight.

“Lyra has a disease that’s very contagious. I forget the name, but who cares really. The important thing is that it forces her to stay in bed and reduce the time she has guests. The doctors here say there’s nothing else that can be done for her. She must be moved to a place where she can spend the rest of her days in solitude. Away from everypony.”

The gloom of the news brought the spirits of the visiting unicorn down to the level of the earth pony. She tried to find something to say, but nothing came to her mind.

“I’m…so sorry, Bon Bon.”

“We’ll be fine. We’ve had enough time to get used to the idea by now.”

“So, will you be visiting her as often as they allow wherever she’s being moved?”

“I’m moving in with her,” she responded, not looking up.

“But, what about your health?”

“Trust me, Twilight. I would rather run the risk of dying with whatever Lyra has than to spend the rest of my life alone without her.” She looked back at her lover, who had fallen back asleep. “Besides, the doctors say there’s a good chance I have it too. It may just be dormant in my system. They of course want me to stay away from Lyra and go under special treatment to keep it dormant.”

“But you refused,” said Twilight.

“They were quite firm about their concerns for me, even to the point of raising their voices. But I told them I would never leave Lyra’s side, even if it meant endangering my own life. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Bon Bon. You have a good heart, but don’t you think that scheduling short visits would be a better idea? I mean, she would still get to see you, and you’d be prolonging your life. What would happen if you died before her? Would you want to take that risk just to live with her?”

Bon Bon sighed and took off her strap-on mask. “You don’t know Lyra the way I do. She’s…like a delicate flower that comes in a clay pot. She can’t stand to be outside for too long. She’s a home girl. She likes to spend time being her own pony in her own environment. And yet, she can’t survive without care. Lots of attentive care.”

“Was she always like this?”

“Always. Even when we were fillies in school, she’d always go running to a teacher, crying. She would tattle on everypony for any little thing they did to her. She touched me without asking. He looked at me with his tongue sticking out. They take too long at the drinking fountain. Whatever it was, she found it reasonable to tattle. It got to the point where even the teachers found it to be a nuisance and mostly brushed her off whenever she came charging. Of course we grew up and the tattling turned into awkward introversion. In high school, I was surprised to find her playing for our soccer team. I assumed it was her parents’ wishes, but regardless that was when I met her for the first time.

“She couldn’t play. She would kick for the ball, but blow air instead. The prospect of the ball approaching her on defense made her ill. She threw up on the field during one game. She was benched immediately. The other girl’s on the squad laughed at her. Her parents in the stands wouldn’t even look up. She stood alone on the field after the lopsided game, which caused some of the team to talk…”

“Look at Lyra. She’s all standing there like a loser!”

“Yeah, like, she probably got lost or something in the middle of the field!”

“Hey, where are her parents? Aren’t they supposed to take her home after hurling?”

“No! They like totally left her! I don’t see them!”

“Are you serious? That’s so sad and hilarious at the same time!”

“Oh my god, she got left here by her own parents. How much of a horrible daughter do you have to be for that to happen?”

“I was sent by our coach to go get her. I’ll admit, I thought it was pretty stupid that somepony would just stand there doing nothing after a game. Even though we did lose by a lot. I just thought maybe she was so embarrassed she didn’t want to hear it from the other girls. They were being pretty mean. I got there expecting to see her in tears or slobbering all over herself…”

“Hey Lyra. Coach says you gotta come over.”

“Do I?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can retaliate, can’t I? I have a mind. Doesn’t that entail a right to choose?”

“Why are you being so serious and philosophical? Do you realize that your parents just left you?”

“They have a right to choose as well.”

“But, that’s like, wrong. Don’t you think that’s wrong?”

“Why is it wrong? It’s a choice based on invisible parameters, some measurable, some not. How can one be certain of its correctness?”

“Do you even believe in a right and wrong?”

“As much as I believe in love and hate.”

“Maybe it was because I just felt sorry for her, but I knew that I couldn’t leave her after what she told me. Who knew what twisted life she was brought up with at home. I just knew that even though she couldn’t defend a goal for her life, I needed to defend her from other ponies that just didn’t get her. They couldn’t see past her awkwardness to find the damage that had been done. She didn’t know what friendship was. She spent all that time writing. She played a song for me once that made me cry. It was that beautiful. I encouraged her to play at the talent show…

“No. No, no, no. I don’t want to. That’s okay.”

“But why not? That was amazing! You have to share it with the rest of the school! It’d be a crime not to!”

“No, I won’t go jail for it. No, I like my music to stay here with me. In my room. And you too!”

“Oh come on, don’t pull that cute-little-filly shit on me! You are super talented and you need to share it with the world. I mean, do you always want ponies to make fun of you all the time? Step out and show them what you’re made of, and they’ll start respecting you for who you are!”

“No they won’t. They’ll like my music, but not me. They could care less about little old me. Little old Lyra Heartstrings! Besides, I have you now to be my friend.”

“Don’t you want to be liked by more ponies?”

“Why? I only need you.”

“What do you mean by that, Ly?”

“You’re my symphony, Bon Bon.”

“Needless to say, the dynamic of the friendship changed a little from then on. She was acting like such a kid wanting to follow me everywhere, and it got a little irritating. During our senior year, she told me she wanted to live with me. Of course I told her she couldn’t because I was going to college to study culinary arts. She said she would do it with me. I laughed it off. Then one day, I went to her house one last time before leaving to study…

“You’re going straight to the registration table and you’re going to ask them for Mary.”

“Tell Mary you’re the Heartstring’s daughter and she will lead you to your dorm room.”

“There’s a bed and a refrigerator and nothing else. We don’t want you filling your mind with any television garbage or nonsense.”

“And make sure you follow every rule, especially curfew, which we have asked to have changed for you for eight o’clock in the evening.”

“Don’t spend any time making friends of any sex. We don’t want them to cause you any distraction or stress that may hinder you from your progress.”

“You school plan has been figured out, first semester to last. Mary will give you the schedule for your four years there.”

“Food will be of no concern for you. The cafeteria will be serving your breakfast, lunch, and dinner to the exact diet we have for you here.”

“And don’t try to leave campus for any reason. We will pick you up when it is appropriate for such matters as doctor’s appointments.”

“Focus solely on your studies. We expect nothing less than perfection in a family of great scholars.”

“If you must spend time doing extracurricular activities, the school has provided as per our request a library of autobiographies of the great musicians of Ponyville’s past. There’s also an assortment of fine art magazines stashed away under your bed.”

“And don’t try to purchase any other entertainment whatsoever. We have asked the security team to check your room every six hours for any foreign objects. If one is to be found, it will be confiscated and destroyed as per our request.”

“Well, that covers it. I suppose you don’t have any questions, do you Lyra?”

“She didn’t say a single word. She just nodded her head.”

“How’d that make you feel?”

Bon Bon shook her head. “Infuriated. Here were her parents preparing the most important part of her life to the smallest detail. The stage where ponies go out on their own and discover who they want to be, and they were totally going against that. But what was worse was that she was letting them. She agreed to everything they set up for her. She was like a pet obeying its master. I waited until they were done talking to invite her to take a walk with me, something we did all the time. That was when I had a good talking to her…

“So, you’re just gonna let your parents tell you everything you have to do?”

“It was never a problem before.”

“That’s bullshit! You’re eighteen! You can make your own decisions now! Do you even want to go to this school?”

“I just want to make them happy.”

“Well guess what? It’s time to make Lyra happy.”

“But, what makes Lyra happy?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“When my parents are happy, then I’m happy.”

“Well, that’s gonna change. Tell me Lyra: What do you want to do?”

“I wanna go to college like my parents…”

“No, I didn’t ask what your stupid ass parents want for you. I want to know what you want to do. Right now.”

“I…I…I want to be with you, Bon Bon.”

“Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?”

“You’re my symphony, Bon Bon.”

“Okay then.”

“So that settled it. We grabbed her stuff and stuffed it into my truck. It was the most emotionally tense two hours I’ve ever been through, and it was even tougher for Lyra. Her mom and dad just followed her around, shouting these horrid things at her.

“You call yourself an adult now that you got the warped idea of moving out? What happened to going to school to get an education?”

“You think we’ll be there to take care of you? Well you better think twice because we’re not, missy!”

“You don’t know half of the things you’ll find out there. Suppose you get cornered in a dark alley or a grimy stallion follows you home. You think they’ll be charmed by your little tunes on that lyre?”

“Don’t think we approve of this, young lady! You can carry those boxes all by yourself if you want to do your own thing now.”

“Don’t come to us when the going gets tough! You’re on your own now!”

“We thought you loved us.”

“They did that to her the entire time while she stumbled through the halls, toting these large boxes of her personal things. She had no furniture as they belonged to her parents, but books, pictures, drawings, notebooks, records. Things she used to occupy her time. And they followed her with every step. That last line did her in, though. We got to my house and sat in the kitchen to have a lunch break and she collapsed on the floor. She cried a good while. I didn’t get it then, but now I see just how devastating it was for her to leave something she spent her whole life believing. I recognize now how brave she was to go through that.”

“And you were the only one sensitive enough to recognize it,” Twilight commented softly. “You’re such a good friend, Bon Bon.”

“I hope I am.”

The two mares looked up to find that Octavia had walked over to Lyra’s side. Her mask came off and she held out a hoof. The sickly unicorn reached for it, gripped it, and looked deep into the cellist’s eyes. Valleys from adjusting strings locked with peaks of disheveled skin where the strings pierced it.

“You know Lyra, I played the same tune for years” said the cellist, weeping.

The lyrist nodded and smiled.

“Then the hummingbird said to the pig, ‘Yeah that’ll happen. When pigs fly!’”

The entire table that shared a moderately delicious lunch of warm pizza and soft drinks erupted into laughter at Pinkie Pie’s joke. Applejack, Fluttershy, Rarity, Rainbow Dash, Apple Bloom, and Sweetie Belle. As the laughter died down, the two ponies who visited Lyra walked in and gravitated towards the lively table.

“Hey girls!” greeted Twilight.

“Hey,” said everypony.

“Rainbow Dash? It’s so good to see you here with everypony!”

“Yeah, I asked the doctor if I could join my friends for lunch, and he gave the okay. Besides, I couldn’t miss the comedy hour with Pinkie Pie!”

Pinkie flashed a huge grin. “Hey look, Octy’s here too!”

“Oh,” said a bashful cellist. “Hello everyone.”

“Would you two like to join us?” asked Rarity. “Pinkie was just about to tell us what she saw in the hallway this morning.”

“Of course,” replied Twilight. “Octavia?”

“I’d be delighted.”

The two mares took their seats at the table and anxiously awaited like everyone else for Pinkie to share her tale.

“Well, I was skipping along the hallway looking for the little fillies room, when all of a sudden I saw two ponies looking very suspiciously around them. I jumped into a cart filled with dirty blankets and peeked out my little eyes and spotted them tip hoofing inside the laundry room.”

“Oh god,” blurted Octavia.

Everypony turned to the grey mare.

“Somethin’ wrong, sugarcube?” asked Applejack.

“Um, nothing. Forgive me, Pinkie Pie, continue.”

“Okie dokie lokie!” she replied.

Oh god. Here we go.

“So,” she continued. “After they went in, I rolled my way over to the door. Then, I…”

“Wait,” interrupted Apple Bloom. “How in the hay did y’all roll away if y’all was inside the cart?”

“Easy, I just stuck my hooves out and rolled, rolled, rolled!” The pink pony got up from her seat and pushed her forelegs on the ground, scooting across the dining area floor on her bum. “Wee!”

Sweetie Belle smirked. “But how could she do that if…”

“Girls,” said Rainbow Dash with a grin. “She’s Pinkie Pie. She can do anything.”

The two fillies looked at each other and shrugged.

When the eccentric mare made her way back to the table, she slammed her hooves on the table, catching everyone off guard. “Then, once I hit against the door, I poked my poofy little head out and pressed an ear against its cold face.”

“What did you hear?” asked Fluttershy.

Pinkie Pie darted her eyes mischievously across the table. “I heard moaning. Very loud moaning. Oh. Oh! OH!”

“Oh Celestia,” whispered Octavia, burying her head in her legs.

“Then what you do?” asked Sweetie Belle.

“Well, not being the easily spooked type, I hopped out of the basket and opened the door.”

“What didja see?” asked Apple Bloom.

Pinkie Pie slowly stood to her hooves. “Nothing at first, but that was because it was pitch black. I walked inside and the moaning got louder and louder. The room was hot and sticky. The smell was like…like…”

“What?” they both asked.

“Dirty laundry!”

“Well, it is a laundry room,” pointed Applejack.

“But this was a different kind of dirty laundry smell. One I never smelled before! Well, except for that one time I walked past the Cakes’ room late one night when I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. There was a lot of moaning there too.”

“Oh Luna,” said Octavia, sliding under the table.

The other older ponies picked up on the cellist’s odd gestures as they themselves started to get uncomfortable with Pinkie’s story.

“Pinkie darling,” said Rarity. “Are you sure you should be telling us what you saw exactly as you saw it?”

The fillies shushed the fashion designer.

“Uh, yeah! Otherwise I would be lying!”

“Well, can’t you just lie…a little?” asked Rainbow Dash.

Pinkie gasped. “Never!”

Twilight interceded. “I think what Rainbow is trying to say is that you should, um, hide certain details not suitable for small ears. You know, so they don’t get too spooked…or grossed out.”

“I agree,” added Fluttershy.

Pinkie grinned. “Are you all just too chicken to hear the rest of my story?”

“We’re not,” said the fillies in unison.

“It’s not that we’re scared per se,” said Applejack. “It’s just that we’re…cautious about the content of your lil' tale.”

“Like I said,” said Pinkie, crossing her hooves. “Chickens.”

“Don’t listen to them,” said Apple Bloom, glaring at her much older and much more nervous sister. “We can take a little scarin’.”

“Yeah,” added Sweetie Belle, also glaring at her older sister. “Do you want us to cover your little ears?”

Rarity sighed. “Just tell it, Pinkie.”

“Alrighty! “

The little fillies cheered then laid themselves over the table in Pinkie’s direction.

“I walked in, not knowing what to expect. A monster? An alien? A zombie? Maybe even a manticore!”

The fillies gasped.

“All I could think of was saving those two poor ponies that went in before me. I thought, They must’ve been captured by one of the monsters! I wandered in the darkness for what seemed like hours, but then…”

“What?” cried the two small ponies.

“I saw the ghosts!”

The gasps that escaped the quaking lips of the two fillies were followed by a mixture of cocked and jerked heads by the older ponies.

Pinkie explained. “There were two of them. Two scary and smelly ghosts, jumping up and down. Up and down! I could also hear the two ponies moaning. They were trapped inside the ghosts! That’s when I realized that they had been eaten by the ghosts, and they were being digested inside their stinky, slimy stomachs! It was too late to save them now, so I escaped the scene, burst through the door, and slammed it shut behind me, nearly escaping the horrid fate of those two poor ponies.”

“Wait,” said Octavia, coming out from under the table. “You saw ghosts?”

“Yeah, two of them.”

“And they were jumping?”

“Yes indeedy! There were going up and down. Up and down! And those poor ponies were groaning for their lives as they were being eaten!”

“That’s horrible,” exclaimed Apple Bloom.

“Terrible,” added Sweetie Belle.

They both looked over at the older ponies. They were silent, trying to hold back smiles and making scratchy noises with their throats. Finally, Rainbow Dash belted out a raspy laugh and soon the others followed.

“What’s so funny?” asked Sweetie Belle.

“Yeah, what’s the big idea?” added Pinkie Pie, waving both hooves in the air. “I could’ve been pounded like those two!”

The ponies laughed even harder. Even the refined Octavia couldn’t help but pound the table. The shy pegasus wiped tears and the apple farmer hollered and hooted. The magician giggled and the proper lady cackled something awful.

“Y'all are jus’ crazy,” said Apple Bloom.

“You said it,” added Pinkie Pie.

The laughing continued for a few moments.

“I am so sorry, Pinkie Pie,” said Octavia after she managed to calm down. “But I must thank you, honestly.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“I haven’t laughed like that in so long! That was a delightful story with so many hidden twists!”

“Hidden twists? I didn’t put any hidden twists. I only told you girls what really happened.”

“And it was very entertaining darling,” added Rarity, still fighting back poking giggles. “Bravo, I say!”

The older ponies gave their riveting storyteller a round of applause, which she received with a bow and a snorting giggle. The resulting giggles from the other ponies were stopped by the crackle from the hospital’s PA system.

"Will an Octavia please come to the front desk? Octavia, please come to the front desk in the North building. Thank you."

“I wonder who that could be,” said Apple Bloom.

“Yeah,” added Sweetie. “Who would want to see Octavia at the front desk?”

Every eye turned to the mare with the bow tie.

“Uh, well I guess I should be on my way to find out then. Excuse me.”

She stood up from the table and turned facing the hallway.

“Want some company?” asked Twilight.

The cellist turned back. “Pardon?”

“Yeah, we can all come, if y’all like,” said Applejack.

“Well, I don’t feel it is absolutely necessary, but…”

“Ooh! We can have a parade down the hallway,” exclaimed Pinkie. “That would be super-dee-duper!”

“It wouldn’t be a problem at all, Octavia,” said Fluttershy with a smile.

“It would be our pleasure to accompany our new friend,” added Rarity.

“Yeah,” cried the fillies in unison.

Octavia scanned the whole group, their eager and willing faces bringing forgotten warmth to her heart that surfaced on her face as a soft smile.

“So whaddya say?” asked Rainbow Dash, turning the wheels on her wheelchair. “We goin’ or what?”

“I…I…”

The herd of ponies awaited an answer, but the cellist was too concerned on fighting the tears their friendly offers had brought.

“Octavia?” said Fluttershy.

The cellist shook her head and looked up at her new friends with shining eyes. “I’d love for you all to come with me.”

“Woohoo!” shouted Pinkie.

The ponies all got up and followed Octavia’s lead to the front of the North building. Fanfare from nowhere sounded out through the halls as Pinkie hopped along, her head grazing the ceiling. The others simply walked, save Rainbow Dash who wheeled herself across. Apple Bloom followed closely behind her older sister and Sweetie Belle behind hers. As the light that filtered through the glass front doors became visible, the ponies turned their heads in the direction of the front desk.

Two police ponies in uniform.

Octavia halted her pace, and so did the others. Pinkie was a little late, smashing her head against Rarity’s rump.

“Hey,” she cried. “What happened?”

In the distance, the police ponies caught sight of the cellist and waved her over.

“What do you think they want?” asked Twilight.

Octavia didn’t respond.

“Are y’all in some kinda trouble?” asked Applejack.

Still, she remained silent.

“You’re not going to jail, are you Octavia?” asked Sweetie Belle, tugging at the grey mare’s side.

Finally, the cellist let out a sigh and turned to her group of friends with a smile. “Don’t worry about me, girls. Everything will be fine. Trust me.”

“Are you sure?” asked Fluttershy, her voice a little shaky.

This time it was Octavia who perched a hoof on the pegasus’s shoulder. “Yes, dear Fluttershy. I will be just fine. It’s not like I’ll run into ghosts on the way to the station. Right Pinkie?”

“Yup yup yup!” she replied.

Octavia turned and faced the cops. She swallowed hard and took small steps towards them.

“Are you Octavia?” one of them asked.

“Yes. Is there a problem, officer?”

“We’re gonna have to take you down to the station for some questioning,” said the other.

“Fair enough. May I ask if I am in some sort of trouble?”

“Well, it depends. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” The police stallion pointed to the door, allowing the cellist to walk first. As they exited the building, Sweetie Belle stepped out in front of the group.

“Where is she going?” she asked.

Rarity met up with her. “I don’t know Sweetie. I’m guessing to the police station for some questioning.”

“But why? Did she do something bad?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her face fallen just like everyone else’s. “I just don’t know.”

April 19

April 19, 2012
Train TR3546: Eastbound to Ponyville
3:00 am

The first thing I noticed when I walked in was how comfortable they tried to make her.

Tubes of anesthesia ran all over her body like a sprawled mess of cables. A brace was put in place betwixt her chin and chest, and a pillow was doubled over to provide some supple support. I felt as though I had entered the room of a desperate revival attempt.

Rest easy, Octavia. This is not what it is.

In fact, the doctors were very optimistic. Susie had suffered moderate trauma to her throat, much to my relief. Reconstruction surgery was the only way to replace the part of her bones that broke during the impact. It was a delicate procedure, but the master surgeons succeeded in leaving Susie with a completely renewed throat structure that was sturdy enough for normal use, yet free of any potential for complications.

She couldn’t talk while I was there, but she could still see, and when she saw me I could sense the excitement explode over her face, especially in her eyes. They were like children’s eyes, a feature I had always admired from afar. They really were large, even for a pony. They gave the sense of wonderment and innocence, a trait I presumably would never believe she had received from her father. Her mother must have been a beautiful free flying spirit.

I didn’t know what to say, so I sat down next to her and just grabbed her hoof. I don’t know why it is that when you see someone who is in pain, the first reaction you have is to stay away. And yet, when the pony who is suffering is of great significance, you can’t help but want to reach out to them, touch them even. Touch is a very powerful force, even at its softest pressure. Many lovers fondly remember the beginning of their lifelong relationship with a touch, and enemies with years-long histories will recall many origins, but the most basic and most influential of them all is a brush of the shoulder. And when pain is the focal point of the matter, touch can possess magical healing powers, not of the physical pain, but of the pain not detected plainly. I massaged the tip of her hoof tenderly and looked into her great eyes, and though she couldn’t do it then with her mouth, I could see a smile form.

Now, although she couldn’t speak, she could communicate just as well. Hearing is a key component as I’m sure most ponies would say, and so I took the opportunity to pose my musically talented friend an idea: I told her that I was moving to Ponyville that night and I wanted her to come with me. At first, she gave me this sort of frozen look and it just about scared me shitless. I was very close to calling the doctor when she finally blinked a couple of times and looked up at me. Her lips were pressed very firmly and when she opened her mouth, she formed a word that I interpreted as “father.” I asked her if she were referring to Fancy Pants, and once again she went into a chilled state.

If I weren’t a reasonable mare, I probably would’ve reached over for the defibrillator and performed some kind of amateur medical operation myself, but I waited instead. She looked up at me, her eyes watering. She had this look of repentance and guilt, and at that moment I couldn’t understand why. Then it hit me: I never told her I knew Fancy Pants was her father, and neither did she inform me of the genetic connection between her and the wealthy business stallion. That I would probably begin to make nonsensical connections between that lewd, filthy pony and this sweet, innocent mare he (by a miracle of Celestia) had with some unknown mare is what stressed her to the point of tears.

I ran my hoof up to her messy mane and smoothed down the knots and gave her a warm smile. Of course I didn’t accuse her of anything malicious. If anything, I told her, she was a victim of his evil schemes, one of many perhaps, though I do not desire to be accurate about that assumption. I wiped the tears that moistened her pillow and told her my own story.

Everyone is a product of two ponies, whether each party is present or not. I was unfortunate enough to never have experienced the stability of having two parents. At home with mother, I was subject to amateurish wisdom riddled with shut doors and ample amounts of space. I couldn’t wait for the second and fourth Saturday of the month to arrive, for that was when I was whisked away on my father’s back to escape into a day full of fun and adventure. On one night, my father and I returned late and my mother wasn’t happy about it. I was sent to my room to play, but they didn’t make very thick walls when the mansion was erected long ago.

My mother barged into my room while I was playing with my dolls and she slapped them from my hooves. She demanded that I stop playing and she passed me a large black trash bag. She instructed me to fill it with any toy or article of clothing that I received from my visits with father. I asked her why. She slapped me across the face and accused me of disobedience. I filled that bag up to the brim and I remember she had the toughest time knotting it shut. She left the room and slammed the door to my room, and all that I heard was some words, a slammed door, and the squealing tires of my father’s car.

I was a timid child, often mistook for kindness. I was also very compliant, another feature absentmindedly interpreted as good behavior. That day, however, things changed inside me. I became more vocal with my classmates. I began to question the teacher and any authority figure that came my way. I thought more about direction in life and if it was even attainable. Thoughts that nopony would ever dream or accept that a child my age would have, and that made them very concerned, even angry. I was sent to the principal’s office many times and I suffered through silent car rides home. One time my mother was too busy and reluctantly asked my father to pick me up and entertain me until she became unoccupied.

I shut the door to my father’s car and we drove for an hour in a misty morning fog. We stopped in the parking lot of Seaport Village and I undid my seat belt. We walked along the shore in silence, breathing in the cold salt air until it bruised our nostrils. We stopped on the dock and looked out into the haze. A single sailboat pierced the weather with its bright light as it slowly skimmed across the dark green waters. My father sighed and said he felt a lot like that sailboat. I looked up at him, but he kept his gaze on the ship.

After a few moments, I felt his cold hoof rest on my shoulder, and I could see him resting a knee on the sandy shore. He looked at me with warm eyes and he reached into a saddle bag that hung across his waist. He asked me if I remembered a locked door on the back wall of my closet, and I responded yes. He told me that inside that door was something he had meant to give me when I was older, but that given the circumstances he would allow me to retrieve it when I returned home. I reminded him that the door was locked with a very old, rusty padlock. He pulled out his hoof from the saddle bag and hoofed me an old key. With this key, he said, I would open the door that hid my present. He warned me to keep this a secret between the two of us, in fear that my mother would ask questions and ultimately send my present to the same fate my other gifts from father had. I promised, and we watched the sailboat a little longer.

When I arrived home, I promptly went to my room and closed the door. I went into my closet and, sure enough, the door was there as it had been since I could remember. I got on my knees and scooted closer. I pulled the key out of my backpack and examined it closely before I tried to open the door with it. It was one of those large, old fashioned keys that you only saw in antique shops. It was very heavy by today’s standards, and whatever color it was during its prime was now a flaky, rusty shell of its former existence. I lifted the padlock to its side and inserted the key. I held my breath and felt the palpitations of my little heart pick up speed. I gave the key a twist and, sure enough, I heard the click of the padlock unlocking. I removed the padlock and pulled the door open. It was dark inside, but unexpectedly clean. The room couldn’t have been more than three meters long and I could barely fit inside on my knees, but I didn’t need to go in. The present my father spoke to me about was right in front of me.

I dragged it out, giving my back leg muscles a hearty workout across the carpeted flooring. I stumbled onto my flank the middle of my room, and then I reached over the case and began to unzip it. As I heard the zipper making its way down the side, I wondered how my father was able to purchase and stash my present away without my mother knowing. I figured he must have broken into our home while we were asleep and done the operation with the stealth of the nighttime wind. When my little hoof could go no further, I scooted next to the great case and turned over the top of it. I couldn’t hear the sound of the air conditioning kicking on, but I felt the coldness strike me like I had fallen into an icy pond in the wintertime, for what I beheld took me by such surprise.

A cello.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the most beautiful thing I ever laid my young eyes on. I was afraid to touch it, believing it was crafted by the Princess herself. I sat there for minutes beholding its magnificent craftsmanship. The body was smooth and shiny. The strings tuned to perfection. The bow looked like it was made for a warrior. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t scream, cry, laugh, squeal, or anything. I finally mustered the courage to take it out of its case and behold it fully.

It was a cello, and it was mine.

And so, every evening when I finished my homework, I would practice cello in the closet. Mother was far enough away so she couldn’t hear the novice slide of the bow cross the strings of my wonderful instrument. I didn’t have any sort of curriculum, but to compensate, I slipped into my mother’s bedroom and snuck out with as many classical CDs I could carry. I would listen to them repeatedly and try to pick out any sort of stringed sounds to focus on. I would try to figure out the melodies and harmonies I heard and, when I felt confident enough, I would play alongside the CD. I used to imagine that I played alongside the great composers in a large concert hall filled with ponies. I would lose myself in the music streaming through my earphones, like I was being escorted by angels into a higher existence beyond the clouds. I even remember crying once.

One day while practicing, I had my back to the entrance of my closet. I always faced the door in fear of the rare occasion that my mother would come in to look for me. I was so confident that day that I forgot my protective instincts in favor of the trance of sweet music. It just so happened that my mother had been calling out for me for some time, so when she barged through the door of my hidden practice room, she had this look of frustration tainted with horror, causing her lips to purse and her eyes to scowl. I thought for sure I would get it, but what occurred surprises me to this day. She shifted her gaze from her trembling daughter to the trembling cello she supported, and like clouds that give way to the afternoon sun her glare gave way to soft amazement.

“That was you?” she asked.

I nodded, still shaking.

She took a seat on the ground and continued looking up at me with that same awe. She asked me to play again, and so I did. As I said before, I was a very compliant child especially with my mother. When I finished the piece I was listening to, she took her time to stand back to her hooves. She looked down at me this time, but this time she wasn’t angry or intrigued.

She was smiling.

She didn’t ask where the cello came from. She didn’t inquire of how her CDs appeared in my possession. She didn’t even ask why I hid myself in the closet all this time.

She just smiled. Then she hugged me.

“That was beautiful,” she said.

I cried, for the beauty of the sound of my mother’s approval was like ascending to an even higher plane of the heavens, like lying on the bed of Princess Celestia. It was more beautiful than even the music itself. I was in heaven, and I was accepted.

I was loved.

It was evening, and it was time to shine. I stood behind the curtain in the school auditorium waiting for my name to be called. I fidgeted the new pink bow tie my mother bought for me with the night’s performance in mind. She said it brought out my beautiful purple eyes. But for some reason I couldn’t get it to look straight, it kept wanting to favor the left side. Never matter, for the announcer called for my presence out front. A crooked accessory would have to do.
I stepped out onto the stage and the round of respectful applause started. My ears picked up a few childish sneers, but they paled with insignificance to the task at hand. I stopped at the spot light and brought my hoof over my eyes. I surveyed the audience looking for my mother.

There she was, dressed in her Sunday best wearing the biggest grin on her face.

Satisfied that I had found her, I stood straight and addressed the parents, grandparents, and other important ponies of my intentions. I even remember the exact words:

“And now fillies and gentlecolts, tonight I will perform a composition of my own design entitled ‘Cello Sonata No. 1’.”

The older ponies were very impressed with my presentation.

I lifted my bow up to the strings, but before I started I felt the need to add:

“And in case anypony in the audience is curious, I do intend to compose a No. 2 very shortly!”

That declaration received a few chuckles and laughs from the audience.

Finally, after a deep breath, I lifted the bow up to the strings and pressed gently. I was about to glide over the first note when the door to the auditorium burst open. Everypony, myself included, turned their head to see who had arrived late to the show.

It was my father.

Instantly, I felt a mixture of overwhelming joy and fear. I wasn’t sure if my mother knew he was coming and I was afraid to find out how this would turn out. I quickly scanned the audience to find my mother and hoped that either she didn’t notice or didn’t care to see him.

She was looking right at him. In fact, she was waving him down.

I shifted back to my father and witnessed him walking through the crowded seats towards his ex-wife. He sat down next to her, looked at her, and smiled.

She smiled at him.

I felt a rush of inspiration possess me like a demon and without warning, my bow took to the strings and began to play. I had never felt like I did that night, not in my closet, not on the shoreline at Seaport, not even in my dreams.

The audience took notice.

I was nearing the end of my song, just a few measures left. I was compelled to look up and allow instinct to take over. I saw my mother and father with their eyes glued to me, unblinking, undry.

I felt my own eyes start to water.

Alas I played the last note, a low, vibrating D-flat and whisked the bow away as if opening a treasure chest filled with priceless jewels. I stared at the floor for a few seconds, sweat trickling down my face. I could only hear silence at first, but gradually a thunderous applause filled the room. I looked up and witnessed the result of the emotional ravaging my cello delivered. Classmates cheered, parents hollered, grandparents clapped and smiled. I looked for my parents to see if they held a similar reaction, but it was difficult to find them with everypony standing. I finally spotted them behind a well-dressed stallion and craned my neck to get a better view.

They were locked in a blissful embrace, forgiveness and love emanating its warmth up to the stage.

I couldn’t hold myself back. I dropped my instrument and ran to them. I cut through the audience and pushed through chairs until I reached my parents. I threw my hooves around them both and for that one moment, we were a family, and we loved each other. That’s when I heard an even louder hollering. I looked up to find several ponies pointing to their own flanks. At first, I didn’t understand why they were showcasing their cutie marks at me. Then it hit me. I looked at my flank and there it was.

A purple treble clef.

I was lifted off the ground and onto my father’s shoulders as the entire auditorium cheered for my new addition. Tears continued to make their way down my face as I knew now what I was meant to do.

My songs brought ponies together, even those who loved once long ago.

I was eager to compose my “Cello Sonata No. 2” so I could continue to bless the ponies of Canterlot with my miraculous gift.

I have yet to play my next song.

I finished my story, and I found my own hoof being held and caressed. Her eyes were smiling and her heart was pure. Then, she surprised me by saying yes. I didn’t stay long after. I wanted to give her time to rest. I told her once I found a place to stay, I would contact her by telephone with the directions on how to arrive. I would be there waiting for her at the train station.

I left the room with an overflow of joy springing from my heart that spilled over my entire body. I hadn’t felt like this since, well, since I was a child playing the cello.

Excuses.

I stood in front of the police station, illness took me by the stomach and thrashed me about until I could feel the crawl up my throat again.

Excuses.

I couldn’t be sure if she would be there. Maybe she was transported to another location, maybe even sentenced and shipped off to her permanent residence of deserved punishment. Or maybe she wasn’t kept at all. She could be back home, living, breathing, continuing her reign of supreme control over all who rest under her authority, though rest may be stretching it.

Excuses. There was no time for them. I needed to know the rest of my story. I needed to know what happened after that night. I needed to know where my father was.

I needed to know what happened to my Cello Sonata No. 2.

I waited patiently in the interrogation room paying no attention to anything in particular except the lines of wood stain that ran along the length of the table. It had never occurred to me before how easily a pony could lose herself in the simplest of things when she’s under stress. Normal everyday objects become weapons. Sounds become threatening and their source an impending doom. Small and insignificant details, like the lines of a table, become a message revealing the secrets of life. Where do they lead? Why do they curve at the end? Does this signify a troubling end or a realized higher existence? Will I become rich or marry the stallion of my dreams? What is the meaning of life?

My thoughts were broken by the sound of the door opening, and there she was. The mare who brought me into this world and who many times made me wish I could leave it.

The police stallion led her to take her seat, which she did, then he told me I had five minutes, which I accepted. He left and we plunged into our little game of twenty questions.

1. Where is my father?

That’s not a proper first question to ask your mother.

2. Why is he gone?

You’re not wavering, are you? Don’t you remember what Crumpet told us in the dining room?

I ask the questions here mother! You’re the one under trial, not me! Why is he gone?

Fine, if your memory is even more broken than mine, he’s extremely ill.

3. What does he have?

Beats me. But I do know that it originates from HIS side of the family.

4. If you don’t know, then why have you hidden him away with no care?

I never said he was without care.

5. Who is with him?

He is attended to by the staff. And before you ask who is qualified to do so, it is Bailey. His family had the same disease running rampant for generations now.

6. Why was he at the recital long ago?

The one at the preparatory I presume? Simple. I invited him. How else could he have gone?

7. What compelled you to do so?

Stupidity. Short sightedness. Naiveté. Take your pick, they’re all the same.

8. Why did you smile at him?

Because (she got a little sentimental here, or at least softer) when I saw him look at you, I felt like my faith was restored in him. That whatever problems we had in the past could be fixed by a little inspiration. And that little inspiration was you.

9. Do you still love him?

The feeling has weaned over the years, much like anything else that exists on this earth. Nothing retains their color or their quality. It’s best you learn that now, Octavia.

10. Do you even love me?

You know, if you waste your time asking emotionally-driven questions like that, you will never get the answers to your most burning questions.

Answer it.

Of course I do! I’m your mother for god’s sakes!

11. Then why did you and father separate?

In no way did our separation define my constant love for you, Octavia! Your father left because he simply couldn’t take the pressure of running a family. Your father was a drifter, always going where the wind took him, and on one of his adventures he stumbled upon a soft spoken rich girl. She fell in love and thought he did too. They both shared a love for music, which ultimately brought their hearts together. They had a child. A precious little girl. They decided on the name Octavia, after his grandmother who raised him.

Then, something changed. You cried and he would leave the room for me to take care of you. You would make a mess and he’d have a smoke in the patio while I cleaned up. You asked for things and he’d groan something awful, and then it usually came out of my bank account. I practically raised you all on my own and he just stuck around so I could “raise” him too. That’s when I realized what his real motives were. He just wanted to use me. The night he came to the recital I thought he had changed. I thought for sure when he heard you play the music we both adored, he would reconsider his choices and be your father. But I was wrong. That’s why he left.

12. So, you’re saying that I robbed him from you? You’re accusing me of you and dad separating?

No.

13. Then what are you saying?

You didn’t rob him from me. I saved you from him.

14. Why was I never told this?

Simple. You weren’t ready.

15. Why would you think I couldn’t take it? I learned to play the cello as child for god’s sakes!

Because, you’re naïve.

16. How am I naïve?

You thought you could bring us together with your music? You thought you could live on your own to follow you “dream” and create your “Second Sonata”? Look how that turned out for you!

17. I suppose you think I got that from my father, right?

The disease, perhaps. But your innocence of life, you got that from me.

18. Didn’t you say it was father who wanted you two to be together?

I lied. I thought if I gave you a light picture of your father to leave with for the rest of your life, you would forget how much he hurt us. That was naïve of me.

19. How do I know you’re telling the truth?

Ask him.

Father?

The stallion you call father.

20. Where is he?

Go home and ask Bailey to drive you there. And if he asks any questions, give him this.

How did you get this?

It was mine.

But father gave this to me.

And I gave it to him.

The cello, too?

No. He gave it to me as a gift.

How did it end up in the closet?

Another matter you will have to ask him about.

21. Why did you take great pains to keep me from my second sonata?

We are all just products of our experiences. We cannot change who we are, only our decisions. If you want your second sonata to be great, you must be made into greatness.

The door to the room opened, breaking my thoughts once again. I still had many questions.

22. Why did you hide my father away from me?

23. Why didn’t you pay attention to me while I was growing up?

24. Did my coming into this world really cause your love to dissipate?

25. Where did the cello come from? Was it yours?

26. Do you know how to play?

27. Do you love me, or do you love my music?

28. What do you mean I need to be made into greatness?

29. Are you implying that you and father aren’t great?

30. If you really are the victim of father’s so called infidelity, then why did you drag me into your world of hurt?

31. Wasn’t it painfully obvious that all I wanted to do was to make you and daddy happy?

32. Were you the only one who was happy with me?

33. Was daddy not happy with me?

34. Did daddy love me?

35. Or did daddy love my music, too?

Perhaps it is best to leave these questions unanswered. My heart disagrees, but this is a case where the rational mind must overpower the heart’s fluttering. The mind and the heart must work in unison, lest the pony drive herself into a mindless and heartless frenzy.

The air was chilly, and the sun was still climbing the sky, but I had one more pony to visit.

Bailey was surprised to see me at the house. His familiar face wrinkled into a smile and a frown, if those two can even coexist is not a rational argument to be honest. He asked me what I was doing there, with the upmost respect as was his natural way of doing things. I held up the key so he could see the antique design twirl slowly at eye level, and asked him to take me to see my father. He stuttered for a moment, reaching into his breast pocket to retrieve a handkerchief so he could blow his nose. It looked like he was battling a cold, and for that I felt a little guilty for asking him such an important favor. But as always, faithful Bailey walked over to a small chest and took out his keys. He picked up his cap from the closet and turned to me with a smile. He was ready, and so was I.

We drove eastward from the city until I could see tall, blonde waves of grain rock back and forth with the wind. The countryside was seldom visited by our family, so when I looked out and saw the long strand of weather-beaten wood rails whizzing past my window, I felt nothing. When I lowered the window and feel the cool rush of cloudy air on my face, my mind drew a blank. I looked beyond the remaining road ahead of us and saw the majestic white tops of the mountains surrounded by a reverent fog, and I wondered what it would be like to be at the very peak. How can anypony find the balance to withstand the pressure of tipping to one side and falling prey to the fatal pull of gravity? The thought brought me to a shudder, and prompted my attentive chauffeur to close the window for me.

We pulled into the driveway which was nothing more than a large gravelly area covered in weeds and cigarette butts. I stepped out of the car and looked down at my hooves and noticed I had stepped on three of them. I looked up and saw the door to an old shack that decorated an otherwise barren wasteland of tumbleweeds and dirt. I turned to my chauffeur and he gave me this apologetic look that I never saw before. We walked to the front steps and stopped on a chipping porch that needed more than just a coat of fresh paint. An ancient wicker chair rocked lonely to the wind, missing the stronger days it used to be sat in. I honestly didn’t know what to make of this place, it was so run down and unloved. I felt no attachment whatsoever.

“Your father used to come here all of the time,” said Bailey.

“Not much of a place for free spirits, I’d say.”

After a brief moment of silence, Bailey walked back to the limousine. He said he would wait for me inside. I thought he would want to see my father after such a long time. Though they weren’t close friends, they did share interesting conversations now and then.

“Your mother forbids it,” he replied.

Poor Bailey. Even from jail, she held his tender heart with a grip of iron.

Most doors wait patiently to be knocked, hoping that their light drum tap will bring joy and welcome to those who reside behind it. This door demanded with a scowling, deteriorating face that it be left shut, never to allow light to penetrate its darkened soul again. I placed both hooves on the door tenderly and gave it a push. Somehow, this felt safer than turning the rusting knob. To my surprise, the rough door broke in two and collapsed, and I was engulfed in a swirling mist of dust and debris. I reacted with my hooves covering my face but then, I felt them being pulled off gently by a force of tender touch. I opened my eyes slowly in the midst of the dusty fog, but through all that I beheld the being that stood and stood alone.

He wrapped his light hooves around my neck and pressed his head against my ear. I felt the grooves on the nape of my neck and smelled the strong odor of sanded wood in his mane. He nuzzled me softly and whispered in my ear “my little girl” “my darling Octavia”. As he spoke, my eyes wandered all over the house and picked up nothing more than a dark space illuminated by a single light bulb in the middle. Under this lone light source stood a table, and on this table were the tools of the trade. The trade of a musical instrument maker. I broke away from my father’s embrace and gravitated slowly to the lit workstation like a fly attracted to the brightness. I wasn’t familiar with any of the tools I saw, but I was familiar with his current project, and it struck me as impossible.

My cello, refinished to perfection.

Before I could ask, he swept the cello up from the table and hoofed it to me. He disappeared into the darkness for a moment and came back with my bow. This too had been given an upgrade. As soon as he passed me my bow, he took a few steps back and grabbed a stool from underneath the table, and scooted it under him. He took his seat and crossed his legs, and he asked to play for him the song he fondly remembers from the one recital from long ago. The song that crumbled the walls of Jericho and allowed the two lovers to reunite within the Promised Land of love and devotion.

I picked up my bow and pressed the strings gently. I tried to remember the right note and positioned my left hoof appropriately. After nearly two days without picking up my cello, it should’ve been like two lovers falling into each other’s embrace after two days of being apart, an eye-rolling yet heartwarming scene altogether. In fact, the entire ordeal should have been the greatest moment of my life: Reuniting with my father, reuniting with my cello, reuniting with answers to my questions. I should be on the floor on my knees, bawling my eyes out like a small babe begging my father to hold me a little longer whilst the dance of the darkness continued to stalk my every thought and movement. This should’ve been the greatest day of my life.

And yet, it wasn’t. I felt empty, unmoved. I would liken it to a composition that is birthed in your mind’s eye that excites for one day and, when finally put to paper and worked over for hours at a time, becomes boring, repetitive, and uninspiring, tossed to the side with nonchalance in favor of the next great idea. The sad truth is that this is a vicious cycle, one that leaves the artist in fits of rage, depression, disbelief, and doubt. Sometimes all at once. The only way to break the cycle I’ve discovered is to accept your supposed frailty not as a weakness, but as your defining characteristic. That which brings the unique flavor to your carefully concocted masterpieces that leaves the audience with a taste of satisfaction and a hunger for more in the future. Sometimes such radical change calls for the tables to be turned completely over so that new inspirations can be set, even if it means making a mess. Any mess can be cleaned, what matters is what you use and how you use it. Time is a given, but effort is the variable. One must realize not all can coexist if greatness is to be attained. Things must be let go.

And that was why I refused to play my Cello Sonata No. 1 for my father.

If I told you that it at that moment my spirits were set free, I would be lying to you. In fact, anyone that tells you that once you make a stand for yourself everything is flowers and candy is a fucking liar. I don’t know when I’ll ever feel “free”, but it certainly didn’t and won’t originate from that moment. Was I cheering to watch a grown, sick stallion cry? Did I feel like I was soaring into the sky as I beheld my father’s body tumbling to the ground? Do you honestly think I was at peace when I rushed outside to call Bailey in to check my father to see if he would make it? Seeing my father cradled in the arms of an old limousine driver didn’t feel like a victory over a longtime foe, but like I struck one of my own. He was carried into bed, the covers pulled over his entire body.

I gasped.

The old chauffeur held up his hoof. He would be alright. He needed rest.

We started for the door when we heard a faint rasp of the throat. I turned to find my father pointing to my cello on the ground. His eyes pled me to take it and to make of it what I wanted. He was leaving it to me. It was my choice now, and he understood it. I nodded, and he went back to sleep.

Bailey started the car as I lingered on the front porch looking in. I had so many questions that I’m sure you can list for me if I gave you the chance. But I wouldn’t. Not now. My heart just isn’t ready for the emotional investment. Staring at my cello lying idly on the broken floorboards was a fight between the learned experience and the learned truth. What would it have taken me to go in, retrieve the instrument, and take it with me?
Nothing and everything.

I reached inside the house and shut a door for the second time.

I reached inside the train and pulled my cumbersome weight onto the step, mesmerized by the running of the gravel beneath my hooves. What a thrill it was to stand just mere centimeters from the ground whilst the train took me on the journey to a new beginning. I looked out beyond the horizon and spotted the Equestrian Mountain Range, the sole landmark that unites every major city in Equestria, even if it is just by sight. To think that soon I would live in a town that sat at their feet filled my heart with anticipation and inspiration like a cascade of fresh mountain water. Before I went inside to take my seat, I looked back and gazed upon the vanishing city of Canterlot set in front of a glorious sunset.

Canterlot: Your industrious beauty and tireless heart will rest within the covers of my mind like a pleasant memory. Once more, soon I hope, will I return to caress your sidewalks with my hooves and kiss your ocean waves with my smile.

Perhaps I was a little facetious with my “cumbersome” weight comment, but ever since I met Pinkie Pie, I’ve had more than enough fills to last a seven year famine with delectable cupcakes and muffins. In fact, not one second passed before I was assaulted with a large cake slathered in white frosting and sprinkled with every color imaginable. I had forgotten that the party pony wanted to celebrate Rainbow Dash and Apple Bloom’s “Get Well” party in the train car, but she did a fabulous job reminding me with the endless strands of streamers that hugged the walls and pounds of confetti that fluttered in the air. Though I’d much prefer a quiet gathering with as few close friends as possible, I have a feeling I will get used to the idea of being welcomed like a birthday girl every time I pay a visit to Sugarcube Corner.

I finally got around to convincing Pinkie that half a slice would do and took my seat next to a window. I looked out among the friendly crowd and spotted the athletic flyer, happily partaking of the delicious pastry and laughing with the others. I’m happy to report that her wing has made a full recovery and she’ll begin rehabilitation later this week. Although her wing is still encased in a protective film of a strange rubber-like substance unknown to me, she’s able to move it fully, slowly with no pain at all. And much to her joy, she’s been encouraged to move it around as much as possible to loosen the tight muscles in preparation for the therapy to come ahead. However, she was sternly warned not to push her wing too far, lest she risk the possibility of reinjuring the tender area. Something tells me that will be quite the task for the adventurous pegasus, but something else tells me that her apple bucking friend will keep an eye out for any suspiciously rapid movements.

Aside from the occasional glare at Rainbow Dash, Applejack seems, over all things, relieved. And who could expect anything different when considering what the poor soul has been through? A booming business, a sickly sister, a new city, and a wayward pet? Just the thought stresses me out! And yet, her strong resolve and sharp mind has pulled through for the hard working pony. And, I’m happy to report that her little sister, sweet Apple Bloom, is with us in the train. She’s been released as fully healthy with no complications or need to take anymore distasteful medication. I’m sure the young filly would eat anything else besides those medicines, and she sure look liked she missed having desserts after the way she devoured her slice of cake! However, she’s not the only filly indulging more cake than her tiny mouth can handle.

Sweetie Belle took a seat next to me and was more than excited to share all the wonderful things Ponyville has to offer in between globs of cake. The moist chocolate cake made it a little difficult to understand her, but I could pick out Sugarcube Corner, the Carousel Boutique where her sister works, the Ponyville Library where Twilight does her studies, and her school. She was really excited to introduce me to everypony she knew, including Miss Cheerilee the school master, Derpy Hooves the mailmare, Big Macintosh, Apple Bloom’s older brother, and all her friends from school. For the most part, I smiled at her ecstatic introduction to everything Ponyville, but what she shared next was so important, she even wiped her mouth with the back of her hoof to announce it. She wants to begin taking cello lessons, and she wants me to be her private tutor.

Before I could give an answer, her sister came rushing in with the most perfumed handkerchief I had ever smelled. It got the attention of every pony in the room, suffocating the sweetness of the cake with the tangy aroma of some forbidden fruit. She wiped Sweetie’s mouth furiously and followed the cleaning with a close inspection. A scrupulous moment later and Sweetie was dragged to the restroom against her will across the carpeting for a thorough wash with water and soap. Now that I think about it, I haven’t really gotten to know Sweetie’s older sister, Rarity. From the outset it would appear we have much in common, except for maybe tastes in perfume. Ah well, I suppose one of the few missions I will accomplish during the first few days in Ponyville will be to pay a visit to the Carousel Boutique. Besides, I can’t stand the stain with which my bow tie greets every passing eye. It’s time for a new one, or perhaps a new look altogether. A new look for a new town! How exciting the prospect!

I stood up to serve myself another slice of cake (just one, mind you) when I realized that neither Fluttershy nor Twilight were present. I found it a little odd that two members of the Elements would be absent from their good friends’ “Get Well” party. I placed my empty plate on the table and set out to look for them. I walked through the first door and was immediately met with darkness and the smell of refurbished furniture. I took small, dragging steps down the hallway of business class seats and avoided making much eye contact with the ponies that tried to slumber in their upright and uncomfortable positions. I exited that car and was standing in what appeared to be the viewing car, a large car made up almost entirely of windows. It was kind of a neat thing to be surrounded on all sides by translucent glass save the floor (thank Celestia).

After adjusting to the reemergence of bright light, I spotted Twilight Sparkle seated clear across the car concentrating hard on a piece of parchment with an aura of magic orbiting a feathered quill. After approaching her and exchanging friendly greetings, I asked her what she was doing. She was penning her first friendship report since her visit to Canterlot and needed some peace and quiet to concentrate. Taking it as a hint, I began to make my way back. She told me I didn’t have to. In fact, she asked me if I wanted to read her draft. I hesitated at first, but her smile reassured me that this was nothing to feel ashamed about. I took the parchment from her magic and read:

Dear Princess Celestia,

During my trip to Canterlot, I’ve learned that sometimes being a good friend means dealing with things that are difficult to talk about. It may seem daunting, but if we just take a deep breath and trust in the power of our friendship, then no barrier is too tough to break down when we sit down and have a heart-to-heart conversation. Sometimes, you might learn something new about your friend you never imagined and that can go a long way to not only build understanding, but strengthen bonds between friends. I could say that I’m bringing this lesson back with me to Ponyville, but I got something even better, or should I say somepony. She’s the one who taught me this wonderful lesson. She’s beautiful inside and out. I can’t wait to introduce you to her.

Your Faithful Student,

Twilight Sparkle

It was the nicest thing anyone’s ever written about me, a sentiment largely absent from my youth onwards. I felt the tears begging to come out the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them out. I turned to Twilight and damn it all, she wasn’t helping my struggle at all as she released the waterworks from her own eyes! A few shared hugs and tears later, we fell silent as we beheld the rushing desert landscape painted with the soft glow of the recently risen moon. I was reminded of Princess Luna’s gentle words of wisdom. I was also reminded of Rainbow Dash’s tale of intense struggle against the wiles of nature, and as I pondered the miles of grainy sand and jagged rocks that whizzed by, I was awestruck by the amount of determination it must’ve taken to get as far as she did.

It was late, and all the ponies had settled into their bunks for the night. The sounds of slumbering ponies filled the car, and to say it was soothing to the ear would be like saying staring directly into the sun is a pleasure for the eyes! Perhaps it is because I usually had a large room all to myself growing up, but I had so much trouble trying to sleep with that snoring striking my ears! I wasn’t frustrated or anything. In fact, even if it was quieter, the anticipation of a new beginning would’ve kept me wiled up far beyond the scope of sleepiness anyway. I looked below and found the slumbering Fluttershy nestled into a yellow ball in the bunk. She had turned in early even while the party was in its prime, a schedule that Twilight assured me was not foreign in the least. I suppose when you spend your time caring for animals that rise when the sun does, you mimic the early rising routine naturally. I wonder what a day in the life of an animal keeper is like. I suppose I will have to add that to my list of things to discover about Ponyville.

As I ponder the new things to come in Ponyville, I can’t help but reminisce about the old I left back in Canterlot. Like my father’s car. Before I left my mother’s house for the train station, I gave Bailey the keys to the old girl and told him to do whatever he willed. As I turned to leave, he asked me how I would get to the train station without a ride. I faced him one last time and smiled.

“I’ll just take the bus,” I said.

I could see him fighting tears, so I decided to leave him a happy memory by embracing him. You know, thinking back to the days when he was my faithful chauffeur, I couldn’t tell you that I hugged him before. I bet he felt a little unnatural at first, but then the squeeze of acceptance came not much later and for the first time, I basked in the warmth of his fidelity and hard work.

“Say goodbye to everyone for me, Bailey.”

“As you wish, Miss Octavia,” he replied, tipping his cap.

I will also be leaving my doctor behind. In fact now that I think about it, I never really gave him a proper farewell. I just took the bus and made my way to the station to meet up with the girls. I do hope he doesn’t misunderstand my motives and forgetfulness. Oh what am I saying, of course he’ll understand! He’s a major reason why I’m on this train anyhow! Wasn’t his parting words that one night before that “dark” moment at my apartment “I think you’re ready”? How prophetic those words were! Maybe I’ll write him someday.

The only other ponies I can think of at the moment are Lyra and Bon Bon. After I left Susie’s room yesterday morning, I walked past Lyra’s old room to see if they had gone as they said they would.

They did.

I was compelled to ask the nurse tending the bed where they had transported Lyra and her marefriend. According to her, they were back in Ponyville in the house they shared before the entire ordeal with the disease took over their normal lives. They determined that if Lyra was only going to be around for a few weeks or days or whatever, they’d rather be home than in some impersonal hospice. I was both gladdened and saddened by this bit of news, happy that I would be only hoofsteps away from the two mares that stole my breath the first day I ever took the bus, yet sad that it may be only a finite number of times I will see the two together living together. I must make the most of it. Every second counts. Perhaps a musical collaboration with the lyrist is in order, that is if she feels like doing it.

This train of thought leads me to ponder the fact that I am cello-less and journal-less. Yes, I have also left behind my journal with my father presumably since my cello was at his house yesterday. To this moment I have no idea how they got there, except that maybe he visited me late that night and found the cello just lying there, abandoned and alone. Whether he read the journal or not is another mystery, but one that I won’t delve on too much. My sincere hope is that if he did read it, that he understands that I love him and that I have grown much in the past two weeks.

And why would I need my old journal back if I now have this one, presented to me by Pinkie Pie herself? She wrapped it and everything, a fine job for someone as ecstatic as Pinkie. I guess gift wrapping is part of the Pinkie Pie party package! This journal suits the job respectably, despite the fact that it features the name of the Canterlot Medical Center on the front, followed by “Memo Book”, but it’s the thought that counts, and I already have first hoof knowledge of what goes in that crazy brain of hers!

My, what a wonderful sunrise! Ponyville must not be far. I admit that a rush of anxiety has me gripped within its cold hand. New beginnings are never easy and I don’t expect them to be. However, when you have…

Magic.

Honesty.

Laughter.

Loyalty.

Kindness.

Generosity.

And the vigor of youth, anything is possible.

You know, this is the first time I’ve ever been on the train, and for what it’s worth, it is much better than taking the bus.

Octavia

Introduction

Octavia gasped in disbelief.

“Six thousand bits? You’re joking, right?”

The mechanic dried his hooves with a towel and shook his head. “’Fraid not, missy. Your transmission is completely shot. It’ll need to be replaced.”

“But six thousand bits is preposterous. Isn’t there any transmission out there that’s cheaper?”

“Hard to say,” the mechanic replied. “This here model is a rare one. Six thousand bits is just my own estimate, and even that may be too low.”

“Just exactly how much is the original cost of this car?” Octavia asked. “I may as well purchase another one if a replacement transmission will cost me that much.”

“Once again, your guess is as good as mine.”

The mechanic excused himself and walked into the restroom facilities of the car shop. With a heavy sigh, Octavia looked up into the bottom of her car suspended several feet into the air, the drips of grease from the engine causing her to shudder. The intricate design of hard metal parts sent the cellist’s mind into a confused daze and ultimately a frustrated attempt to make sense of her troubles. With the biggest concert of her life only weeks away, the last thing she wanted to worry about was how she was going to make it to practice without her car to take her on the ten minute trip to the Canterlot Music Hall. All of her musical compatriots would be too busy preparing themselves for the concert to give their poor immobile friend a ride, and at least in her mind public transportation was not an option. Octavia’s thoughts were interrupted by the mechanic appearing at her side looking up into the car’s underside with an inquisitive eye.

“You know, I know a couple of ponies who can take this heap of metal off your hooves for a pretty penny. That’s of course if you’re lookin’ to sell.”

Octavia sighed. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. This heap of metal carries much sentimental value for me.”

“I completely understand,” said the mechanic. “I myself gotta ’67 Mustang I’d never part with. Only thing good about is it’s shell, but every time I look at her, I see my late wife.”

“Then, you’d also understand if I could ask you for a tow to my apartment?”

The mechanic smiled. “Absolutely. Just lemme lower her down and lock up the place.”

The large towing truck rumbled down the streets of Canterlot’s high end district disturbing what was rather a peaceful silence which Octavia was used to this late at night. The tall streetlamps filled the lonely night with yellow light that spilled onto the cobblestone streets. Not a single pony was found out in the streets as the two made their way towards a luxurious apartment complex.

“Boy, you sure look like your livin’ the life,” said the mechanic.

“I suppose,” replied Octavia.

At the gate of the apartments, Octavia reached out of her window and pushed a code into the number pad which opened the golden gates of the complex. The mechanic slipped the truck back into gear and drove the giant machine into the complex, ogling over the several beautifully trimmed bushes and trees that lined the pristine sidewalks. The glow of the moon danced across a large shimmering pool and illuminated a desolate tennis court and full length basketball court.

“What I wouldn’t give to live in a place like this. Shoot, I’d like to retire in a place like this if I could, but I like what I do too much!” The mechanic let out a raspy laugh and slapped his thigh.

Octavia smiled politely and turned her gaze into the starless night. She never thought of her apartments as “living the life” as her excited mechanic put it. It was only a temporary housing arrangement until the concert. She determined that as long as she gave the performance of her life, it would pave for her the life she always dreamed. A life with millions of adoring fans showering her with red roses and thunderous applause. A life of expensive jet flights to Equestria’s most prestigious music halls and theatres. A life of bottled champagne every night and the smell of fresh linen every morning. A life where she’d never again have to deal with apartment life and car troubles. The life of a famous musician.

“Well, here we are, missy!”

The voice of the mechanic broke Octavia out of her trance and back into reality. After pausing a moment to unlatch her seat belt, she hopped out of the tow truck and made her way to the back to assist the mechanic in pushing her useless car into the narrow parking space.

“Hoo wee! They make these spaces any smaller, we may need a little elbow grease, if you know what I mean!” said the mechanic.

Carefully, the two ponies pushed the car into perfect position between the two posts that held up the lighted awning of the covered parking space. As soon as the back tires hit the sidewalk, Octavia let her head drop in relief. Playing cello for ten hours a day, though strenuous enough, did not prepare her for the exertion of force that pushing her inheritance on four wheels required. Opening her eyes after a few moments, she noticed a black stain on her pink bow tie from pushing so close to the front end.

“Oh for Pete’s sake, what else can go wrong today?” she mumbled.

“Don’t look too bad, if ya ask me,” said the mechanic. “I always come home covered in car grease.”

“Well, of course. I mean you’re…”

The mechanic turned his ear towards Octavia. “Say what now?”

“Never mind,” she said, brushing off her bow tie, doing nothing to the stain whatsoever. “I’ll just have to make a trip to the dry cleaners tomorrow after practice, that’s all. A minor inconvenience when taking everything into account.”

The cellist pony reached into her cello case and pulled out a genuine leather wallet from a small pocket and proceeded to pull out several twenty bit bills. The mechanic stood dumbfounded by the sheer amount of bits that fluttered carelessly in Octavia’s hooves.

“So, how much do I owe you for the tow and ride?” she asked.

The mechanic shook out of his daze and smiled. “Don’t you worry your pretty little face about a thing, missy. It’s on the house.”

“Oh, don’t say that, old stallion,” said Octavia. “I want to repay you for your services. Besides, you look like you could use…”

The mechanic stared at the normally well-spoken pony as she stumbled to find the correct words to finish her comment on the old stallion dressed in a ripped jumper. As if reading her mind, the mechanic tipped his hat and flashed the pony another smile.

“Oh, I understand now, missy. Your thinkin’ I’m needy just because I ain’t got as much goin’ as you do.”

Octavia jerked her head and gave the old mechanic an embarrassed look. “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean. I want to help you out, that’s all.”

“Nah, I don’t need any more money that I got now. I’m perfectly happy the way I’m doin’. In fact, can’t tell ya how I’d be any happier, except if my sweetheart were still around.”

“I see.”

The two ponies stared at the ground for a few brief and silent moments as their minds wandered off into the better times of their lives. For the old mechanic, they included days with his late and beloved wife. For Octavia, the moment she would hit the last and final note of her flawless piece would mark the beginning of the best times of her life. The mechanic finally looked up, reached into his hat, and pulled out a business card to hoof her.

“Well, I must be goin’ back. Hope everything works out for ya! Gimme a call if ya need anything.”

Before Octavia could respond, the old mechanic stepped into his tow truck and with a flick of the wrist the large beast of a machine roared back to life. He maneuvered expertly out of the narrow parking lot and pulled back out into the streets of Canterlot. Octavia stood the entire time watching him drive further and further away until his tow truck became a speck in the dark purplish night. When she was sure he had disappeared forever, she turned around and gave the car a long look. The waxed black and silver exterior sparkled under the awning light. She ran her hoof over the grill and admired the golden griffon statuette that sat regally on the top of the hood. She remembered how her father adored this car with all his heart. It was a shame to see it go under her care.

“I suppose all good things come to an end, right Beau?” said Octavia. She gave the car one last pat before retiring to her apartment for the night. A light drizzle began to fall as she made her way up the stairs to her door. She gave the car one more look. Beau, as her father used to affectionately call her, seemed to rest peacefully under the protection of the parking awning, and at least for that Octavia could be grateful. That somepony like her mechanic understood enough to pull the old girl over to her place gave the cold musician a warm feeling.

“Stupid old stallion,” Octavia said, chuckling to herself as she looked over the friendly stallion’s business card which read in bold Diesel’s Car Shop: Open all days from 5 to 5. Your drivin’ is our likin’!

“Surely he was being polite when he said he was happy where he was. Who would ever want to stay in the same place forever?”

Octavia stared at her telephone for five minutes, not a single muscle of her body moving from its place. She had gone over several times what she would tell her mother, how she would say it, and even decided to use Diesel’s business card as a buffer against anything her mother could possibly hurl her way. In her mind, there was nothing her mother could accuse her of with the aid of a complete stranger. She was being social, friendly, and using resources around her. What every independent adult pony could ever need to live on her own. There was absolutely nothing wrong with this picture. She was doing okay. Okay is enough, isn’t it?

She picked up the phone and dialed the number.

“No, you see…Mother, would you please allow me to exp-…No! I was not driving recklessly, it had a mechanical failure, and…You don’t think I know how much it meant to him? Look mother, I…”

This was how conversations with mother usually went for Octavia. Half the time was spent cringing at her mother’s accusations and the other half in attempts to defend herself. Sometimes, however, it felt useless to say anything, and this was quickly becoming one of those times. Octavia sat on her couch and ran a hoof through her mane while her mother continued to deliver those accusations she had heard time and time again. She was a reckless driver. She was 23 years old. She had so much going for her at home. She was naïve. She had no idea where she was going in life. She had no idea what life even was.

My father would never accuse me of such nonsense!

When she thought she could take it no more and felt the temptation to hang up right then and there, the call waiting signal entered the conversation.

“Excuse me, mother, there’s another call on the other line.”

Octavia pressed the flash button, relieved to give her ears and heart a rest, hoping that whoever was on the other line would bring a ray of happiness and joy to her otherwise stormy day. As soon as she greeted her mystery caller, the gruff and pompous voice on the other line sent her hopes in a downward spiral. This time, she was tempted to yank the telephone out of its socket and cast it out the window into the pouring rain.

“Hello, Frederic.”

“Octavia, I do believe it was you I saw in your car out in the middle of the road causing quite a stir. I couldn’t help but cover my precious ears hoping that the sheer amount of horn blasts wouldn’t damage them.”

“That’s because my car experienced a mechanical failure as I was driving. What else could I have done? And why couldn’t you have helped me? It was quite the hassle pushing my car to the side of the street.”

“Well now, let’s not be rash my dear Octavia. I simply could not allow my brilliance to be muddied with the vehicular concerns of other ponies. Besides, it seems that you’ve made it home so you didn’t even require my assistance. Anyway, to the main point of concern, I wanted to let you know that we’ve moved rehearsals from the afternoons to the mornings right after breakfast to facilitate everypony’s schedules, especially mine since I do have other things to attend to.”

“What!?” cried Octavia. “You know that I have…appointments in the mornings. How could you guys have changed the schedule without asking me for my opinion?”

“Well, I think it obvious as to why, you were simply unreachable at the moment.”

“I was having car problems! Far beyond my scope of influence. How am I supposed to even get there now, I have no means of transportation.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way. You are quite the ‘player’ on our quartet.”

Octavia could feel her mane catch fire. “You detestable maggot, I am the quartet!”

“Now, now, let’s not get our bow tie in a flurry. So don’t miss rehearsal tomorrow, nine sharp. Ta-ta!”

Before Octavia could give Frederic another piece of her mind, the pianist ended the conversation with a pompous plunk of the receiver. Octavia, filled with rage and fury, slammed her end of the phone into the phone dock and let out a frustrated yell. She always knew that the members of the orchestral quartet could be difficult at times, but this brought it to a new level. They knew of her “needs” and to blatantly change the schedule as they did without letting her know was like a slap, spit, and stab to the face. As she rubbed her hooves over her tired face, she realized she had forgotten about her mother who was impatiently waiting on the other line. Octavia quickly picked up the receiver and furiously dialed her mother’s number into the pad, relieved to hear the phone being picked up on the other line.

“Mother, I’m terribly sorry. I forgot I…No, mother please, don’t misunder-…Mother, no! Don’t think that, of course I love you! You and dad. It’s just…No…Don’t say that…Mother…”

“You know it to be true, Octavia. You simply cannot exist without my watchful eye over you. What a pity you turned out to be. The day I allowed you to leave this house was the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

And with that last comment, Octavia’s mother hung up her phone, and the receiver slithered from Octavia’s hoof and plopped onto the table with a sullen thud. Those words pierced her soul deep. She felt as though a spear had ripped through her stomach, entangled itself in a slushy mess amongst her intestines, and tried to forced its way up her throat. Soon, the warm saliva started creeping in her mouth, and the pressure escalated the sweat from her mid back down to her bottom.

“Oh Celestia, not again!”

Octavia got up from her couch and dashed to the bathroom. She didn’t pay attention to the table leg that stood in her way and she tripped, landing hard on her sensitive stomach. The impact was so rough, she could feel the bile starting to crawl up her chest.

“No, not that!”

Octavia tried her hardest to hold it in as she struggled to her hooves and limped her way to the bathroom. Only a few feet across the hall, Octavia used her front hooves to balance herself along the walls of her small but lavish apartment, and used her back legs to shuffle towards the bathroom. It was unnatural for a pony to walk on just two legs, but years of playing the cello this way made it second nature. Not to mention the times she had to use this method to reach the bathroom. With the door practically in front of her, she cautiously detached a hoof from the wall and reached for the knob. Another pang of urgency shot through her, forcing Octavia to put her hoof back on the wall and use it to support her delicate balance. As she waited for the shot of urgency to subside, she could hear her mother’s last words. The day I allowed you to leave this house was the worst decision I’ve ever made.

“N-no it w-wasn’t, mother! Dammit, I-I can make it.”

Blocking out any thoughts she had, Octavia used all her will power to once again reach for the door. She could already taste the bitter bile as she twisted the knob with her shaking hoof. Alas, when the door inched open, she leapt inside, ducked her head, and relieved her body of all her troubles.

When she was sure everything was out, Octavia washed her mouth of the bitter taste and trudged to the living room. She plopped her tired body onto the couch and stared blankly up at the ceiling. The doubts started to creep back into her mind as the after pains bludgeoned her stomach. Grabbing at her sides, Octavia tipped to one side and began to weep softly. Suddenly, her phone rang, causing her to jump from her place on the couch. Octavia reached for the receiver and brought it up to her moist face.

“H-Hello?”

“Octavia, how ya’ll doin’ tonight?” said a friendly voice.

“Oh my, doctor. I completely forgot about our weekly call.”

“It’s alright sweetheart. So how are things goin’ for ya?”

“Not good, doctor. I just threw up and it hurt.” She began to tear up again.

“Oh really?”

“I thought it would never stop. I was so scared, doctor. I just didn’t know if it would stop or not. But it did, so it’s okay I guess.”

“No, it’s not Octavia.” The doctor’s tone of voice became serious.

“What do you mean?”

“Octavia, I think you need to come in a little earlier tomorrow than usual. I think we need to work through some things a little deeper. It sounds like something really got you worked up tonight, am I right?”

“You could say that,” she replied, shuddering at the remembrance of her conversation with her mother.

“Okay then, how’s about y’all come in like at eight?”

“I can’t, doctor. I have practice in the morning. They changed the schedule and it’s mornings now.”

“They did that without asking you first? Now that’s not right there!”

Octavia then explained to the doctor what happened that day.

“Well even so, they had no right to change the schedule without speaking to you first. I mean, you’re the whole quartet anyhow!”

Octavia just smiled on the other line.

After a brief silence, the doctor spoke. “Alright, here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna go to your practice, and play awesome like ya always do. Then you’re gonna come on over to the office, and we can talk for a while, okay?”

“But how will I get to practice? I have no car and my compatriots cannot give me a ride.”

“Well that’s easy, just take the bus.”

Another brief silence crossed the lines.

“Octavia, you still there?”

Still silence.

“Octavia, you okay?”

“I-I can’t.”

“You can’t what? Take the bus?”

“Yeah.”

“Well why not?”

“I, well, see. It’s just. There’s…I don’t know, I just can’t!”

“Is there something about the bus that scares you, Octavia?”

Octavia thought for a moment. “I guess, I don’t know.”

“It sounds to me like you’re not sure yet what you’re scared of. And you know what I say, if you can’t identify it, it’s probably not even there.”

“Then why am I so scared, doctor?” she asked.

“Why don’t you journal about it?”

“Journal? What for?”

“Yeah. When you take the bus to your practice tomorrow and when you come here, take a notepad or something with you and just write how you feel. Write anything that comes to your mind, and when y’all come over, we’ll review the notes and see if we can pinpoint whatever it is that’s bothering you. Something tells me, Octavia, that whatever we discover might help you with your relationship with your mother and your new life.”

Octavia didn’t respond. She knew the doctor was right. He had helped her a lot the past few months she visited him, but it also seemed that the more appointments she went to, the harder it was to progress to the next stage.

The doctor’s voice changed back into his signature friendly reassurance. “Now you listen to me, Octavia. Nothing is gonna happen to you on that bus, you hear me? You’ve been through a lot lately, and I can tell you taking the bus is gonna be candy compared to those things.”

The doctor paused for a response. Octavia could tell when he stopped talking for her to respond or for her to think.

“I guess I could give it a try,” she managed.

“There you go! And that’s all you gotta do, Octavia. Just give it a try. What’s the worst that could happen? You got this far in your music career on your own, a little old bus ride ain’t gonna be nothin’. You have strength Octavia, you hear me?”

“Okay.”

“Alright, sweet heart, see you in the afternoon. Take care.”

“Bye.”

Octavia waited until the doctor hung up his phone before she did the same. She was always comforted by his sweet and peppy baritone and no matter what he had to say, it brought life to her. Even though the thought of using the bus still frightened her, she knew she wouldn’t change unless she did it. Other ponies take the bus, why couldn’t she? She had no reason to be afraid. As he said, if she couldn’t identify it, it probably didn’t even exist.

Octavia got up from her couch and made her way to her soft bed. She pulled over the covers and switched off her lamp. Tomorrow she would take the bus to practice. She would journal everything that went through her mind. As she looked out her window into the night, another rush of fear gripped her.

It will be okay.

It will be.

It will.

It…

…

April 8

April 8, 2012
1st Bus Ride – 8:00 am
Southwest corner of N. 43rd Ave and W. Bell Rd

For the first time in many months, I find myself at odds with my doctor.

Forgive me, father. How are you this morning? Today I arose from my bed with a slight pain in my neck. I could not tell you why, it just happened to appear this morning. And it’s getting worse. I can’t turn my neck to the left otherwise a sharp pain shoots down to my shoulder. Perhaps I am overworking myself practicing for the big concert coming up in a little over two weeks. The solo I am composing is set in rapid arpeggios with short breaks to intensify the mood. The notes will fly off the chords and dance furiously yet gracefully in the ears of those in the audience. It is a song meant not to scare, but to elicit awe. I think it’s my neck that awes this composition the most however! I tried to ice it a little this morning before leaving and it helped a little. This song is so powerful, it would make “The Flight of the Bumblebee” look like a crash landing into a field of nursery rhymes.

But you didn’t wake this early in the morning to hear me self-praise my musical ingenuity, have you? You want to hear about my appointment with the doctor.

Very well then. It all started as usual. We greeted at the door and delved right into the thick of things. I am not one to dawdle in meaningless talk, especially now when any free time I excavate from my mountainous schedule is dedicated to practicing. He was very pleased with my progress towards talking to other ponies, which I found to be affirming, but a tad embarrassing. I mean, I know I’ve always had trouble initiating conversations, but some ponies make it seem so natural. So easy. And I still get the butterflies when I need to use the telephone. I highly doubt I will find any pony who struggles with relating socially as much as I do.

This brings me to the doctor’s “challenge”. Although he was pleased that I have engaged in meaningful conversation, he’s noticed that they were initiated by something other me. With Twilight Sparkle, it was her snooping that started the conversation. And I have Winona’s friendliness to thank for hearing Applejack’s tale. I remember he took off his glasses and gave me that signature smirk. That look always meant something sinister was about to be said that would turn the tide against my favor, swallow me into its perturbing force, and drop me off like a cast away on the island of discomfort. He asked me to start a conversation with a complete stranger next time I board each bus. But not just anypony. The strangest, weirdest, odd-looking pony I could find.

Imagine this for a minute, my dearest father. Imagine a tower. A strong and beautiful tower built using the most tender care and affection by hooves of conviction and fervor. The sun beat endlessly, the rains fell mercilessly, but unwaveringly the hooves worked and worked and worked until the tower stood erect. The only one of its kind. Now father, imagine the mayor comes along, and declares this tower for purposes that existed not even in the subconscious of the loving builder and he adamantly refuses to comply with the demands given to him. Has he forgotten his place? Why of course! He’s a contractor for the state, and any demands from his hirer are to be followed as law. Thus, he gives the leading man the keys to his tower and he walks away.

Introversion is not a weakness, father. In fact, I find it to be one of my greatest gifts. The fact that I am capable of keeping to myself and withhold any sudden urges is a testament to strength and wisdom. Who would ever want to rob me of this? This challenge poses a risk to everything that I have built up for myself the past few years of my life. My reputation could be ruined! My protective instincts would become unarmed! And worst of all, I would have to sit through ten minutes of the worst conversation anypony has ever heard since existence! The strangest pony I could find? I would rather hear the babbles of babes!

However, I am not one to disobey the voice of tried wisdom. It is possible that my introversion poses a sort of barrier to figuring out what troubles me so. And I cannot deny the joy I have come to discover after getting to know the two mares from Ponyville. Therefore, I have accepted the challenge in the name of improvement, and am now seeking which pony to strum up a conversation with as we speak. There are the regulars who though not ideal ponies don’t seem to convey any weirdness vibes at all. In fact, they’re just there. There is nothing peculiar about them. This is going to be harder than I thought. Perhaps I should wait after a few stops before I make my choice.

And will contestant number one please come on down! There she is, father. The ideal strange pony. It has to be. Just look at her.

A springy hairstyle.

A pair of joke glasses on her face.

Two party hats worn over her ears.

Balloons for a cutie mark?

She is outrageous! She looks like a catalogue for children’s birthday party favors. What on earth has this pony been drinking!? Oh my, I simply cannot get ahold of myself over this spectacle. Okay.

Well, she has passed my seat and decided to take residence in the middle of the bus. But who could blame her? It’s not like my looks invite ponies to rest their rumps and bask in the glory of my glowing charm. This mare, on the other hoof, could blind the blind a second time, until their perpetual blackness becomes a pleasurable memory. This makes my next move exponentially uncomfortable by default. Let us not postpone the inevitable, father, and dive right in. Though if I were to be honest, I would rather dive into a pool of vicious alligators than sit next to a walking birthday cake.

Hello. That was all I said. A simple yet respectful greeting and then poof! Confetti fell from an unidentified source and the pink pony spoke at a pace that would put motor cars to shame. I picked out “hello” and “oh my galloping gumshoes with gumdrops”, but that was all. The volume of her voice was so loud and high pitch, it was like a parasprite playing a violin badly with a hoof file. And it never stopped! She kept going and going and going! How did her parents survive with her!?

Okay, now she just scared me. When she stopped to take a breath (which sounded more like a desperate gasp for air), she said in a more normal pace that diving in a pool of vicious alligators would more likely result in lots of injuries. Or in her terms, “boo-boos.”

I was still trying to figure out how in the name of all things logical she could know these things when out of nowhere she pulled out a cupcake and showed it to me. She said it was a new recipe and that I looked like the perfect candidate to test it. Not being one to turn down a baked treat, I put the pastry in question to my mouth and took a small bite.

I lost all sense of direction for that short moment as I savored the sweetness of this incredible cupcake. The texture of the bread was just right and felt good on my tongue. The flavor was a harmonious composition of chocolate and strawberry, with a smooth peach cream icing. It felt like a cascade of silk rushing down my throat every time I swallowed. When I finished, I could not believe I had just ingested an entire cupcake given to me by a complete stranger dressed as a party table. But at the same time I could not believe how unbelievably good it tasted!

She asked in a surprisingly normal voice what I thought of it. I responded that it was the best cupcake I had ever tasted. Then out of nowhere, she pulled out a ukulele and offered to explain in song how to make cupcakes.

I said sure.

If I recall correctly, one must mix a cup flour, place something sweet not sour, and a bit of salt, a pinch really. A teaspoon of vanilla comes next, with an extra douse of the extract for good measure. Then one, two, three, four, you have a batch of delectable cupcakes. I would have imagined baking cupcakes would be a tad more involved than that, but I am talking to a mare who can read minds and produce confetti from nothing. I question nothing. Catchy tune.

I wanted to start a nice little chat to find out more about this eccentric mare, but before I could even mutter a word she forced another cupcake into my mouth causing me to choke on its rich texture. As I was struggling to chew the cupcake, she rammed a bright pink hoofkerchief onto my face and cleaned up all the frosting that packed onto my lips. She apologized then threw the hoofkerchief out the window.

That was when we heard a gruff voice coming from the front of the bus. It was the conductor, and it was apparent he did not appreciate this pony’s littering. Leave it to the party ponified to take this curt callout as an invitation to offer him one of her moist cupcakes, for that was exactly what she did. Ignoring all physics whatsoever, she stood on the ceiling on the bus, hoofed with what appeared to me to be gumshoes, and brought down a cupcake to the conductor’s eyes. Luckily we were at a stop so no danger was posed to the passengers on board. And perhaps it was my eyes playing tricks on me, but I swear I saw small fireworks sparkle in her eyes. What happened next was truly a spectacle, and downright atrocious.

The conductor grabbed the pony by the neck, said some choice words, and threw her precisely back into her seat with a thump. He held the cupcake in his hoof for a few seconds before depositing it into the small trash bin he always had near him, making sure she was looking. Then a peculiar thing happened. Her mane began to deflate like a pricked balloon. Her smile slowly degraded into a heartbreaking frown. Her eyes lost that exploding sparkle and were replaced by tears. It was as if the party was sucked out of her. For the first time during the ride, she didn’t say a word.

Well, I have a few words to say to the conductor. How dare he disrespect a paying customer as if she were a bag of Monday’s trash? Such customer service is unspeakable! I believe a verbal correction is in order. Please wait a moment father, while I give this bloated bastard not a piece, but my whole damn mind!

The feeling of justice is thick in the air. The morning sun basks in the glory of unwavering valor and strong hooves strike the cold ground with triumph. Not a cloud dots the sky for they know and fear for the arrival of Octavia, defender of the defenseless and leader of the lost!

Well, in case you haven’t noticed father, I was kicked out of the bus for my “behavior.” Evidently, the conductor didn’t like having his actions accounted for or his weight problem interpreted as laziness. But somepony had to hold the mirror to his self-righteousness. But that wasn’t even the best part father. After I had convincingly hoofed his plot to him, I picked the delicacy he discarded and, using the technique I learned from the pink pony, smashed his wobbly face with sweet justice! Oh, the richness that shines against the flames and fire of the beast! His screams panged my delicate ears, but I never let my guard down. It was at this moment he opened the door and roared that if he ever saw me on his bus again, he would kill me. I simply looked his way with a smirk and quipped, “Fat chance!”

I was not alone in my honorable discharge from the bus, father. For right after I stepped out of the bus, who should be shoved right into my back but the pink pony herself. I asked what happened after I regained my stance. With a smile, she said that she was so moved by my act of defense, that she pulled out thirteen and three quarters cupcakes, stuffed them into her party cannon, and fired full blast at the conductor until he was completely covered in gooey goodness. At first I couldn’t believe what I heard, but then we broke into laughter of victory. I could see that the sparkle returned to her eyes and her hair rejuvenated into her former spongy spunk. She leaned close to me as if she was going to tell me a secret, but then she was gone.

I am walking alone now father and writing in sync with my steps is harder than it seems. I look like a limp. There must be an easier way. The pink pony? I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. Perhaps she left her oven on back in Ponyville and so she broke into a mad dash clear across the street towards her hometown. She vanished in the blink of an eye at speeds that would rival the Wonderbolts. Too bad she wasn’t a pegasus. No she did not thank me for sticking up for her, but oddly enough I feel that it wasn’t necessary. Sure it would’ve been nice, but it felt good to stand up for her. It was like a release of some kind. I feel like I can do anything. No, a thank you would have just been extra. Kind of like sprinkles on a cupcake. I can’t seem to get something out of mind. I don’t know why, but I have this eerie feeling that I‘ve seen her before. But where?

Call me crazy father. Perhaps even paranoid, but did I just feel a kiss on my cheek? And that hug on my body. It seemed awfully familiar. It was like cotton candy rubbing against my rump. I have definitely felt that before. Wait a minute!

Pinkie Pie!

The Grand Galloping Gala!

Yes, it’s all so clear now! During the night’s performance at the gala, that disrespectful little Pinkie Pie grabbed hold of my hoof and nearly made me break every single string on my cello! That little bugger! I knew there was something striking about her the moment I saw her. She’s a menace!

Destroyer of decency!

Flattener of fancy!

Embarrassment of equines!

Queen of cupcakes.

Lady of laughter.

Princess of parties.

A kind and generous spirit!

I must hurry. At this rate I’ll probably arrive late, and I am never late to a rehearsal. Until later, father.

Octavia

April 8, 2012
11:30 am

I am so exhausted of these poor excuses for musicians. Oh, how I wished they would just evaporate from my life and let me live out my dreams. Why must they do this to me? Why?

Allow me to explain, father. When I finally arrived at the theater for our rehearsals, I found the podium to be lacking in ponies. I looked for them backstage.

Nopony.

I walked upstairs to the second level.

Empty.

I even checked the restrooms, both sexes. Empty as well.

There was nopony in sight. Just as I was about to ask the front desk where my compatriots were, a note was handed to me by a young usher who looked no older than sixteen. It basically read that rehearsals were moved to a music studio three blocks due south. They would wait for me.

Now, what possible reason would you imagine they gave me when I arrived for…

1) Moving rehearsals to a music studio, and

2) Not telling me beforehoof?

Simple. They had just decided to move the rehearsals that very morning and because I was riding the bus there was no way to contact me. Why did they move them in the first place? Because it was closer to everypony.

All seemed very suspicious from the outset, and of course I discovered their real plan quickly. You see, as I was getting a drink of water from the cooler during break, I caught a glimpse of a conversation between Frederic and a stallion I have never seen before. He was dressed very fashionably, and that is a notable comment for a Canterlotan to make. While I kept my face hidden behind the door, I could hear certain words from their little talk.

Music.

Studio.

Space.

Wonderful.

Deal.

Money.

That was all I needed to hear. I burst through the door to confront Frederic and the gentlecolt that he invited. How dare he try to strike a deal with this stallion without consulting the other members of the quartet? And since when did we perform in hopes to land a record label? When we started this group, we all agreed that we played for the love of music and to one day play in front of large audiences not for high ticket prices, but to share the wonders of unified and harmonic sound. That is all we’ve ever been about. And for this detestable maggot to freely invite this equally disgraceful assortment of suits and sags and make a deal is just preposterous! We are not some lavish pop singer with real issues and fake talents! We are not a bunch of rich children who are too slack to seek personal fulfillment and too adamant about our parents buying out our lame dreams for fame.

We are musicians.

We love music.

If we are to be adored as kings and queens, then it will be because we have earned that right because of hard work and gentle vision. I have not worked my plot off perfecting my craft and composing my solo in order to sell my soul to some sweet talker in a suit! I would not have it!

That was when the other members walked in, and that was when I found out the entire group was in it together. The gentlecolt, whom I found was some hotshot named Fancy Pants, was answering a call made two weeks ago from a member of the “Sunshine Quartet” to come in a give a listen to their beautifully arranged music headed by one of the greatest cellists of all time, Octavia. Oh, I could feel the butter boiling all over me!

I turned to my compatriots and every one of them looked to the floor. Only Susie Tuba stepped out and spoke when obviously no other pony dared. Sweet Susie Tuba. She plays the loudest instrument with the softest blows. She opened her sweet mouth and oozed the sour, bitter, filthy, murky words that gave reason to their treachery and season for my misery: Somepony found out about my plans to go solo after the concert. And so in a dual attempt to make money before my departure and seduce me into staying with the group, they contacted Fancy Pants and arranged a practice session in the studio and masked their scheme with fibs of facilitation. As I looked around the room, all I saw was silent faces. Silent faces marked with disdainful deception and garish greed. At that moment, I lifted my head and my cello case and faced the exit.

What was I to do, father? Do I stay to play into a microphone, selling my precious music to a bunch of business ponies, or walk out the door with my creative integrity?

The wind has picked up speed since this morning and I feel the beginnings of a drizzle at the end of my muzzle. What to do for five hours. It’s such a strange feeling when all your life you’ve always had something to do for every minute of it, only to find yourself with nothing important to focus on. It’s like losing a map halfway through the journey. You could say that’s exactly how I feel right now. I don’t know where to go from here.

Well father, I’ve settled here at the bus stop. Just me, my pad, and my cello case. It’s all I really have right now. It’s all that really matters. How do they do it? How can a group of ponies just brush another pony to the side as if she were crumbs fallen to the floor? Do they not understand that these crumbs were once an object? What power does absence have over us that we allow it to make life changing decisions so simple? How does it make us forget our compatriots? How does it render our memories useless? Could it be that absence is the key to change?

Of presence.

Of mind.

Of heart.

Of reason. Of so many damn things.

What am I missing here father? What have I possibly given to perdition that would cause my friends to ditch me like a raggedy doll. My loyalty? I wouldn’t have left the group without telling them about it. I would’ve given them plenty of time to seek a fourth member, but they jumped the gun. I hadn’t even gone and they already wooed a label to label us as sellouts.

Even the potential of absence is powerful enough to separate and decompose. Absence does not make the heart grow fonder. Absence breaks it. It pummels the heart with unfounded threats and paranoia and leaves the pieces scattered all over where the winds of doubt carry them off into the abyss of fear.

A bus is approaching, but it is much too early for me to board. But, on the other hoof, there may be a chance I could see the doctor for a while longer. I have much to discuss with him. Besides, I still have part two of the challenge to complete and I want to get it over with as soon as possible. Not to say Pinkie Pie was a complete disaster. I ended up enjoying that encounter. Alright, here it is.

April 8, 2012
2nd Bus Ride – 12:00 pm
Southwest corner of N. 43rd Ave and W. Bell Rd

My, my! The noon route is absolutely jam packed! I hardly had room to squeeze through the little hallway. I was fortunate enough to find a seat in the middle of the bus near the back exit, but I am forced to hold my cello in between my legs. This makes writing a chore, forcing me to rest my pad on my case giving me the space of about one foot to write in. Maybe this is how a praying mantis would write her thoughts, praying that as stops pass by, passengers too would pass off the bus. Did I mention that the vast majority of the passengers are of high school age? My guess is the school north of the studio held a short day. But even this is quite a ridiculous number of young ponies. Something else must be causing the numbers explosion, but what?

What in the world? Father, a pony has just boarded that sent the bus into an uproar of clops and whistles. I can’t quite see the famous guest, namely because the pony seated next to me got up and rudely squeezed her way out. At least I can place my cello in the unoccupied seat so I can write in a more orthodox way.

As soon as I was about to write, I heard a raspy throat clearing. I looked up to find a white unicorn with a most frazzled blue mane sporting purple sunglasses. She said (more like demanded) she wanted to have a seat next to me. I moved to the window seat and placed the cello between my legs. She crossed her hooves and said that she wanted the window seat. Begrudgingly, I got up and allowed her to squeeze into the window seat. I must have rubbed up against five flanks in that transfer. Some ponies can be such snobs, I tell you!

Look at her. When was the last time she combed her mane? And she smells like a convenience store. Where has the care for appearance gone this century?

She’s so engrossed in her cell phone, just typing away at those little keys. How can anypony master such a tedious task? It looks painful! I can’t stand cell phones father. I had a cell phone for one month, and I had to cancel it after getting over three hundred text messages a night from complete strangers who wrote some of the most grotesque things I’ve ever read. I’ll spare you the details, but believe me when I say the two hundred bits cancellation fee was a small price to pay for my privacy back. I am not a huge fan of social media either. Who cares what you had for breakfast? If you want attention, go outside and do something worth attending to.

Should I start a conversation with her? There are plenty of candidates on the bus this hour, but perhaps chance has brought us here for some reason. I will start by asking her name and go from there. Not sure what I’ll get. Maybe a mumble I cannot decipher or a cloud of cigarette smoke that’ll singe my face. Here goes.

How was I supposed to know her name was Vinyl Scratch? Am I a mind reader?

DJ Pon-3? These are all just symbols to me.

She goes on to peek at my cello and scoff. Yes of course, because I am cultured I appear to be out of sync with reality. Says the mare with a blue mane! We entered into a bit of a verbal fest. I say she’s not cultured enough, she calls me yogurt. I say she should try something new, she says classical is too old for her. I suggest that classical music can be very lively; she says it’s impossible because all the composers are dead. I say that greats like Haythoven will never go out of style unlike electronic music, she says electronic music is just a highly evolved style that puts classical in the days of caveponies. At this point, I realize we were never going to agree and so I pulled out my ultimate zinger and say to her face that she is a sellout.

That brought the sunglasses down. She had a pair of bright red eyes that burned with anger. Very slowly, she asked me to repeat. At this point all eyes were on me. I wouldn’t have minded this if I was performing, but this was a little disturbing. I swallowed hard and tugged at my bow tie. Vinyl slapped my hoof off my bow tie and demanded that I repeat what I had just said. Why was this mare so sprung?

I repeated my sentiment, that because she was into the new wave of music, that she must have signed with some label, thus allowing business ponies to dictate what she wrote. A sellout of her creativity. At this, Vinyl softened her gaze and shook her head. She wasn’t fierce anymore, and most of the ponies got the idea and turned back into whatever they were doing. Just sitting. Spectating.

What followed father, I could only describe as music to my ears. First, she snarled at me, mumbling that she was not a sellout. Sellouts were abominations to the world of music. They sleep their way to the top then prance around the world pretending to be talented when in fact they are nothing more than rich attention whores with nothing better to do. At that moment, she slid off her sunglasses completely and recounted a time when she almost fell into the trap of worldwide fame. They promised the world to her, but instead they only gave her a world of hurt and unmet expectations. They owned everything she made, even that which was not yet produced. They owned her mind. They owned her soul. Buck them, she said. She was never about fame or money or anything that came with being a music producer. To her, music was an escape from the world. It was painting a picture for the blind. It was introducing a new concept of beauty to a stagnant world. It was innovation and originality and leaving your hoofmark in the sands of time. Music was passion. Music was love. Music was the little voice in your head that said you can make anything happen and anything was possible. Music made you want to fly. Higher and higher until there was no more sky to discover. Then, music made you search even harder for ways to outstretch the boundaries. Music was never meant to encapsulate, but to expand.

I felt like panting as if I had just ran a mile when Vinyl jerked her face into my own, and told me to never call her a sellout again. She fell back in her seat and pulled out her cell phone.

Wow.

I apologized to her for my forward assumptions and my prejudice against electronic musicians. It had been a hard day and all I wanted to do was straighten every crooked edge in the world I could find. She then asked what got me into such a tizzy. I told her everything. The morning bus. Pinkie Pie. The note. The studio. The betrayal of my friends. She asked what I did after I found out. Her eyes went soft after I told her that I literally walked out of the group.
She smiled. She said that was cool.

You know, hearing that from a pony such as herself was pretty satisfying. I have never been cool in my life, and to be validated as such from an electronic musician was very fulfilling. I chuckled, and so did she.

As I was getting off the bus (with much more room to wiggle through thankfully), Vinyl said that perhaps one day we could do a collaboration of some sort.

Yeah, like that will ever happen.

You know what father? I just realized not once today did I say a thing about the bus.

Not the seats.

Not the ride.

Not even the stains.

Am I a regular now?

Octavia

Sunday Evening: Questions

The sky grayed with the rude entrance of the storm clouds, disturbing what was a perfectly sunny day. The light filtered through the barred windows, filling the concrete floor of the interrogation room with its slanted pattern. Octavia sat motionless at a long, white table, staring at a brown pitcher filled with what the cellist guessed to be water. The door to the room opened, breaking her thoughts.

“Hello, Miss Octavia,” saluted a stallion’s voice.

The cellist looked up and saw a police stallion with abundant facial hair dressed in a beige suit, a shiny golden badge partially hiding behind a neatly pressed vest. He closed the door and walked to the seat across from the mare and reached over for the brown pitcher.

“Thirsty?” he asked, pouring himself a glass of water.

“No thank you,” she replied.

The cop pulled back a quick gulp of his glass and set it down next to a folder that had been in the room with Octavia the entire time she was there.

“Miss Octavia, I’m Lieutenant Hardball, and I’m gonna be asking you some questions regarding an incident that occurred last Friday night by your apartment suite. But before I begin, I have to ask if you would like to speak with your lawyer first.”

“I don’t have one,” she said, smoothing down the hairs on her leg.

“Very well. Then let’s get started, shall we?”

She nodded.

The police stallion picked up the envelope and began to unwind the string that kept its contents confidential. His suspect sitting across gazed at his hoof, entranced by the swirling motion that would eventually reveal what they had gathered from the scene she remembered all too well.

“Alrighty then, Miss Octavia, can you tell me if you recognize that fella right there?”

He grabbed a large photograph and slid it across the table until it was inches away from the cellist’s chest. She ducked down to take a closer look when she immediately recognized the arrogant smirk and the blue mustache.

“Yes. His name is Fancy Pants.”

“Good. Can you please tell me in what ways you’ve come to know him?”

“Yes. He used to come to our practice sessions, attempting to woo us to sign a lucrative label.”

“And you refused?”

“That’s correct.”

“Did that create any tension at all, Miss Octavia?”

The cellist nodded. “My compatriots were on board with the idea, which bothered me to say the least. I mean, we started the group on the basis of love for music, not the love for fame and fortune. But one day, I walked into a music studio where rehearsals were moved and found our pianist talking with Fancy Pants about a deal.”

“And that made you pretty angry I bet?”

She nodded again. “I thought we had made it quite clear since the beginning about where we stood as a group on record deals, but it seemed the majority had changed the dynamic of the group without consenting me first. I walked out of the group after that.”

The police stallion put a hoof to his rough chin. “I see. Now, according to the file we have on you, you refused to sign a contract that would’ve cemented your group with his record label.”

“That sounds accurate.”

“Now that’s really interesting, Miss Octavia.”

“How so?”

The cop rested his forelegs behind his head and leaned back. “Why would Fancy Pants give each member an individual contract for something that sounds like a group deal?”

The cellist didn’t respond.

“Sounds fishy if you ask me.”

“Well, I never thought of that personally, but perhaps every member needs to sign something on the dotted line for it to become official. It doesn’t make sense to have only one representative on a contract.”

“I guess so, but couldn’t he have just had everypony sign on one contract? Why’d he make four?”

“I have no idea, Lieutenant.”

“Interesting.” The police stallion gathered himself in a regular seating position and reached into his envelope. “Anyways, just curious really. Has nothing to do with our little investigation here. Now, can you tell me what this here picture is of?”

He slid another picture in front of Octavia. This time, it featured the janitor lying lifeless on the sidewalk of her apartment. Just like she left him.

“Y-Yes. It’s the janitor from my apartment complex.”

“Got any idea what happened to him?” he asked, his voice becoming more serious.

“W-well,” she began. “I saw him on the night in question. I was trying to enter my apartment when the key wouldn’t turn. I left to peek inside my window when I noticed all of my belongings were gone.”

“Wait a sec,” the cop interrupted. “All your stuff was gone and you didn’t report it?”

“Well, I didn’t think to at the time. And besides, I don’t own a cell phone so I had no way of reaching the police at the moment.”

“Weird. Go on.”

“So, I heard someone locking my door, and it was this gentlecolt. I asked if I could gain entrance into my apartment, but he wouldn’t allow it because I could’ve been a robber or something. I used his cell phone to call my mother to convince him to let me in, but for some reason, she said she didn’t know me.”

“So, does she own the place?”

“Well, my father does, but she’s an executive partner.”

“Interesting.”

The cellist sighed. “I tried to convince him that I was who I said I was, the daughter of the owner, but he wouldn’t listen. I grabbed him by the shoulders and pled with him, but he told me to let go. I did, and he tripped down the stairs.”

The police stallion leaned forward and stared at Octavia. “Didja kill him?”

“What? No! I mean, harm him, perhaps. But it was an accident, I swear!”

“Continue, and lower the volume please, Miss Octavia.”

“Yes, of course, forgive me.” She swallowed hard. “I followed him down stairs and he was motioning to me to reach into his pocket. I pulled out a prescription bottle, but it was empty. I searched for his cell phone and found it among the bushes and dialed the authorities. That’s when I discovered he was…dead.”

“I see.” Hardball scratched some notes into a yellow pad and rested his pen on his lip. “Then what did you do?”

Octavia licked her lips. “I ran.”

“You ran?”

“Yes, from the scene, literally. I didn’t know what to do. I feared if I had stayed, the cops that were dispatched would’ve arrested me for murder. I-I guess it was instinct, you could say.”

“Yes, instinct for guilty ponies.”

“What do you mean, Lieutenant?”

“If you don’t mind, Miss Octavia,” he said, fiddling the envelope. “I’ll be the one asking the questions.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” she replied.

“What did you do after your ran?”

“I wandered around aimlessly for a while until I realized I had left my cello case back at my apartment with my cello inside. I was confident that by then the authorities would have left scene already. I returned to find not my cello case, but a coupon.”

“A coupon? For what?”

“A coupon for one free extra-large yogurt at the Canterlot Medical Center,” she said, drawing circles on the table. “It had balloons on it and the text suggested it was made for a small child. That’s when I remembered I had promised a filly I would visit her and her friend at the hospital on Saturday.”

“What filly?”

“Just a filly I met at Seaport Village. I don’t suppose you need a name, do you?”

“No. She’s irrelevant to the case. How did you make it to the hospital?”

“Well, I didn’t have a car or any money, so I figured I’d walk. With several breaks in between to rest, I figured I’d make it to the hospital in about four to five hours. It was three in the morning by then, so I would have made it by the time the filly would’ve awoken.”

The police stallion reached into the envelope and pulled out a sheet filled with numbers. “According to this copy of hospital records, cameras picked you up arriving sometime after 9 pm. What happened in all that time in between?”

“It took me a little longer than expected.”

“You mean to tell me it took you eighteen hours to get from your apartment to the hospital?” The police stallion chuckled and brushed his mustache. “Either you’re the slowest walker in all Equestria, or there’s something to your story that you’re leaving out.”

“Well, if you’ll allow me to explain,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“Uh, sure, sorry. Go on, Miss Octavia,” he said, still smiling.

“Thank you.” She smoothed out her mane and continued her testimony. “I am a musician, not an athlete if you couldn’t tell. And aside from that, I hadn’t had any sleep, so after about two hours of walking I became more tired than expected. I paused to rest on a bench. It was just going to be for a moment, but then I found myself waking up to a late afternoon sunset.”

“So, you walked for a couple hours, fell asleep on some bench like a homeless pony, and then walked the rest of the way. Am I right, Miss Octavia?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “As I awoke, I noticed someone had left a purse with a few bits inside next to the bench. At first I thought maybe some mare had accidently left it, but then I realized that I had taken up the whole space of the bench when I fell asleep, which only meant one thing.”

“Somepony left it there for you,” Lieutenant Hardball said.

The cellist nodded. “I decided to use the bits to hitch a ride on a taxi. It took a while to flag one down, but eventually I was able to get to the Canterlot Medical Center at approximately nine o’clock, just as the records indicate.”

The door to the interrogation room opened and a police officer marched to the Lieutenant, bending down to whisper something into his ears. Octavia fidgeted her hooves under the table as the Lieutenant nodded slightly. When the police officer left, he grabbed all the photos and placed them back into the envelope.

“Well, Miss Octavia,” he said with a soft smile. “Seems like you’re off the hook. Your story matches both receipt records and eyewitness accounts at the hospital cafeteria.”

“Receipt records?” she said.

“That coupon you were talking about? Turns out a grey mare redeemed it last night around 9:30 pm for one free extra-large yogurt. You’re free to go, Miss Octavia.”

“Just like that?” she asked. “I mean, I’m not complaining, but I thought there would be more to this.”

“If you’re referring to your little scuffle with the croaked janitor, don’t sweat it. As far as I can tell, the old geezer tripped on his own and it was his forgetting to refill his prescription that killed him.”

Lieutenant Hardball stood up from the table and opened the door for his ex-suspect. She walked out, pausing after a few steps to address her former interrogator. “Lieutenant Hardball?”

“Yes, Miss Octavia?”

“I sort of have a favor to ask of you, if that’s alright.”

The cop grinned. “What? You wanna spend the night in a cell or something?”

“No,” she said, chuckling lightly. “I was wondering if you knew anything about a friend of mine.”

“Is she connected to this case?”

“In fact, she is. She was the sousaphone player in our group. Her name’s Susie Tuba.”

The lieutenant scratched his shoulder. “I’m really sorry to tell you this, but if she’s connected to this case, I can’t reveal anything to anypony.”

“I really just want to know if she’s okay.”

The lieutenant looked over his shoulder and spoke with a low voice. “Alright. Apparently, she got into a little accident yesterday in her Fancy Pants’s car.”

“What was she doing in his car?”

“Didn’t you know? Susie Tuba is the daughter of the stallion who tried to make money off you.”

The mare gasped.

“I don’t really know much else, but she’s in the Canterlot Trauma Center. Doctor’s weren’t too hopeful.

Octavia gripped the door knob and bit the tips of her hoof. Oh no. Susie Tuba.

“If you wanna go see her, I’d suggest you go now before someone wants to ask you more questions.”

“Yes. Thank you Lieutenant.”

Octavia made her way to the front doors of the police station, her pace quickened by the urgency of her friend’s situation.

I’m glad she’s still alive, but what if she dies before I get there?

What am I saying, she won’t die, but who knows?

Fancy Pants is her father? How did this happen?

Uncertainty turned into confusion, and confusion degraded into guilt. Her heart fell with every step closer to the exit as if she were carrying large bags of sand, each spilling at the seams with the coarseness of fear, anxiety, guilt, and shame. As she reached for the door, a duo of police officers barged in, knocking the cellist off her feet. An elderly looking mare they apprehended shook in her temporary harness violently, but her efforts were proving fruitless to escape.

“Unhoof me you idiots! You have no idea what you’re doing!”

As soon as Octavia stood to her hooves, she froze at the sound of the familiar voice.

Mother?

“Well well, and who is this?” asked Lieutenant Hardball.

“We found several calls to Fancy Pants on her record on the night after the discovery of the janitor,” announced 5-0, emerging from the one of the cubicles and handing the lieutenant a record sheet. “All were within one hour of the time the crime was committed.”

“Making sure the job gets off without a hitch,” he said, looking over the papers. He looked up at Octavia’s mother and flashed a grin. “Or were you calling your little sweetheart?”

“You’re making a giant mistake, Lieutenant.”

“Let’s hope so.”

The group walked into the hallways of the station, disappearing into the bustle of the afternoon’s normal activities. The cellist remained frozen with shock, a whirlwind of emotion drifting her light head into a daze of confusion and exhaustion. She felt her hooves give way on the cold, tile floor and the rush of the fall pulling her down to it. Her weary face would’ve met with the flat surface had it not been for the aura of purple magic that surrounded her, overpowering the force of gravity and lifting her gently towards a nearby bench. She could sense a light, fuzzy presence blowing on her skin, but the sideways view of the station threw her off guard. The world flying outwards from the sides of her head as if she were being pulled back only served to heighten her anxiety, but her turbulent spirits were quickly calmed as soon as her rear touched the woody seat and the world was upright.

“Octavia, are you okay?” asked a gentle voice.

The cellist shook her head and focused her eyes on her rescuer.

“Twilight? What are you doing here?”

“I rushed in as soon as I saw you falling. I’m really glad I caught you just in the nick of time. How are you feeling?”

“A little tired,” she responded, rubbing her head.

“Was the questioning really intense?”

“Not particularly, but the event that occurred afterward could be described as such.”

“What happened?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it right now, Twilight,” she said, her voice cracking. “Can we please maybe go outside?”

“Of course. Everypony’s waiting outside for you.”

“Really?” The cellist looked out the glass doors and, sure enough, everyone from the hospital save Rainbow Dash, Sweetie Belle, and Apple Bloom stood on the stony steps of the station waiting anxiously for the grey mare to emerge, well they hoped.

“I hope that won’t be a problem. They just wanted to make sure you were okay after your rendezvous here at the police station.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” she said. She got up from her seat and walked towards the exit.

The unicorn caught up with the earth pony and the two walked out into the bursting sunlight, using their forelegs to shield the sudden encounter.

“There they are,” yelled Applejack, pointing. The other ponies stood to their hooves and bore welcoming smiles tainted with worry.

“Darling, are you alright?” asked Rarity, her eyes large with concern.

“Did they hurt you?” asked Pinkie Pie.

Octavia paused a moment to look at the pink pony with distaste. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course I wasn’t hurt. They just asked questions, that’s all.”

She continued towards the street, barely acknowledging the other ponies that were there.

“I just wanted to know,” said a dejected Pinkie.

“Octavia, dear,” said Rarity, following the grey mare down the sidewalk towards the intersection. She was followed by Applejack. “Is there something we can do for you?”

“No, thank you.”

The pursuing mares looked at each other.

“Y’all sure y’all ‘re alright?”

The cellist stopped right at the corner and turned to address her followers, a look of annoyance featured on her face. “I am fine. I just need to spend some time alone, which means you two can go back with the others at the hospital.”

“But where will you go, my dear? It will become dark soon and a mare in your condition needs to be indoors.”

“You’d be surprised, Rarity.”

She turned around and walked alone to the other side of the street, leaving the two ponies struck with disbelief. Back at the police station, Twilight and Pinkie sat on the steps watching the sun set behind fluffy clouds of purple and orange.

“Hey,” piped Pinkie. “Where’s Fluttershy?”

“That’s a good question,” replied Twilight, looking around her. “I thought she was right here.”

“I thought she went with Rarity and Applejack to talk to Octy.”

“She’s not with us,” said Rarity, arriving along with her farm friend to where the two ponies sat. “We thought she was here with you.”

“Well, she couldn’t have gotten lost,” said Twilight.

The mares thought for a silent moment before Applejack took her hat off and looked up into the darkening sky.

“Y’all know that Fluttershy’s the only one that can fly out of all of us, right?”

The ponies mimicked the farm pony’s gesture and sure enough, the light pink tail fluttered softly in the night wind and disappeared into the sky like a wayward balloon.

“Where do you think she’s going?” asked Rarity.

“Maybe there’s a poor little bunny hanging on the edge of a cliff that needs saving!” suggested Pinkie Pie.

“I highly doubt there’s a small, troubled creature that’s caught Fluttershy’s interest,” said Twilight. “But I think there’s definitely a pony who has.”

“Oh Fluttershy, doesn’t she know Octavia’s wantin’ some peace and quiet right about now?”

Twilight sighed. “I don’t know Applejack. Maybe that’s exactly what she’ll get from the most peaceful, quiet pony we know.”

Octavia kicked an empty soda can off the sidewalk into the lonely street and grunted. She looked up at the sky for the first time in a long while and noticed that the sun just barely peeked over the mountains beyond the horizon. The sudden arrival of nighttime angered her even more.

“Dammit!”

She set her sore rump on the edge of the sidewalk and brought up her knees, burying her head between them. Light drops of sweat trickled down her muzzle giving her an annoying tickling sensation which she swiped away with more force than needed. As a result, she scratched herself with her coarse hoof, and the stinging took no time in sending the bothered cellist into a fit of internal rage. She simply hissed through gritted teeth, and allowed the floodgates to open from her eyes.

What’s next?

As if answering her thoughts, a notepad flew out of the window of a passing car and landed with a slap on the sidewalk next to the crying musician. She looked at it whilst wiping her eyes, curiosity shifting her sight down the road where she spotted the speeding vehicle crossing the intersection, ignoring the red light. She looked back at the cover of the notepad.

Math.

How strange. Who would throw their math notebook out the window?

She opened the gently used notepad and found several scribbles of formulas and practice problems filling the first ten pages. The next twenty or so pages were covered in random doodles.

A spaceship.

A field of futuristic looking plants and flowers.

A pony with robotic legs and a visor across the eyes.

It’s obvious where this pony’s mind was during class.

The cellist closed the book and set it to her right, but she couldn’t take her eyes off it, no matter how strange its contents seemed.

“I’ve got to find a pen,” she mumbled to herself.

She looked all around her and, as fate would have it, a capless pen rested snuggly within the crack between two sidewalk blocks. She reached over for it then grabbed the notepad and opened it to the next blank page. She scribbled a set of curls on the top of the page until the ink reappeared from its elongated slumber.

“Good, it works,” she said, smiling for the first time all day.

She folded the pad over and rested it on her lap. She looked up into the sky and thought about her next entry.

Her first entry in two days.

April 17, 2012
Early evening

Two days.

It feels more like two weeks. Maybe even two years.

What does a pony say when they haven’t spoken with a friend for so long? I wouldn’t know since I rarely converse with anyone. I would imagine it to be like returning to a hobby after leaving it for some time. I couldn’t tell you how that would feel either since cello is all I’ve ever done. Maybe it’s like eating a favorite meal after a long time dining on other things on the menu? I haven’t had a decently cooked meal in so long, I may as well be a food critic with no sense of taste.

No. I don’t know what it’s like to go back to something after abandoning it. This is rather sad. I’ve always had something to do that was consistently present. My cello would always wait upright next to my bed for the next practice session. My bow tie never had a speck of dirt on it; instead, it was clean and fresh and presentable throughout the day. My apartment was always orderly, clean, and safe. And the lock always opened whenever I turned the key.

My entire day was scripted to perfection with firm scenes and dependable players. Some ponies consider this a blessing. I can see what they mean.

I’ve experienced the other end of the world.

It all began with a failing transmission. I don’t even remember the estimate given to me.

Would I take back all that I’ve seen, heard, even smelled?

It’s hard to say. I felt comfortable in my little niche. It was a place where I could freely be me and there was nopony there to deny, criticize, or express disdain. If I wanted, I could conduct a symphony right there in my living room and everyone would stand up in a rousing cheer at the sound of the last note. I could escape into the depths of my blankets and allow the warmth to envelope my weary body and lose my consciousness within. I had the right to voice my own opinion and I had the power of consensus. No one could challenge me, I was the best. I was the smartest, the most talented, and the prettiest. I was whatever I set my mind to.

I was the best.

Then, I was the worst.

Why can irony be found in consistency? Perhaps the real mystery is this: Is there consistency? Where can it be discovered, created, planted, harvested, rejuvenated, reborn, or accepted? Should ponies even wish for consistency? I do. Celestia knows I do. Every waking moment is now a desperate search for some kind of solid meaning to all of this mess. I can tell you, oh I will be the first to raise my hoof and say that I have sought after consistency like…

Like…

A magic student with her teacher’s rules and a poor stallion’s concerns in her heart.

A farm pony juggling an ailing little sister and a farm in need of attention.

An athlete seeking optimum performance with minimal effort.

A lyrist whose decisions were made for her since the beginning.

Replace “lyrist” with “cellist.”

My cello. Is not mine really.

It was yours.

It was your dream.

Your dream was it.

I was your dream.

Was I your dream?

I was yours.

Who am I?

The pen quivered in its place, the hoof of a writing cellist. But it wasn’t music that was penned. And they weren’t tears of joy that decorated the pages.

Who am I?

Suddenly, a gentle hoof placed itself on top of the trembling one, and with soft, swift movements guided the troubled mare to write:

You are Octavia.

“Now you write it,” said the voice of the hoof.

The cellist’s breathing shook as she felt the warm guiding hoof separate from hers. The air was cold, but the voice from behind remained calm.

“Go ahead, Octavia. Write who you are.”

“But, how do I know this is me? I’m just a shell of my parents. Of my father.”

“Not anymore.”

The cellist’s voice shook. “How do you know?”

The hoof touched her cheek with gentle wisdom that soothed the beats of her heart. The other hoof reached down and together, they hugged her neck with wise love.

“Thy Princess knows that a thousand years is not enough time to overpower the dormant truth inside.”

The grey mare turned around and gazed into the face of the ruler of the night, her deep blue mane flowing with ease, a smile so warm that it pierced the darkness she regally oversaw. Octavia was wide-eyed, speechless, and frozen.

“Thou art not a shell of thine father, but a pearl of infinite beauty and worth formed by experience and valued by many.”

Princess Luna looked behind her and out from the corner of a building, Fluttershy poked her head and smiled at Octavia. The cellist just stared at the pegasus with a reverence that was still analyzing the significance of the moment. After a moment of pensive silence, the grey mare broke free of the ruler’s embrace and bent down to pick up the pen and pad.

“So, I’m…”

“Yes,” said Luna, preparing to take flight into the dark sky.

The cellist opened to the page she wrote on and penned the words:

I am Octavia.

She slowly picked up her head and found Luna smiling down at her like a mother would do to her daughter. And the earth pony couldn’t help but allow a childlike grin to accompany her sparkling eyes of wonderment.

“Enjoy the night, Octavia, for it signals the soon arrival of a new day.”

Princess Luna spread her feathered wings and with the grace of a shooting star she lifted herself up into the night, the power of tempestuous wind reverencing the two ponies remaining on the ground. The wind enveloped and soothed the cellist, shutting her eyes, raising her hooves, quieting her heart and silencing her rattling spirits. Fluttershy emerged from her hiding spot and walked next to Octavia, a look on her face showing a fear to touch the anointed.

“Octavia?”

The grey pony looked down in her notes, then back to the shy pegasus with a smile.

“Yes, that is my name. What is it that you want, friend?”

A toothy grin exploded onto Fluttershy’s face, and with the excitement of a morning teapot, she wrapped her legs around the musician and shared the happiness and joy of the moment. For a minute they lost themselves in the warmth of the embrace, not the passage of cars nor the flickering of old, weathered streetlamps detracted a single iota from the sentiment. For the first time, Octavia had something to hold onto that was alive.

“Thank you for coming, my dear Fluttershy,” said Octavia, breaking away from the embrace to wipe her eyes.

The yellow pony just smiled and cleared her own tears away, eliciting a few giggles from the pony across from her.

“Tell me something, Fluttershy. Did you invite the Princess here?”

She blushed. “Well, I just thought if anyone could help you, it would be her.”

The earth pony’s eyes grew wide. “But how on earth did you manage to convince her to come so easily?”

“That’s what makes the Princesses so amazing,” she said, looking up at the stars. “Even though they have so much responsibility, they always have time for a hurting pony. Sometimes, I even wonder if they’re really…”

“…like us?” completed Octavia.

Fluttershy nodded.

“As do I.”

“What’s that place?” asked Fluttershy.

The two mares began the trek back towards the center of downtown Canterlot and Octavia took it upon herself to introduce the visiting pony a few notable places along the way.

“That’s the Gaslamp Quarter. As you can tell, it is still lit using the old gaslamps and features very exclusive dining and shopping. I believe Hoity Toity owns a few shops here.”

“Rarity would love this place,” said Fluttershy.

“And over here,” continued Octavia, pointing to the left. “Is Horton Plaza. It’s a rather simple mall, but every winter it boasts the largest ice skating rink in all of Equestria, right in the middle of the food court.”

“Oh, sounds fun!”

“We used to go all the time, my father and I. And right next to Horton Plaza is the world renowned Museum of Natural History.”

Fluttershy stopped her steps and marveled at the large pillars from bottom to top that supported the ruin-like statues of ancient pegasus ponies battling the ruthless earth ponies in one of the most memorable battles ever fought.

“That’s amazing.”

“My father and I loved going every Wednesday when the admission was free for children. He loved looking at the paintings. His favorite style was still life.”

The musician paused her steps and looked to the ground, a pensive look of someone lost replacing her former joyous appearance of the tour guide. Her pegasus friend stopped much later, having to back track just to be within conversing distance.

“You okay, Octavia?”

“My apologies, Fluttershy. I guess I haven’t fully grasped what I’ve been taught by the Princess tonight.”

“I’m sure it’ll take some time to get used to, but you have us.”

“Us?”

The pegasus nodded. “Yeah. I mean, us girls from Ponyville. I’m sure the others would be more than happy to help you however you need it.”

“A place to stay would be nice,” said the cellist with a sigh coming at the end.

The yellow pony gasped. “You mean, you don’t even have a home? You poor thing!”

“No, it’s alright. I’m sure I can find a decently priced place soon. That is, as soon as I can find a job first.”

“This is just horrible!” The pegasus began to pace. “I didn’t know you were homeless! Oh goodness! You must come to Ponyville. I’m sure all of us would let you stay in our homes until you find your hooves. In fact, they’d insist. I insist!”

Octavia chuckled at her friend’s emotional pleas. “Well, I mean that’s kind of you to offer, but I’d hate to intrude on such short notice.”

“No, Octavia, it wouldn’t be intrusion. I mean, you can do whatever you want, but when they hear you don’t have a place to stay. Oh! I just can’t even begin to imagine how many offers you’d get for staying. You simply must come to Ponyville with us.”

The cellist smiled. “You won’t take no for an answer, am I correct?”

The shy pony lowered her head. “Well, I didn’t mean to sound so pushy, but I can’t stand the thought of you living on the streets with nopony to go to, whereas you have plenty of friends that love you so much in Ponyville. But you’re right. It’s your choice to make.”

Octavia couldn’t help but laugh, then she couldn’t help but hug a worried friend. “Then I’d better pack my things!”

This time Fluttershy was the one who couldn’t contain her joy, as she wrapped her hooves around the cellist once again and nearly squeezed the notes out of her. “Oh, you’re just gonna love Ponyville! There’s the library, and Sugarcube Corner, and Sweet Apple Acres, and so many other wonderful things!”

“I can’t wait,” began Octavia, breaking from the tight embrace. “But first, I need to see somepony.”

“Who? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“That’s the thing.”

Octavia sat on the steps of the museum, followed by her pegasus friend. “I have good reasons for both, but I don’t think I can see both.”

“Why?”

“Well, a friend is in the hospital fighting for her life with a negative outlook. My mother is probably being sentenced to a long time in prison, and quite honestly I have no desire to see her but for one thing.”

“And what is that,” pressed Fluttershy.

Octavia sighed. “She’s the only one who knows where my father is, but if I go to see him, I may miss out of being by Susie's side for her last breaths of life. I’m tied. If I go to one, I’ll regret not seeing the other.”

“So, what are you gonna do?” asked Fluttershy.

“Such a common question to which I haven’t the faintest answer.”

“Well, what would Octavia do?”

The musician looked at the pegasus, piqued by the question. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know what your old self would do, but what about the real you? What would she do, knowing what she knows now?”

Octavia thought for a moment. “I know the old me would’ve ran to mother, begged for forgiveness, and maybe skip asking for her father’s whereabouts. The old me would also avoid her mother completely and walk to the hospital, hoping that Susie would make it through the night behind a closed door.”

“And now?”

“Now,” she said, standing up. “She does what’s best for her.”

“And what is that,” asked Fluttershy, standing with her.

Octavia looked down the street and saw the two places of high importance. One to the left, the other to the right. She took a deep breath and walked, her pegasus friend following close.