Chapters Prelude: Can't Find My Way Home
It was as Octavia nursed her fifth glass of beer that she realized—fully— that her life was effectively over.
The painkillers were finally wearing off and the freshly unbroken leg was throbbing through the alcohol buzz. She stared at her reflection in the amber elixir, contemplating everything. Yes, her life was probably as good as over. Her career, certainly, wouldn't survive today. Her cello… was still back at the concert hall.
That fact bothered her the most. It had been her mother's cello, and her mother's father's before that, and so on. It was probably sitting there in its case, no doubt being held onto most courteously by the conductor or whoever had found it first. There was little chance that it would be taken by accident—it was a blatantly antique instrument, and Octavia's name was on the side, carved at the bottom of an ancestral list eight deep. She'd have to go back to get it, eventually. Leaving it behind was simply unthinkable.
It was only after her sixth glass that she finally looked up at the place she'd stumbled into. It was one of those newer music bars, the sort of location which one might appropriately call a “club”. The lights were dim, except for the places where they were excruciatingly bright and colored like a sickly neon rainbow. The bar itself was styled as a large disc, with grooves laid in that Octavia dimly recognized as being intended to mimic those on a vinyl record. The “dance floor” was wrapped around the bar, continuing the theme. A few ponies were out bobbing heads and shuffling feet, but it really was largely empty. It was a Tuesday night, after all.
The bartender was a stallion in his mid-thirties, his eyes hidden behind a ludicrous pair of sunglasses, which were spiked out at the edges, matching with his mane—an equally ludicrous construction of red and gold, divided down the middle and gelled out into a sort of clam-shape. Octavia wasn't sure what style to call it, exactly. Combined with the piercings through his nose and ears and the metal circlets wrapped around the front edges of his wings, he looked positively alien. It was… comforting; a reminder that she was far, far away from the prim and the proper paradigm from which she'd fled earlier.
Whatever was coming out of the speakers sounded nothing like any music Octavia had ever heard, but at the moment it suited her just fine. There was a strange constance to its beat, a progression as alien to her as the bartender's appearance. For the life of her, Octavia couldn't pin down a single instrument in the composition. After a moment, she realized that this was probably because the entire composition was synthesized. Odd, yes, but, like the bartender, strangely comforting in its oddness.
It was, however, much louder than she'd have liked. The bouncing bass seemed to resonate in her chest, and Octavia suddenly had to hold back another rush of nausea. The bartender saw this and moved quickly, whipping a paper bag out from somewhere and offering it to her urgently, but Octavia waved him off wordlessly, choking back the flood. “Thank you,” she said, raising her voice to a near-shout to be heard over the music. “But I'm alright. Just… the pain medicines. Still wearing off. Plenty of fun.”
The bartender eyed her skeptically. “Hon, it's not my place to tell you your business, but you don't look like the type to hang out around here.” His frown deepened. “Also… you sure you should be mixing painkillers with booze?”
“They're wearing off,” Octavia repeated like it was the most obvious thing in the world. She downed her seventh glass.
The bartender's eyebrows rose. “Okay, whoa, hold up. You got my attention. I don't care why you're on the meds, but seven is too many.”
Octavia groaned and waved a hoof dismissively. “Please, spare me. I'm an earth pony, to start with—very high tolerances—and I've been drinking wine—in moderation—since I was eight—so…” She stifled a most unladylike belch. “Very high tolerances. Yes.”
The bartender shrugged, ruffling his wings a bit. The bracelets jingled. “Wouldn't know. Still not giving you another.”
Octavia was about to start muttering some very nasty words, when all of a sudden a hoof was wrapped around her shoulder. The experience didn't register for a moment, during which Octavia sat stone-still, letting the hoof work its way well into place.
Her head turned slowly. Sitting next to her, with her hoof around Octavia's shoulder and her face blazing with the cockiest grin in history, was a white-coated unicorn with a lightning-blue mane and a huge pair of black-rimmed, iridescent sunglasses. Inside. At night. Huh.
She was also… a mare . For some reason, that fact registered to Octavia as particularly important. Inside her head, a freshly marinated little pony clumsily struck steel to flint. Why did it matter that this pony was a mare? Something about the bar?
“Well hi,” said the unicorn.
Steel scraped flint, and a spark flickered in Octavia's head. Yes… something about the bar, something exceedingly important. Alas, the spark fizzled out as the alcohol in her veins surged over it. “Hi,” she responded dimly.
“Haven't seen you around here before.”
“Well, I haven't been around here before.”
“Cool accent. Upper Canterlot?”
“Mhmm. Yours is… Bittsburgh?”
“Yup. Vinyl Scratch. My name, but I go by Vinyl mostly. Yours?”
“Octavia. Octavia Melody, to be precise, but I prefer to just go by Octavia.”
“That's a cool name.”
“Why thank you. Yours is also, ah, cool .”
“So…”
“So…?”
“You wanna bang?”
It was at this point, finally, that the spark caught.
The sign above the bar: “The Rainbow Record.”
Above that, a neon disc done up in seven colors.
Octavia's little flame of understanding flickered a bit. “Oh.”
Vinyl cocked her head. “Oh?”
Crackle. “No.”
Vinyl blinked. “No?”
The flame blazed to life, catching off the alcohol in a conflagration of realization and emotion which made itself apparent through Octavia's cheeks. “Um… Oh, I'm so so… so so sorry about this. I… ah… seem to have wandered into the wrong sort of bar, if you… catch my… meaning.”
The bartender let out a low groan, and lowered his head—bizarre mane and all—onto the counter. “Called it.”
Vinyl Scratch blinked twice, and her mouth formed a silent “O” as she slowly lifted her hoof away. “Okay, wow, awkward. Uh… sorry?”
“No, no, it's c-completely my fault,” Octavia said, though it came out as more of a nervous giggle. “It's just that I… well I didn't really read the sign, seeing as how I was looking to get hopelessly drunk as fast as possible… well, no… well, yes, I suppose that I was what I was doing.” She raised her hooves to cup her face, and let out a tiny scream as her injured member complained.
Vinyl's voice carried a note of incredulity. “Okay, wow, seriously awkward. Are you… okay?”
“Oh, Tartarus no!” Octavia let out a bitter laugh. “Okay? Okay? I don't believe I can see how today can be considered even remotely okay!”
“Uh…” Vinyl shot a glance at the bartender. “Wanna talk about it?” she asked, giving Octavia a cautious smile.
“Not at all," Octavia lied, her voice far beyond the control of her judgment. "Just… why in Tartarus did that particular cab driver happen to swerve onto the sidewalk today? Today, the date of the biggest show of my life. And then my normal doctor—the good one—is out on a house call and they have some… bloody apprentice fix the fracture… and my entire family was at that performance, and I, the first-chair cellist, arrived twenty minutes late and stuffed full of painkillers, playing with a leg that was still partly numb! And then, to top it off, the thrice-damned concertmaster asks to see me after it's all over, and I… release my lunch onto her very fine suit before running like a schoolfilly caught with her hoof in a damned cookie jar! And then, to top it all off, the bar I chose to drown in happens to be a… um… well, a gay bar.”
Vinyl whistled. “Hell of a day.”
The bartender nodded. “Hell of a day.”
Octavia's body sagged like a balloon without air, and she ended up lying part-way across the counter. “Yes, well, seeing as how my life is over anyhow, can I have another drink, please? Like I said: very high tolerances. I'm not nearly drunk enough yet.”
Vinyl and the bartender shared a glance. They leaned in, and a whispered conversation occurred outside of Octavia's hearing.
Eventually, it stopped being whispered as the exchange grew heated. “...damn it, Rocksteady,” Vinyl said. “Just look at her.”
The bartender—Rocksteady, apparently—wiped a wing across his forehead. “I'm lookin' , Scratchy, and I can tell you that the last thing she needs is another drink.”
Octavia just let her head rest on the counter, her eyes drifting across the grooves. She could feel the dull pain as the pattern embedded itself into her cheek, but she didn't really care.
So this was what she'd become? A drunkard wandering into bars, hoping for nothing more than to obliviate her woes beneath a torrent of booze? Had she really sunk that low?
Vinyl pounded a hoof on the table, causing Octavia's head a great deal of pain. “I'll cover her damn tab," Vinyl said.
“It's not about the tab, hon," Rocksteady said, his voice firm. Steady. Like a rock. The absurd little thought almost made her laugh, until his next words stole the mirth away. "I can't in good conscience let her take a dive like this, not seeing the state she's in.”
Ah. So he pitied her. Of course he did. Vinyl did, too, didn't she? Everything good that was happening to her was because of how pitiful she'd become. Octavia bit her lip and tried not to cry. She failed.
The tears flowed like rivers. She tried to hide it by raising her hoof to her face, but she picked the left one again and let out another yelp as it connected with her nose. Vinyl and Rocksteady glanced at her and saw her state.
“Damn it,” Vinyl muttered. “I came here to find a bang-buddy. This was not how I planned to spend my night.”
Rocksteady rolled his eyes. “It's not technically your mess, hon.”
“C'mon, you know me, dude. I'm the whitest of all white knights. I have a code, for Luna's sake.”
He shrugged. “Just speaking the truth. Not my fault you gotta play life the hard way, hon.”
“Okay.” Vinyl hooked a hoof around Octavia once more, and the latter flinched at the touch. “Come on,” Vinyl said. “You're crashing at my apartment tonight.”
Octavia blinked furiously and rubbed her nose with the hoof that wasn't busy healing. She resisted the urge to mumble something bitter about "not needing Vinyl's charity." The mare had been perfectly lovely to her. She didn't deserve that kind of bitterness. “Thank you,” she mumbled instead, “but I have a place I'm staying.”
Vinyl blinked as if the concept eluded her. “You do realize… where you are, right? The part of the city?”
Octavia frowned as her soggy brain did its best to figure out the answer. “Somewhere… eastward? I don't see how that's a problem.”
Vinyl's voice went deadpan. “Try south. Southern Manehattan. After midnight. Seeing the problem?”
Octavia frowned. “I'm staying at a hotel near Manehattan Grand Park. It's a bit of a walk I suppose.”
Vinyl just sighed. “You haven't been here long, have you?”
Octavia shook her head, ushering forth a new wave of nausea that she suppressed only through some deeply entrenched force of will.
Vinyl put a hoof on Octavia's shoulder, gently. “South side is the part with all the crazy ponies, the muggers and the cultists and the generally nasty types. You're in the manticore's mouth if you walk out that door.”
Rocksteady raised a wing. “I gotta agree with Vinyl. We're still pretty close to the city center, but even around here's not safe if you're alone. You're lucky you didn't get jumped on your way in.”
Octavia sunk into a slump as the full reality of her situation sunk in. “So in other words: I'm trapped in a gay bar in the bad part of town, the director will probably be waiting to fire me, my hotel room may already have been revoked, and the entire orchestra is going to want my head, plus—”
Vinyl cut her off with a tug on her shoulder. “Listen to yourself for a second. Hear that? That is not healthy thinking. Are any of those things true? Who knows. Can you change them if they are? Not so much.” Vinyl pushed her sunglasses down her nose, and Octavia was struck dumb by her eyes—deeper red than any ruby.
“So let's try a different tactic, eh?” Vinyl continued. “You're pretty drunk, probably still a little drugged, and I'm betting you're exhausted on top of that. All of those things can be alleviated by a good night's sleep, and there is a perfectly good room right upstairs.”
“So… I'd sleep with you?” Octavia realized too late how her words had sounded, but Vinyl had already lost her grin.
“Look, I may be a lesbian, but I'm not gonna… ugh. Just. No.” Vinyl rolled her eyes and let out a long sigh. “I'd be seriously offended if you weren't drunk off your ass. No. I've got a couch, I'll crash there if you're really that spooked. Sucks to be my spine, but I'll live.”
Octavia opened her mouth to protest, but Vinyl put a hoof to her lips. “Just… shut up and take my charity, okay?” She removed her glasses completely, setting them on the counter. Her eyes flickered in the ever-changing light, like a pair of compassionate little flames. “You've had a shit run? That sucks, but it happens to everypony once in a while. Just take a day or six and ride the fucker out. Then you can start dealing with the problem, instead of worrying over stuff you can't change.”
Octavia almost didn't accept. Despite everything, every great piece of advice Vinyl had just given her, to accept the offer felt like admitting that her career was finished—relinquishing her place in that high-class hotel, and with it, her place in that orchestra chair.
But… she already believed that, didn't she?
“All right,” she said. The words sent a shiver through her. Why did it feel like the point of no return? She'd live. She was still young, and she had more than a few marketable talents. Even if the orchestra was closed to her, there were plenty of other options. It wasn't as if her life had truly ended—just, perhaps, a long chapter of it, and even then, that still wasn't certain.
Wherever there's life, there's change, after all... and I'm not dead quite yet.
She nodded again, certain this time. “All right. Thank you, Vinyl Scratch.” You're a better pony than I deserved to meet, but I won't forget your kindness.
Vinyl shot her a cocky smile. “Good. Glad you've seen reason. One more thing? Unless you're seriously gonna be too creeped out to handle it, can we still share the bed? I wasn't kidding about my spine; that couch is like a slab of granite.”
Octavia sighed, and let her head fall back to look up at the ceiling, at all the spinning lights and faint wisps of smoke. Her ears drooped, and her eyelids slid closed.
Perhaps… this was to be her lowest point. Tomorrow morning, she'd look out upon the world anew and find a path to forge.
Tomorrow, she'd make sure that her world changed. For the better, preferably.
Octavia didn't remember anything after that, but she did know that she slept.
1st Movement: The Turning of the Age
Octavia woke to darkness. She lay there in a daze, wincing as a dull ache spiderwebbed through her skull. Her dream, despite her struggles, was already beginning to fade. Soon, it would be nothing but a faint imprint upon her unconscious mind. She recalled a little, still; images of light and color, beauty incarnate—and now, gone like wisps of morning fog under the sun.
She slowly pulled herself into a sitting position, letting the covers slide away from her body. She flexed her limbs and twitched her ears and tail, making sure they all still worked. Her mouth was dry, and so she wandered towards a bathroom. It was as she was splashing water into her face that she began to register something wrong through the throbbing in her skull, but it was only as she turned to get back into bed that she remembered exactly where she was and what was going on.
Vinyl Scratch was still asleep, sprawled out across the other side of the bed—on top of the covers, for Octavia's sake. At some point, she'd started snoring faintly—not enough to wake Octavia up, but definitely enough to keep her from falling back into sleep. Upon her flank was a small detail Octavia had missed before—two bridged eighth notes. What an odd coincidence, that her savior would turn out to be a musician as well.
Vinyl's snoring stopped for a moment, and her lips curled into a faint grin. She murmured softly in her sleep, in a hilariously overdone southern drawl, "You'n me pal... we gonna shoot the breeze or shoot each other, eh?" Then, she started snoring again. Octavia had to stifle a giggle.
Still, despite Vinyl being rather adorable while sleeping—in a completely non-romantic way—her snoring meant that Octavia was effectively done sleeping for the day, and the sun wasn't even up yet. Octavia rolled her eyes, and searched the apartment for a clock. It would be good to know the damage to her sleep schedule, at least.
Finding a clock in Vinyl Scratch's apartment was harder than one might imagine. Octavia found plenty of empty take-out containers, a couch that was indeed as rock-solid as Vinyl had claimed, a brand-new magic-powered television, and several costumes of increasingly bizarre design. Purple sequins and latex? Really?
But the most interesting and impressive objects in the apartment by far were a series of magitech devices.
They stretched across most of a wall, situated below the room's only window of any size—curtained up, at present. The setup consisted of a large soundboard, covered nose to tail in knobs, sliders, and buttons, with a tangled mess of cables connecting it to half a dozen microphones and several tape/record players. Next to all of this, a quintet of amps of varying size rested like standing stones in a rough circle. Beneath them was some kind of chalk diagram, marked off in scribbles that Octavia couldn't read. It raised a particularly interesting question about her impromptu roommate's line of employment, but it was the sort of question which could be asked over morning tea.
Finally, lo and behold, Octavia discovered a round wall-clock, half-buried beneath a pile of… disreputable magazines. She pulled it out and set it on the floor. The time it gave was about nine-twenty in the morning.
Octavia glanced at the curtains. Not a sliver of light shone through. She sighed, and rubbed her aching head with her hoof. The bloody clock was probably stopped—
Wait . Octavia squinted, and picked up the clock to better get a look at it in the dark. The second hand was moving.
Even if it wasn't stopped, all that meant was that Vinyl had set it wrong—or not. Turning the clock around revealed a sigil—a standard spellmaker's mark. This one was a round circle with two wavy lines emanating from it—meaning that this clock was powered by a two-spell talisman. One spell to spell to move the hands, one spell to bind them to the movements of the stars. Since those spells ran on the same gem, it was nigh-impossible to stop one without stopping the other.
Which meant that, in all likelihood, it was nine-thirty and the sun wasn't up.
Octavia had lived in Equestria long enough to know what that meant. She rushed over to Vinyl, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shook her violently. “Vinyl Scratch! Wake up!”
“Whazza? Wha? You fin'ly star'ed the game eh you bazzt—?” Vinyl's eyes popped open, then abruptly closed again. “Wha—Octa… Octavi… Octy? Hi. Good… morning? Or… night? What's up?”
“The sun!” Octavia hissed. “Please, Vinyl, tell me that the clock in your room is wrong.”
“Wha? You mean the... the one on the floor? Nah, dude, that's... that one... it's fine.” Vinyl's eyes suddenly snapped open. She'd no doubt started to piece things together herself. “Whoa. What... what's up?”
Octavia took a deep breath. “It is nine-thirty, and the sun isn't up.”
Vinyl's eyes slowly widened. “Oh. Shit.”
“Do you have a remote for that television? This might be on the news.”
Vinyl sprang out of bed and dove into a pile of Zebrican food cartons. She returned moments later with a remote held in her magic. She sat down on the bed, and flicked the remote's power control with a tiny shift in her telekinesis.
The TV blinked to life, revealing some stallion in a suit. “—No news yet from Canterlot in regards to the blackout, but we understand that the palace is on lockdown, and that news crews are unable to get inside. Princess Twilight Sparkle has apparently been called up from her castle in Ponyville, and Princess Cadance has arrived from the north. Given the speed with which they went inside, it seems like whatever's going on is very important.”
“Whoa, dude…” Vinyl shook her head. “That's not good. That has never been good.”
“They called Princess Twilight Sparkle and Princess Cadance?” Octavia breathed, her eyes wide. “That hasn't happened since the Tirek Crisis!”
“Do you know of anything that could stop Celestia from raising the sun? Like, currently? ” Vinyl asked.
“No, not at all.” Octavia shook her head. “I mean, I wouldn't necessarily. I hadn't heard of Nightmare Moon or Discord before they appeared, but… something about this feels different.”
“Yeah? How do you figure.”
“Well, when something big happens that threatens Equestria, what's the first solution we turn to?”
“The Elements of Harmony?”
“Right, but they said only the Princess was summoned. That means that the Elements may still be… where do they live?”
“Ponyville. Small town, but pretty cool. Ever been there?”
“Ponyville? Yes, once. By accident, actually. I didn't stay long.”
“Well, it's not far from Canterlot, so it's possible they're just on their way.”
“Yes, I suppose, but they said that Twilight Sparkle was in a hurry, and she's the leader of the Element Bearers—”
“Breaking news,” the newspony suddenly said. “I've just gotten word that… wait, who gave me this bulletin? Damn it, Newsworthy, we're not a tabloid! There's no way…”
The rest of what he said was cut off by as the newspony walked right off screen. The set was empty for a moment, before a mare stumbled into view. “Sorry about this, Manehattan. I'm Sure Scoop, producer of Manehattan Local News. I apologize for the interruption, but I'm frankly not sure what mister Burgundy is doing right now. Um… some kind of commotion seems to be going on outside, I think… wait, Burgundy, what in Celestia's name are you doing—?”
And then, the newspony pushed his way back onto the scene, shoving the producer out of the way. His entire demeanor had changed. Underneath the perfectly curled mane and custom-fitted suit he was trembling, and his eyes were as round as the moon when he spoke.
“I've just been informed that the Princesses have released a statement,” he said. “It seems that Princess Celestia has been…”
There was a long pause, and Burgundy visibly swallowed before continuing.
“Princess Celestia has been… incapacitated, and is unable to raise the sun. Princess Luna, Princess Twilight Sparkle, and Princess Cadance are currently working to carry out this task. That… is all we know at this time.”
There was silence, both from the television and in the apartment.
“Incapacitated?” Vinyl said, after a moment. “What in Tartarus does that mean? How do you incapacitate Princess Celestia?”
“There… there was the wedding,” Octavia stammered. “Cadance's wedding, remember? The changelings?”
“That was some kind of love-magic thing, though, right? Do you think that could happen again? They must have protection against that by now, right?”
“And then there was the time the Princesses vanished, about two years ago—”
“Wait, what? I didn't hear about that!”
“Remember the day the sun and moon were both in the sky? The Princesses went missing for about half a day. I heard it was Discord's work. It was only for a day, but Celestia and Luna weren't seen at all during that time. The story goes that Princess Twilight had to assume their duties until she could find them.”
“Well, that's Discord and love magic. Both are kinda hard to miss.”
“What about Tirek? Could he be back… or something like him?”
“We'd know if it was something like Tirek, dude. We could see him coming from miles away, once he got started, remember? Didn't you get the evacuation notices?”
“So… what is it, then?”
Vinyl suddenly pointed to the television. “Wait, something's happening, look!”
“We're taking you live to Canterlot,” Burgundy said, completely without feeling. “Princess Twilight Sparkle has emerged, and is about to give an announcement.”
“Woo, thank goodness,” Vinyl breathed. “Finally, somepony who knows what's actually going on.”
Octavia just bit her lip.
The view changed. The camera stream was coming in from Canterlot, and Princess Twilight Sparkle was standing at a podium before a large crowd outside of the Royal Palace, lit up by a dozen spotlights. She looked exhausted, and it was clear that she hadn't had time to eat or bathe this morning. Her draconic assistant—Octavia didn't know his name—stood beside her, eyes hollow as he clutched at her tail with one claw.
“Citizens of Equestria,” Twilight said. Her voice was raw, and Octavia realized that the princess's eyes were red from more than just lack of sleep. “I'm afraid I come with… no, sorry, I… no.”
She turned, and started to walk away. The press exploded into questions, and her assistant looked at her aghast before running over and whispering frantically to her, waving his arms.
Something he said made Twilight stop, and she turned once more, returning to the stand. This time, her face was neutral. “I'm sorry,” she said, and the crowd went silent. “I'm afraid I'm still unused to my position and the… duties it entails.”
She took a deep breath.
“Princess Celestia… is dead.”
And like that, everything stopped. For four unending seconds, the world dared not to breathe.
Then, the crowd erupted. Questions rained down on Twilight Sparkle like the arrows of a besieging army. She did her best to ward them off, but her voice was drowned by the cacophony of screaming reporters. She went very still. For a moment, her eyes closed.
Then they flew open, and her voice roared out like thunder.
“ENOUGH. BE QUIET, OR LEAVE. I WILL NOT HAVE THIS BECOME A CIRCUS.”
The crowd fell silent all at once. The speakers on Vinyl's television sizzled.
“Listen to me, and listen closely,” Twilight Sparkle said, her voice hard and cold as a northern wind. “We do not, as of yet, know what happened to Princess Celestia, but it seems that, somehow, she has passed of natural causes. There is absolutely no evidence to indicate this was any kind of attack or assassination. We are still looking into how this is possible, but for the moment I have one request—” Twilight Sparkle's eyes suddenly blazed. “No, consider it a command. Do not spread rumors. Do not indulge in speculation about my mentor's death, and—consider this a royal decree— DO NOT PLACE BLAME. We will find out what has happened here. We will discover the truth and give you the answer.” She paused, and lowered her head. This time, nopony interrupted her.
“I will find the truth,” she said. “And I will give it to you.” She lifted her eyes, and Octavia felt an arrow of ice pierce her chest. The pain and fear of an entire nation was there, held back behind a barrier of steel-hard will.
Twilight spoke once more, her voice faint. “I swear this on Celestia's soul: We will all know the truth.”
Then, she turned around and walked back into the palace.
The television flickered off, and Octavia turned to find Vinyl Scratch staring in shock at the blank screen. The remote had fallen to the floor, and the impact had switched off the screen.
“Dead?” Vinyl said the word quietly, but in the silence it seemed to echo throughout the apartment.
Octavia laughed. She felt dizzy. “That can't be right—alicorns are immortal, aren't they?”
“Yeah… but Twilight Sparkle was the one who said it.”
“She must be wrong!” Octavia protested. “This must be some kind of strange, sick joke! Or… or she's being impersonated by a changeling, and there really was some kind of… love magic attack, or… something. That… or—”
“Octavia? Shut up.”
“What? But I—”
Vinyl reached over and grabbed her, twisting Octavia's head until they were eye-to-eye. “Shut. Up. It was the one thing she asked us to do. No rumors. No speculation. Just shut up. For Princess Celestia we can do that much.”
Octavia opened her mouth, but try as she might she couldn't make a sound. Vinyl was right. Twilight Sparkle was right. If the princesses of Equestria didn't understand what had just happened, then how were two ponies in a Manehattan apartment supposed to?
“Come on,” Vinyl slid out of bed and shook her mane twice before snatching her sunglasses off the nightstand and slipping them over her eyes. “Let's get downstairs. Rocksteady's got booze.”
They made their way down to the ground floor, and Octavia's now-sober mind took in the details her inebriated self had missed. The building was a four-story block, done up in ugly red brick. The interior was sparsely decorated, but at least it was clean. There were some spots where paint had chipped or a leak had obviously been patched, but otherwise it was in fairly good shape.
Coming from upstairs, it was obvious that The Rainbow Record's circular setup was a recent addition. The room was indeed round, but only because the building's corners had been hidden behind additions. Octavia did note with some appreciation that they'd been put to use—instead of just blocking them off, the architect had converted them into storage closets, with the one farthest from the front door housing the staircase by which Octavia and Vinyl made their way down.
With the lights turned up to full blast the club was far less grand, though the stage-lamps, speakers, and smoke machines arrayed across the ceiling were impressive in their own right. The lights revealed that the dance floor was perhaps in need of a good mopping, though about half of it looked to have been cleaned before somepony stopped doing so.
Rocksteady was already downstairs, leaning back against the central spire which held his wares. The radio was playing next to him, and some mare was shouting indistinctly over a roaring crowd.
Rocksteady looked up as they approached, then switched the radio off. “Hey, Scratch. Octavia. Sleep good?”
Vinyl glanced at the radio. “You hear the news?”
“Yes I did, hon. Yes I did.” Rocksteady held up something—an odd-looking cigarette. “Want one? Special occasion, and all that.”
“Keep the poison to yourself,” Vinyl muttered, climbing onto a stool. “You got booze. Gimme booze.”
“It's nine in the morning.”
“Celestia just died, Rocks. I don't give a flying shit what time it is.”
Octavia took the stool next to Vinyl. “Could you get me a cup of tea, if that's not too much trouble?” She winced as a fresh stab of pain hit her head. “Decaffeinated, please.”
Rocksteady gave her a quizzical look.“Sure. No trouble at all. World's ending, anyway.”
Vinyl raised a hoof. “Make that vodka. I need all the vodka you got.”
Rocksteady shook his head as he pulled a teakettle and a hot-plate from under his counter. “Nuh-uh. No vodka. The most I'm getting you is a beer, hon.”
“Ah come on! You just said it, Rocks! This is the end of days! Now give me my damned booze!”
“Just 'cause the world is ending doesn't mean you have to face it drunk.” Rocksteady held up the cigarette. “This is a painkiller. Vodka is a tranquilizer.” He filled the teakettle at a spigot and set it over the hot-plate. “Give it… two minutes? You fine with waiting, hon?”
Octavia smiled. “No trouble at all. Thank you for the kindness.”
“Damn you to Tartarus, Rocks.” Vinyl groaned and pressed a hoof to her face. “Beer then. Make it tall.”
“You're paying for that?”
Vinyl mind seemed to go blank. She opened her mouth, looked at Octavia, smiling serenely. Then she looked at the teakettle, then at Rocksteady, then at the radio, then at Rocksteady again. “I… well damn, I guess I am.”
“On your tab?”
“Yeah.”
Rocksteady turned to Octavia. “The tea's on me. You've been through a lot. And don't worry about your tab from last night—you can pay me back when you're on your hooves again.”
Octavia blinked in surprise. “Oh. Well, thank you.”
They sat in silence for a while. Octavia stared intently at the kettle. Vinyl stared intently at Rocksteady as the latter filled her a glass. Rocksteady finished his work and then stared intently at the far wall.
They saw the sun rise. It was slower than normal, but the glow piercing the windows of The Rainbow Record was unmistakable for anything else. Rocksteady reached for the radio again, but his hoof never made it there. The silence remained.
“How screwed are we?” Vinyl asked. She took a sip of the beer. “I mean… let's really think about this, here. Celestia, as far as we know… is dead. Now I'm not going to try and guess how the hell that happened, but… what does that mean?”
“Princess Twilight's probably going to be taking over a lot of her duties, that or Cadance.” Rocksteady shrugged. The tea kettle whistled, and he abruptly switched off the plate. He pulled out a cup and met Octavia's eyes. “Got a preference?”
“Earl Brae, if you have it.”
“Decaf Earl Brae…” Rocksteady muttered. He reached under the counter and pulled out a bag. “Then again,” he said, “I can't see Cadance really doing anything like that. She's… well, she's the most normal of all of them. She's got a family. They're saying she's shooting for a kid. Plus, she's already in charge of the Crystal Empire.” He poured the tea and gave it to Octavia, who accepted it with a quiet word of thanks.
“Twilight Sparkle,” Vinyl mused. She sipped on her beer. “I've met her a couple of times. DJ'd a couple parties she was at. She's… okay. Nerdy, sure, but smart nerdy. Kinda girl who ends up successful.”
“It makes sense,” Octavia muttered. “Actually… I don't mean to… well, speculate… but what if Celestia knew this was coming?”
The other two looked at her blankly, but Octavia continued on. “Think about it for a moment. Celestia is… was not the kind of mare who let things slip past her. You both know Twilight's story, yes? Being chosen by Celestia as her personal protege, et cetera?”
The two nodded, and Octavia continued. “What if she knew that she was going to… die? What if Twilight Sparkle was always intended to be her replacement?”
“Damn it,” Vinyl muttered. She took a hefty sip of her beer. “Damn it, that makes sense.”
Rocksteady took a long drag on his cigarette. “Well… then why didn't she warn anypony?”
“Maybe she didn't know when, just that she would eventually pass.” Octavia shook her head. “I don't know. I shouldn't speculate. It just seems… convenient. Luna notwithstanding, the other two alicorns who exist at this point were both born within the last forty years. Given that Celestia has been around for…”
“I've always heard two thousand,” Rocksteady offered. “But I've heard some ponies say she and Luna are way older than that.”
Octavia sipped her tea. “Yes, and in all that time, were they ever involved with other alicorns?”
Vinyl raised her hoof. “There was another princess, back before Nightmare Moon happened. She shows up in some history books, I think. A… Princess Heartstone?”
“What did she do?”
“Something about… love? No WAIT!” Vinyl's eyes lit up. “She was the one who controlled the Crystal Heart. You know, before the Crystal Empire went all vanishy.”
“So, Cadance's role.” Octavia nodded contemplatively. “That's odd. What happened to her? I never read about her in my classes.”
“She was a long time ago. I dunno what happened, but she's not around now. Could mean Sombra did something to her, or maybe… she wasn't, y'know, immortal.”
That silenced them all again. Octavia sipped. Vinyl drank. Rocksteady puffed.
“Damn,” they all whispered in tandem, then chuckled as the synchronicity hit them.
Vinyl shrugged, and gulped down another swig, draining her glass. “I got nothing. No, seriously, Rocksteady, I got nothing. Can I get another?”
“Nope. Still not letting you get drunk this early in the morning.”
“Ugh. Fine.” Vinyl got off her stool and stood. “Well, turn on the radio, at least. I want to know what's going on down there.”
The radio proved to be little better than roaring static. The reporter for this station was talking excitedly, but what she was saying amounted to “everypony is freaking out”. It was a brilliant observation, sure, but it didn't help answer any of the many pressing questions.
So the trio sat, listening to nothing at all. Rocksteady smoked, Octavia sipped, and Vinyl stared mournfully down at the bottom of her glass, as if regretting that she'd taken things so quickly.
“Damn, this is gonna be whacked,” Vinyl muttered. Nopony contested that statement.
View Online
2nd Movement: A Single Glance Over the Shoulder
The sun shone bright as ever that balmy, late-July morning as Octavia walked away from the Rainbow Record. Mundane, mostly-harmless radiation beat down on the concrete sidewalks and asphalt roads, slowly baking the industrial turf. Hard light glanced off the framework of still-unfinished buildings, like steel claws reaching towards the sky. Manehattan seemed like a beast frozen in the the moment, waiting for the other hoof to drop, so to speak.
But Octavia couldn't worry about that. The train to Canterlot left in two hours.
Her seat would still be there, of course. Whether or not she remained part of the orchestra, she'd already paid for the round trip. The train company wouldn't care about her actions the night before, so long as the bits were in the right coffers. Such went the flow of business.
But that was just about the only thing she didn't worry about as she walked down the long streets of Manehattan. In the full light of the morning sun, she saw just how dangerous this place could have been. Narrow alleys provided ample opportunities for horrors unspeakable, and even now Octavia could pick out shifty characters loitering in the shadows.
At least she did not walk alone. The streets were populated with a thin spread of ponies going through their morning routines. There weren't enough of them for her to lose herself in the crowd, but Octavia kept her eyes straight ahead and her pace brisk, as if she was determined to get somewhere. Basic psychology—the more she looked like she had somewhere to be, the less likely another pony would bother her.
Gradually, as she neared the wider streets of Middle Manehattan, her mind drifted back to the apartment. She fully intended to return and thank Vinyl Scratch and Rocksteady properly some day, but she couldn't imagine how. She didn't own much that wasn't still tied in some way to her parents' estate, and though she knew her mother would never go so far as to take back the cello, her father lacked those inhibitions. Disownment was a real possibility, after such a debacle as the previous night, and with her family connections would go most of her capital.
Her parents would be on the train. Meeting them again was already patently inevitable, but the knowledge that their first reunion since the concert would take place in an enclosed, inescapable space did little to calm Octavia's nerves.
And what of her cello? She'd left it at the concert hall, after all. There was no telling if it would be at the hotel, or if somepony might have run off with it. In any case, she simply could not leave in the city. Her mother might forgive her some slights—and even her father had his share of mercy—but to lose that cello fell beyond any public disgrace. Disowned? Her mother might well have her name erased from the family records.
Octavia shook her head violently. Worrying solved nothing. She had to focus on getting by, doing what she could to make things work out. She lived, and her leg didn't hurt anymore. That seemed a good place to start.
She made it to the edge of Grand Park and stopped for a moment to marvel at the wildness of it all. A miniature forest, tucked away within one of the biggest cities in the world. The contrast only served to make the park all the more beautiful. She leaned against the railing and inhaled the scents of life. Just one brief moment of bliss. Even at the end of the world, or whatever this was, she could allow herself that much.
“It certainly is gorgeous, is it not?”
Octavia looked over, and her eyes fell on a stallion. He had a coat as white as a cloud, with blue eyes piercing through like the midday sky. His mane matched them, a soft curl between stubby ears, and a pale blue lightning bolt drifted listlessly against his flank. His wings were folded against his back, but they were obviously quite a bit larger than average. He reminded Octavia of an ancient statue, a classical youth eternally captured in pale marble.
He glanced at her. “The park, I mean.”
“Yes,” Octavia said. “Yes, very pretty.”
“The sun gives the plants a whole new life, metaphorically and literally. The colors you see in raw sunlight are simply incomparable to anything else.” A smile ripped suddenly across the stallion's face, and his eyes shone wide. “Oh, if only moments like these could last forever! Sunny days and cloudless skies, on to eternity!”
“But they can't,” Octavia said softly.
“Eh?”
Octavia shook her head. “Sorry, I just mean that… without the rain, the trees can't grow, you know? And if we had nothing but summer, we'd grow to despise the heat.”
“That's true… I suppose.” The stallion smiled as he extended his hoof. “White Streak. Royal Guard. Currently off-duty.”
Octavia met his hoof. “Octavia Melody, cellist with the Canterlot Royal Symphony.” She grimaced. “Well, formerly, anyhow.”
“Eh? Formerly?”
“String of bad luck. My career is likely going to end today.”
White Streak gave her a sympathetic look. “I'm sorry, miss.”
“It's fine. I must face it eventually, after all.” A pang of momentary melancholy dropped Octavia's gaze to the concrete beneath her hooves. “Hardly the worst thing that's happened today.”
White Streak looked back out at the park, his expression unreadable. “You heard the news , then.”
Octavia inhaled sharply. Something about the way he'd phrased 'the news' not only made it abundantly clear what he spoke of, but also that he had some rather strong feelings about it.
“Yes. Yes I did,” she replied. She lifted her gaze to the park. There were a few ponies out and about. A mother shepherding a rambunctious colt, a teenaged couple cuddling beneath a tree with a textbook, a lone jogger in the distance with no destination in sight. Early risers, perhaps unaware of what had been announced just an hour ago. There was no telling at what point they'd find out.
Octavia glanced at White Streak and caught him staring at her. He tried to disguise it by looking past her down the street. “You believe it?” he asked, lowering his voice.
Octavia sighed. She leaned forward and crossed her forehooves over the railing. “Not really. It's going to be a long time before I can, I think.”
“Mm.” White Streak looked up at the sky. “I don't believe it either.”
Octavia's ear twitched as something in her brain sprang like a tripwire. There was an oddness in White Streak's tone, some subtle clue in the way he worded things. “It's a strange time to be alive,” she said, now alert.
“I couldn't agree with you more, Miss Melody.” White Streak arched his back, and his wings unfolded smoothly, like swords withdrawn from sheaths. It was all Octavia could do not to gape.
They were enormous. The musculature impressed her on its own, but the feathers themselves were just massive. Each one spanned half again as long as Octavia's leg, and wider besides.
He caught her staring, and a smile played across his features. “Impressed?”
“Sorry,” Octavia said. “I didn't mean to stare.” She glanced over again as White Streak folded his wings again, marveling at the smoothness of the motion. “They are quite impressive, if you'll pardon my saying so.”
“I'm afraid they're more trouble than they're worth,” White Streak said with a shake of his head. “It's a genetic defect, or so I'm told. They're cumbersome, even in the air, and they're impossible to groom.”
Octavia relaxed just a bit. “I'd imagine,” she said.
White Streak's smile shifted slightly, and his eyes narrowed. The all-but-imperceptible change caught Octavia's attention once again. Was he trying to impress her? Take her off her guard? He didn't seem… dangerous, and it was the middle of the day, but Octavia kept her guard up all the same. Something definitely felt off.
“So,” White Streak said, as casually as if discussing the weather, “What do you think of Twilight Sparkle, hm?”
Octavia didn't answer right away. The little pony in her head jumped up and down, waving her tiny, imaginary hooves in an attempt to warn about something indistinct yet extremely important. “I think,” Octavia said, finally, “That she is a good person. She seems to me like the sort of pony who… gets things done, you know? Driven would be a good word.”
“Driven indeed. But to what end, I wonder?” White Streak stared off into the distance. “What do you think she plans, Octavia?”
Octavia glanced around. The two of them were alone, and the only other ponies were out of earshot. Again, that nagging feeling that something wasn't right. “I… can't say,” she said. “I'm not her, after all.”
“I can't either, but it does make one wonder. Somepony with Celestia's implicit trust, gaining so much power in such a short time…”
Octavia stopped thinking as White Streak's words well and truly hit her. “Oh?”
“And Celestia, thousands-of-years-old Celestia, suddenly 'dies' of unknown causes—”
“Hold that thought for a moment,” Octavia interjected. She stifled a laugh, before meeting White Streak's eyes. Something in his look kindled a spark, the pieces coming together. “Are you actually, honestly, unironically suggesting to me that Twilight Sparkle had something to do with Celestia's death?”
White Streak started to say something, but Octavia held up a hoof again. He remained silent as she continued. “Twilight Sparkle. The pony known to write letters to Celestia every week, without fail, for years. The same pony whom Celestia raised almost as her own daughter. Who saved Celestia herself on more than one occasion. That Twilight Sparkle.”
“A pony who fairly recently discovered that she could take up Celestia's power as her own,” White Streak countered. “A pony who stands to inherit all of Equestria in Celestia's absence. Is it so far-fetched to think that Star Swirl's so-called heir can match the power of the Queen of the Changelings? To kill Celestia is absurd—for if so, any of a hundred assassins would have done so by now—but to imprison her is not so impossible, especially with Discord in collusion.”
For a moment, Octavia's mind refused to process all of this. When she did, the little pony moved slowly, lingering over every syllable with an imaginary magnifying glass. Slowly, oh so slowly, Octavia's conscious thoughts caught up with what White Streak was implying.
It took every iota of willpower she possessed not to turn and just walk away. “Oh really?” she said through gritted teeth. “So you'd believe that the Prime Bearer of the Elements of Harmony is capable of treachery on such a scale?”
“The Elements of Harmony are tools, Octavia. If the wrong mare inherited their power…”
He went on for some time, but Octavia didn't pay much attention. A kernel of something hot lodged itself in her chest, producing a burning feeling she was vaguely familiar with.
It occurred to her that she'd experienced this feeling before, when she was younger. Seven years old, to be precise.
A typical schoolyard bully had made fun of her for reading during recess. A book on music. He'd grabbed it from her—unicorns could do that—and tossed it into a puddle. Then, he'd stomped on it, laughing at her horrified tears.
The colt had needed stitches. It marked the only time Octavia had ever been suspended. Her parents had been livid. She'd cried for hours. For a long time, she'd considered that day to be the worst of her life. She'd never again come close to that level of emotional distress.
But now, that had changed. Yesterday's events had been far worse any childhood scrap, and Octavia could hardly bear to fathom the consequences she'd face today and in the future.
And then, this morning, she'd discovered that a pony who had seemed a universal constant no longer was. She'd seen the exhaustion on Twilight Sparkle's face and found a kinship in those eyes that were too tired for emotion. Yesterday had been the worst day of Octavia Melody's life. Today was the worst day of Twilight Sparkle's. And Celestia? Celestia was dead.
And now, this stallion, this guardspony, or so he claimed, suggested that that same princess who'd spent the last five years pursuing a life governed by the Elements of Harmony, who'd looked up at her mentor with naught but adoration as she raised the sun, had murdered her teacher just for the throne she sat upon.
On any other day, Octavia would have simply walked away. “He's mad,” she would have told herself. “A conspiracy theorist. A nut. Not even worth my time.”
But yesterday… today… there were no more normal days.
“—betrayed the trust of her mentor, so that she could take Equestria and turn it towards her vision—”
She cut him off. “You are simply wrong,” she said.
“Can you really be so—”
“So certain? So sure? Yes. Yes I can. I am absolutely, entirely certain that you are wrong.” Octavia looked at him, and the knot in her chest twisted tighter.
Anger flashed in White Streak's eyes, and the final pieces fell into place. Octavia could see it now, laid out plainly in those burning blues. He was a performer on a stage, and she the audience. The audience was not to criticize the performer. After all, the performer stood above them, and their words rang with the artist's truth.
“I see that I was wrong. You're just another damned fool deceived by her acts of kindness and her feints of innocence—”
The knot constricted Octavia's heart. Blood pounded in her ears like war drums.
“—do you not see the games she plays? She conspires with Nightmare Moon and Discord! Do you not see the gathering storm!?”
The knot in Octavia's chest exploded.
“Bloody Tartarus!” she screamed. “Do I see? Do I see!? Do you see!?”
He stayed quiet. Octavia's words poured forth, the dam ruptured now. “It's you who doesn't see, you bloody tosspot!” Tears welled in her eyes. “You're inventing justifications because the truth is awful. ”
“I invent nothing. Celestia requires us to—”
“Celestia is dead! There is no conspiracy. Something you believed has been disproven, and now you… we are lost.” Octavia shut her eyes. “There is nothing else to it. Why should there be? You spew suppositions and baseless accusations, and you use them to craft a more preferable world for yourself. It is escapism, sir, and I will have none of it!”
Octavia spun about and walked away. She didn't look back.
Two blocks away, she felt the wave surging forth again. She ran across the street, ignoring the angry shout of a carriage driver, and slammed her back against the wall of the first building she could use to block the space between her and White Streak. She leaned against the brick and tried to calm herself, but his words, his bloody implications kept ringing in her head. Octavia shook, tears streaming from her eyes as she glared back at the park.
“How dare you,” she growled, biting her lip to stifle a scream.
It took her almost ten minutes to stop shaking. When she looked back around the corner, White Streak had vanished. She hoped she never had to see him again.
Octavia didn't have any particular love for Twilight Sparkle—the newest Princess and her friends had made a mess of things for the cellist on more than one occasion—but to accuse her of murder scarcely hours after the death of somepony she loved?
It was just bloody cruel.
It took another five minutes before she could find enough composure to leave that spot. As she finally stepped out of the shadow of the building, her anger slowly dulled. She had more important things to worry about than some sick bastard on the street. Her ruined life wasn't going to sort itself out.
The hallways of the hotel rumbled with excitement, and Octavia could see from the types of bags being carried out that it was her… rather, theorchestra formerly hers, causing the commotion. To be expected—they were returning to Canterlot today.
Octavia noticed the stares before the muttering, but she elected to give no indication of her awareness. She simply walked in and up the stairs, without stopping to glance at any of her former compatriots. The door to her room opened at the press of her hoof, recognizing her faint magical pattern with a chime.
She stepped into the room, and her breath caught.
Octavia traveled light, and she'd made the bed before leaving the preceding afternoon. There were only two notable things in the room.
The first was her bowtie. Where she'd lost it, she couldn't say, but somepony had returned it to her room. Octavia reflected on this happily for a moment, but her eyes then moved down…
To the cello case which rested upon her bed.
She ran to it like a lover returned from across the sea and embraced it with all the same fervor. A sob racked her body as she felt the familiar weight, and tears rolled down her cheeks as her shaking hooves undid the clasps. The bowtie slid onto the bedspread, only barely within her senses.
She opened the case only for a moment. Just long enough to take in the details. Just to be sure.
She closed it, and stifled another sob. At least this one thing had gone right. She would have to find whatever pony had delivered it and… find some way to thank them, somehow. How had they gotten in the room? Bribed a cleaning pony…?
There sounded a knock at the door. Octavia stiffened. Time to face the music, perhaps?
What did it matter? She'd come to terms with this ending. She picked up her bowtie and fastened its collar around her neck. Then she heaved the case across her back. This was all she had, but it was hers to carry.
She flung the door wide, expecting to see a fuming producer. Or perhaps Symphonia, the Concertmaster, demanding an explanation for the ruin of an expensive suit.
It was neither of those ponies, though not an entirely unexpected one. “Hello, Miss Octavia,” said Steady Tick.
The conductor himself.
He stood in her doorway, smiling beatifically. The light from the hall behind him rendered him in silhouette. He was a tall, handsome fellow, with a pale brown coat and white mane that gave him a dignified air. Octavia couldn't recall where he hailed from, precisely, but she recalled something about a parent who made violins. A piece of unmarked sheet music adorned his flank.
He was undressed, and there were telltale signs that indicated he'd only just gotten out of bed. A stray strand of mane here, a ruffled patch of coat there. His eyes drooped slightly, and his familiar glasses were missing.
“Ah,” Octavia said. “Mister Tick. I must apologize for yesterday.” She smiled, but she couldn't make the movement feel particularly sincere.
The conductor sighed. “I received word from your doctor after you left. He filled me in on the whole situation. Nasty business.”
Octavia chuckled. That might make things a bit easier. She made a mental note to thank her doctor. A lot of ponies needed thanking. “Well, then I suppose my explaining has been done for me.”
“Indeed.” Steady Tick cocked his head. “So, now the question is… where do we go from here, hm?”
Octavia felt her gut twist. “Indeed.”
“I'm sorry to say that a… first-chair position just isn't going to be possible anymore. Or at least, not in the foreseeable future.”
Octavia nodded. She prepared herself to hold back tears, but they never came.
“I'll do my best to keep you on. The producer wants your head on a plate, but I'm doing my best to calm her down.”
Octavia nodded. She found she just… didn't care. Too numb.
“While a first-chair position isn't possible, I'm fairly certain I could keep you on the orchestra. It's even possible that I could have you placed… hmm… second chair. Under certain conditions.”
Octavia blinked twice as a sudden stab of emotion hit her, something she couldn't quite identify or parse. A smile slithered across Steady Tick's face. The door handle glowed in tandem with his horn, and the door swung closed.
Octavia's mind just blanked. Her imaginary little pony stood and gawked.
“Now, under most circumstances I'd have to expel you from the orchestra entirely. You understand how it is…” Steady Tick's voice dropped into what could only be called a coo. “But there are… certain measures we could take to… ensure that you remain employed. You are, after all, an incredibly talented mare.”
He reached out with a hoof and stroked Octavia's cheek. He started to step forward, as if to push Octavia back towards the bed.
First confusion. Then disbelief. Then…
Then, Octavia realized something.
She'd been bottling a lot of things up, and she'd been doing it a long time. Before she ever joined any orchestra, perhaps even before she'd taken up the cello, she'd learned the noble-pony tradition of showing as little emotion as possible, masking everything behind either a polite smile, indifference—feigned or honest,—or a neutral frown. She hadn't even realized she'd grown tired of it. In all honesty, she wasn't really tired of it. It was simply part of her, a mask sewed to her face.
Her mind drifted back to her schoolyard days, back to that bully and that book. Words she'd used that she'd never breathed since, a feeling so terrible that she'd forced herself to stop feeling. Her parents hadn't truly needed to censure her—she'd done it first. She'd sewn her own mask, stabbing the needle through flesh despite the horrific pain.
She'd pulled at those strings twice already. First at the bar, second with White Streak. Tugging at the mask and letting something else—if not her face, then perhaps her heart—glint past. These were, however, only temporary lapses in the facade, not true breaks from what she'd built herself into. The mask remained fastened. Loosened, but still attached.
She reflected that masks sewed to faces must hurt to tear away, right before she ripped the metaphorical stitches out.
And oh, the glorious pain.
Her lips parted in a vicious snarl. “No.”
Steady Tick froze mid-motion. “What?”
“I'd thought they were just rumors. Dear heavens, I tried to believe that you had some integrity.”
“Octavia, what are you—”
She lunged at him, her teeth bared. Her hooves pressed against his shoulders as she shoved him back onto his hind legs, stumbling, weak, until she had him pinned against the door. “Did you actually believe this would work?” she demanded. “How much self-respect do you think I have? ”
“You… vomited on Symphonia's suit,” Steady tick said nervously. "Why... it wouldn't be a stretch to assume you'd arrived at the concert drunk , or better yet, that you'd been abusing some less than legal 'medications'—"
“Really?” Octavia half-screamed. “This is how low you'd stoop? Do my ears deceive me, Mister Tick? Because that sounds like bloody blackmail! ” She stomped once, hard enough that she imagined little particles of dust falling from the ceiling in the room below. Oh, what a show they would hear! "Steady Tick," she said—snarled, really. "I'll have you know that I retain my bloody pride . The answer to your 'offer' is, and always will be, NO!"
Steady Tick's face bore the look of a foal whose parents had just denied it a piece of candy. “Very well,” he said averting his eyes as if from an accident on the street. “I suppose I can't guarantee you a place in the orchestra after all—”
At this point, Octavia remembered a specific word that she'd only uttered once.
“That's fucking fine by me!” she screamed. Steady Tick glanced nervously at the thin hotel walls, but Octavia didn't pay him any heed. “You keep your fucking orchestra, and you keep your fucking hooves off of me! I want nothing to do with you, you BLOODY! FUCKING! PRICK!”
“Octavia, please, calm down—”
“Calm down!?” Octavia cackled as the last of her self-restraint evaporated. “CALM DOWN!?"
She pulled back her hoof. The left one. The same one she'd broken scarcely a day ago. She prepared to break it again—right over Steady Tick's nose.
But she saw a flicker in his eyes as he watched her wind up for the blow. A slight curl of the lip, a narrowing of the eye. That was his way out. She'd attack him, maddened, and he would become the victim. Whatever injuries she inflicted would become her crime. No court would side with her with him as the one beaten and bloodied.
She lowered her hoof, saw the confusion in Steady Tick's eyes, and breathed out a long sigh.
She spoke softly this time, looking her very former conductor dead in the eye. “Oh yes, I will show you calm, you bloody waste of skin. If you ever approach me again, I will have you arrested for sexual assault. Because that is what a calm and rational pony would do in this situation. Do you understand me, Mister Tick?”
The conductor nodded. Expressionless.
Octavia smiled. Her eyes twinkled.
Then she spit in his eye. Tick cried out in shock, and Octavia followed up with a kick to the shin. Strong enough to hurt, but not enough that it would look like anything more than a bad accident. Steady Tick dropped. Octavia's hoof hurt, but she didn't care. Celestia could have exploded through the window in all her full glory, Twilight Sparkle could have smashed through the roof as a mangled corpse, and Octavia Melody wouldn't have batted an eye. The end of the world? It could go fuck itself.
She stepped over Tick and pushed the door open. There were a few ponies gathered in the hall, no doubt due to the shouting. Behind her, Tick lay on the hotel floor, whimpering pathetically as he clutched at a bruised shin. The imaginary little pony noted numbly that it all probably made quite a sight.
Without even a thought, she adopted the mask again. She straightened her tie as the blood rushed in her ears, then made sure that the cello case was firmly strapped to her back as the red mist clouding her vision slowly dispersed. She even smoothed down her mane with a swipe of her hoof as the silence fell across her like a leaden blanket.
Her eyes snapped up, meeting those of each observer in turn. “He fell,” she said in a soft voice. “Now has anypony got something to say, or are you all just going to stare like fools until the world runs down?”
The ponies in front of her didn't answer. Instead, they dispersed, either pretending not to care or shooting glances back in her direction as they hastened away. Octavia didn't bother to try and remember if she knew them or not. She started to walk. The pulsing of her heart intensified every moment, like the beating of a big bass drum. Harder, harder. Faster, faster.
She made it halfway down the hall before she broke into a run.
