Rolling
View Online

Stroll

Rolling

Grudges. Oh how Octavia hated those. Her mental pair of eyes rolled heavily, a likewise nonphysical groan escaping her lips. Grudges weren't exactly some thing that she wasn't used to. Though she really hated to admit her admittedly large number of shortcomings that had taken place in her early years, Octavia had bottled up grudges over mostly nothing once she looked back on them all as a whole. There were grudges regarding school, there were grudges regarding other ponies, there were grudges regarding relationships, and there were grudges regarding life in general. There was always something Octavia didn't like, and as her list grew longer and longer, she found that she started to get a tad worried about her state of mind. Though she had loved school as much as her dogs or her string bass, there were a few... bad bits of hay in the stack.

Middle school, for example, had been a plethora of change and a dogma of superiority. The first year in school to show her how to open a locker, get actual A to F grades, and overall stress over finals as hard as she had for anything ever before. There was animosity about the temperature of her History teacher's classroom, either scorching her during the spring or chilling her during the winter. She wasn't one to bring a coat, but she wasn't one to simply relent for one. There was a sense of hostility between young Octavia and her cafeteria mares, the two groups giving each other glaring looks as one side scooped slop and the other side begrudgingly ate it. There was even a bit of enmity surrounding Octavia and a group of Unicorns who had bullied foals in her grade school by purposely cheating them out of winning games of wallball. They had claimed they were professionals at a sport that didn't technically exist, and bloody noses on foals broke her heart to oblivion and one.

Oh how she hated those Unicorns. She hoped that, even eleven years after the fact, those foalish Unicorns were still spending their grueling, graying days helping out with the bustling school's recycling and stacking the cafeteria's chairs and tables like a bunch of obedient children. She laughed, a grin spreading across her face as she sighed. Ahhh, she really hated those stallions. She had frozen at the thought, and only realized why a second after. Hate was a bit of a strong word... was it not? Well... she couldn't exactly hate those ponies, they were just mindless colts at the time. They didn't necessarily know any better, did they? They were just being teenagers; full of angst and rife with stupidity. Octavia grumbled all of a sudden, her own thoughts having possibly insulted her.

Well okay maybe she was one of those two things at that age. And she definitely wasn't stupid. Honors classes, almost straight A's with just a few B's along the way and a single C in one of her math classes after a recurring incident with a pair of scissors and a staple gun, and enough education in her head to qualify her for college to study on Musical History and get accepted into the Canterlot Symphony to become the Lead Bassist. Definitely not stupid. She blinked. What exactly was the definition of stupidity? She had assumed that it was just having a lack of intelligence, but now that she thought about it, there were huge historical figures like Forest Jump and Caboose Car who were, admittedly, not the brightest tools in the shed, and they had both saved Equestria in their own odd but fascinating ways.

So even the dullest of blades still held some use.

Oh yeah. She had gotten sidetracked. Mentally admonishing herself, the mare thought for a brief second on what her first topic had been, then aha'd at the revelation in silence. Yes. Grudges. A completely immature idea that somehow embedded itself in ones mind so that they could justify the means to their ends, like some brainwashed soldier committing genocide in the name of his beloved country. Grudges were stupid things, things Octavia hadn't notably held for years. It wasn't so much as forbidding grudges—though they were still things she'd rather not have—but it was more about acting on said grudge. What was the word? Ah yes. Revenge. The dish best served cold.

Getting revenge was absolutely childish and a waste of time that all could have been better spent not doing something ridiculously absurd. And that's why Octavia absolutely loved it. Oh Gods how sweet revenge was. The mare realized she was giggling and couldn't—didn't—want to stop herself. She had all manners of exacting revenge, ranging from absolutely unmissable to there's-no-way-they'll-ever-find-that. She had never held any really recent grudges, but when Peg Board had spilled a whole glass of water on her sheet music during practice a couple months back, there was a time for being understanding and cowardly, and it was surely not that time. So with a quick few seconds and a friendly distraction, Octavia had simply walked over to his cello the next day, loosened every one of his pegs in an amazingly ironic situation, let his end pin fall to the floor with a thud, and then rattled his fine tuners, walking away to witness his few second panic until he realized what had happened, scowled at nothing, and fixed them in a matter of seconds.

She had remembered smiling a devilish smile and pumping a hoof, almost dropping her double bass to the floor in the process. Scrambling to grab a hold of it, she had caught it less than a centimeter from where it had started. Though she hated to admit it, it wasn't too much of an unusual thing for her to suddenly lose interest in what she was doing and let go of her beloved instrument for less than half of a split second. It was the little things that bothered but, always the little things that pleased her, and acting on revenge like with Peg Board was absolutely fantastic and adrenaline-pumping.

It was only okay to act on revenge if the pony who messed with you really deserved it though. You don't go over and flip the table of the pony who had accidentally bumped into you in the middle of the crowded Gala, and you would be an absolute monster for confiscating the snack that the little filly had swiftly taken before you even though it was one you were dying to try that current night. It just wasn't right to muddle with somepony's day or night simply because something so menial.

These ponies had locked her up inside a janitor's closet for at least a little over a day, with nothing to sate her boredom save for a couple pieces of string and a box of old Cheerilee-O's. How that one mare in her school had gone on to star on cereal boxes puzzled her incredibly, but she had decided to not eat it anyway, in favor of not getting her muzzle coated in spider webs. Thankfully there had been a rather entertaining crossword on the back of it with a few jumbling puzzles, but she hadn't had a pencil and had to constantly recite what she already had.

Gods she really hoped that nopony knew what she had partaken in. She didn't want to see Octavia Philharmonica Plays Cereal Box Games in the newspaper or anything. That would be completely destructive of her reputation as a refined, uptight, knowledgeable mare, and this was exactly why she was currently charging a quick path down the hallway directly past her now open jail cell, smacking into the side of the stallion she swore wasn't that close to the corner. As both tumbled onto the ground, Octavia gained the upper hoof and immediately scrambled up, reaching for her broom and smacking the sweeping end against the Pegasus' face as he spluttered and spat for her to stop amidst all the corn husks pushing their way into his mouth.

Glaring, she kept her absolutely brutal attack up, not even noticing the mare behind her until she had tackled her to the floor with a thud. Now on the bottom and with her stomach to the floor, Octavia crawled backward along the carpet and shot upward, placing both forelegs underneath her end of the rug and flinging it forward, effectively trapping the confused mare inside it. As she struggled, cursing at a mile a minute, Octavia took a few steps back, suddenly hearing the sound of somepony stepping toward her quickly. Spinning on a heel with a hoof extended outward, she accidentally caught the flanking Pegasus in the face, a resounding smack accompanying his second return to the building's floor. Gasping, Octavia bent over to see if the stallion was alive, unintentionally dodging the freed mare's lunge. She gave a scared frown as the mare's head clunked against a nearby cabinet, her flying form immediately halting as she simply collapsed to the floor. As both ponies began to groan loudly in what she assumed to either be revelations of stupidity or legitimate pain, Octavia let out a quick breath, stretching her legs out after their intense workout not mere seconds earlier.

Feeling something connect with her hoof and hearing another thud with a collection of gasps and wheezes, Octavia looked to her rear to find yet another mare keeling over on the floor in a fetal position, both pairs of hooves clutching her chest as she struggled for air. Turning around and letting her tail flow freely, Octavia realized that she must have kicked the mare as she was coming up behind her. Looking down at the struggling figure, she realized she was snickering and quickly stopped herself. It wasn't fair to be absolutely honest.

The mare never stood a chance.

Stepping over her, Octavia retrieved her broom and placed it in her mouth as she began to walk toward what looked to be the front door to her right. How many had the brutish Unicorn told her he had? Seven, was it? She grinned. Octavia had already dealt with three of them. Her eyes suddenly grew larger, now realizing that the ponies back there may have had weapons on them, better ones than the one she was currently holding. Her eliminator of tomato splatter certainly couldn't hold up to anything the other ponies might have. Oh Gods, if they had a Magicarm on them, that would be amazing. She would have gone back to see what she could have seen were it not for the muffled sound of something stepping around somewhere nearby. Now realizing that she was walking through the middle of a set of four doors to her left and right, the entrance to the room on her approaching dextral gave her the sound of somepony walking across a tile wood floor which—as everything else was dead quiet—scared the living hay out of her.

A voice called out, one that she recognized, "Guys? The hell's going on out there?"

Her purple eyes darted to an admittedly beautiful-looking dresser with a nice little bouquet of sunflowers sitting atop it to her right, directly adjacent to the door. She looked back to said door, then back to prior dresser as she dropped her weapon on the floor. Quickly trotting over to it as the hoofsteps continued, she pushed all her weight into it and heard the steps slightly quicken as her blockade began screeching along the missing pieces of carpet by her hooves. Gritting her teeth, she was about to begin a tirade of Gods cursing to pump herself up, only to stop as she looked up to check her progress, finding that she had pushed the furniture all the way to the front of the door. She stumbled away from it, breathing heavily as the stallion began banging on the door, saying, "Hey, what the– guys! This isn't funny!" Knock knock knock. "Let me out!"

Quickly retrieving her broom, Octavia turned toward the front door and placed her weapon back in her teeth. Walking across a sizable mat that told her to enjoy her stay at Homestead Cabin, the mare found herself glaring up at the circular window hanging further up the wall directly ahead. She grimaced, knowing full well that if she were to make it out of this, she might have to stay here in favor of not walking through the Everfree alone at night. Eyes flitting back to the entryway, Octavia grasped the cold door knob with a hoof and twisted it, expecting to find her salvation in the form of an easy pathway through the forest, out of sight and out of mind. Instead, she was greeted to a ten-step staircase that led down to an open area, where the remaining three ponies stood around a campfire, their voices unable to be deciphered from where Octavia now stood in fright. She dared not move, knowing that the ponies would somehow see what she was trying to do if she so much as breathed. A breath escaped her, effectively ending her presumptions as the door she had swung open clanged against the wall to her left. She froze as the ponies' heads darted at her.

Whoops.

She jumped back and dove out of the way of the door, hearing the sounds of crossbow bolts sticking into the gravitation-affected closed door. She gasped horribly. These ponies almost killed her! She would've died if she hadn't gotten away! Not even a single word to defuse the situation, just an aiming of weapons and the flicking of triggers! Her voice came out shaky as she whispered, "Oh Gods," to herself.

Thunder rolled from the front staircase. Eyes wide, Octavia looked to her left and found her broom. Picking it up, she swiveled around and stuck it against the opposite end of the doorframe, the charging Earth Pony who had intended to rush in now tripping over the makeshift weapon and crumbling on the floor with a shout. Watching as the next stallion simply hopped over her blockade, Octavia's ears pinned against the sides of her head, the brown Pegasus now staring at her with an agape mouth. Shaking his head, he stretched out his left wing and showed Octavia the front of his loaded crossbow.

She instinctively eeped, crouching low to the ground and rolling along the wood floor. Hearing the sound of punctured oak, the mare got back to her hooves and turned to her right, finding a small table with a vase of roses atop it. Coiling her hoof around it as the Pegasus began to reload with a curse behind her, she about broke her neck as she looked to her left, flinging the glass vase at the stallion's head. As it shattered on impact, he held the now injured body part with a hoof, stumbling backward to collide with Desert Fruit, who knocked him to the floor as he sprinted into the room. Desert's hindlegs slid across the floor, his whole body admittedly impressively swiveling to face her as he bore a grin. He crouched low to the ground, standing in the middle of the room not two feet away from the still open door.

She mimicked him, a snarl on her lips.

Desert's horn lit up as his crossbow's Guncast sprang outward with a metallic clang, the steel weapon now glaring at her in kind.

He tutted, shaking his head before tilting it to the side to aim down his sight.

"I'm sorry," he lied.

"I'm not," she replied.

A shadow danced along the floor from behind the front door, growing larger until a hulking figure flew through it, tackling Desert Fruit to the ground as he magicked the trigger, the bolt flying into the ceiling and lodging into the lazily-spinning fan. Stepping away as the two wrestled on the floor for what she assumed would take minutes, she heard the telltale sound of head hitting floor and watched as her possible savior stepped away from the now unconscious Desert Fruit. He turned toward her, his wings holstering by his side to accompany his large Guncast and familiar dark bronze armor.

The jet black Griffon nodded at her with a smile on his beak.

"There you are," he spoke in a deep voice.

Octavia chuckled as she grinned, recognizing this Griffon as the fourth member of W's group, T.

He looked around, taking note of the unconscious bodies littering the floor by his paws and claws. He laughed a single note.

"Nice job."

She winked, "Thank you."

Moving
View Online

Stroll

Moving

Camping. Now that was something Octavia could get into. Just the thought of it was enough to make her squeal in delight, rivaling the ones she would utter when confronted with a dog, her bass, or helping other deserving ponies. Amidst all of her childhood adventuring, ranging from scouting out the rest of the woods from a fifty mile high tree to escaping the terrible wrath of Roller the Bridge Troll by blowing stale chip dust in his eyes, there was always that time at the end of the day where the sun began to set and the chill of night began its horrible torrent against young Octavia and her friends. So with dirt on their hooves and waning excitement flooding their systems, they would tirelessly search for a tall enough grouping of trees just big enough to not be in danger of their usual pyromania-influenced campfires that soon rivaled the roaring bonfires of a group of better ponies with nothing else to do in their lives.

Though there was school, there were cute puppies, and there was her lovely double bass, there was absolutely nothing that beat sitting around a campfire, singing songs with her friends and roasting stolen marshmallows on moss-covered spears they would later use in absolutely intense games of Hide And Seek. With the warm fire kissing her skin and the still night sky meeting her wandering, bright purple eyes, Octavia loved nearly everything about camping and the campfires that accompanied them, the only negative complaint being that of leaving said campsite the next day to either return home for school or their worried parents.

"So, Octavia Philharmonica, huh?" A voice suddenly called to her, rousing her from her thoughts. Her muzzle withdrawing from the can of beans currently nestling in between her two outstretched forelegs, Octavia turned to her right from her position on the soothingly warm grass and found the brown Griffon looking at her with a pair of raised eyebrows and a single smile on his black beak. Lifting her chin up ever so slightly, the classy mare reached for the brown napkin by her side—as she had insisted they collect them from the nearby cabin before eating—and dabbed it at her mouth. Clearing her throat, she lowered the now-smothered piece of paper onto the top of the can in front of her.

It was an oddly long time before she answered, "That is correct." She hadn't any idea why.

She suppressed the urge to shrug to herself as W adjusted his position on the floor, finding better refuge and finally sticking his claws out toward the fire. Letting them sit for awhile, he brought them back to the front of his armored chest, rubbed them vigorously, then replaced them in their prior position. "Well," he began, letting out a quick breath that wisped into the night sky, "can't say I've really heard of you then." He repeated his action, now looking at Octavia, "Seein' as how you're still wearing that bowtie after all this, I'm to assume you either play in some high-profile band somewhere," he stuck a claw at her accessory, "or it's somehow melded to your throat."

Octavia's hoof ran along the pink bowtie to make sure it was still presentable. It was.

"You are from somewhere in Canterlot, aren't you?" Another voice suddenly spoke up, this one sounding raspy but simultaneously strong. Octavia leaned to her left, finding the light yellow Griffon known as—L, was it?— looking at her from her seat atop a fallen oak log. She waved a claw. "You don't look like Ponyville material. Your mane's too nice."

Octavia wasn't sure whether to blush at the compliment or raise a brow at the insult.

"I overheard your little argument with that bandit pony while you were trapped in that net two days ago," W proclaimed, confirming Octavia's debate about the amount of time that had passed, "you said you were some daughter of some bigwig banker." Octavia sunk in her seat. She knew what else he was going to bring up. He cocked his head. Oh here we go, she thought. "Then again, at that time, you were also claiming your name was both Chell and Melody if I recall."

"Is that right?" Another voice. This one was distinctly female, and distinctly harsh. V leaned forward, her dark green armor gaining a new source of illumination in the loudly sizzling campfire sitting in the middle of them. The circle of cans sitting atop it continued to cook. She laughed, her likewise sage eyes disappearing behind a pair of white eyelids as she slapped her leg. "Oh that's rich! You tried scamming a bandit?!"

Octavia frowned, an eyebrow to the sky as she silently nodded.

A loud, short squeal erupted into the night, the admittedly rude source now clutching her armored stomach tightly with a pair of golden claws. Her roll of amusement came out much louder and much more uproarious than it had before, now drowning out the popping cooking fire that bore their food. Octavia's brow knitted as her frown deepened. She saw W turn to V as well, a scowl on his beak as he showed obvious lack of impression for the guffawing member of his kind.

V gave out a long sigh, reclining in her seat from the ground and rustling the bushes behind her with her holstered Magicarm. She raised a claw, dabbing at her eyes as she let out small chokes of giggles still leftover from her outburst. The anger on Octavia's face didn't falter one bit. She secretly wondered how she could get revenge on V, and then questioned which form she would take to exact it. She flinched slightly as V's voice came to her again. "You basically..." she laughed again, "you basically tried heckling a heckler." Returning to a normal sitting position—or as normal as a heavily armored Griffon could manage—V finally looked at her, her eyes mirroring the color of her armor. "Y'see, bandit ponies aren't stupid."

Octavia's mind went back about a few hours or so to the first stallion she had accidentally slapped once she had escaped the janitor's closet, then to the diving mare she had dodged by bending over to look at the prior stallion, and then to the quiet mare who had tried sneaking up on her only to receive a pummeling kick to their poor poor stomach. She thought back to the pony who had rushed in from outside, tripping over her broom, then to the pony who had, stupidly, reloaded his crossbow when his target was both still alive and moving about ten inches away from him, and finally to Desert Fruit, who hadn't noticed T's shadow despite being directly in the doorway, and who had dropped his keys in front of Octavia's cell in the first place. She stopped. There was another one, she was sure. She counted.

Three by cell. Three at door. That was six.

Octavia's purple eyes narrowed, thankfully out of sight of the Griffons who were now locked into what momentarily sounded like a wonderful sharing of stories. She reached a hoof up to her head, scratching her dark gray mane as she hummed thoughtfully.

Wh– oh no.

"...but I have to admit, she did a great job in there. Wish I coulda seen it," W said, his head turning toward Octavia. She, with a frown, slowly looked at him as well, her eyes growing wider and her pupils dilating as she realized who she was missing in her headcount. The two locked eyes for a brief moment in time, one Octavia swore lasted hours, and then the mare swiftly scrambled to her hooves, kicking up dirt and grass into the air as she did so. About-facing, she sprinted back toward the cabin at a heart-quickening pace. Stumbling up the staircase—and making a rather boisterous bit of noise in the process—Octavia threw open the front door and fled into the building without a moment's hesitation.

Her hooves were a raging thunderstorm along the hardwood floor as she ran down the hallway, immediately looking to her right at the door with the beautifully-crafted dresser propped in front of it. Cantering toward it, she placed her front hooves on top of the furniture and pressed the left side of her head against the door, her ear flapping upward to assist her in listening for any sounds coming from the other end. She bit her bottom lip, hearing nothing. Stepping off the dresser, Octavia turned her head, hearing the sound of the front door swinging open from behind her. W walked in slowly, a look of confusion on his face.

Octavia looked at the barricaded door, then back to W. "Can you help me move the dresser?" She asked with a tone of urgency in her voice, "I need to get inside that room, and I don't believe I would have an easy time doing so by myself." W, chuckling, stepped toward her, his claws and paws scratching up the carpet sitting idly in the main lobby. As she stepped out of his way and began to walk over to assist him, she felt her jaw fall slightly as W simply grabbed one end of the dresser by himself, dragging it out of the way of the door with nothing but a low grunt of effort.

Looking back at her, he nodded his head toward the room. Octavia shook her head, trotting over to him quickly. Planting her rump on the left side of the doorframe, Octavia looked confusedly up at W, who reached for his Magicarm and grasped it in two claws. Pressing his armored back against the door—and eliciting a humorous thud as he did so—W took one look at Octavia, who tilted her head as he did so, and stepped in front of the room, bending backwards as he raised a paw and kicked the door open. Standing in front of the now-open area, W swept his Magicarm's sights left and right, prompting Octavia to rise from her seat on the floor to join him.

Peeking in through an opening in W's arms, Octavia's eyes grew wide. Lightly placing a hoof on his side, she squeezed through and whimpered at what she saw at the other end of the room.

Bringing in a chilling summer night breeze was the sole window in the room, its lower sash raised up to the sky.

A few leaves rolled across the floor.

W spoke gruffly, "You come into here to get a cold or somethin'?"

Octavia shook her head silently.

"You might wanna close that then so the whole house doesn't get chilly."

She did.

Trudging
View Online

Stroll

Trudging

Griffons. Now that was a bit of a... touchy subject if there ever was one. Griffons, usually spelled so over Gryphons because of nothing but simplicity, weren't exactly... kind to ponies, especially seeing as how almost brutal hostility between the two species had been particularly strong for the better part of a hundred years. To be completely fair though, one species had been on one side, and the other species hadn't helped that side. She couldn't exactly say it was unreasonable, even though it definitely was. Ponies had hooves, and Griffons bore pairs of claws and paws, an amalgamate of both an eagle and a lion.

That was a tad racist. Octavia cringed, hoping that nopony had heard her accidental remark. Griffons were, well, they were something else when compared to ponies. Though she hadn't really met too many of them in her time, seeing as how her concerts never strayed too far past the border unless it was international for some reason or another, the ones she did were rather odd to say the least. There had been one Griffon she had made contact with during her trip to Fillydelphia a number of summers back. He was pretty small for a member of his species, having been only a couple inches taller than the Royal Guards in their armor that were present at the post-concert banquet. Though she wasn't able to fully recall his name, she was able to remember his attitude toward everything and everypony that was around him. That attitude being one of tranquil hostility and know-it-all nosiness.

Truth be told, Octavia had grown up being told that Griffons were terrifyingly scary individuals who could easily cut her in half with a swipe of their claws if they so much as felt like it. She hadn't personally encountered any until she was in her early twenties, so she had spent all her life feebly trembling in anticipation of her first meeting one. As she about stumbled on a rather intrusive family of vines running along the forest floor, Octavia swallowed a lump down her throat, her ears currently tuning in to an admittedly vulgar story from V's beak. She reaffirmed her earlier statement as V spoke the words, gouge, balls, and out in one breath. L laughed heartily, impressively walking over a fallen tree as she stared at the storytelling Griffon.

Octavia frowned. She wished she could do that. She was reminded of this as one of her front hooves caught on a bush, bringing it forward as she continued on through it. V, who was walking behind her, caught the full force of the bush as it propelled backward, smacking into her armor and scraping it audibly. The Griffon cursed, "Sputnik dammit pony, can't you see where you're going?" Amidst all the blinding sunlight peeking in through the treetops, the dense forest with thousands upon thousands of trees, and the bushes and twigs wrapping around the landscape like a hive-minded snake, Octavia had to firmly answer no within the wondrous confines of her head. Hearing a muttering and grumbling from V, Octavia cracked a grin that she quickly wiped away, looking forward to see W still stalking ahead of the group.

"So," she spoke, clearing her throat and finding it devastatingly dry, "where are we going, W?"

It took him a few seconds to answer, his claws and paws scratching their way onto a group of rocks marking what appeared to once be a small stream running perpendicular to their current trail. As her hooves clip-clopped onto the stones, she received her answer. "We're in what's called White Tail Woods, a ways West from the Everfree Forest." Octavia's gut dropped. She hoped that Sheriff Water and Deputy Beagle were all right. "Just north of here, not too far now, is a set of train tracks that lead back into Ponyville." Octavia's gut sank. W looked back at her, grinning as he added, "Home." Her gut bottomed out.

"Oh," was her simple reply.

"'Oh' indeed, Octavia," W replied, laughing, "we'll wave down the train when it arrives and have them take you back into town."

Was this... was this real? Octavia's step faltered, continuing normally a second later. Was she actually going home today? She looked around, taking in the four heavily armored and equally heavily armed Griffons walking beside her. She felt a smile slowly work their way across her lips as a wave of excitement jolted up her body. She was going home today. She was going back home. They would wait at the train tracks until the train came, and then Octavia would get on it, and then she would finally be able to go home. She gasped, catching the attention of V, who raised a brow and nudged her forward impatiently. Undeterred, Octavia grinned. She would finally go home, so she could practice her double bass in preparation for the Symphony's next concert and turn her oven off. She suspected that the latter was most likely taken care of. Her roommate was most likely done with her tour in Baltimare, most likely leaving her able to click the appliance off when she most likely returned home.

Whoops. Did she say roommate?

Octavia cleared her throat. She hadn't said roommate. Those little paparazzi ponies scampering across her brain wouldn't be able to get their cover story. Octavia Philharmonica Lives With An Uncouth Roommate wouldn't look great in the news stands for her reputation as a refined young mare from Canterlot. She shushed her thoughts, trying to focus on the fact that she would be able to finally return home today. Happy thoughts, Octavia, happy thoughts. Practicing her bass. Turning off the oven. Eating that leftover hay burger that she hoped wasn't already eaten. Home, Octavia, home!

Home!

She heard a whistle from in front of her. She looked up, realizing that she and the Griffons were now stepping out of the thick woods and into a large clearing with yet another forest across from them. Flowers and bushes dotted the grass, filling her nostrils with the intoxicating smell of nectar. She could make out the small beginnings of large mountains in the distance to their further north. She smiled, spotting the steel train tracks with their wood sleepers running horizontally through them. Her gaze drew left, to the Griffons' destination.

Her cheerful smile dissipated in an instant.

A frown took its place.

It deepened as Octavia slowly trod toward the lone, ivory train sitting silently on the tracks, its train cars patiently waiting in a line behind it. The shielded spotlight in the front of the locomotive was chipped and cracked, the glass that once protected it now scattered along the tattered and horribly bent cowcatcher gazing toward the sunlight. She stepped closer, walking up to the Griffons' side to view the vehicle's various burn marks and scratches that ran along its exterior, mostly consuming the front engine. The lights that would usually be lit inside of the passenger cars appeared to be out, a pair of ropes (ropes?) in front of the cowcatcher having been snapped off at about two feet out.

Not a single sound called out to them as they looked the train up in silence.

Octavia choked up, her eyes glassy for a split second in time before being cleansed with a quiet sniffle and a swipe of her hoof. Thankfully not noticing, the Griffons split up; T taking the caboose, L taking the second passenger car, V taking the first, and W taking the engine. W turned to her, a frown on his beak as he hummed. He adjusted the dark green scarf around his neck, looking her in the eye. "Stay here." He began walking off, pulling out his Magicarm as he ascended the front car. Octavia subconsciously approached him from behind, stepping around the side to walk in through the open area in the back. As her hooves resounded along the wood floor, W turned his head, weapon in his claws.

He sighed heavily. "You don't really listen now, do you?"

His question caught her off guard.

"Oh!" She exclaimed, feeling a tad guilty for not having heard whatever he had said. "Did you tell me not to come with you?"

W blinked. Octavia dipped her head to the floor as she gave the right side of the locomotive a prolonged once-over.

"No," he said finally, "it's fine. I just don't want you to stumble on something you wouldn't... want to see, is all."

"That sounds fair enough," Octavia replied. She kicked a hoof against the floor idly as W turned back around, his claws picking up books and opening cabinets sitting at the head of the compartment. He hummed curiously at each item he found, as if he were witnessing personal records for the first time in his life. Octavia wondered what he could be up to, fortunately understanding as W a-ha'd, swiftly turning about as he held something flimsy in a black claw. He had discarded his gloves a couple miles back, claiming that they were just getting in his way as they trod across the sharp brush and spiky branches.

Holding the now-apparent paper up to his eyes, he read the words loud enough for Octavia to hear with him. "'If anypony finds this'," he began, stumbling a bit on the pony part, "'we were attacked by a group of bandits on our way back into Ponyville. One of our pullers, Heavy Weight, was hit by some kind of spell that's burnt his side. He's hurt, bad. We're heading to Tall Tale to seek help.'" W lowered the paper, allowing Octavia to fully view the lines of black letters and numbers that vaguely resembled a receipt. Not able to see the brand—as W quickly placed the note into one of the pouches strung along his side—Octavia tilted her head. She secretly hoped that the bandits in question were the same ones they had left locked up back at the Homestead Cabin.

"Tall Tale?" She didn't recall the name, crediting this to never having had a concert there. To be fair, there really wasn't any other way she would be figuring out the existence of these places.

W nodded, "Yup. It's a pretty big town further north of here. I've never been there myself, but I've heard it's a bit of a wack town." He shrugged, walking over to a set of levers situated by the side of the long-extinguished coal fire. Reaching out with a claw, his eyes grew wide as Octavia threw a hoof his way.

"Wait!"

W raised a brow.

Octavia let her hoof fall to the floor, eliciting a delicate tap that would surely frighten a pack of dandelions. She shifted her head to the lift, still staring at W as she opened her mouth, "What are you doing?"

W's blue eyes darted from the levers and then back to her. He raised a claw.

"We're not actually going to just leave, are we?" She heard the passenger car door behind her swing open, followed by a collection of heavy thuds that signified the other Griffons' presence. She paid them no mind, instead diverting her attention to W, who stood silently at attention, thankfully hearing her out. "We have to search for those ponies. You read that note, they're hurt! They might not have even reached Tall Tale because of that!"

"Tall Tale?" V asked from behind her. She scoffed, prompting Octavia to turn around and find the Griffon flailing a claw. "That's a lost cause if I ever heard one. That city's about a day or two away from here."

L stepped forward, "If they were headed to Tall Tale, they might've tried goin' through Smokey Mountains as a shortcut."

"What exactly lies in Smokey Mountains that could impede their progress?" She heard a mumbling from V that sounded an awful lot like a complaint about her choice of words. She ignored it, W catching her attention as he replied honestly.

"Whole valley's unstable. Rocks, boulders, stones, you name it. They all keep falling off the mountain tops and onto the trails in these huge chunks."

"Those ponies are either dead or trapped under rock," V claimed, "and having a wounded pony to boot definitely wouldn't help in a massive landslide. I say we just leave 'em."

Something in Octavia's mind broke. This wasn't right. This Griffon in front of her wasn't in the know. It was as if the mare was a robot, and V had just said the password that would boot up a new set of commands. These commands read out as Strangle The Life Out Of This Bird. Her brow furrowed against the tops of her eyes, scrunching them as she took a step toward V. Her voice came out chillingly, almost alien to her. "They could still be alive out there."

V's beak scrunched up, "Going after them would be stupid."

Octavia stomped her hooves against the floor as she stepped even further into V's personal space, her head now bumping against V's. She growled, "Staying in a motionless train car is a hayuva lot stupider than rescuing ponies that could very easily still be out there."

"Starting up a train isn't hard you know," V proclaimed, teeth bared. Octavia saw her claws begin to raise from their positions on the floors. She quaked slightly, but kept her ground.

Octavia's frown deepened as she raised an eyebrow to the sky. "What, do tell, do you do first then?"

V's eyes glanced about swiftly. "Y-You uh–"

"Exactly."

The Griffon's head feather began to ruffle up, reminiscent of a pony who had rubbed pillows against their mane for a little over a full day. Her dark green eyes dilated as she raised a claw and shoved it against the top of Octavia's head, shrinking her to the ground. The mare began regretting her rather stupid decision. Turning her head, the Griffon glared sharp daggers at her with one eye, asking, "You want to go home, don't you?"

Octavia choked on her instant retort.

"She's right."

V lifted her claw off Octavia's skull, clenching both talons so tightly that Octavia believed she would draw blood. She growled aggressively, turning to face W. "Oh get off it. You'd rather take the side of some stranger mare than a friend you've fought beside for six years?" Octavia allowed herself a chuckle despite her furious temper. The Griffon was pulling straws now.

"If that friend is being an egg yolk," W spat, prompting L to suck on her bottom beak as if she had been burnt from the sidelines, "I'm inclined to not agree with them." Staying his unimpressed expression as V hissed, he added, "And hey, if we find these ponies..."

Octavia drew her neck back, taking note of his using the word if.

"...they might give us a reward for bringing them to safety." The Earth Pony turned to look at V. The Griffon was crossing her arms, trying not to leer at W as he rubbed his claws together. "C'mon now, V. We could get some biiiiits out of this..."

The dark green armored Griffon shut her eyes tightly for a few seconds, finally opening them as she threw her claws into the air, storming out of the locomotive with a loud, "Dammit!" to herself. W slowly turned toward L, who looked back at him with a curious expression.

"You want to try arguing as well?"

L chuckled, "Course not, W. I'll be happy ta do something that'll piss V off." She about-faced, beginning to hop off the train car. Stopping, she looked at Octavia and nodded her head toward the still cursing Griffon outside. "Don't let V get to your head, Octavia." With a thud, she hit the dry grass and walked away. The mare stared at the remaining subordinate. T, having stood in the corner of the locomotive the entire argument, simply glanced at both W and Octavia before nodding silently. He stepped off the train car as well.

Following T, W stepped across the wooden floor, halting a few inches away from the mare. Letting out a quick sigh of relief, his blue eyes gazed at her, a smile on his beak. "Well. I'm happy that things turned out better than I'd expected." He continued his prior action, his claws and paws creaking along the battered platform, "We'll head north in an hour or so after everyone's fed. Hope you like scones, Octavia." And with that, he was off like the rest of his team members.

Now left alone, Octavia suddenly realized she was still breathing heavily. Eyes wide, she cleared her throat and started regulating her air intake, shutting her eyes and counting to three. She sighed, opening them once more. Noticing that she had fallen to her haunches to help calm herself down, she rose to all fours and raised a hoof to leave. Something caught her eye, however. A single gleam of gold made itself out to her, and so she approached its source carefully.

A pendant, composed of what looked to be silver and gold, dangled from a set of dials protruding from the wall. Reaching out, she grabbed it in one hoof and turned it over. The delicate hinges, broken from wear and tear—which was something she found incredibly sweet—swung the pendant's cover over with little to no force, showing Octavia a beautiful looking Unicorn with a long, curly mane, eternally smiling at her from within its confinements. Swinging it closed, she turned it over once more and found a small engraving. Scrunching her eyes, she read it, "'I'll always be there for you.'" She smiled. "'Love, Graceful Melody.'"

She stared at the engraving for what felt like hours, unmoving as she realized the implications of it all. She looked up and gazed out the windows, watching as W, T, L, and V set up a small campfire. Glaring back down at the pendant, she vigorously nodded her head to nopony but herself, a determined look on her face. She had remembered something when she had first walked into the train car, and so she tilted her head to the right to find the rather small messenger bag sitting against a dusty old stack of books. Trotting over to it, she picked the bag up by the sling, then threw it over her head and maneuvered it so that it sat on her side. Opening it—and thankful that she didn't find anything incredibly personal—she placed the pendant gently inside.

"Don't worry. I'll get you back to your rightful owner."

She turned on a heel, stepped out into the sunlight, and hopped off the train.

She really hoped these scones were up to par from what she had heard about them.

Stumbling
View Online

Stroll

Stumbling

Being cold wasn't a new concept to Octavia. In fact, being cold was a more practiced situation than being warm. It was no secret that Octavia spent more than most of her days playing at a concert, and with stuck-up ponies in fashionably layered clothing there came complaints about heat, and then, following it, would be employees cracking open windows and letting in horrifying drafts from the outside air. And, with Octavia's luck, every concert kept her safe from a cold wind until said opening of windows, and then she would find herself clutching her double bass even closer to her body to gain the most warmth possible. Teeth quietly chattering, Octavia would have to mare up and continue playing, lest she forgo her own sanity lent to her from her best friend Mr. Double Bass.

Even outside of concerts, Octavia would find herself chilled to the bone. The carriages her Symphony would take to their hotels and concerts and banquets and parties never had warmth, but they sure as hay had windows lining their exteriors that were meant as viewing ports but acted more like gates to Tartarus. Octavia wasn't exactly alone in these regards, if the quiet complaints and rubbing of hooves usually taking place in the seats was any indication. At least her hotel room and house were pleasant. If it weren't for those she'd most likely have died of hypothermia years ago.

This was no exception. Though her eyes currently burned from her proximity to the makeshift campfire, and the fuzzy, Griffon-gifted blanket nestled around her began to feel heavy, Octavia still found herself shaking violently. Her ears laid back, her purple eyes looked around her surroundings, blaming it on her current location. The Smokey Mountains Valley had proved to be quite a challenge, and, lo and behold, an intimidating smoke cloud and the promise of a dangerous landslide outside had caused them to seek shelter in a cave. A cave with, as far as she knew, only one way out. She didn't want to dare a look deeper into the cavern—mostly out of fear of looking at the admittedly menacing looking darkness—but she could tell that trying to go down it would only spell more trouble.

She had read enough fantasy books to know how excursions into dank, dark caves usually went.

She moved her left foreleg slightly, finding it in an uncomfortable position, and immediately recoiled at the puddle of water that had formed where she placed it. She grumbled, feeling an unmistakable drop land on her uncovered head. She flinched, raising her leg up to dry her mane off. Octavia glared at nothing, her attention now focused on the crackling fire that wasn't doing its job properly. The light yellow Griffon sitting to her far right, a little away from their circle, gave a smack of her beak, her brown eyes staring up at the collection of imposing stalactites hanging above their heads. Her golden claws rested on her armored stomach, most likely in that position to keep the contents where they needed to stay. According to W, L always got a bit... gross... after their meal of scones. Unfortunately, Octavia had missed their doing so, and was not able to eat one before they were out.

The now bare apple core next to Octavia was the result of their sympathy, which she had finished in a matter of minutes.

V, illuminated by the flame of the fire and sitting directly across from the mare, continued to eat her sandwich, the contents of which grossed Octavia out to no end. As messily as a five-year old filly, the Griffon devoured her apparent "Pony, Beaver, and Jellyfish" sandwich with quite possibly the most disgusting noises Octavia had ever heard. The "Pony" part of the sandwich, a delicate looking meat drenched in some kind of brown sauce, spattered against the Griffon's armor like a Jackson Bollock painting. Octavia looked to her left swiftly, not wanting to continue observing the female Griffon's pastime.

The black Griffon, T, silently turned the page on his book. He didn't even give Octavia a glance as she craned her neck to look at its title. Straining her eyes through the light from the fire, Octavia glared, not able to see it thanks to the large navy coal claw grasping the book's spine. His innermost claw, by the powers that were, was the only thing clutching the cover, just in the right position to block any way of discovering the book's title. Octavia sighed. She had hoped that maybe she could bond with him over some book knowledge, and he would fork over what he was reading. He could at the very least have talked about it. Instead, he flipped his pages and hummed to himself.

W caught her attention. She looked to her right, feeling a few muscles strain from the sudden motion. Rubbing her neck with a grimace, she watched as the Griffon continued to wipe his Magicarm with a snow white rag. He smiled to himself as he grabbed the weapon, sticking its butt end into the dirt beneath him and pushing a few rocks out of the way. Beginning to run the rag along its long barrel, Octavia's eyes widened as she finally got a good look at his gun.

Octavia had seen pictures of Magicarms before, and all had bore the same design: a large fishbowl sitting a few inches above the trigger that housed the spells fired from the barrel of the projectile weapon. Instead, the Magicarm in W's claws had what appeared to be a cylinder and a small lever behind it, lacking a crank. Pressing something on his side of the gun, the cylinder swiveled out, and Octavia realized that it also spun as well. She raised a brow, curious as to how different it was compared to what she assumed to be the traditional design.

"Like what you see, Octavia?"

She choked on something, instinctively raising a hoof to her heart as she looked up at him. Mouth moving wildly in an attempt to find words, she dug a hole the size of Canterlot and retrieved what she needed. "Uh, I–I wasn't staring."

W chuckled, grabbing his Magicarm by the front and taking a more comfortable position on the floor. Raising his right claw, he spoke with a hint of pride in his voice. "She's a beauty, isn't she? Top-of-the-line from the gunsmiths of Griffonstone Kingdom. Old friend of mine was an apprentice to a legendary Griffon called Gun Gordon, helped make this ol' girl for me." He looked at Octavia with a raised brow. "You're wondering how it works, aren't you? It's a fair bit more complicated than what I hear the ponies have in theirs."

Octavia tilted her head, pointing a hoof at the cylinder. To be honest, she was a bit curious. "What is that part's purpose? The ones in Equestria use a crank to power their spells."

"Ah, the crank," W said fondly, sighing into the crisp air, "from the first prototypes." He looked down at Octavia, subconsciously rubbing his Magicarm in a way that caused the mare to suddenly question if he was okay in the mental department. It struck her in the same way it usually did whenever one of the First Violinists did that if he was asked about his supposedly "wondrous" instrument. Octavia scoffed. What a barmy idiot. Tensing up as W cleared his throat almost quizzically, she realized she had made it audible. She opened her mouth and waved a hoof around but to no avail, as W simply laughed it off.

"Yeah... Candidate here and I have been through a helluva lot."

She tilted her head. "Candidate?"

W motioned his head toward his gun. Octavia now seriously questioned his current state of mind. All things considered, like loneliness and isolation, who in their right mind would name something they hurt ponies with? "Why do you call it that?" She fluttered her eyes at him as she placed her forehooves under her chin. "Why not give it your mother's name, or perhaps your first pet?" If she had to, she'd most certainly do the latter.

W raised a black claw.

"Oh Sputnik, don't get him started Octavia," L called up from the floor. Octavia turned her head to find the Griffon shaking her head to the ceiling, a claw pinching her beak as if she were smelling something ghastly. Her eyes shut tightly, she added, "You keep doing what you're doing, and you're gonna get your ear talked off by the old bird..."

W gasped, presumably mockingly, "L, I'm only forty-two–"

"Which is old."

"–which is not." He clutched his weapon close, holding the end of the barrel like a mare would her child. Seeing as how W appeared to now stroke it and speak sweet nothings to it, Octavia decided that the simile was just enough to remain. "Besides, the story behind Candidate here is good enough to be told." He rested the gun lengthwise in front of him as he sat up, staring at L in anticipation for her next remark that was sure to follow.

Sure as day, L replied, "It's boring, lackluster, and honestly makes me wanna," she pointed a claw at her chest and lifted it up from the end, "blow my gizzard out every time you tell it, which, if I recall, is about once every few days." Slowly rising from her position on the floor, she rotated her armored body toward Octavia and placed a stretched claw against the side of her mouth. "He's done this so many times, I'm ashamed to admit I've memorized it."

"That doesn't sound so bad–"

"Every. Last. Enunciation, Octavia."

The mare, her ears now pressed against the sides of her head, looked up at W.

W looked back at her. "I'm sure L would love to hear it again."

Said Griffon threw both claws into her face, eliciting a delicate slap Octavia previously only thought possible with hooves. Blinking, she caught the sight of V rolling her eyes from the confines of her sandwich. T hummed, not looking up from his book. Octavia pressed her lips into her cheeks, adjusting her position on the floor and flinching at the stone floor she met by her hooves. Grumbling, she slid to her left and brought the bottom of the blanket to her right side, letting the slack end fall back over her in a comfortable, warm, taco. Gods this blanket was really warm.

If W would allow it, she really hoped she could take it back to Ponyville. It would surely help her in the future when she returned to her concerts and her banquets. She paused for a very brief second, then gave her undivided attention to W as he looked down at his weapon longingly. She snickered.

"Well," W began, "it's a long story, but I think you'll–"

A noise, loud enough to startle even the hardened V, met their ears from outside. Swiftly turning toward the entrance of their cave system, they caught a split second view of a massive boulder slamming down onto the trail directly past their exit, its form completely obliterated as it hit the ground. Its rubble, composed of large black rock, covered up about half of the smoke-covered daylight leaking into their makeshift hideout. As Octavia found herself breathing heavily, she looked around to find that she was the only one showing any sign of freaking out.

What the hell was wrong with these Griffons?!

"Don't worry, Octavia," W called, rousing her from her fright, "that kind of stuff's normal. If we stay put in here, we should be okay. Once the weather clears up, we'll just have to climb over that new hill. No big deal."

Another sound, and another boulder.

They could only watch as the daylight waned, then disappeared, as the rubble from their new visitor blocked their way out.

Octavia would have shoved everything in W's face if it weren't for her—their—now dire predicament.

Mumbling
View Online

Stroll

Mumbling

Octavia absolutely hated being scared. Though she knew that feeling so was honestly very natural in the course of a pony's life, it wasn't like it was exactly okay whenever it desired to transpire. Being scared was that feeling she got whenever she was playing at a concert, and a string—probably her A string—on her beloved double bass decided that now was the right time to finally give up on dear old mum and rebel like an angst-ridden teenager, snapping in two so deafeningly loud that Domino Dragonetti, deceased for hundreds of years, rolled over in his dirt grave from six whole feet underground. Being scared was that gut-dropping experience that came with realizing that she was late for rehearsal, which meant that she would first have to vomit up her previous night's intake of refined wine, then brush her mangled bedmane into perfection, and then skip breakfast so she could take the local carriage to the concert hall, where an angry group of ponies awaited with their bows ready to pierce her aching heart with all their rosined tail hairs.

Even in her admittedly magnificent childhood, filled with frolicking and the outdoors, Octavia had to admit that being scared to her wits wasn't too uncommon. There were many times that she and her friends found themselves crusading in the wide open expanse of the forest near her house, and being scared certainly wasn't something they were wary of. They would run through brush and fling berries at each other, not a care in the world until they, obviously, returned to their homes and their needlessly worried parents to attend school the following day. Thinking back to a certain series of terrible events that caused Octavia to suck on her bottom lip, the mare could only remember one time when she had been scared out in the woods with nopony but her friends alongside her.

It started out, if she remembered correctly, as another ordinary journey. The four had met near the edge of the forest, their small school saddlebags situated on their respective sides. Greeting each other with lung-collapsing hugs and anticipating smiles, they went over roll call even though they knew that everypony was present, going over who had brought what on their next exciting excursion. Lyra, always the enthusiastic one, had packed all their food for the trip: granola bars. Chocolate, as plain ones were too casual for such awesome fillies as they. Golden Harvest had brought their survival equipment: a pair of chipped spades and a cracked compass. That mare was always prepared. Colgate, their one friend who could go on and on about remaining sanitary, had brought a single roll of toilet paper. She had assured them that Lyra would use them all in the following hours, and Octavia had laughed so loudly that the sleeping bags nestled in her saddlebags shook with her. She being the oddly strongest of the four, Octavia had even packed small pillows she had uncovered in her house's dingy attic.

That was a lie. She had stolen them from her sister's closet.

The quartet had walked into the forest, intending on figuring out where to set up their camp that time. They had settled near Shut Up Lyra Stream the prior month when the body of water itself was named, and they had decided to put as much distance away from the swarm of bees that had chased them out as was possible. As a group of growing, curious fillies in the horrifying years of grade school, they thought that heading further into their yet undiscovered neck of the woods was most certainly promising them a wondrous camping spot for the day. As was foretold by the common sense that each had forsaken long ago, night had approached them fast, and with night came the lack of their being able to see where they were headed, where they resided, and where home could be. So, setting up their camp anyway, they waited for day to come so they could try to forge their way to safety. This had obviously come up with very negative results, ending up with Lyra being blinded in one eye for a number of hours thanks to a filly-assisted branch, Harvest with a pair of torn saddlebags, and nothing but stale granola bars in their aching stomachs.

They had even had to brush their manes with the stems of leaves, soaked with morning dew and dripping with water. Octavia cringed, about tripping over another rock. The Griffon behind her gave a short snort of laughter. Her dislike for the bird continued to grow. Yes, their time trying to get home was filled with a lot more difficulty than the four had ever expected, and yes Colgate ended up being grounded from the four for a number of weeks after achieving their goal, but it was a time that Octavia remembered. Not because it was... admittedly hard to forget the taste of stale granola and the feel of wet leaf against her delicate mane, but because it was a time of bonding, friendship, and a newfound, undying loyalty that none of them could ever forget. That excursion had been the one to change Octavia and her friends for the better, and though it wasn't pleasant, it was necessary. They had emerged from those woods stronger than they had been going in.

This kind of excursion was different. Being in a dank, dark cave with a group of strangers of different species was definitely a far cry from being in a wide, open forest with her best friends. Though bonding wasn't something that she could see in the Griffons, and she could only really consider herself friends with three of the four individuals, loyalty seemed to be something worth looking forward to. She could just imagine being in the middle of a concert, playing through Morning Mood with the Symphony, only for a quartet of armored, armed Griffons to burst through the glass windows, sending shards across the polished tile floor as they landed with practiced thuds. Even though she barely knew these Griffons, she had to put faith in somepony who could spring her out of her life.

Oh who was she kidding. They'd more than likely be out of her mane in the approaching days. She had to remind herself that the cause would most likely be mass starvation that would probably start with her and end with her. Okay. Maybe she should just stop with that thought. That was a little too fiction. These Griffons wouldn't actually consider eating her, would they? She would have asked W for an answer to her question if she didn't foresee V responding to her instead. Feeling the leather messenger bag bob along her side like a bouncy filly, Octavia squeed silently, the Griffon-sourced blanket she had used now safely tucked inside. W had happily entrusted her with keeping the warm article, and Octavia was more than happy to oblige him, ignoring the groan from V that sounded an awful lot like a complaint regarding the wasting of such things to ponies.

Octavia would have given her purple eyes a gentle rolling were it not for her current, positive mood that she had no desire to let falter from the reactions of a stubborn bird. Returning her thoughts to the wet, rocky cave they were currently, thoroughly trapped in, Octavia gave a small grunt of effort as she stepped up a small cliff laden with limestone shards, threatening to cut at her skin if she dared make any wrong movement. Running a hoof through the mane wrapping around her neck, Octavia gave a sigh, feeling at odds with their current predicament. It had been, daresay, an hour and a half since they had started journeying further into the cave. Their campfire had been the victim of a horrible onslaught of cave dirt, and their backpacks and Magicarms were strapped over their backs. Octavia couldn't really be too sure how far in they were. There had been loops and levels and many other trivial things in their path that, in the end, only served to trouble her countdown to starvation. She couldn't really say that she had given up, but the situation she was currently trotting through didn't make anything else likely.

She adjusted the strap around her body, eyes flitting over to stare at W. Candidate bounced along his back, its business end facing her. She most likely would have done a double-take if she didn't already know that it wasn't loaded. Candidate, apparently, took three small objects that resembled small, kid-friendly sticks of lipstick. The very idea that he fired cosmetics out of his gun almost made Octavia guffaw in response. Thanks to the aggressive Griffon stalking silently next to her, she found staying quiet and composed quite simple. W hadn't placed any of his ammunition into his Magicarm, which he assured her meant that it wouldn't fire if the trigger was somehow pulled, whether by somebody or by his armor itself. Studying the engraved steel and polished wood gun, Octavia had to admit that it was honestly fascinating. Though she couldn't say that it was only slightly unfair that Earth Ponies like her and Pegasi couldn't enjoy the same feeling of using a Magicarm that Unicorns and Griffons could, she could say that the object itself was simply marvelous to gaze upon.

She still couldn't see the acclaimed sanity in naming one though. She supposed she could see the play on words or what-have-her in Candidate though. Looking back at the Griffon still walking ahead of her, she had to muse that he seemed to be the sort of sly fellow, most likely one to poke fun at zany government officials and go up in arms about such things as not being able to date his half-sister simply because of her being so and the price of hamburger buns in his local Shady & Mr. Pockets. Clearly, Octavia had watched too much Griffonia Bush Warriors. Thinking to herself, she begrudgingly decided that she would finally give those old tapes back up to the pawn shop down the street. Those Griffons weren't even from Griffonia anyway.

And the racial lawsuits!

She thunked her head. Focus, Octavia, focus.

"Well to be fair, Octavia, you've gone off on these dreadful tirades many many times in the recent days. I seriously doubt that you'll halt now."

L immediately turned her head, a wild look on her face. "What?"

Octavia flinched. She looked back. "Did I do something?"

The expression on L's face shifted as she continued walking next to the mare. Her brown eyes darted from her left and then to her right as if she felt she was currently the victim of a harmless prank, and then they returned to Octavia. She tilted her head, responding, "Yeah you uh... I think you said something. I didn't really catch it, so I was wondering if you could, like, repeat it?" Her hunt for words in that sentence exceeded two, which meant that the Griffon was obviously lying. Two inquiries meant they hadn't planned what they had said, a huge mistake in the real world of Equestria.

"I don't believe I said anything, L. I apologize if I led you to believe otherwise." She couldn't recall. Had she actually said something?

"Noooo, you said something, Octavia," L replied with a sly grin, "What? Was it about Wac– uh, W?" She pointed a talon his way, suspiciously distancing herself from the obvious slip-up. W, hearing them from up front, shot his head upward with a frown on his beak. "Don't worry. I'm sure it's a lot nicer than what you might've said about V over there."

V scoffed. "Oh really, huh?" Glaring at the mare, she spat, "Whatever you can come up with against me won't matter, pony." She threw her head back, causing the long white tuft of feathers on her brow to dance into the air. Placing a claw against her armor, she added, "I can handle anything you throw at me." Octavia suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Judging by the exasperated sigh that came from L, she could say to herself that the Griffon lay in the same mindset as well.

T, his claws clacking against the rock, raised an eyebrow as V stepped into his personal space, her eyes narrowed toward Octavia. He gave the same response as her, his golden eyes roaming to the ceiling as he—wisely—decided to remain silent. "Well, that egg yolk comment back at the train car seemed to phase you quite a bit, didn't it?" Octavia heard the sucking in and letting out of breath behind her as she dipped her head and shot a smug look at V. The Griffon bore her teeth. Octavia faltered. Maybe that was a reckless choice. Stupid, perhaps. If words could kill, maybe she could just shut herself in a room for a few hours and let nature take its course–

"What kind of accent is that?" V asked, surprisingly audible through the white wall of her teeth.

Rehearsed, Octavia thought. She held her head up high and lifted her chin, now looking at V out of the corner of her left eye.

"British," she replied.

V smiled, the steely glare still eternally stuck on her face. "Ah, crohmpets an' tea then? Bahahaha!" She slapped a claw against the rock, causing the loose carpet of pebbles currently laying on the floor to scatter like fish.

"Actually, it's stallions, stallions, and more stallions," Octavia replied, half-wishing that it were both true and desirable. She flattened her lips, adding, "I know that attracting the opposite gender is a bit hard for you, dear old V, but there's no need to be insecure about it." Oddly satisfied with her response, and not able to actually try stopping herself anyway, Octavia listened as L let out a huge wheeze, her resounding steps along the floor faltering from behind the mare. Cracking a small smile, she looked back ahead to see that even W enjoyed that a little bit, his chest exploding outward in intervals as he inflated his cheeks.

T as well, who she assumed to be the silent one in the Griffon band, snorted loudly.

V's eyes narrowed, her bore teeth now hiding back inside her beak. Harumphing to herself, her head darted back forward and her eyes focused on the path ahead. The stalactites running alone the cave ceiling seemed to start shrinking in retaliation to the tranquilly raging Griffon. Octavia, following suit, suddenly jumped into the air, gasping inwardly so hard she had to suck in a large amount of air to regulate herself again. Looking at the claw that had slapped onto her back, Octavia looked up and found L stupidly grinning at her. The appendage went up to dab at her eyes.

"Ahhh... that was a nice one, Octavia. Gonna remember that one for years."

Octavia giggled. "Well, always glad to crack a few eggs in the morning."

Whispering
View Online

Stroll

Whispering

There was an odd, most likely unconfirmed, severely confusingly harrowing thing about the very existence of meatloaf. She knew the one, and knew it well. That... disgusting amalgamation of lovely, lovely wheat bread, and disgusting, ground-up, hard-to-chew meat, usually composed of sick, dying, mothering cows just on the brink of unconsciousness and ineptitude. Octavia knew all kinds of meatloaf. She had survived numerous, dangerous encounters with the quote-on-quote "food-item". There were the small mountains that barely looked like loafs of bread, and there were the loafs of bread that looked so close to bread that Octavia swore she wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a burnt piece of toast and it. There were the kinds with sauce dripped lengthwise across it, as if some five year-old filly with arthritis decided that today would be the day to show off her wondrous skills at arts and crafts by raiding her home's refrigerator and acquiring the B2 Steak Sauce perfectly preserved for all kinds of messy meals. There were the dry loafs, the worst kind out of the less-worse-but-still-horrible species. She knew the ones.

This hatred wasn't—couldn't be—unjust. That just simply wasn't right. Surely it was no accident; no, it was most definitely deliberate, like an act of revenge with out-of-tune strings or old broom handles to surprised faces. There was, though she hated to admit it, a time where she anticipated meatloaf. A time where she believed that eating meatloaf was the real first step into puberty, a rite of passage if you will. None of that nonsense about voices and octaves (heh), or hormones and behavior. To begin the journey to becoming an adult, one first had to consume meatloaf. Little Octavia, giggly, dumb, and oh-so-horribly-wrong, had wanted to tag along with her mother to one of her coworker's houses for a going-away party. Octavia's mother had had connections with the kind mare-of-the-hour, and happily let her daughter come with her, thinking her in better company than if she had been left behind at the house. Truth be told, her mother always had the right idea. She most likely would just raid the refrigerator and drink milk and eat cookies the whole night if she were left alone at that age.

Octavia and her mother had trotted over to the house, opting not to take a carriage in favor of getting some well-needed exercise. It had only been a couple blocks away, a bit more than a nice jog to Octavia's young heart and tired legs, but they had arrived fashionably early to the party to the cheers and shouts of middle-aged ponies dressed in colorful party hats and nice dresses. This observation was the first sign to Octavia that things would take a turn for the worst that night. Dresses? Inside? In a private domicile, out of sight and out of mind from any prying eyes who dared roam around outside? Well, at least there were other fillies and colts there. In fact, that had been where she had met Golden Harvest, the small and shy filly hiding behind her mother's blue leg who would later become the most prepared mare Octavia would ever know in her entire life.

So she guessed that there was at least one saving grace during that fateful night all those nights ago. Or years ago, whatever. That night had been the night where she had expected maturity, but instead received a sad, sad reminder of what could ultimately come to destroy her if she so much as touched its surface. Unfortunately for her, Harvest had insisted on staying by her mother's side almost that whole night, so her and Octavia's first interactions added up to simple hello's and how are you's. Festivities were mostly food, and that was where Octavia had headed next, her mother's bowtie still placed around the white collar draped around her neck. Her hooves clipping and clopping against the hardwood floor of her mother's coworker's house, Octavia's purple eyes had lit up at the sight of what she saw laying on the beautifully crafted dinner table, its obviously-store bought chandelier shining its brilliant, Gods-like light down upon its platter and still-steaming self.

A perfectly-shaped, perfectly-presented, perfectly perfect loaf of wonderful, wonderful meat.

Long story short, Octavia took a whole plateful, grabbed a fork, and sat at the table with a delighted smile on her face. She dug in, took her first bite, and spent the next few hours vomiting her lungs out in a bush outside, softly weeping as some of it stuck on her mane and fur. What else was she supposed to do? Stay inside and risk embarrassing her reputable mother? Not a chance. Thankfully her mother was mostly caught up in socializing with other ponies to notice her absence, and she had claimed her status as a big pony long before. She could take care of herself, and did. Though she had walked back home with her mother asking her when she had last been running around in rotten oatmeal, Octavia went through the whole night almost unscathed.

Almost.

She had been lied to by her consciousness, her brain, and her body. That was not okay.

What was she doing again?

Oh yes.

Keeping herself occupied while she stumbled through a dark cave, an admittedly comfortable messenger bag draped over her body and her bowtie lovingly standing at the base of her neck, as if wanting to help guide the mare's way through the cavern with its own natural luminescence. She had assured her dear old accessory that it shouldn't need fret about helping her, as it had done enough for her in her life already. To be honest, she was growing increasingly bored, and its quality and quantity building up in her was the most likely suspect in her lesser-coherent thoughts. Her hoofsteps continued to make the same exact noise they had an hour or two ago, and a few loose locks of hair dangled in her face, threatening to scald her eyeballs if she so much as acknowledged their cursed existence. She sighed.

She really did hate meatloaf though.

One of her hooves connected with something wet. The coat of fur that had made contact immediately clung to her skin with the texture of a wet dog. She flinched, rattling the appendage as she took a step back and threw it into the air to look for any sign of irreversible damage. She grit her teeth, sucking on them as she noticed how damp and cold her gray hoof had suddenly become. Much to her surprise, V simply stepped by her, nothing but a raised eyebrow exerting amusement. Drawing her neck back with an admittedly confused frown, Octavia looked back down at her still-raised foreleg, her purple eyes piercing through the dim light around her. Flinging a few more droplets of water off it, she shook her head, adjusted her bag, sucked on her teeth as it caught a lock of her mane, and continued walking with the Griffons.

She didn't honestly like just calling them Griffons. To her, it seemed just a tad racist; a title she had given them out of simplicity. That wasn't a good enough excuse for her to label somepony—excuse her—somebird by their species. It would be like calling a group of donkeys "mules", or like calling, case in point, Griffons Griffons. She could easily call them by name, and she honestly didn't know why she hadn't already started doing so. It wasn't like she didn't know of their names. She, instinctively, looked up and to her left, facing their sides. There was T, walking behind in the back with his piercing golden eyes scanning their granite surroundings casually. L, walking in front of him, raised a violently shaking claw up to her gaping mouth, waving the talons around as she rolled out her tongue and yawned into the air. As if realizing that Octavia was looking at her, V's head turned to her right, a single eye glaring her way. Octavia glared back. The Griffon faced forward with a frown.

W, his lovely Candidate nestled inside the brown leather holster fixated on his back, excitedly nodded his head as if he were an anticipatory young colt striding through an all-female metropolis, a seemingly satisfied smirk on his sharp-looking beak. A small light flickering off a nearby collection of rock cast its glow on the appendage immediately as she thought this, the pointed end now brightening up like a clean dish in an infomercial regarding a new soap product. Octavia understandably felt her ears lay back against her head. W or not, there were still pretty dangerous things on their natural figures.

Her hoof splashed against another puddle.

Octavia flailed her hoof upward as if she were a Royal Guard in the presence of Princess Celestia herself, furrowing her brow in an ugly way as she pressed a frown against her teeth. A sneer worked its way across her face as she growled from some horrible realm deep down in her throat, looked to the ceiling, and flicked the collected rainwater from her soaked fur and into the strangled air floating around her. As was her luck, the rainwater loudly pitter-pattered against V's armor. The Griffon swiftly turned her head an almost-full one-hundred-eighty degree angle, her eyes narrowed in stunningly surprising silence. Octavia hated being scared, and she surely wasn't afraid of V even one bit.

But the look on that Griffon's face at that very moment in time made her bite her lower lip and turn away in an instant.

Seemingly satisfied, V shook her head and looked back to the pathway ahead. A chill went up Octavia's spine, a shaky dispelling of breath accompanying it as a response. The mare's mind wandered to the warm, fuzzy blanket nestled inside her borrowed messenger bag. With her ears laid back against her head, Octavia gave a tried smile to nothing in particular, hoping that they could make another resting spot in the coming half-hour or so. Very, very deep down in the seclusion of her wandering, wondering mind, Octavia hoped that, in spite of the odds so heavily stacked against her, it would be so, and she could snuggle up in the blanket by the crackling fire.

She stopped.

Wait.

Water?

She turned her head, feeling the telltale sound of straining reverberating from the fragile muscles. W, seemingly not noticing the damp, wet rock they were currently travelling through, continued on his way up front. In the midst of a now interrupted conversation with L, W looked back at Octavia as she called to him.

"W? It appears we're stepping on what seem to be puddles." Casting a glance around their surroundings as W's blue eyes stared at her, she looked back and added, "And it looks like the walls are a right bit shinier than usual." She allowed herself a smirk as W, along with the rest of the Griffons, took a few glimpses to their lefts, rights, ups, and downs. W, most likely attempting to pout his lower lip out despite lacking lips in the first place, nodded his head, obviously impressed. A giggle attempted to work its way out of her month, but she retrieved a large pillow and smothered it gently until it remained as still as a rock.

A single ear—her right one, always the most reliable one—suddenly flicked up, its opposite cousin soon joining it not a moment later. Octavia perked up, hearing what sounded like rain unleashing a deadly torrent across a weathered tarp in a raging windstorm. Expecting a collection of gasps and excitement when she turned her attention back to the Griffons, she instead found utter disappointment, watching as they continued to look up their surroundings as if it were a new book. An idea popping into her head, she nodded once to herself and pressed her lips together in an O shape. Sucking in a breath of air, she forced it out and elicited a loud, whooping whistle that caught their attention, the sound echoing down the rest of the cave even as L asked, "What is it, Octavia?"

Octavia scrunched her eyes. She had almost missed the question, too enamored by her utterly impressive whistling she hadn't known she'd harbored. Shaking her head, she replied, "Am I the only one who hears that?"

W's voice came to her from the front. "Startin' to get something now." He hummed, looking back at his crew with a grin to add, "Sounds like water." A trio of whoops flew from the other Griffons, accompanying their cheery smiles and their fistbumps—Octavia assumed they were called—into the air. Even V let out an uproarious laugh as she turned to L and high-clawed her. Octavia had to be completely honest with both herself and the other individuals around her. She didn't feel as overjoyed and filled with zeal as her companions did. She hated to admit it, but she felt a little left out.

"Oh thank Sputnik!" V shouted, chuckling like she had just drank a whole gallon of cider, "Someplace we can fill our canteens." A pop sounded out as the Griffon retrieved the offending flask from her side and opened its top, taking a second to shut one eye and widen the other in a vain attempt to peer down into its shadowed interior. Grumbling, she turned her claw over and shook the bottle up and down vigorously, its figure becoming a two-second blur before V simply frowned. The whole event mirrored a foal trying to get the last of the ketchup out of her container. Octavia mimicked her expression, hers more in disgust rather than annoyance, or whatever the hay V was currently thinking.

The mare cringed, "You Griffons would really suffice with drinking cave water?" Continuing her grimace as said Griffons turned back to raise eyebrows at her, she added, "You do all know that it's not necessarily healthy to do so, don't you?"

V's reply was instant, as if she had rehearsed it for centuries. "Well Octavia," she spat, obviously hating having to address her by name, "getting fresh water is kind of hard while you're trapped inside some God-awful cave." Rolling her eyes, she blew a raspberry into the air with an almost unnoticeable mist of phlegm. "You can't always have sparkling, diamond-flavored water whenever you so desire." The moment where V had became a giggly filly after hearing the news about water five minutes ago was almost enough to make Octavia's dislike lessen even more. This moment about five seconds ago was more than enough to hinder that. And, to be upfront, Octavia had never drank diamond-flavored water before.

They were always out.

She had always wanted to try it– whatever! Not important! V was really starting to get on her nerves. That was important. Fact of the matter. Case closed. Problem solved.

Octavia sucked a long breath in through her nostrils, letting it out as she felt a small sneer cross her lips. Rolling her eyes, she suddenly realized that she was wearing something across her back. Humming a quick note—a bit of an E flat, maybe a D—she fell to her haunches and decided to make sure that her messenger bag was in perfect condition to return to its rightful owner. It surely must have scraped on a few rocks while they were stepping through that rather claustrophobic tunnel a mile back. Dust was a definite addition to the bag's exterior, just look at this place.

Wait.

Rocks. Scrapes. Dust.

Her heart soared down a canyon as she slid the nylon satchel in front of her, throwing open its flap as delicately as was possible in her panicked state. Oh Gods, she didn't... no, she couldn't give it back all battered and torn! If there was even a single tear in it, she might choke up. There was no way in hell she could let herself both do that and live it down. Sticking a foreleg inside it, Octavia felt around for what she was looking for and about collapsed when she found it. Grasping the clinking chain and coiling it around her hoof, the mare raised the locket out of the bag and almost let loose all the air stored in her lungs, seeing it completely unscathed.

She smiled, carefully placing the locket back into the confines of her blanket, deciding that even just a little bit of protection in the form of a fuzzy sheet was more than enough to satiate her ravenous worries. Closing the bag back up with a satisfying click, she slid it back around her body and made sure it was situated on her side comfortably. Feeling that it was so, and reasonably sure of her deduction, Octavia smiled to herself and looked back to the trail, expecting to see the Griffons setting up a campfire.

She had to narrow her eyes to even see L waving a beckoning claw at her from what appeared from Octavia's angle to be the beginning of a corner tunneling further into the cave. To be honest, she had given up hope that they would be ascending rather than descending about three hours ago. Galloping toward the Griffon, Octavia felt her hooves lose control as she found herself sliding across a heavy sheet of thousands of pebbles. Gritting her teeth and sticking her legs out as if she were a newbie on a frozen lake, Octavia caught her balance, stood still for a second, and looked up to find L struggling to contain her composure. Brow raised, the mare turned her head.

She had closed the gap between her and L rather quickly. That was a bit startling.

She cracked a grin as she hopped away from the solid puddle, brushing herself off coolly before trotting alongside the Griffon as they both took a hard right. The corner, spanning about two seconds in walking distance, revealed a new sight that caused Octavia's purple eyes to widen. If L's quiet, "Whoa..." was any indication, she had had a likewise response.

Past the idly standing W, V, and T was a large, rectangular slab of a room, large crops of tall stones and boulders marking inaccessible areas around a large, square, deep-looking pool of blue-green water. She really hoped that the Griffons would change their minds about drinking from that. Looking closer—ignoring the scary stalactites hanging from the ceiling—she swore she could see a few clumps of moss floating amidst it as well. Along the walls danced water-colored lights, born from the somehow self-lit pool situated in the center of the room. The far end from her and the Griffons was both a wall for the pool and the room, one in the same and providing what looked to be no other option.

Octavia glowered.

That water was easily twenty or so feet deep.

W, a coy smile on his face, turned around and clapped his talons.

"Anyone up for a quick swim?"

Sighing
View Online

Stroll

Sighing

There were times to think, and there were times to... not... think. Octavia had to focus on the road, or, well, rock/tunnel/pathway/area ahead of her and W. Though thinking was—if Octavia remembered correctly—very, very healthy for an individual and absolutely vital toward a completely sane life devoid of terrible, terrible sleeps and horrible, horrible dreams, thinking sometimes had to be halted like a group of dumb little foals in a dumb little game of Red Light Green Light. In the fashion of Red Light Green Light, however, there would always be that one unaware filly or colt who would continue to go forward; a young stallion shakily marching off toward war, but with a boring old school instead of a war-torn battlefield and (hopefully) good grades instead of (hopefully) ensured victory. They would stumble and curse their little foal curses, and then saunter off sorrowfully as if they had lost a... chess game or something. What were foals into nowadays?

Oh Gods that made her sound really old. Even though she was just the young age of twenty-five—and even though she very much knew so—Octavia suddenly grimaced, worrying about aging and life way more than she really should have at that moment. Her face screwed up as if she had smelled something strong and vaguely... fierce, Octavia shook her head and rattled her brain around, brushing a few loose strands of hair out of her eyes that she had thrown in her unreasonable thrashing once she had finished. Where was she? She seemed to be losing herself a lot lately while she was losing herself already. Think back. Smelling, feeling old, Red Light Green Light, sanity...

Thinking! Right.

There were times to think, and there were times to not think. This was most definitely a time to think.

Wait that wasn't right.

Was she trying to think or was she trying not to think? She had, honestly, already forgotten how she had started her thoughts this time around. Wait! She had thought, which meant that she was trying to! Well actually, she couldn't rightly approve that, seeing as how your brain worked no matter if you wanted it to. Thinking about nothing? Your brain is focusing on something anyway, like that candle in the distance, or those thousands of yards stretching ahead of your vision. Thinking about darkness, which is basically nothing? I mean, you're thinking about that thing, aren't you? Thinking about thinking? Now you've just gotten yourself in trouble with the paradox police. Or were you? Was thinking about thinking a paradox? Octavia imagined a stallion sitting down on a blank white space of the world, thumping his chin contemplatively as he hummed, a large, puffy cloud floating by his head that displayed certain things like trigonometry, watering flowers, eating candy bars, and ponies–

Oh Gods Octavia what in the...

She shook her head. She didn't really think she was capable of thinking up things like that.

"What was he gonna do with that spatula?"

"What?"

She turned, eyes wide and cheeks burning.

"Nothing!"

W, walking by her side, narrowed his blue eyes and looked from his left and to his right. Thankfully—fortunately—the Griffon had found a hidden pathway around the large pool half a mile or so back. Correctly deducing that Octavia was in no real mood to go skinny-dipping in a vat of rancid cave water, and incorrectly claiming that the mare by herself wouldn't be able to step a few yards without breaking a hoof or tumbling down a hole somewhere, he decided to accompany her through what they all assumed to be the last few parts of the tunnel until sweet, sweet sunlight. Of course, since dead ends were always a possibility—even though Octavia really, urgently wished that they weren't—W told V, L, and T to swim down and see if they could find a way out themselves, and if they could, to try and get help from a random passerby who would coincidentally be perusing around the ruins of a smoke-filled mountain range.

Yeah, right W...

That was just wishful thinking if Octavia ever knew it. Wishful thinking could only get you so far. She knew what dreaming about dating a prince led to, and she knew it well: sitting at the other end of a small dinner table, as far away as she could muster from... errr... Prince Blueblood himself. Gods forbid she even think about that. If she recalled correctly, and she was pretty Gods damned sure that she did, the stallion hadn't even gotten done ordering his entrée before the mare dropped her menu on the table, purposefully pushed the pompous popper's pilsner over, and walked off with a roll of her eyes and a satisfying amount of laughter in her system, which she of course dispelled not a moment later while still within the area of the restaurant. If there was anything to look for in a stallion, it was not their tendency to interrupt a mare whenever she was speaking... which didn't just extend to Octavia. Even their waiter had to stumble a bit as Blueblood—dammit—decided to shout across the room to a business associate of his.

To be honest, Octavia hadn't even really gone on that date on her own terms. There was word that the Prince was offering a free dinner after one of her concerts for one "lucky" mare... which turned to be only her, as no other mare had stepped forward even five minutes after the stallion had, for the tenth time, announced it. What was Octavia supposed to do? She was hungry, and "spotted-shrimp-scampi-on-a-platter-of-fish-eggs" sounded neither appetizing to her or right. She really wanted to have a nice talk-to-talk with the pony who thought that abducting unborn fish to use as food was a spectacular idea, and then, afterward, she could find the individual who founded the activity of milking cows to do the same.

I mean, really, who was the wise guy who first looked at a cow grazing happily in its field and said, "I think I'll drink whatever comes out of these things when I squeeze them!"? Just... ugh! If she were the wife of said wise guy, happily knitting some type of sweater or cute beanie or something, and her husband walked into the cabin with a bucket of white, bubbly liquid spouting exclamations of tastiness and awesomeness, Octavia would silently nod in agreement, knit her sweater or cute beanie (hopefully the cute beanie), and plot when next to shred poison ivy leaves onto their toilet seat. Where they lived, there was no paper, and so nopony would even notice...

She was getting off track again. She was devolving into murder plots toward fictional characters she had made up in her head, just like she usually would for her books. If there was ever a villain to root against, it was Red Eye. Octavia shook her head before she could go into further detail. Dut duhduuuuhhh, yes, thinking. Or not thinking. She couldn't quite remember.

Oh.

Dammit. She was supposed to be focusing on the road. Had she really just made up another whole monologue again–

THUNK.

Her hoof immediately flew to the freshly injured part of her scalp, beginning to rub at it vigorously before Octavia even had time to grit her teeth tightly and growl through her teeth.

"Bloody...!"

W turned his head, Candidate bouncing along his back as his body moved with him and halted. Tilting his head, he raised an eyebrow.

"You all right, Octavia?"

She moaned quietly, letting her hoof fall back to the floor with a cute little clop along the rock. Or, well, at least she thought it was cute. If W's silent nod and about-face were any indication, he thought it was moderately appealing at best. Octavia adjusted the bag around her shoulder, feeling relief as she placed it somewhere besides the position it had held for the past four hours. Gods she really hoped she didn't have to wear saddlebags for too long in the future. If one strap across her chest was enough to irritate her, she didn't want to think about two.

She looked up from her grumbling to find W smiling at her coyly.

Her nose scrunched up in response as she asked, "Have you seen something, W?"

He simply brought up a balled claw, shot it forward, and stuck its pointer into the darkness...

...wait, was that a light–

"I see light, Octavia!" He laughed. "I think we're almost there!"

The Griffon suddenly darted off at a jogging pace, which for Octavia looked to be the beginning of a pony's gallop. Shaking her head with a smile on her face, the mare sped off after him, surprisingly finding herself able to keep pace with him as he marched toward the pairs salvation. Well, to be completely honest, Octavia couldn't blame him. Really, she had had enough of tunnels for a lifetime and a half. If she ever stepped hoof into the threshold of a dark, dank underground again in her slowly dwindling days of living, it would be far too early. Faaar too early indeed.

Her head collided with something hard and feathery. Stumbling backward as her loopy eyes spun on stars, Octavia groaned a disgusting note before blinking rapidly, staring at the backside of W's heavy armor plating as he stood still and silent. His tail, swishing idly, smacked Octavia on the side of her head. Glaring, Octavia sidestepped the Griffon and walked around his side, intending on looking at what had stopped his manic run. She barely took a step forward before realizing what the light they had seen was.

Nestled inside a large, volcano-like protrusion in the ground before them glimmered a gathering of bright blue, yellow, and pink jewels. Their exteriors twinkled at them like stars in the night sky, beckoning them closer and closer until they were a hair's breadth from the awe-inspiring collection.

"Oh Sputnik..."

"Gods forbid..."

Whining
View Online

Stroll

Whining

Octavia remembered a dreary, cloudy, positively disgusting day from long, long ago, when she was but a young filly in the middle years of grade school. The day, as long as it seemed but as short as it was to her budding life, had been rather horrible to be honest. To start it off, she had been woken up in her bed earlier than was usual for a school day by an otherwise adorable Buddy's slobbery tongue, which fussed up her mane and caused her to accidentally tumble to the floor on something hard. Besides the fact that she had had a horrifying nightmare that she'd rather not dwell on the night before, tumbling onto the fragile, cardboard container of midnight fruit snacks she always kept by the foot of her bed definitely eased her into what was already expected to be a pretty not-great day.

Grumbling, out of both pain and annoyance, little Octavia had tried to make an effort to at least make her mane just a little bit presentable before stepping out of the room with a cute huff, her loving Buddy following close behind. Her morning rituals would've been mostly unaltered were it not for the unfortunate lack of toothpaste in the bathroom, the bathroom's cupboard, the bathroom's cabinet, the pantry outside the bathroom, and the linen closet across the bathroom. Apparently they were all out of Ridge toothpaste, and the half-snoozing stallion still lying on his comfy, springy bed sleepily told his daughter he'd go out and buy more that day.

So... great, the young filly had thought, everything was going swimmingly already. Octavia had then trotted over to the kitchen table, eaten an admittedly delightful meal of cinnamon oatmeal with strawberries, and called for her mother that it was time to walk to her school. School days meant that her mother was heading off to work. And school days usually meant that her mother would be waiting for her to walk with her to school, not the other way around like it happened to be at that moment. And so, with her bumbling younger brother by her side and a trio of dogs tumbling about rambunctiously, little Octavia sat next to her equally little brown saddlebags for a bit over ten grueling minutes, waiting for her mother to leave the bathroom so she could get to school, which, if she remembered correctly a whole fifteen years later, she was thirteen minutes late for. Her mother, half-tired, hadn't even given her a hug before she trotted off.

Waking up earlier than usual after a bout of nightmares. Having to brush her teeth with water for a day. Waiting for her mother. Being already late for school. Not even getting a hug. Little Octavia had most likely sighed—present day Octavia couldn't remember—not even bothering to watch her parent leave as she turned tail and headed inside, immediately bumping into the side of an obviously sixth-grade stallion two years older than her but five less in intelligence who took one glance at her and growled before heading off. He had involuntarily flung spit on her mane with the nonverbal shout, but Octavia didn't want to try to wipe it away in fear of messing up her mane.

She had to look presentable, imposing, for today was supposed to be a big day for her. Present day, twenty-five year old Octavia smiled nostalgically at the reminiscence. That horrible day was supposed to be the day she stood up to those mean foals on the playground, the ones who played the dumb game with the schoolhouse's dumb red wall and the dumb, too-bright green tennis ball. No seriously she had actually called it that. She really enjoyed the word dumb as a filly. She giggled, some internal part of her sputtering for life once more amidst the sea of dust and cobwebs.

Okay. Where was she? Oh yes. The wall-ball professionals, as they had called themselves. That horrible, horrible day in the fourth grade was the day she would yell at them, curse at them, make them look like the fools they constantly made themselves out to be. She would do so at lunch, when all the young fillies and colts headed out into the sun to play, frolic, and what-have-you. The world, already crummy for that specifically important day, hated her state of living like the present-day trains that haunted her travels, and so her indoor classes that had led up to that fateful encounter at lunch were both dull and insulting.

She'd rather not go into it to be honest. To sum it up, staples and pencils weren't things to be trifled with, and report cards were horrifyingly stressful things for young ponies. Gods if she were the Queen of some civilization somewhere, she'd ban report cards at a moment's notice. What kind of sick pony would just scribble down letters on a piece of paper that needed to be signed and then give it to ponies who so much as ignored other sheets of paper regarding matters they already knew how to do? She didn't envy grade school teachers, no, she felt oddly sorry for them.

The time for lunch came quickly. The young filly was so caught up in her sour mood that she almost missed the bell that signified recess. Thanks to the resounding call and the gentle slapping of a ruler against her desk from her teacher, she had scrambled outside, the spring air greeting her furiously as she stepped into the now sunny day. She wasted no time in walking toward the professionals, ignoring the calls and screams of her overjoyed friends on their swing sets and slides. She stepped onto a small selection of concrete, walked past a young colt with his hooves against his cheeks sitting on the sidelines, and strode up to those boorish ponies playing their make-believe game.

She didn't exactly recall all that she had said to be honest. She could only remember one line, one single, solitary sentence she had, as a ten year-old filly, yelled in broad daylight.

"If you lot continue your stupid sport you're all partaking in, I'll make sure that it's a closed casket."

It made absolutely no sense. It was just a simple combination of cliche one-liners she had heard countless times in old action flicks her father constantly watched. It shouldn't have—assuredly not—but it had worked like a charm. A charm that honestly shouldn't have been. She had walked away with a disgusted frown on her face that she really wasn't used to having, the distinct sound of a ball bouncing against pavement and the telltale noise of fleeing colts telling her all she needed to know about her result. There was no real direction she was heading after completing her intended goal, and so she found herself trotting toward a...

She paused.

A small smile crept onto her lips.

...trotting toward a cute, shy colt a few months older than her.

They were friends.

She coughed, a sad expression suddenly taking over her face. She didn't want to dwell on that. Where was she? Yes, the horrors of that day. Blah blah blah, she had headed home, annoyed beyond belief. The sunny day made way for clouds, rain, and puddles galore. It was fantastic. Fun. She splish-splashed in the water and raised such a ruckus that her mother found herself groaning in disbelief once the young filly had stepped across the threshold of the front door, covered in mud and frowning as heavily as a stationary guard in the wind. Yeah. She had lied about that fun part. And the puddles? She had tripped.

Pretty darn hard if she remembered.

Roots were also a hater of her state of living. Such pathetic things. They were attached to motionless objects for their entire lives, there was nothing for them to hate about her.

She shook her head.

Oh yeah her story. The one she had been telling, another fine addition to her rather worrying collection of stories she had recently thought back to. Dut duh duuuuh, hmm, uh...

Where was she going with this again?

Her eyes widened.

Something called to her from far away in the distance. No, scratch that. It was right next to her. Behind her. In front. To her left. Above her ear. Inside her. Nestled in her heart.

A low noise previously unnoticed by her brain began to increase in volume.

Wait–

"Octavia?"

She turned her head, the stirring uproar instantly disappearing. She batted her eyelashes, looking from her left and to her right absent-mindedly.

"Yes?" She hoped she had asked calmly.

W, L, V, and T stood around her, presumably partaking in an eyebrow raising contest with one another.

"We've got the jewels," W spoke, rustling his bag. Octavia faced forward, finding the small protrusion in the ground completely devoid of said jewels. Had she really been out of it for that long?

...

Was "being out of it" even the proper term...?

"And," L said, a grin on her beak, "we know the way out."

The mare stopped.

Oh.

Cool.

Crying
View Online

Stroll

Crying

There were many, many well-ensuring things that Octavia could point to in her childhood that may have led her to believe in the virtue and celebration of a life full of vast riches and incredible wealth. There were numerous newspaper clippings about brand-new entrepreneurs and spectacular celebrities staking massive claims and throwing huge parties, or buying humongous bath tubs of gold with platinum shower heads, or taking extravagant vacations to Oslo with their fifteen coworkers who couldn't give a rat's speckled arse about how expensive their food is or how wide their finely-carved bed's oak frame is. There were talks on her house's bespoke TV with its large static frequency and unreliable volume button about how happy and wondrous being rich and famous was, where you could buy whatever you wanted and enjoy the finer luxuries in the Equestrian life. Actresses buying Olympic swimming pools for their bouncing children, sports stars taking their marefriends to five-star restaurants in Prance, movie directors throwing celebrations filled with booze and seared Ahi tuna on small toothpicks Earth Ponies like her couldn't possibly use without popping a multitude of blood vessels in sheer frustration.

To her, and, well, about every other little filly and colt who ever lived, being rich and famous was the sole thing in life to both strive for, and die for. The only thing worth doing once you were fresh out of high school, with farewells to your parents and hello's to elsewhere. You couldn't possibly change the world stuck inside your hometown where the front headline on the newspaper would be the nice old mare not showing up to wave at ponies on the street one Monday. The bright lights of Manehattan, or the beaches of Los Pegasus. They called to ponies, young and naïve, beckoning them with inviting smiles and delicate hoof waving. Everypony when they were older wished—and wanted—to be actresses, or sports stars, or movie directors with their dumb toothpick tunas. Looking back on it now, Octavia couldn't necessarily blame them. Who wouldn't want to have lots of money they could use for whatever purpose they desired? Even the most charitable of ponies wanted money just so they could give it away. Hay, maybe they wouldn't even use it for their own betterment. They might use it to get their own child into a nice college, or they might invest it into helping their parents get taken care of in their ripening old ages. There were ponies who could use it to adopt a foster child abandoned by horrible parents, or ponies who would spend their waking hours giving up their homes as a nice, warm shelter for neglected pets, namely dogs.

There were also bad ways to spend money. Stupid ways. Idiotic, even.

Octavia wasn't the only one from her childhood who had grown up to be rich and famous.

There was no way to get around it. No real way to sidestep the ugly, very real truth about it all.

She hadn't learned it when she first found herself at the Music Academy. She hadn't seen it when she first stepped hoof into her dorm, her old saddlebags falling tiredly to the floor in tandem with she. She hadn't smelled it when she had eaten her first meal there, an admittedly nice tray of green beans and salad. She hadn't heard it when she first flew into her classroom for the day, silently thanking the Gods above as the school's bell dinged above her head. She hadn't touched it when she first felt her new double bass, admiring its sleek finish and polished scroll. She certainly hadn't tasted it when she had fallen to the vinyl tile floor, courtesy of the local group of jerkass ponies thinking themselves higher than the rest. She certainly hadn't inwardly felt it when she showed up the next day before class started to loosen their strings and discard their bows.

There was a day, not too long ago, that Octavia remembered. There was nothing special about it; it had been a usual day at the concert hall, with a warm sun peeking in from the windows and a bright blue sky reminding her the wonders of simply being alive. The Symphony had practiced seven songs that day in preparation for the coming concert taking place a little over two months from then. As usual, jokes were cracked between the frequent few, the conductor snapped a few batons out of excitement, and Octavia—along with the rest of the crew—felt neither tired nor invigorated. She had left with the concert hall with the promise of a relaxing rest of the day doing nothing but eating ice cream and drinking wine. She, at the time, was living in a fairly nice apartment complex in Canterlot just down the street from an exceptional winery. Octavia had taken a seat in the thankfully empty carriage for the night and ridden it all the way back home. She had walked up the staircase separating the two blocks with nothing but hunger and thirst on her mind. Her key had been shoved into the keyhole and turned without a moment's notice.

Octavia had walked over to her kitchen, her purple eyes glazing over as they focused on nothing in particular. Something stopped her dead in her tracks. Maybe it was a feeling, or a sense of being, but Octavia had not entered her kitchen that night. She found herself stepping toward the one window in her house that didn't present her the side of another house. This window was special. This window was the reason that the price on it was so unreasonably high for an already pricey apartment complex. This window was the direct logic behind her moving of the couch months prior. This window held it all.

Octavia had slowly trot toward this window, her eyes not yielding to the bright light staring at her from the outside. She stood for a brief second once she had reached it, and then she had thrown her forelegs atop the railing she had custom installed for the very purpose. The brilliant bubinga reminded her of its being as the mare gave it a thoughtless look. The curtains hanging by the sides of the window fluttered their mulberry selves to her from the air leaking in from her still-open front door. Octavia had regarded the furniture behind her, deep gray with mahogany posts shimmering at her from the chandelier hanging above them. Her kitchen, stocked to the brim with Pule cheese, Domain de la Romane-ee wine, and leftover Grape Terrace boxes, was forgotten. The glow of her lights seemed to have faded away. Her hooves had shaken on the railing ever so noticeably.

There were no sounds. Octavia's tuned, long-practiced ears had heard nothing at that moment. The streets outside were quiet. The complex seemed dead, like a symphony of ponies six feet under.

The mare had simply turned her head, back to the bleeding sunset and distant forests lovingly dancing at her from countries away.

That was when she knew.

There was no up side to being rich and famous. No nice thing to find, or even glance at. Nothing to grasp with your hoof. All those cheap little things that were mercilessly gored into her growing brain by gossiping tabloids and ink-ridden newspapers and deafening TVs and junk radios were nothing but crude lies used by celebrities and the common populace to... infect more innocent ponies with their secretly plagued stories of success and welcome. Stories that would get them off their dreams of college and education and on empty beliefs that would bring them to all courses of the world only to give them harrowing disappointment and familial failure. No pony right in their mind would want to see the solemn shaking of their parents' heads. They wanted to see nodding, cheering, hugging even, from the ponies who loved them most. They wanted to hear applause as they witnessed their names in bright, shining lights from skyscrapers. They wanted to be stopped by ponies on the street as they walked to the deli, ones who would ask for autographs or pose for group pictures. They wanted to see the fruits of their long, difficult labor blossom into golden crops, flavorful beyond belief and yielding promises so wonderful that even Celestia herself would marvel.

They wanted to be known as great.

They wanted to be known.

She wanted to be known. That's why she had went to college, wasn't it? That's why she had spent long nights studying up on the histories of Neightoven and Mozart, wasn't it? Octavia wanted to be known. She wanted to see her name in bright, shining lights, she wanted to sign autographs and pose for group pictures, she wanted to see her golden fruits of labor. Octavia Philharmonica, Lead Bassist of the Canterlot Symphony. The first Earth Pony since Chopin to "make a name" for herself in the wide world of the music industry, where Unicorns with their glowing magic and Pegasi with their feathery wings reigned supreme. Gripping bows, plucking strings, pressing valves, holding figures. Simpler things for others of her species, but less so for others of her race.

Why was she still doing it all?

The thought came to her out-of-the-blue, almost like the single thought that had started this whole session.

A voice soon did the same, rousing her from her thoughts.

"Octavia, are you okay?"

A sniffle escaped her nose, but she answered anyway.

"Yes," she said. Not necessarily, she thought.

The scent of rock and smoke began to fill her nostrils once again, forcing her to swear that the snot she had not two seconds ago dispelled would be a better alternative.

"We're almost there. Just a little further," called L, a cocky look on her face.

Where was she again?

"You looked pretty zoned-out back there, Octavia. Thought we'd had a dead pony walking for a few minutes," W added, still pulling the lead. "Then again, you were still walking, so we thought we might as well leave you be. And hey!" He suddenly whooped, smiling at the approaching beams of light lying in the way of their trail many a meter away. "Sure helped you, didn't it? You were out of it long enough for us to about make it all the way to the exit!"

"Yeah," came V's voice, prompting a small sneer on Octavia's face, "you didn't have ta listen to another one of W's shitty war stories." She turned the mare's way, a pair of flat lips (was that right?) pressing against her beak. "Looks like you lucked out." The Griffon gave a roll of her eyes as W replied back with a choked bout of laughter.

"Shitty? Is that right?"

"It's the same one every time!" V exclaimed, her voice echoing dangerously through the cave's admittedly claustrophobic confines. Octavia thanked her lucky stars that she wasn't Roseluck. That mare had had it bad. "You go to Sergeant Yeller, he shoos you to your post, you see something in the distance, think it's an enemy and rush after it—might I add abandoning your Sputnik-damned post—and then find yourself caught in a minefield!"

Whoa. Octavia felt a giddy smile cross her face, which suddenly dipped and flitted as she cursed inwardly. Had she really missed all that?

"Uh uh uh," W tutted, "you forgot one important part though!"

A sigh. Octavia wasn't sure if it had come from V, L, or even herself.

A growl now. Definitely from V. "Yeah yeah," she began, obviously displeased with her remembrance, "you actually saw something and it turned out to be a Changeling spy disguised as Yeller."

"And then what did I do?" It was Octavia's turn to roll her eyes. He was really enjoying himself.

"You brought him over back to base, playing along with his little game until you both stepped into the Comm Center."

"And then," L spoke, "you beat the living hell out of the Changeling while everyone screamed at you, thinking he was the actual Sergeant. When the real Yeller actually walked in, he smirked, lit his cigar or whatever, yadda yadda yadda, you got promoted, he gave the Changeling a claw to its gut as well, now you're stuck with us and Octavia in a dingy cave in the middle of nowhere!" The mare turned her head just in time to find L hovering in the air, aided by her fluttering wings as she waved jazz claws by the sides of her face. "Hurray!"

It was a very sarcastic hurray.

All turned toward T, awaiting his piece. He simply regarded them with a silent look and a cocked eyebrow.

"If you haven't noticed, L, we're almost out of here," W claimed, "which means you won't be able to hold that cave comment against me much longer. I'm not the one who said to come in here in the first place."

Dead silence. Only the thumping of paws, the clicking of claws, and the clopping of hooves remained.

"What?!" L shouted.

"But you totally were though!" V swore, suddenly halting and about-facing to their leader.

"..."

"Hell, you're the one who jinxed that damn rock blocking the entrance in the first place!"

"..."

"And you're the one who made me swim in freezing water just for V to spritz herself right next to me!" L cried, shooting a nasty glare at the Griffon in question. V's only response, naturally, was a paw clamping around her other arm and going up with it. Was she trying to roll up non-existent sleeves– oh now Octavia could see the black clothing underneath the armor. Never mind. The mare looked at T. He scrunched his beak and looked away, pretending to not exist as V did the same as her, expecting denial from him.

"...was I?"

"Yes!"

"Yeah!"

"You honestly were, I'm afraid," Octavia chimed in, eliciting a few nods from the female Griffons on either side of her. She suddenly realized that they weren't walking toward the exit anymore. This was a problem. T seemed to notice this as well, but proved to be no help in furthering the argument. He instead found a nice rock and leaned against it with a smile. Octavia scoffed. She wished she could do that.

"Could we... possibly postpone this conversation–"

W scratched his head. It was a deafeningly loud, very disgusting sounding noise, like a fork against one's rump. Wait what was V doing oh Gods there it is–

"Can we go, please?" L asked, beginning to walk away. "Not sure about the rest of you," she continued, fanning a paw their way, "but I'm not a big fan of staying inside this cave 'til next century once you two're done."

"No. I wanna hear her say it."

"You what?"

W lifted his chin up, staring the younger Griffon down with a steely gaze. "I wanna hear you say it."

V scrunched her eyes, turning her head to look at him from the left side of her corneas. She let her beak slack open for a while, keeping it up even after she asked again, "You what?"

"Valkyrie..."

Octavia's eyes widened. As did L's. And T's. And, apparently, Valkyrie's.

"You bastard. You said my name!"

"Could've just denied it," W replied coldly, eyes slowly landing on Octavia before going back. "Now she knows."

"She doesn't–"

"What's V's name, Octavia?"

The mare stopped.

W's eyebrows ascended from his unmoving position in front of the wide-eyed Valkyrie.

Octavia exchanged looks with Valkyrie. They copied each others expression.

The mare looked back up to W.

"Uh..."

"It's Valkyrie," he corrected.

Octavia blinked.

"Oh is–"

"What's her name, Octavia?"

"Valkyrie."

"There ya go." W rustled V's head feathers with a bone-crushingly violent noogie, then patted it as he began to walk off past L. "Forgot what I wanted a second ago," he said, a nasally chuckle escaping him, "let's keep going, shall we?"

Thank Gods.

V– excuse her, Valkyrie grumbled vengeful nothings to herself as she brushed the long white feathers out of her eyes. Walking past her, Octavia caught up with L and opened her mouth to speak.

"Yeah don't screw with W," L unknowingly interrupted, "he'll break any rule just to get back at you." The Griffon looked down at Octavia. "Bringer of Justice's what they called him back home. His real name's Glory in Griffon tongue, so I guess it makes sense."

Octavia raised a brow.

There was an immediate question on her mind, and so she spoke it as such.

"What, do tell, does Valkyrie mean in Griffon tongue?"

L shrugged.

"Chooser of the Slain."

She walked away as Octavia all but spat out her bottom lip in a reasonably over-dramatic frown, stopping dead in her tracks.

"Oh."

Dying
View Online

Stroll

Dying

There weren't many things in Octavia's orchestrated life that scared her more than falling. Though there were many different versions that defined the term "falling"—namely skill-wise, emotion-wise, and sense-wise—there reigned only one that could make her physically, dangerously shake in response. She had faced moments where the prior named three were stirred like a strange witch concoction, their container steaming hot and overcooking them like the sun against a sidewalk egg yolk. There was the time when she was auditioning for First Chair in the Academy, having not had much time to study up on the sheet of music she had been assigned by the class' teacher days before. She had otherwise aced it, a tasteless pouring of sweat dripping down her face as the maestro herself gave her a standing ovation. There was the time against the window, looking over her expensive luxuries and feeling lonelier than she ever had in her life. She still woke up the next day and went to practice at the concert hall, pretending that nothing had happened the previous night. There was the time when she had suddenly gone deaf in the middle of practice, and had to rely solely on both her remembrance of the piece she was playing and exactly how her hooves flew across the neck of her beautiful double bass. After her hearing had returned with the method of a few quick head tosses, she was greeted with applause and smirks, citing it as one of her best performances yet.

Did that go under skill-wise? Now that she thought of it, it doubled as both– no, it couldn't. In fact, it was more of a lack-of-sense-wise experience. So she had two skill-wise experiences in her life, and no legitimate sense-wise one to showcase. She thought for a second and reached out to the memory part of her brain—the hippocampus if she was correct—in order to find an instance of said event. There was second grade when she had found a cat in the street by her house and then realized she had had allergies, but that was something she didn't really enjoy discussing. She could bring up the time that Buddy brought home a dead pigeon and propped it on her house's patio, stinking up the whole place to the point where she debated buying a gas mask at the nearby flea market to survive the ordeal. She didn't necessarily want to ruin her beloved dog's cute status, so that was a no. Maybe the thing with the plunger...?

No, that wouldn't do either.

Where–

Falling. That's right. Gods she really got off track that time. If she counted the times she'd done so in the past few days, how many hooves would she need? She knew for sure that she'd have to make use of all four that she, presumably, still had on her. Five, maybe? Six? Was she doing it again?

Falling.

She couldn't say it was her worst fear, but it most definitely stood above the high mark of hers labeled The Gods Have Forsaken Me. Falling, in the literal sense. From a staircase. From a supermarket. From a skyscraper. From a cloud. From thousands of miles in the sky. She never understood how Pegasi could handle such a thing; being up there in the big blue sky, always in danger of suddenly plummeting to the unforgiving ground below at the (possibly) literal drop of the hat, she was sure she'd most likely end up puking about every two seconds of engaging in the action. She was always immensely proud to be an Earth Pony, citing her accomplishments and popularity as direct results of her being so, and this was one very perfect exemplar of why. It surely wasn't a rare occurrence to hear of young Pegasi on their first flight ending up in the hospital—as horrible and terrifying as it was—but it was still enough to scare her anyway. She didn't exactly have Basophobia, but if anything she was very close to it. She could handle those honestly breathtaking glass elevators perched on the sides of tall towers, and she could handle looking out the window of her second-story apartment complex back in Canterlot. If there was something that could surely stop her from teetering over the edge and diving to the solid water of concrete or dirt, Octavia was fine.

But right here, right now?

She was glad to have two pairs of tactful, intelligent griffons watching her back every step of the way. Their impressively quick reflexes, as she had personally bore witness to, were also very helpful.

Stepping back from the now very obvious cliff-face, Octavia let her eyes fall tightly shut, a reasonably rocky sigh escaping her open mouth. As she wiped her eyelids and rubbed at them absent-mindedly, she turned her head to her left to find L smirking at her in a last-ditch effort to suppress the giggle in her throat. The griffon opened her beak to speak something, then closed it shut and bit on the bottom half, sheepishly looking away before glancing back and saying something she obviously thought kinder.

"Nice."

Octavia gave her a hard glare, grimacing as she gave the edge of the rock one last regard, stepped even further away, and adjusted the messenger bag still clinging to her body. The low wind whistled past her from the canyon below.

To sum up the last few minutes of her life—aside from her usual wandering thoughts—Octavia and the griffons had finally escaped the cave inside the Smokey Mountains. A lovely welcoming party of blinding sunlight had greeted the mare first, leading her to the end of the rock face as she seethed and covered her eyes with a single hoof. The griffons, smarter than she, had shielded their sights before stepping out, and were thus able to save their musical companion from falling to her doom. She couldn't lie to herself, though. Even if she had fallen, they surely would have unfurled their magnificent wings and dove after her before she hit the dirt, right? They wouldn't just let her... right?

She now realized that her heart had stopped, and was now trying its hardest to pump blood at the usual pace. Even her organs hated slacking on the job. Zacherle, if there wasn't anything in the entire world that was any more miserable...

Octavia heard movement from behind her, prompting a quick turn-around all-too rehearsed of her's. Valkyrie, seemingly wanting the lead for once, was already beginning to walk off in a rush. Her scalp feathers bounced and jostled in tandem with the Magicarm holstered inside the holster on her heavily armored back. Hearing nothing behind her, the griffon about-faced and cocked a brow at the narrowed eyes and small frowns sent her way. She rolled her eyes, groaning all the while as her raspy voice called, "What? We gotta keep moving, don't we?"

"You could at least wait a while," W replied, his frown deepening each second he held it, "Octavia about took the high dive a second ago."

Valkyrie's eyes narrowed. They darted to her right, toward the cliff, and then back to W. "So?"

Her answer took the form of W simply unveiling his left wing, its primaries and secondaries ruffled and tried. Folding it back to his side, he brought up a claw and promptly stabbed it at Octavia, who about jumped at the unexpected contact. Feeling the sharp talon press against her side, she swallowed a peculiar lump down her throat and gave out a breath when the claw returned to its rightful place in the dirt.

"Does it look like she can fly, Valkyrie?"

"Well, obviously no," the griffon responded, "but she's no worse for wear."

Octavia looked to her right. W was studying her for a brief second until he asked softly, "Are you okay?"

She nodded, a well-accepted smile appearing on her lips. "Yes, thank you."

He returned the gesture with a simple, "Okay then," and then faced his right to address the other members of his party, "I guess we're good to go. I'll take point, but be on the lookout." Walking up to and stepping past Valkyrie, he added gruffly, "No telling if those crazy-ass ponies down below'll come after us if we stay."

Crazy ponies? Octavia, to the chagrin of her being, craned her neck to peer down into the canyon to her immediate left. A glower on her face, she pressed her lips against her cheeks and tilted her head, calling after W as she began to trot alongside L and T. "What ponies?"

"Hooffields and McColts," L replied for him, bumping Octavia with her elbow, "buncha hobo ponies fighting over land or something. They apparently haven't gotten bored, since they've been bumping heads for the past hundred years over it."

"Did we ever actually look into the real reason back in Hurrying?" Valkyrie asked as she glanced at her friend, not yelling, cursing, or screaming at someone for the first time in her life. "Pretty sure we found a book about it at the library there."

"Yeah but checking it out was like five bits, that was way too steep."

"Hey T!" Valkyrie called, chuckling. "You ever get the name of that librarian?"

Octavia looked his way to see the normally neutral look on his face fall flat. He turned to Valkyrie slowly. Not a word came out of his mouth.

She and L gave an uproarious howl of laughter, its distinctively female sound reverberating through the canyon as they continued their walk. Their jagged pathway jutted out from the side of the mountain, running a perfect trace that mirrored each and every shape and crevice along the wall to their right. Though she could only see the trail wrapping around the corner of progress a little ways downward, she knew deep down that either a rocky slide or a quick flight was in her future.

Wait. Rocky... oh Gods she just noticed the pun she had made earlier.

A long, drawn-out sigh roused her from her approaching head-thumping. "Ahh... she was pretty hot though, wasn't she, T?"

"Shut up," was his low reply.

Not entirely silent, Octavia saw. Good to know. Strong, silent type was a cliche as it was, but strong, quiet type? She'd never seen that in her fiction books before. Then again, she'd never read anything about a lone mare walking around with four griffons either. Her eyes widened. Had she just made up the idea for a story? Could she try honing her skills and crack out a bestseller?! Could Octavia Philharmonica be well known as both a bass player and an author?! The idea excited her. Oh, she couldn't wait to get home now!

She involuntarily wiped her forehead, discarding the collection of sweat that had begun pouring down it. She regarded the sky for a hot second... dammit... and winced at the bright sunlight peeking in through the heavy cloud layer below it. Its rays stretched out, as if trying to escape its blank white prison to help bring heat to all in need of it. Octavia sure as hay didn't count as one. If anything, the sun could go buck itself. If it was gonna continue its scalding tirade on her, it might as well just leave.

Actually, when she thought about it, she was the one who would be leaving, wouldn't she?

Hopefully, at the very least. Rocky slide or quick griffon flight.

As fun as the former would be, she had to listen to both her gut feeling and nagging butt and insist on the latter. Looking back at the still giggling Valkyrie and L, the frowning T, and the head-shaking W in the front, Octavia had to admit...

...she'd be in pretty good claws.

In
View Online

Stroll

Opening her eyes was being a bit of a nuisance to her at the current moment. With her back pressed against what she assumed to be an impressively comfy collection of padding and with an uncomfortably large blanket draped over her body like some kind of bathrobe, Octavia screwed up her gray face, scrunched up her nose, prayed that nopony was around to see the admittedly horrifyingly grotesque wrinkles on her muzzle, and raised her eyebrows so high into the sky she swore she would lose them in the cosmos forever. Her eyelids flew open, letting in the torrent of flooding rainwater that was the horrible sunlight peeking in through the curtains sitting idly in front of her current point of view.

She cringed instantly, a hoof swiftly flinging itself upward to cover her now open purple irises. Unintentionally thwacking herself in the forehead as she did so, Octavia sucked on her teeth and used her other available hoof to rub at the now growing lump forming next to where her horn would be if her parent's genes had intertwined in such an opposite way that their offspring—only one, more specifically her—would turn out as a Unicorn, with their bright magical auras and their gold jewel-encrusted glasses propped atop their delicate little noses. Not that she would've rather been a Unicorn, gracious no. She was, to be completely honest to everything that both beheld her and maintained her, immensely proud to be an Earth Pony. In fact, if she weren't, she was absolutely sure that she wouldn't be in the position she was currently in.

That brought up the question again.

Where was she?

She lowered the rather useful appendage, intent on letting it sink to the floor beneath her until she realized that it was simply content to rest on... something. She didn't realize what it was exactly, but inwardly noted that it was something incredibly soft. And kinda bouncy, now that she prodded her hoof against it. Blinking away the pretty little colors floating at the sides of her peripherals, Octavia shook her head and felt her left ear flop against her head, joining its cousin that currently found itself pressed against a... pillow?

Octavia stopped.

Her eyes widened as she sat up, the low creaking of bed springs echoing across the walls surrounding her. Frowning, she cocked an eyebrow toward the ceiling fan lazily spinning above her head and craned her neck to her right, eliciting a disgusting series of pops and cracks that would have certainly assured any outside viewer that the mare was dead on the spot. Her dark gray mane fell onto the pillow case as she examined it almost thoughtfully, with enough silence to rival any class during testing day. She glared at nothing. She always hated testing day. Returning back to her prior action, Octavia scrunched up her nose and gave the pillow a nice punch. The middle of the feathered accessory sank, dividing its figure into two neat halves until it slowly rose once again.

That was her pillow.

She shook her head again, this time facing the blanket that plagued her every living, sleeping night. With its soft black form that she inwardly despised and its artistically woven pattern that she'd once or twice hummed at, she was able to confirm yet another piece of her bed from back home. She threw the covers off her body, then swung around and lightly dropped to if she were correct—yep—her carpet in her room. Groaning to herself, Octavia looked out her window and shied away, the yellow light of the sun and the bright white clouds almost beckoning her to come outside for once and stop being such a little baby.

She closed the curtains without a word, only a small frown on her lips and a pair of now heavy bags nestled under her strugglingly wide eyes. Prodding her tongue against the inside of her cheek, she turned and prepared to make her bed—the usual start to her morning ritual before she went off to make her usual morning coffee. The welcomed smell of Equestria Black Coffee wafted into her imaginary nostrils with the bite of a cute dog and the bark of an oak tree. The blissful expression on her face shifted to one of dismissal. Perhaps she could pour something else into her Cigare Brûlé mug, with its past memories of horrid rehearsal days and fuddled double bass notes. Maybe Donut Joe's coffee? The ones she'd gotten at the shop the last time she'd been there, she immediately specified to herself. She hadn't had a good chance to dive into those bags of them since she'd bought them. When almost ninety-percent of your days was spent...

...she'd said this already. No reason to continue.

Octavia tossed the last corner of her bedsheet across her bed and smiled, a silent congratulatory celebration ringing way back in her mind somewhere with pats on her tired back and those cute little party things that rolled out when you blew into them. Gods she'd loved those things as a kid. Definitely better than testing day; that was for sure.

Her eyes became pinpricks, and her erect ears fell flat and snuggled against the sides of her head.

Coffee. Her bed.

She turned her head to the left. Her collection of musical posters, the door to her living room, and her hat drawer waited patiently for her interaction with their beings. Now to the right. She found her polished double bass, her bespoke bow, and her stand filled with folders upon folders of music, their figures practically beaming in the sunlight. Lifting a hoof up, she stared in silence at her boring, gray carpet.

Oh Gods she was home.

No no no wait what?

Octavia fell to her haunches, her two front hooves beginning to dance wildly across her entire body like shadows from a candlelight. Maybe if she hit herself hard enough she'd wake up, this had to be a dream, there was no presently possible way in the whole wide world of Equestria that could even come close to explaining where she currently sat, inside her humble abode with her double bass and her music and her lovely selection of hats, and oh Gods her oven she had to check that at some point there was no possible way it was still–

"Octavia."

Octavia sat up, forelegs flailing as she let out a short yelp.

L shrank back wordlessly, her neck retracting her head as far away as was possible from the griffon's position in front of Octavia. A huge frown was plastered on her gold beak, her brown eyes showing signs of either genuine, urine-drizzling fear or simple unpreparedness in trying to—presumably—wake up the dumb little gray mare easily smaller than her and with no real combat experience aside from immature fighting words and silent, string-tuning retribution, so as to wake her up and get her ready to begin the trek toward Tall Tale. L, slowly regaining her composure that she most certainly hadn't actually lost in the first place, chuckled to herself and scratched at her exposed neck with a talon. Octavia cringed, mostly due to the sunlight currently massacring her sight from behind its curtain of snow white clouds. Gods, what time was it?

The mare leaned over to her right, finding the other three griffons sitting around a blazing campfire. A dirtied silver pot, its lid spoiled with remnants of old food and spoiled dreams, hung by its handle from a long stick hovering over the flame. A pair of Y-shaped branches were stuck into the ground as support, like a wingmare helping you get in with that one colt on the hoofball team. She had to get free food at the cafe somehow. T, the only one tending to said cooking pot, was also the only one who showed no real reaction toward Octavia's admittedly embarrassing rousing, though that was most likely due to the fact that if no one looked after it, it would simply burn. Meanwhile, W gave her a crooked smile and a quiet nod from his seat on the grass, Candidate in his claws.

Valkyrie took the time to be a jackass, and laughed as loudly as she possibly could.

Good morning to you too, dodo.

Octavia rubbed the back of her neck mindlessly, a neutral look on her face as she realized where she actually was.

With bugs buzzing in her ears, tall grass pricking at her legs, and the smell of campfire food wafting into the air with the strength of the Wonderbolts' locker room, Octavia recalled the rocky cliffside, the slow descent into vast greenery, and the almost six-mile hike that led to where she now woke up from a long, nice sleep accompanied by a long, nice dream. A dream that she wished she could go back to, for Celestia's sake did they have to get up this early? Mind her, her usual wake-up time for practice or a rehearsal was around seven o' clock—a sharp seven o' clock at that—but it most certainly wasn't anywhere near six right now!

The five of them sat inside a small clearing—gosh, the griffons seemed to love those—with bountiful oak trees circling them in a sloppy ellipse. A few clouds drifted in the blue sky, wispy and incomplete as if Celestia had torn up little cotton balls from her medicine cabinet and flung them into her beloved azure realm. To the right, Octavia could still see the tops of the cursed Smokey Mountains in all their snow-capped horror. And to her left, if her craning her neck was to be rewarded enough, the faintest sight of Tall Tale's skyscrapers could be seen, trying their hardest to be noticed by the gray mare who was now trying really hard to not do so. She was probably hallucinating. There was no way she would escape that damned cave.

She frowned.

She'd been dreaming about coffee as well, earlier. Her stomach growled, and the bitter taste of the leftover powder found its way onto her tongue. Gods she missed coffee...

"You want some coffee?"

Shut up.

Octavia's eyes lit up. Like a hawk, she looked back over to L and gasped at the mug in her claws. How had she not noticed that before?

Steam rose from inside the godly white cup. Octavia swore she felt a bead of sweat roll down her forehead.

Breathlessly, she asked, "Are you certain?"

L simply nodded.

Madly grasping at the mug, Octavia threw her head back and began to chug it in light of the morning sun.

To
View Online

Stroll

Octavia's bowtie was, without a doubt—in the entire wide world of Equestria that she so desired to reside in—one of the things that she treasured the most. There, of course, was her refined, polished, practically legendary double bass (as painfully egotistical it felt to think so), with its finely crafted scroll and its sleek brown-orange finish inspired by the various works of Stradimarius hundreds of years prior to Octavia's state of both living and breathing, however challenging it may be. There was her bow, imported from Germaney in part for its more comfortable frog that was definitely more hoof-friendly to her, and made from the finest Ipê wood, hoofcrafted ebony, and silk bits could buy without feeling even the least bit ashamed of herself. To be fair, it was a magnificent and astoundingly beautiful looking bow, almost too enchanting to use on a day-to-day basis for simple Gala concerts where the aroma of food haunted her or packed opera houses where the smell of perfume gagged her.

To both herself and to the other ponies around her, Octavia did so, and always left her personal bow locked up as tightly as an oyster's super-glued shell back at her apartment, instead opting on simply using a standard bow she had bought on a random whim while perusing Canterlot's local music shop, with its surfer-esque stallion manning the register with eyes that spoke many years of either well-deserved fatigue, or hardcore drugs Octavia was sure she'd be arrested for if she simply smelled like them. Suffice to say, she didn't go back to that music shop a second longer after buying her bow, unless it was a Tuesday or a Friday—the days she'd learned as being the stallion's time off. She'd felt immensely proud of herself for sleuthing about and discovering this fact, but the idea of one simple slip-up on her calendar or her mind being the end of her music career told her to cram it down and shut the hell up. She couldn't compete with that.

Now, her bowtie... huh.

Her bowtie was a... very different story. Neckties were a necessity in the Canterlot Symphony, standardly issued whenever a new pony joined up with their violin, viola, cello, or bass in tow to the sight of raised eyebrows and scrutinizing looks that would have surely killed any other pony if they were just the slightest bit happier with themselves. The ties came in many different colors, and—to Octavia's confusion—were completely up to the preferred choice of the pony picking one out. Stallions, favoring more masculine colors, generally strayed more toward the red ties. Frederic seemingly started the trend, with others like Nandermane and Concerto quickly following suit and discarding their pretty pink ties into the pile always sitting inside the corner box facing the Orchestra as they played, its sagging sides and faded lettering reminding them that changing colors now was more than just a simple few steps. Mares like Beauty Brass, Ballad, and Octavia herself had chosen said pink ties, mostly because it set them apart, but more due to the fact that Octavia felt a lot more... special with an unstereotypical tie. Symphony—the mare, not the group—chose a purple tie, most likely so she could yet again feel like the popular kid in a sea of popular kids.

The ties themselves—no matter the color—were not actually bowties at birth. Bowties were the standard, most popular type of knot for concerts in the Symphony, and so ties usually stayed in that knot unless another one was either desired or required. Eldredge knots were intended for use in areas with not-as-well-kempt floors, as the knot itself required a long amount of tie and rose the fat end itself higher toward the neck region. Trinity knots were for ceremonies, like royal babies or crownings, as their simple looking design symbolized all three pony races interlocked with one another. Half-Windsors were what the new ponies believed as the standard if they hadn't read a sentence into the Symphony's history, and were the source of uproariously rude laughter that felt dangerously close to popping blood vessels and beginning bloody brawls.

Octavia's bowtie was special to her, in the same way that an infant was special to their mother, or similar to the onslaught of corny remarks from a boyfriend to a girlfriend or vice versa. Bright pink, made of soft silk and secured in its little knot as securely as the royal vault deep under Canterlot Castle. In fact, when her mother had been in the Symphony–

"Sputnik dammit!"

Octavia's ears flew upward, slapping the sides of her head as she pressed a frown against her cheeks and stared Valkyrie's way. The griffon, grinding her white teeth together so incredibly hard in her dark bronze beak that Octavia half-wished they would snap, was turning her head to face her left shoulder, a single talon flicking away incredible amounts of absolutely nothing. Octavia shot down the hearty bit of laughter that threatened to erupt from her mouth. That one talon alone could easily be the decider of whether or not she'd pass for a butcher's next delivery. Valkyrie growled, hissed, and snarled continuously, her talon now joined by its cousins and acting as one giant flyswatter, fanning the crisp air around her entire body as if she were aflame.

Not that Octavia wasn't wishing it were so...

"What's wrong now, Val?" L asked, a rolling of her eyes accompanying her about-face.

"These–" the griffon took a second to shout sweet, sweet nothings at something, fanning harder and more violently, "–God damned bugs! Biting at my skin, the little bastards..."

L sucked on her beak, flexing her shoulders as well before turning back and replying, "Yeah, it's the, uh, sweat y'know?" L raised a brow. "They like the sweat of a hot griffon. Can't blame 'em."

There were a few things wrong with that claim. Octavia hoped that L meant "hot" as in "temperature-wise hot". She really didn't need that image in her head.

"You know, if you didn't pick at 'em, they'd probably just go away–"

"The bugs?! You just said–"

"No," L responded, shaking her head dismissively. The long feathers atop her head bobbed with her movement like an octopus trying to three-sixty in the water. "I meant the bites." The griffon scratched at the back of her neck. Octavia's eyes darted to her left to find that Valkyrie was now giving L her full attention, as menacingly opposing it appeared to be. She looked back in time to both listen and see the light yellow griffon's continuation. "If you don't scratch them, they'll go away in, like, a day or two. Like a mosquito bite, basically."

"You do know how hard that is, right L?" Valkyrie asked, dark green eyes narrowed and nonexistent smile downside-dialed. Suddenly casting her sights to the dirt below them, she mumbled something to herself and added, "Hang on..."

"It's not that hard, Val," L stated matter-of-factly, a look of general unsupportiveness plastered on her deadpan delivery, like that of a parent being told that their kid isn't good with sugar. "Self-control, you ever heard of it? I mean, I know it was a bit hard for you back in Los Pegasus, but I'm telling you that that guy was infested with worms up to," she waggled her eyebrows toward the blue sky, "here."

"He was not...! I– I was not..! No! Piss off, La—"

Octavia had bore witness to many a catfight in her years of school, starting in elementary with simple exchanges of "poopyhead" and "loser" on the crowded playground sets, continuing on and into middle school with infinitely more aggressive curse words and a few brawls in the commons every now and then in the bluest of blue moons, and going even further into high school with broken bones and slurs thrown around aplenty, like wet paper towels freshly doused in a one-star hotel sink. There had been the rising feud between Candy Cane and Cottage Cheese in the tenth grade, when Candy had been dating the local jock Pig Skin and expected him to ask her to the prom, but he instead asked out Cottage Cheese on the night before the event. The long, winding battle that ensued—as Octavia had been told, since she didn't go to her prom and hadn't been there to witness it—was dubbed the CC fight, and consisted of spilled punch on expensive lace dresses and part of the gymnasium almost burning down in a lovely orange blaze of angry Unicorn glory.

She was glad that she wouldn't have to bear witness to another. Seeing as how both Valkyrie and L had armor, claws, and guns, Octavia held a bit of a gut feeling that if something went wrong it wouldn't be attractive even in the slightest way.

"Valkyrie! L! Quit it, both of you!"

A hiss and a growl. Valkyrie, no doubt.

"You're not my dad, W! Don't tell me what to do!"

W turned his head, an expression on his face that reflected one of a father raising three bickering girls. He adjusted his Magicarm, a presumably subtle telling of promises better left imagined. "If I had the odd fortune of being your dad, Valkyrie, I probably would have flown into the Abysmal Abyss when the ultrasound came in."

Something in Octavia's stomach twitched. Involuntarily, she sucked in a gulp of air and realized that it caught somewhere in her trachea, then raised a hoof up to her shut mouth to suppress the sound that she would have surely made if she wasn't quick on the draw. She might've keeled over and fell into the grass if it weren't for L's abrupt, uproarious wails of laughter, high-pitched and almost squeaking like some kind of chew toy from the dollar store.

A sigh escaped her mind's lips.

She missed Buddy.

A small whisper shot through the air next to her, one that sounded vaguely, possibly, like Valkyrie spitting the word, "Asshole," to a certain dark brown griffon ahead of her, L, and Octavia. Though she was sure that Valkyrie wouldn't do anything to actually hurt her—sticks and stones, as it went—the current status of the griffon's being very pissed and very dangerous led Octavia to think twice about standing near the hulking bird. She had a question on her mind, anyway. Increasing her trot to a light canter, the mare trod forward, stepped past L—who still stood giggling—and T—who regarded her with a simple expressionless shrug—and stepped to W's side.

The frown on the griffon's face shifted immediately as he turned his head to the sound, a small smile and a cocked eyebrow replacing a heavy scowl of utter annoyance.

"Well, you made a good decision coming up here," he said, chuckling to himself and shaking his armor plating. "It's not wise to stand anywhere near Val when she's mad. Ten yards just aren't enough."

She snorted out of her nose. "A ticking time bomb isn't something you'd want to mess with, I'm afraid."

W didn't laugh as she'd hoped, instead widening his grin to obviously amused levels. "Of course not. Anyway, why else did you come up here? Wanted to see the city before all of us, did ya?"

"Actually," Octavia began, pursing her lips, "I'm a little curious about this Tall Tale we're entering."

"Ah," W spoke, "can't say I know a lot about it, but I'll help you as much as I can."

Splendid. Octavia shut her eyes and nodded happily. "First off..." she had to ask, even though it most likely led to an obvious answer, "...what exactly is it?"

"A city," W replied, straightening his face.

Octavia blinked.

His expression softened, "Apparently, it's home to the largest diverse community you'll see in Equestria. You see all kinds of people here–" he stuck out his black eagle claw and lifted a talon as he went, "–Diamond Dogs, dragons, Yaks, bison..." He now held up a completely open claw. Looking at it, he raised a brow, frowned, and unfurled his right wing, adding, "...griffons. Hell, even heard a story about a huge group of Changelings coming here after that wedding in Canterlot."

Ugh. She wished he hadn't reminded her of that.

"In fact, Octavia," W resumed, looking down at her out of the corner of his eyes, "ponies are... kind of the minority in Tall Tale. Make up about, what, five percent of the population. You'll be hard fixed to find a pony there at all."

Her eyes widened and her pupils shrank. "You're certain?"

"Yes."

"Which means that I'll most likely be stared at for more than the fact that I'm accompanied by a band of heavily-armored, heavily-armed griffons."

W scrunched his bottom beak for a time, looked to the left and right side of the sky, and replied matter-of-factly, "Looks like."

Octavia turned her head, the weight of the train conductor's messenger bag suddenly feeling double. T was currently preoccupied with mimicking her maneuver, observing as Valkyrie and L talked with one another in a mildly vicious manner, the same way two fillies would speak if they were under adult supervision on a field trip to the zoo and couldn't do anything too obvious. The former's expression was one of outright hatred and anger, while the latter's appeared to be more unimpressed and casual. She was sure this wasn't a normal occurrence.

Turning back, her earlier hallucination called to her from the back of her mind. Clearing her throat, Octavia asked, "And once we get there, where shall we head to find these train ponies?" Though train pony wasn't a race as far as she knew, she still felt slightly racist saying this.

W hummed to himself—a low C, unimpressive considering his normally gruff voice—deep in thought. Expecting an answer, Octavia didn't notice the collection of stones and mud until she had stepped in it. Lulling her tongue out, she took a second to seethe and curse the Gods high above. She'd have to wash up once they got into Tall Tale, make sure her mane was still presentable at least. An undermining revelation went through her head. She stowed it down, but began to really hope that it was indeed mud she had plodded through.

"Might be best to check the hospital. One of them was injured; that'd probably be our first step. Though after that, we'll have to get some food." Beating the plating on his chest and eliciting a low, metallic bang, he claimed, "I don't know about you, but I'm feeling kind of hungry, and I don't think a pony sandwich will be enough to sate me."

Octavia slowly stretched her neck forward and more toward her own chest, eyes wide. Slowly craning her neck around, she stared W blankly in the face and asked, "Seriously?"

The gurgling from W's stomach sounded a lot more menacing than she would have liked.

Town
View Online

Stroll

Town

First, she'd have to make sure her oven was perfectly clean and switched to off. Perfectly clean to her meant no dust, no crumbs, no smudges of any kind, almost bare non-existence of anything totally alien to the oven's otherwise black surface, all polished and shiny like the bald head of a fashion model. Octavia had inwardly hoped that she hadn't left the kitchen appliance on—mostly out of concern for the electric bill she would surely pile up and gorge if she had done so than the possibility of burning her entire humble abode down in a blaze of accidental glory—but truth be told she honestly couldn't quite remember. It wasn't that it was that long ago either. If she recalled correctly—which she was positive she was—she had been gone for, say, five or six days. There was the first day she'd been taken, then the night she'd spent running, then the day she'd spent with the griffons for the first time, then the night she'd woken up in the log cabin, then the morning trek she'd seen the abandoned train, and then...

Gods, how long had they been in the cave? The one in the Smokey Mountains? She felt she'd been in there for years, it had taken so long to get through it! What with its... bloody twists and stupid turns, and its damn rocks, and the cave water she was glad she hadn't joined the griffons in drinking. She inwardly hoped she wouldn't have to go into and through another entire cave anywhere in the near future. She'd only gone in one so far in her later years, and already was she tired of them. She of course had gone... what was the word... spelunking when she was a kid with Colgate, Lyra, and Golden, into large, tunneling er, tunnels, with ups and downs and lefts and rights that would loop back over each other and through each other like some kind of necktie knot straight out of the wild wild depths of Tartarus. They'd walked a few miles, possibly equivalent to a marathon or two, while inside there, and with no coincidentally placed holes marring the rocky ceiling for all that time, it was a little difficult to deduce just what time of day it was, and how many times of day had passed. The only clear sign was that Octavia and the griffons had entered it in the crisp, early pre-afternoon, and emerged from its shadowy depths to a bright mid-day with a blinding sun and a cold chipper air.

But yes, the first thing Octavia had to do when she arrived home was make sure her blasted oven was off. She was a little worried about its current state of hopefully inactivity, and seeing as how her roommate never stepped foot into the kitchen unless it was to get a new plate of china to break and obliterate, it was most likely still functioning at peak condition since her departure from its lovely confinement five or six or how many or so days ago. She could easily come home to a smoldering wreckage, and she would have nopony to blame but herself for such an effect. She didn't like owing up to her mistakes, even though she valued honesty and tried her hardest to be such to everypony she was acquainted with, and her house burning down definitely wouldn't be on her list of things to fess up to. Once she arrived back in Ponyville, she'd have to sprint as fast as her legs could handle to her front door and step inside as quickly as possible to assess the possible damage. That would be the first thing to do.

...

Actually, no. The first thing she'd have to do is take out her key and open up her front door, with hooves she knew would be shaky beyond belief and a head rush she knew would be painful and blinding. Maybe not just a rush, maybe she'd have a headache as well. She wasn't really fit for running all too fast; if she did, she might sprain something and have to take a few weeks off of her work that she couldn't bare to detach herself from. The Symphony had an upcoming concert in Trottingham in about a week or so, and she had to be there so she could play with her coworkers to the night's end for all the lovely twenty or so people who would most likely attend. One would probably have an infant with them, and she'd start crying and crying and have to be taken out, and then there would be eighteen and oh who was Octavia kidding they'd probably be packed beyond belief, like salty sardines in a Gods-damned oily canister. Octavia involuntarily sniffed at the air, the current conversation around her drowning out her odd action. She could still smell the grease. Eugh.

Well, at least she had a plan now. Open her front door, and then step inside. A good first two steps, if she did say so herself. A welcome start to her prior having nothing on the matter of returning home. W had told her there was a train station in the northern part of Tall Tale that led right back to Canterlot's rail line, which itself led to four other locations in the surrounding area: Manehattan and Hollow Shades, Fillydelphia and Baltimare, back to Tall Tale and Vanhoover, and finally, Ponyville. She'd take the next train there and bid her goodbyes to W and his crew. She was a little sad that she'd have to leave them—she didn't really know why, honestly—but she wanted to go home a whole hay of a lot more than walk around Equestria with an armored old griffon and his dysfunctional subordinates. She was already getting stares from the guards at the front gate, she couldn't possibly imagine the intensity of the actions she'd receive in the city's walls. Once they got inside, they'd find those train ponies, make sure they were okay, give the pendant back, and be off on their merry way. Octavia was a bit hungry herself, though not as much as the griffons, but she was sure she could persuade them to wait until they got on the train to get food. Train food wasn't all that bad. They had some nice dinner platters and assorted cheeses. Namely brie, oh how Octavia loved brie cheese.

The first step was to get to her house's front door.

But the first step to getting to that was getting into Tall Tale.

Octavia wanted to get home. But these ponies guarding the front gate were trying their absolute hardest to make sure that she wouldn't get the chance to. The current argument was surely one for the ages.

"Let us in, mud pony, or I swear to Sputnik I'll break your legs and toss you to the Goddamned Marshmallow Factory!"

Oh Valkyrie, never change, dear.

Standing in front of the group with a balled up claw raised in front of her beak, the griffon looked up and growled at the ponies in their watchtower. Their looks of normality seemed to serve for the sole purpose of further angering the aggressive bird cursing at them from below, looks that they showed to one another to find they all bore the same expression. Their armored heads dipped to their left, accompanying the synchronized eye-rolling from within.

One spoke up, his sharp spear thumping on the wood by his hooves. "We told you already, bird brain, we can't!" Allowing Valkyrie time to place her previously raised claw on the cobblestone road, he continued, "Whole city's on lockdown because of the recent robbery at the mayor's office! No one gets in or out!"

Octavia noted his distinct usage of the phrase "no one" instead of "nopony". What an interesting side-effect of living in a city with a pony minority.

"Are you sure about that, glue boy?" Valkyrie shouted, crossing the line that Octavia had secretly set up for herself, "I've got a loaded gun on my back that might disagree with that– hey!"

W tightened his grip on her shoulder, glaring at her almost annoyingly when she turned his way, "Valkyrie, now's not the time to make a fool out of yourself. We need to get in, and I need you to let me handle this."

"Oh, right, like they'll listen to the old ass griffon who'd rather invite them to tea than shoot them," she spat, crossing her arms and frowning heavily, "y'know we'd probably get a lot more things done if you'd just shoot first more. Questions can wait until they're limping around and seizing on the floor."

"Shooting first gets you wasted shots, Val. Now step aside and let me handle this."

Valkyrie's furrowed brow scrunched up. Rolling her dark green eyes, she let out a heavy sigh and over-dramatically lifted her right hindleg, stepping out of the way of W. Shaking his head dismissively, the griffon's leader calmly walked up to the gate, kicked at the road, and looked up to see the ponies now regarding him with dung-eating grins and bent elbows. Clearing his throat, he said, "We'd like to come in."

Octavia looked to the sky at Valkyrie's exasperated groan.

"Oh, is that right?!" One of the guards asked, holding a chewed-up apple in his hoof. "Here I thought you all were just making pleasant conversation!"

W glared.

"We told you lot, we can't let you in! The robbery! Mayor's office? Ring a bell, old-timer?! You've been here arguing with us for the past ten minutes about entry, and each and every single time you ask we always say the same thing! And that's, no!"

W remained silent, a soft frown on his black beak as he simply studied the jerkass ponies in the tower.

How such a division of the guard could be so rude under Celestia's rule quite honestly astounded Octavia. They had a bit of a point in their favor, but they still had no real right in being so boorish to a group of absolute strangers.

"Now look, griffon! It's been a bit of a long day for me and my friends here, and we're not really itching to get back to our houses in those streets of dragons and dogs, so I'll tell you what!"

W, still silent, waved his claws around and sat on his haunches like a child watching a movie in the theater.

"We'll let you in, but we need you to do something first!"

Oh, wait! Octavia knew these parts! This was like those events in one of her fantasy books, where the heroine—or hero, she didn't want to be sexist—had to go on a short quest to gain access to something! Usually, the something was a nice new suit of armor, or a shiny sword, but the effect was all the same! That meant that she could go out and...

...prolong her not being at her home.

She stopped dead in her thought tracks. Oh Gods she really didn't want to go off and do another thing to get back home. Hadn't the cave and those cabin ponies been enough?! Judging by these guardsponies, they'd request something completely ridiculous, like a long lost Pharaoh's staff or a crystal skull or something. There was no way they'd be able to get into Tall Tale! Even Unicorn magic couldn't do something like think up an ancient relic!

"My friend here didn't get the name of that pretty mare running the cart that just ran out of here! If you could trek back a ways and get it, we'd be much obliged! So much, in fact, we could possibly see letting you in!" The guard roared with laughter, his friends joining in as they grabbed their bellies and shut their eyes to face the setting sun.

Octavia turned to the others near her. They reflected her look of confusion.

Swiveling about to ask W about whether they were going to go about it, Octavia's eyes grew wide. W stood up on all four of his legs, reaching for the bags situated on his body. Grabbing at one of them, he pulled out a small sack that jingled and jangled as he stretched his arm out, rotated his body, and promptly chucked it at one of the pony's heads. The guard fell with a metallic clunk and a shout. All looked toward the heavily armored griffon, who raised a claw to the side of his beak and shouted, "That's about fifty bits for you! That enough to shut you up?!"

The remaining three ponies, now wide-eyed and frowning, turned to one another in obvious panic. Two faced one, then nodded. The lone stallion, baring his teeth, quickly walked out of sight and hopefully out of mind.

W's blue eyes darted back at Octavia and his group. With a smile on his beak, he raised a brow and shrugged.

The large gate to Tall Tale suddenly began to rise upward with a hellish creak and a flurry of dust and broken rock.

As it reached the peak of its ascension, W walked back over to his companions and pointed at the entrance.

"Ready to head in?"

Nods.

Octavia shook her messenger bag, remembering her plan. Hopefully the others would stick to it as well. She'd much rather not walk through a foreign city of stares and gawks alone.

"Well, come on then."

Barter
View Online

Stroll

Barter

Tall Tale was a cesspit of bad faces and bad people, a place you couldn't trust enough to let it take your daughter to the winter ball. Its buildings varied from small to large, dotting the bumpy landscape that was a downpour of quiet scrutiny and cloaked figures sprinting down the street like there was no better time. The sky was clear as day, a few leftover clouds hanging above like sunny-side-up eggs facing the Celestial object nestled in the depths of the black, black space. Everywhere she stepped, the jagged cracks in the road and the green weeds attempting to wriggle their way out of the pits of hell hissed at her, tangling her and stumping her with as much inner hatred as an angst-filled teenager locked in her bedroom. The plagued air she strugglingly breathed in stank of cigarette ash and old bourbon. Every other sidewalk she and her companions had the graces of stepping upon was filled in with a rusted old grate that led deep into the sewers, where the rancid drug addicts and crime lords played their games of Blackjack and Go Fish, sharp knives and loaded crossbows holstered at their armored sides in case of a loss on their side.

"Hey, move it, mud pony!"

The perpetrator was a... light blue canine, with the face of a shovel and the brains of one. His wild yellow eyes begged for conflict, for bloody claws and yipping at a full moon. She flicked her dark gray tail at him, preparing herself for such an event that she was surer to win than any bass playing contest she'd ever been in. Instead, with a heavy glare on his ugly brow and a drunk-looking sway in his bulky step, he sauntered off without another word and only a simple glance behind his clothed shoulder. A Diamond Dog. She'd surely have to wipe her face full of ashes just to scare one off, a kind of tribal war paint from the old war hundreds of years before her time. She didn't know where to get ashes in a way she'd feel comfortable doing, but she could deduce one thing and one thing only: the big dog sure smelled bad. She may not have been incredibly religious, and church wasn't something that she ventured to, but she looked to the bright white heavens above and spoke a quick prayer that she wouldn't have to be in proximity to another Diamond Dog all the same. Any little bit helped, as the saying went.

"I'm walkin' here, you crazy mare!"

A... a dragon, now. Ahem. A small, short one. A teenager, if she would have the pleasure of being more specific. She could place his putrid pimples and peach fuzz as easily as a rosined bow against string. He scratched at the back of his purple spikes with a sharp pair of black claws, bringing the arm back out again to try threatening her. She felt a smile grow across her lips, knowing full well what a mistake the young dragón was making. She had been taking the caboose in the train formation of her lovely group, and only needed to step just an inch to her left to allow her heavily-armored, heavily-armed bird friends to bare their white teeth and reach for their deadly weapons. She was just a few minutes ago sure that a dragon had never piddled himself and ran like the wind in the entirety of Equestria's history, but she was quickly corrected on that assumption with the drop of a black bowler hat and a sinus-clamping cloud of dust. She quietly hoped that the stingy street cleaners—if this beautiful town had one in its deep pockets—brought their industrial eye bleach with them. The smell was enough to kill a mare and a half.

Intimidation. A lovely tool, if you knew how to use it and weren't afraid to experiment on it like an elementary school science fair project. Valkyrie was the main tool, both of intimidation and just in general, with a flurry of long white feathers that reached her sage green eyes, usually plugged with anger and the salt of fifteen sea ponies. With a pair of dark brown wings that reminded her of fecal matter and dark bronze claws all too reminiscent of Band Geek Pride, Val was something of a childish nuisance, but maintained a very friendly reminder that crossing a griffon usually landed you in intensive care and tubes in places you didn't want tubes. The dame had a wide boundary in the sand, but she liked to cross it frequently like an off-minded toddler high on bonbons.

T was what you'd receive if you crossed the nigh-unused mute button on your TV remote with a highly trained Royal Guard, all silence and brutality packed into one scary black package. He wore his griffon equivalent of a pony mane in a slightly grown-out buzz cut, one that swept back with the memories of fast flights and head butts. T didn't talk very much, only really needing to when the need arose, or when he was addressed by a helmeted higher-up who'd surely knock him on his rear as fast as he they. Golden eyes were perfect for spying, and his were no exception in the slighest. If she was to tap a hoof to her chin and guess, he'd ranked top of his school class in science for observation and P.E. for picking out the weak, the vulnerable, the ones who'd grow up to be taxpayers and penpushers while he was out there shooting at people and covering them in tar to throw them down canyons.

L was something else, like a friend you couldn't place a hoof on or an idea that never quite came to fruition. If she'd known she'd meet a griffon like L, she'd have journeyed to griffon country just to be there for her birth. L had the appearance of a bald eagle, right down to the golden beak and white head, but the behavior of an older sister who was tired of letting her clothes be stolen from the hamper in her closet. L was the kind of dame you'd share a drink with, and later regret helping back to her house with its shattered windows and torn up couch. The griffon hated being wrong and sitting still, but she had a passion for completion, and that was something she could take to the bank. While Valkyrie was the more angry and bitter one of the group, L was the more level-headed and approachable one.

"Excuse me! Could you–"

"How about you shut your damn trap and step aside, Sitting Bull!"

Valkyrie was also possibly a vile racist. She didn't really have much else to say about that. Needless to say, the rather hurt-looking bison now walking past definitely didn't deserve getting his ear talked and torn off.

W. The leader of the Furious Four, the Dysfunctional Dos Duo. He bore the wrinkles of a crippled grandfather around his eyes, but held the highest amount of legitimate command of his people she'd ever witnessed in all twenty-five years of her living. He packed two guns; one was a highly illegal Magicarm, with a cylinder that spun and bullets that flew, and the other was a bottle, with a label long faded and a mouth almost too touched. W never seemed like the kind of stallion to get drunk on the job, but then again, he wasn't a stallion in the first place. All she knew was that he hated the color of his blue eyes and spoke so many tall tales he might as well have named the city. She inwardly wished she knew what the griffon's name was. It felt a little demeaning to address him by a nickname, even if that was exactly what he wanted.

She herself was a classy mare, with a tight pink bowtie collared around her neck and a load of bad ideas chained around her brain. She carried herself prettily, making sure that her chin was held high and her lips were turned into an unimpressed frown. She had a reputation to maintain as the Lead Bassist of the Canterlot Symphony—even if she was currently in a city that seemed disconnected from anything Equestrian—and she would be damned beyond all belief if she were to just give it all up now. The citizens toiling about around her may not have shown any signs of perturbance at her coldness, but she deep down knew that they were soiling themselves and glaring at her and her companions simply out of a mixture of jealousy and fear. The messenger bag strapped across her chest bobbed and bounced with each cautionary step she took, agreeing with her every second of the way, as it—and everypony—should. Yes, Octavia... hm, Octavia... "Badass" Philharmonica was a force to be reckoned with, with a group that paid no mind but broke hundreds, neigh, thousands of them.

...

Octavia looked to the top of her forehead, blowing at a few loose locks of dark gray hair that had fallen over her eyes where they most certainly didn't belong. She rolled her eyes with a sigh. Gods, she wished it were that exciting. If it weren't for the incredibly rude rounds of gawking and staring she was fired at with upon every street corner and the seagulls flying overhead, she'd easily be able to cast her tired purple eyes downward as she'd done so many times before and imagine she was just in a more coastal Manehattan, or maybe a Manehattan with ridiculous amounts of sea traffic. Tilting her head as she stared straight forward, Octavia's neutral frown downturned, provoked by a small group of minotaurs who were standing outside a particularly shady looking store, if the blinking neon lights above it reading Shady & Mr. Pocket's was any great indication of what may have lay inside.

She didn't realize that they were teenagers—like the earlier dragon too dumb to be walking the streets in broad daylight—until she saw the small size of the curved horns atop their skulls and the baggy clothing wrapped around their average-looking figures like wet towels after an hour-long shower. With cigarettes in their mouths, they spoke amongst one another with sporadic gestures and the most annoyingly stereotypical bully chortles Octavia had ever heard. They turned their heads and narrowed their eyes as she and the griffons drew closer along the sidewalk, the clips and clops of her four hooves continuing onward undeterred even as they raised their hands by their mouths and called to her.

"Hey there, mud-slinger!"

"Oh great, another pony!"

Oh how she wished she had a bass and a bow at that moment. She was entirely positive the boorish minotaurs hadn't heard the hellishly demonized sound of playing below the bridge, if their stained shirts and droopy cigarettes were any indication of a life poorly lived without a single wink of music or sounds beyond mothers yelling at their dealers and gunfire down the street at night. She wondered why exactly seeing a pony was anything to raise a fuss about. If anything, seeing another member of their horrible kind would be the only thing worth stirring for. Tall Tale was in Equestria, for Gods' sake! The land ruled by ponies!

...

The minotaurs bore the kind of look you'd give your mother after realizing she was buying drugs from the neighbor down the raggedy old street corner, where the loud cracks of rising conflict roused you from your deep and wondrous slumber and worked to rid the sickening crust from your droopy eyelids. With their smirks chomping down on their nicotine and puffing it out like a locomotive on the move, they crossed their arms and leaned against whatever was behind or near them, like typical bullies she'd seen in her movies, or in her middle school. Such were dark times, plagued by name-calling scandals and mechanical pencil-pushing elitists who believed they were high above the rest because they could carry around writing ammunition.

The conversation being held by her griffon companions was quick to change when the minotaurs staked their claim and shouted her name, starting out regarding where they and she would next head—the hospital, Octavia presumed—then shifting to something a little different as they drew closer and closer to the upright bulls with more zeal than a lion on dry-erase marker fluid.

"So what are we eating tonight, L?" W asked, turning toward the griffon standing next to him. L smirked instantly, raising a brow that told a lot more stories than Octavia would have liked. Nodding lightly, her head feathers jostling with the movement, she replied in the simplest way she possibly could.

"Oh, I was thinking something along the lines of..." she began, slowly turning her head to the minotaurs, "...beef."

Needless to say, Octavia had also never witnessed minotaurs piddling themselves. In fact, she'd never really witnessed minotaurs in the first place. It wasn't to say that they were generally unkempt and held such interests as attending Orchestral concerts, with their fake smiles and their dumb bassists, but they just simply... they just weren't there. She wasn't being racist, Gods no. Racist... or was it species-ist? Ponies and minotaurs weren't of a similar race, so she couldn't say racist. Then that meant that Valkyrie wasn't one as well, as much as Octavia wished she could have something more to hate her for. Was species-ist a word, even? Could she just add ist to the end of a general topic and claim someone as being such nonsense? Was this what the world could eventually lead to?

Once she arrived back home, she'd have to stomp over to her conductor Dan and tell him that he was a bass-ist.

...

No that wasn't right–

"Hospital, right Octavia?"

"Hwuh?"

Octavia was pulling the caboose of the five-member group, and looked up at that moment to find three scrunched up faces trying hard not to laugh at her bewildered exclamation. T, as always, was excluded. By Gods there was something seriously wrong or seriously right about that griffon, she swore he was completely invulnerable to any form of amusement. She hoped that the others would run into something; turning your head while walking forward certainly wasn't a smart thing to do in a crowded street. Or sidewalk.

Once he had overcome his short burst of air-snorting and dumb looks, W repeated, "We're going to the hospital, right? First stop?"

She cleared her throat, taking a second to adjust both the train pony's messenger bag and her bowtie. Both were just fine.

"Of course! We can't dawdle out here while those train ponies could very well be injured. We've come all this way, haven't we?" She tilted her head at the question, smiling to herself at the nods and presumed shrugs of agreement. "I believe I'm with all of you when I say that I'm in desperate need for food, but we must find those ponies as soon as we can." She really needed to learn when to stop talking.

"Can't argue with that," W replied, nodding his head toward a group of large buildings further down the street. "If that red cross on the side of that big building over there means anything, and these people here haven't mixed up their national symbols, then it looks like the hospital's only a few blocks down from here." Adjusting Candidate, he added, "Shouldn't be more than twenty minutes we'll be busting down that door and screaming at nurses."

"Well, maybe not all of us..." L proclaimed, rolling her eyes and staring at Valkyrie, who was walking next to her.

"Screw you, Lavi."

Octavia stopped dead in her tracks. Did she mean her? Did she accidentally... oh... oh no.

L was glaring intently at Valkyrie, who was looking the opposite way with an innocent smirk and skyward eyebrows, whistling two high notes that Octavia was too stunned to pinpoint.

T as well was looking back at the rising conflict, eyes wide and beak scrunched.

W simply rubbed his eye with a claw and groaned, "Goddammit..."

"You're a rotten bitch, you know that, Valkyrie?"

Run
View Online

Stroll

Run

Octavia had just arrived at her domicile from a long, tiresome day of school—her bags full of fresh new books and a happy spring in her step she'd never before showcased to the entirety of both her family's little home downtown and the wonderful country of Equestria itself—when she was gazed at by her tired-eyed father, chokingly hugged by her lovely mother, and given the news that her middle Labrador Daisy had passed away during the afternoon. Now, Octavia had been a big pony, and by this time she was enrolled in the seventh grade at the local middle school in her town, so her attitude was strong, her posture was already perfectly straight, and her days were filled with the simplest teen worries of forgetting what day it was or not studying for a test. Octavia was a big pony. Big ponies had to be strong, and she knew that, even as she looked about to find her little brother and older sister tearing at their eyelids and wailing to the walls and furniture with enough volume to echo through the halls.

Tears prickled at her eyes in kind, but Octavia needed only to shakily suck in a breath of recycled air and lift her gray chin. She continued to breathe as the cries of her family surrounded her, her purple eyes glazing over and the living room growing increasingly larger and wider as her life droned onward, a musical locomotive with no end in mind. Her green saddlebags were still wet from the rain outside, the front door still cracked widely ajar to give the inclement weather the opportunity to join in. Her pink bowtie was still tightly strapped around her neck, the white collar encompassing it firmly chafing her fur and burning the skin underneath like little fire ants on a gray, gray beach. She had tracked a gathering of wet, sloppy mud into the house, and she was sure that she would get an ear thoroughly chewed off and a couple of unimpressed frowns from her guardians when she turned around to find the pair of dark brown U shapes trailing along the carpet.

There were none.

Octavia maintained her big pony status as long as she possibly could. It was a bit of a long-standing, unofficial, well-kept tradition of hers whenever grave news struck her family. Her older sister was known blood-wide to be a bit fragile when it came down to things that could possibly upset her. She would cry and she would cry until there were no more tears, and only fruitless throes of retching that got nopony anywhere. Her younger brother was, as was evident, younger than she, and expected to cry whenever something went particularly amiss. Octavia was the middle child, and with a glass vase of a sister and a teddy bear of a brother, she was expected to take up the mantle of being the big pony, because nopony else would.

She maintained this, kept this, like she was constantly refurbishing her prized bass with fine rosin and soft towels. Under the bridge, around the scroll, with the grain, lengthwise along the hairs.

Octavia had been standing in the center of the living room when she heard a sound that brought on another horrendous volley that she wasn't prepared for. When they were puppies, she'd gone out by herself to buy her new dogs name plates for the front of their rough collars. They had been three bits each, and each second she'd spent watching the engraver spell out a name became simple agony and then to mind-numbing torture. She was immensely proud of herself for doing all of it by her lonesome, and decided that she'd put them on her faithful companions' collars in the same vein. It had taken a couple hours of squirming, brow wiping, and little filly swears, but they hung proudly from their mismatched attachments along the restrainers and shone in the light of her family's kitchen lamp.

They made a distinct sound whenever the dog it was attached to walked. A simple clang, clang, like a pair of keys tapping against one another in the mercy of gravity.

Clang, clang.

Blinking became impossible. Her mouth remained firmly shut. She stared straight ahead, an intent of focusing on the kitchen sink going unforgotten and useless. She didn't need to look down to see Buddy, his bright yellow coat tarnished with mud and dirt and his light steps slow and shaky along the wooden floor underneath him. The Lab simply stalked over to a corner of the room without a single word or audible breath, stood still and silent for an achingly long few seconds, and sat down and curled up into a ball with his back facing Octavia and her family. His chest didn't even rise, and Octavia knew he was still breathing.

And then there it came.

A low, guttural, distant whine, from the deep pits of her clouding mind and the shadowed corner on the other side of the living room.

Octavia w–

She...

She brought a foreleg up and turned the knob over the bathroom sink. A flurry of crystal clear water sputtered from the silver sink head, splashing the bowl around it and washing away the long dried-up splotches of what appeared to be blood and toothpaste. Octavia waited until the marble was completely clean before she leaned her head forward, placed her hoof under the running current, and spattered the water she'd collected across her face. Slowly shaking her head, she placed her other foreleg on the countertop and rubbed at her eyes, dragging the appendages down her cheeks with a heavy sigh that fogged up the mirror in front of her. She didn't want to address the certain mess that she currently appeared to be, but her purple eyes drew upward all the same.

She cared about only one thing, and she adjusted said one thing with a violently shaking wet hoof and a pair of tired eyes she'd only seen in the surface of the spoon she'd dig into the depths of her ice cream pails back home.

Her bowtie looked as presentable and as straight as ever.

She shut her eyes and sucked in a deep breath of claustrophobic air, letting it out as she backpedaled and brushed a few locks of hair out of her eyes.

"Godsdammit..."

She felt something tickle at her nose. Scrunching up her muzzle, she reached up with a sniffle and a hoof to wipe away the now apparent excrement she would have otherwise let loose unto the world. She blinked once, and then twice, hoping that she'd snap out of her current mood like the horrendous crack of a whip and calmly, briskly, step out of the hospital bathroom without a single ounce of despair upon her features. She couldn't just walk out with tears running down her face and eyes red as blood, if her reputation and dignity were anything to properly maintain and constantly refurbish.

A knocking on the door to her immediate right roused her from her thoughts.

"Octavia, are you alright in there?"

It was L... or Lavi, apparently. She hadn't ignored Valkyrie's rude "slip-up" out on the streets a few hours prior.

Octavia raised a hoof up to her mouth and, with a grimace, cleared her throat with no less than four coughs. To be completely honest, she was feeling like... trash at the moment, but a good, convinceable lie never hurt anypony.

"Yes, I... I'm fine, Lavi." She heard the griffon smack something soft—most likely her head—and groan—most likely because Octavia had used her actual name. She wondered why it was such a sacred thing for them to keep their names private. She inwardly hoped that Lavi hadn't noticed anything different in her voice just then. She wasn't sure what she'd do if the griffons found out she'd been crying. She was sure, however, that there would be mass ridicule, mainly from Valkyrie, akin to flubbing a note at one of her highly-esteemed orchestra concerts, where filthy rich aristocrats and chin-high nobles would gawk, point, and laugh at her with their clothed legs and their stupid accents and guttural speaking patterns, in that exact order.

"Are you sure, Octavia?"

The mare silently sniffled, not expecting the difficulty she was presented with for the action.

She felt words creep up her throat, but she only gave out a loud "mmhm" and a nod to people who couldn't see her within the confinements of her prison cell that doubled as a public bathroom in a hospital in a town in a country ruled by ponies just like her. A hospital with blood and toothpaste in its sinks, a town with rude daywalkers and snippy ponies manning the gates, and a sprawling country with four-legged equines with wings on their backs, strength in their hooves, or horns on their heads amidst a shambling of hairs that blew in the wind and were impossible to tear out if they felt angry enough to even attempt it.

She turned to her right and took a few steps toward the bathroom door, making sure to wipe a pair of clenched eyes free of tears before she blinked flecks of salt away, shook her head, and reached up to pull the door open. Cringing at the audible creak it emitted, Octavia sucked on her bottom lip and surveyed her surroundings, a little nervous she'd done something wrong in a hospital presumably full of incredibly scared dragons with sharp teeth and Diamond Dogs who could scritch scratch their way out of a room composed of stale garlic bread. Instead, the rather normal-looking reception room she and the griffons had stumbled into greeted her in all its white-walled glory and bubbling water cooler noises. The navy blue couches filling the room now serviced two armored griffons; Valkyrie lay fast asleep with her snores echoing through the area, while Lavi clawed at the fabric in an attempt to get more comfortable. The latter looked back up at Octavia as the mare let the door shut quietly, a small smile on her beak betraying the concerned looked in her eyes. The former paid her no mind, and if there was something Octavia could at least feel better about, it was that, and only that.

T sat in the corner next to a large potted plant, his right elbow on its orange vase as he read his secretive book in the other claw. Too engrossed in his black words on white paper, he didn't even regard Octavia with one of his nods or one of his eyebrow lifts.

She cleared her throat, trying her hardest to make sure it was as quiet as possible.

A series of thumps and scrapes thudded along the floor next to her, growing louder in volume by the second. Turning toward the source, Octavia looked at an impressive plating of light tan armor, then gazed higher to look at W's cocky-looking face. He stopped next to her, and, when he didn't say a word, found a pair of purple eyes looking at him curiously. Watching as the griffon placed his back against the wall adjacent her, Octavia took a few steps back, not taking his wide figure into account until she had almost been thudded with his huge wings. A question on her lips, she stopped and looked down at W's claw. A white mug, with a brown liquid steaming inside, was being presented to her.

Was that...?

No. There was no way.

No point in questioning it in the admitted... comfort of her mind. Grabbing at the handle and placing her hoof inside it, she lifted her chin and asked, "Is this...?"

"Coffee."

Octavia about choked on the tears that threatened to fly down her cheeks. Allowing herself a cheek-pressing smile through the impressive display of defense upon her features, she stared into W's blue eyes and spoke a quiet, breathless, genuine, "Thank you."

W simply grinned, a short burst of air blowing out his nostrils as he pulled a mug out from his left side. Octavia silently wondered where and how he'd hidden a most likely burning cup on his person without so much as a seething or a beak chomping, but he had given her a cup herself, so she hadn't a right to complain or ponder in the entire world. Planting her own back against the wall, she opted on remaining on her haunches, planted her rump on the floor, and raised the mug to her lips. If she were any more a mortal mare, she would have surely screamed in terror at the dangerously high temperature of the liquid down her throat. Octavia had braved years of getting up early and chugging the morning brew as if it were the last carton of chocolate milk at her middle school, and she had gained a bit of a resistance to absolutely steaming drinks.

That is to say, she still scraped her tongue with her upper teeth and lulled her tongue out all the same. Turning to W with her tongue sitting on her bottom lip, she realized what she was doing and clamped her mouth shut, albeit all too late if the griffon's nasal chuckles were any indication. Scrunching up her nose, she glared at herself, lowered her mug, and asked, "What did the receptionist say?"

W took a swig of his cup.

"The train ponies got here two days ago," he said once he had finished, "only two of them had any real injuries. Some first-degree burns on one, bleeding ears in the other."

"Bleeding... ears?"

W leaned forward, reached a foreleg around, and thumped Candidate with so much force Octavia swore it certainly wasn't in the maintenance manual. "Work of a Magicarm," he claimed, reclining once more, "must've been some kind of deafening spell. Pony got lucky, turns out it was a novice spell embedded in the owner's gun. He's fine."

Octavia felt the messenger bag around her body grow tighter. She hoped that it hadn't been the stallion with the locket.

"And of the other one?"

"He's fine too. Simple burning spell, it seems. It's the most common thing you'd put into a Magicarm." Adjusting his position on the floor, he continued, "And by burning, I don't mean like setting them on fire. It's more like... kinda, like uh..."

"Like the type you'd receive from a smoldering stove top?"

Godsdammit she really needed to get back to that–

"Yeah," W laughed, "that's it. But yeah, they're all fine. Should be one..." he leaned forward again, turning left to look down the hall that went further into the hospital's first floor, "...coming here shortly. Nurse said she'd sent for one of them to come out here so he could get that bag of yours." He pointed a talon at it. Octavia moved her foreleg around, realizing she most likely would be free of its additional weight in a short amount of time. "I'm sure he'll be happy to see it even if it's not his. I'm really glad that you held onto it for so long, Octavia."

She looked down at the floor. "I'm sure he will be, too."

A pattern of clips and clops echoed across the corridor next to them. Octavia turned her head to find the source, then gave the back of W's head the stink eye and leaned more to her right. A rather... huge-looking Earth Pony with a brown coat and a light blonde mane was walking toward the reception room in a bit of hurried state. The calm look in his eyes told a different tale, but Octavia could tell that he was a bit more comfortable sitting by his wounded friends' sides than being away from said wounded friends' sides. She hoped that she could change that, and at least make him not feel regretful when he returned. Trotting past the threshold—his stepping sounds hindered by the carpet now meeting his hooves—the stallion adjusted the white and blue cap atop his head and asked, "Somepony here ta see me?"

He spoke with a distinct southern accent, most likely accumulated from time spent around Appleloosa or Dodge Junction.

...

She cleared her throat, not letting the two sheriff ponies enter her head again.

"That would be me, sir, yes."

He turned to Octavia in an instant. "Oh thank Celestia, another pony. Ah swear, this whole town is like... anti-pony or somethin'. Anyway, what'cha need, ma'am?"

Now was the time. Stepping out an inch to her right, she smirked, placed a hoof underneath the bag, and lifted it to show it to the train pony. "I believe that you or one of your friends misplaced this back at your train near the Smokey Mountains." She felt herself give off a now-genuine grin as the train pony's face lit up with a series of nods. "We just came by to give it to you and–"

"Did ya get it?"

What was... oh!

"The locket?" A nod. "Yes, I did."

She was suddenly tackled in a bone-crushing hug, one that caused her pupils to shrink to pinpricks and her forelegs to spread eagle into the air. "Oh thank you thank you thank you! Ah wouldn't 've been able to live if Ah never got to see it again!"

Well... that was a bit of a terrifying, most likely exaggerated statement.

As the stallion stepped back with a wild grin on his muzzle and a pair of gleaming eyes, he added, "Ah don't think ya know how much this means to me. When we started gettin' hit out there, mah first instinct was to hurry inside and get my things, an' then Heavy Weight got burns on him, an' then Chet lost his hearing for a bit, so there was no time since we were all scared an' everything, so we had to go. Thank ya for gettin' mah bag and mah locket back, miss. Ah'll never forget it."

Octavia, taking a few steps back as she lifted the bag over her head, smiled at both the weight loss and the satisfaction of a thankful grin. "No big deal, sir. I hope that you and your friends recuperate and recover in due time to head back home." The train pony threw the bag over his body and lifted the flap off it, reaching inside and grabbing for the locket, which he pulled out and opened. Wordlessly smiling at it for a while, he snorted and looked back up at Octavia.

W, as well, turned his head to raise a sly brow at her.

"Thank ya, again."

"It was my pleasure." Getting up, Octavia bent down and bit into her now empty mug, walking over to the coffee table in the middle of the room and setting it gently on the top of the furniture. Watching as a black claw placed another mug on it as well, Octavia smiled, turned her head, and began to prod at Lavi's side in an attempt to wake her up. The griffon, shaking her head and widening her eyes, glared at her.

"I was asleep for like ten minutes."

"Get up, Lavi. It's gonna get a lot worse when we wake up Valkyrie," W said from behind Octavia. She could just picture his unimpressed frown and straight stature.

Lavi got up with a loud groan, catching the attention of T, who began to rise as well. "Yeah yeah, whatever old-timer. You want me to do it, or what?"

Octavia about-faced and started trotting toward the front door as W chuckled in response. "What, you want to die today?"

The mare turned her head to find Lavi rubbing at her eyes in a painful-looking display of claws against meat. "Sure as hell feel like it right now, yeah."

"For Sputnik's sake, don't be a bunch of chicks about it. I'll end up killing one of you at some point anyway," the voice of Valkyrie spat out, accompanying the aggressive griffon's ascent from the couch with an itching on her scalp and a growl in her throat. Gripping the sides of the furniture with enough force to sink her talons into it, she frowned a deep frown and surveyed the room huffily, "Ugh, are we done yet?" Her eyes landed on the train pony now trying to place the locket back into his bag. She pointed at him with a rolling of her eyes, "Seriously? This is the guy we came here for? God, if we were gonna try finding train trash, I'd find your mom, Lavi–"

"Shut up, jackass," Lavi replied, "we're about to leave anyway."

Valkyrie hopped off the couch and began stalking toward Octavia, mumbling something under her breath as the rest of the griffons started heading toward the door as well. Brushing past the mare, Valkyrie opened the first set of doors and walked out of the room in silence. Stepping aside to allow the griffons to pass, Octavia took the caboose and trotted out to the outside as well. A voice, from behind her, stopped her however. Turning her head, she glimpsed the train pony waving a hoof at her.

"Hey, if y'all're ever in Appleloosa, look me up! Ah could help get ya wherever ya wanna go on the train!"

Octavia smiled. "I'll be sure to!" Beginning to walk forward again, Octavia cursed to herself, bit on her bottom lip, and turned again. "I don't believe I got your–"

The door into the first floor's corridors shut with a hiss.

"–name." Octavia pressed a frown into her cheeks, contemplated chasing after him, then agreed that it wouldn't be too much of a good idea. He'd most likely rather be with his friends right now, anyhow. She was sure he wouldn't be hard to find if she ever found her way out south, so with a flick of her tail and a snort, Octavia walked out and joined the other griffons in the light of the blazing sun outside.

Or, well, what she expected to be the light of the blazing sun. Walking out from underneath the rather long roof past the front door, she stood by W's side and stared up at the gray clouds and falling rain bursting from the sky. She frowned. She wasn't really in the mood to get wet after such a horrid encounter inside the bathroom. Looking up at W, she groaned, "Lovely. Now I'm going to get drenched in a town full of onlookers and jay-walkers."

W, rubbing at his chin, craned his neck and reached for a bag on his left side. Rifling through it for a time, he brought out his right claw and presented to Octavia what he had retrieved for her. What it was was... something Octavia wasn't all too impressed with, and she inwardly wondered why exactly he had such a thing on him.

A white polyester baseball cap with an all black bill. Octavia had never played baseball as a kid, and never really intended to, and a baseball cap most certainly wasn't something she'd wear out in public. If she saw "Octavia Philharmonica Wears Middle-Class Attire" in the paper in the coming weeks, she'd blow a fuse and finally destroy the ficus in her house.

She eyed the hat almost cautiously until W spoke.

"C'mon now. Better than nothing, right?"

Octavia gave out a small sigh, straightened her posture, and grabbed the baseball cap from W's claws. Pressing it atop her head, she moved a few locks of hair around and made sure it was tight enough on her scalp. If she was going to wear such an item, she'd do so as stylishly and correct as possible. She wasn't a fond lover of putting her mane in a ponytail, and she hadn't had any hair bands anyhow, so her definition of correct was going to have to be a little disfigured.

Finally satisfied with her adjustments, she looked up at W to find that he was grinning. "Looks better on you than me."

Valkyrie seemed to disagree, a claw over her beak as she snickered. Lavi was quick to glare her way.

T was on the more positive spectrum, tilting his head and pouting out his bottom beak as if to say, "Not bad."

Octavia blew at a few more locks of her hair swaying in the top of her vision. She'd have to get used to the hat's bill being in her way, but she had to admit that she was a bit thankful she'd be at least a little protected from the torrent of rain above. Maybe she could grow to like it, as... uncouth an article it was. Looking back at her feathered companions, she found them standing still and leering up at the sky. Pursing her lips, she ordered, "Come on then, let's get through it already."

They nodded, though Valkyrie accompanied hers with a look directed at Octavia that almost screamed, "Don't tell me what to do, mud pony."

Octavia descended the staircase with the griffons, making sure that she could glare at the egg yolk the whole way down.

Around
View Online

Stroll

Around

There were things to say about uncouth behavior, rather... distasteful things that led to sobbing ponies and blood red eye sockets staring you back from the silver spoon in your hooves that in turn shoveled ice cream straight from the tub. There were things to say about roaming the streets without a single sense of morality and decency, with your head held so high you could break your neck if the wind was just a tad stronger and your hoofsteps so dainty that planting bone to ground on a loose piece of clothing could very well be the final line between life and death, favoring the latter but loving the very brink of the former.

There were things to say about the fashions of aristocrats and their gold-digging housewives, held so critically-acclaimed they might as well have been the painters of the Manea Lisa or the Princesses of the Sun, Moon, and Love themselves. There were things to say about their stashes of gold and bits kept tightly and securely locked away behind large safes that could withstand bursts of Balefire magic straight out of Starswirl The Bearded's white horn, so that they and only they could open it up and swim in all its shining, blinding glory with as much glee as a filly who finally got her dessert after a whole evening of enduring the eating of her dry meatloaf and soft wheat bread.

There were things to say about the attitude of said snobbish morons, who treated the people below them with the same discrepancy of a lawn mower to the wide field of grass that lay before its churning, turning blades perfectly hidden underneath its shiny, welcoming green coat of industrial paint. There were things to say about the looks and glares that shot at other ponies like the crack of a Magicarm or the wind of a whizzing arrow—usually shoved toward stranger ponies with small suitcases or the expression of genuine wonderment in their eyes—all too befitting of an entire population of stuck-up ponies living miles above the rest of their compatriots down in Ponyville and the likes inside big, fancy houses, with pens scribbling away at their checkbooks while their indoor pools began their installations.

There were things to say about how much you weighed, or how much food you ate the previous night, or how much you ate the past few weeks, which judged both you and the body you currently occupied and maintained, one ending up crying in a fetal position and the other ending up with a tub of lovely ice cream in their shaking hooves. Gorging oneself was seen as both a detriment and a sign of wealth, a thing that led to mixed messages and showed its true colors in the local private schools of the city, where to-the-bone-skinny fillies raised eyebrows at this-chair-is-too-small-for-being-five-feet-wide-plump colts greeting their peers with the same. It wasn't like they were starving, but it wasn't like they should go for a fifth plate either.

There were things to be said about going out in the middle of the burning day to feast at local fast-food chains—McDuckles, for example—with their frolicking foals tumbling about within their depths and acne-ridden teenagers manning registers with as much attitude and positivity as a red brick on an all-black wall. There were things to be said about the ungodsly smell that permeated the air and stank up something incredibly fierce, reminding retired Royal Guards of the war and prompting horrifying flashbacks that led to heart attacks and morgues. There were things to be said about ordering the largest hayburger you could see, then sitting down in a nice little booth all to yourself with its disposable napkin dispensers and ketchup and mustard bottles, and simply eating to your heart's content until your belly was full and there was so much grease on the ends of your hooves that you might as well have been rolling outside on a farm with fat pigs and devilish boars.

And that's exactly why Octavia tended to do so in the dead of night, where only tall streetlamps and the moonlit sky could stand to witness her "highly absurd and juvenile cravings".

She as well guessed there were things to say about wearing such dreadful articles like a baseball cap, or traveling with barbaric griffons who would rather clean their guns and fire upon crowds than sit down on a comfy ottoman and enjoy a nice cup of Pu'er tea. Baseball caps were deemed fit for such things as being dreadfully sweaty, unkempt, and pumped with so much adrenaline that serial murders could happen at the drop of their black and white hats. Griffons, rare as they may have been to see simply roaming about anywhere near Canterlot, were believed to be ghastly individuals, with bloodlusts of one-hundred-and-three and claws scaringly sharpy and ready for use. Only such people like Gustave le Grand with his large mustache and Dexter the Griffon with his seemingly invulnerable nether regions (it was good for comedy shows) could be held in bright white lights with their names in yellow-trimmed stars.

Octavia turned her head to look at the group accompanying her. Lavi leaned her head back, raised a claw up to her beak, and let out a deafening yawn that raised brows and shot hard glares her way from what looked to be a group of teenage buffalo who cringed and sucked on their lower lips once they realized who they were dealing with. Valkyrie let out a sigh once she realized that Octavia was staring at her, her right claw thumping on the carpeted floor with the finesse of a jackrabbit, eliciting a few awkward instances of shying away and cowering from the other individuals in the line behind and around them. T stood quietly, an almost unnoticeable smile on his face as he breathed the promise of fries and hamburgers in through his nostrils. W remained at attention in front of her, an unconcerned look on his face that told stories of deadpan telling-offs and annoyed one-liners, like something out of an old spy movie. His chest inflating and deflating from underneath his armor, he looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Octavia's curious stare. He looked from her and to the front of the long line before them and the end of it after them—dragons, minotaurs, bison, buffalos, other griffons, and even a Changeling all waiting for a quick but satisfying meal—then frowned back at her and shrugged his shoulders.

He didn't need to say a word. Octavia already knew that it was going to be a little while before they got their food.

A small clump of her mane caught her attention. Raising a hoof, she prodded at her head in an attempt to simply fling the offending few hairs another way, but too late realized that she was still wearing her baseball cap. The slightly wet texture of the hat—affected by the still dreadfully pouring torrent of rain outside—prompted her to suck on her teeth, quickly adjust the positioning of her piece, and let her hoof clop back onto the floor with a small floomf. It remained to be seen whether or not she was getting used to having it on, but after an incident like that, Octavia felt that maybe it would just be best to give it back to W. She appreciated the offer, but a baseball cap wasn't necessarily in her style, nor was it in any of the aristocrat's or paparazzi's styles either. Standing in line for greasy fast food with armored griffons and a hat on her head was sure-enough bait for roaming journalists who'd get their rocks off from a new camera lense or a simple mentioning on Manehattan Happenings.

She sighed.

It nevertheless felt a little... alien, in the end, even with its inclement weather protection and possible identity sheltering. She would have given it up to W right then and there at that very moment in the entirety of the Earth's movement through the vast depths of space and time, but the conversations around her ranging from last week's sawdust to next week's hunting schedule drowned out any attempt at speaking she could have tried to uphold, so, with a pursing of her lips and a readjustment of her hat, Octavia stood in silence and contemplated why somepony would choose to make a popular fast-food chain's walls a bright, lovely, absolutely depressing dark brown. With a name like Breezies—one that she assumed would belong to a fancy restaurant and not a dimly lit fast-food chain—Octavia could only raise an eyebrow and frown at the lack of bright colors. The building wasn't a log cabin, for Gods sake, the least they could have done was have it match the misshapen overhead lights and engage in a friendly, quiet game of neon yellow. She stared up at one such bulb once she stopped on this thought, then leered and realized that she shouldn't do such a thing again. Though they as a whole were dim and provided only small circlets of light in their immediate adjacent areas, the bulbs were sure as hell hot on her fur.

With a loud calling of, "Number seven-twelve-fifteen!" coming from the registers a few feet away from her, Octavia looked to her left, inwardly praying to all the gods she knew that there was a spare booth open that fit four griffons and a single pony amidst a sea of green dragons and... was that a cat? The creature she was observing sat on its table, a huge grin on its face and a pair of wild eyes accompanying its rather ravenous course of dining from what appeared to be a pet bowl. Looking up, its face full of orange paste, it meowed through the uproar of number calling and order shouting, silently judging her.

Yup. A cat. Hopefully, it was far away enough that Octavia wouldn't break out in hives, Gods, that would be a disaster like no other.

"Number eleven-ten-fifteen!"

It took Octavia a split second to realize that the voice up front was calling for another customer, and another split second to realize that it meant the line would be moving up a unit. Once again all too late, Octavia stumbled forward thanks to the hulking body mass of a figure behind her, almost causing her to trip and slide into the admittedly suspect brown stain coating the Welcome carpet to the line's left, a large yellow folding sign next to it telling visitors to Watch Their Step with a large black stick figure of a pony with their flank in the air and their face on a long horizontal line, signifying the floor. Octavia found it a bit curious that the sign bore an equine instead of a... anything else really, but stowed her thought down and swiveled about to find the culprit to her shoving.

The search was crisp and short, like a toasted piece of Pan bread. Valkyrie, shooting Octavia an uncaring look over her shoulder, flashed a toothy grin. The mare, rising to all four of her hooves, calmly walked back into the swarming line to a flurry of upraised arms and accusing shouts.

"Hey, what the hell, mare?!"

"Get to the back of the line, mud-slinger!"

"That's not cool, man!"

She'd heard insults like that back on the street; they were nothing too original. She ignored them, her face now bare inches away from a griffon's rear once she turned her head back around to face forward. Eyes wide and irises mere pinpricks, she pouted her lower lip and looked up at the owner's face. Lavi, craning her neck, yawned into an open claw and stared back at her in a presumed attempt to see what all the fuss was about. The instant her eyes landed on Octavia, Lavi lowered her foreleg and glared. Muttering something under her breath, she sighed into the air.

"Valkyrie?"

Octavia nodded.

Lavi rolled her brown eyes, opening her beak and letting out a guttural groan. "Goddammit... here." Stepping a few inches out of the way, the griffon extended an arm, placed it against Octavia's bare back—causing the mare to grit her teeth and eep in surprise—and quickly slid her ahead and directly behind Valkyrie. Though she was incredibly wary that she would have bumped into the aggressive bird, Octavia gave out a split second acknowledgment of relief when she realized Valkyrie hadn't even noticed her approach. A glare drew upon her brow, for she now had a sacred mission that she had to complete. Frowning, she tilted to her right, raised a hoof, and tapped the griffon's right shoulder. With such a grade school trick, Octavia didn't expect Val to fall for the bait, but with a flick of her head and a look of anticipation on her features, sure enough, she did.

Seizing this momentous opportunity that would have surely been recorded in history books worldwide, Octavia stepped to her left and slid past Valkyrie, purple eyes wide as she waited for the griffon's realization of what had just occurred. Octavia didn't dare look back; she could picture the exact look of anger and fury on her adversary's features once she turned her armored body around and found the small, fragile, easily squishable gray mare innocently staring ahead on the carpeted ground in front of her.

"Who did– oh you son of a..."

There she goes.

A raspy sigh. "Fine." Valkyrie began thumping her claw against the floor again. "Gee gee, Octavia."

Gods, Octavia hated that bird. She was stuck-up—incredibly so—and exuded the strongest displays of both hatred and pitifulness that Octavia had ever seen in her entire life. She'd had bullies in grade school that had stolen her pudding cups at lunch time; she'd had bullies in middle school that would sabotage her bass and defile her reading material; she'd had up-and-coming criminals in high school that had spray painted an admittedly hurtful phrase in the Orchestra room and enjoyed stealing her homework. None of them—not a single one—came close to the extent of Valkyrie's boorishness. Why, if she had her double bass and a nice bow, she'd–

Wait, what?

"Next up, please!"

She was ready this time. For the longest while, Octavia had thought that she wasn't born to do anything lasting on this world. She'd gone through school and gotten good grades like about seventy-percent of normal students did, attended college, and got a pretty okay job in Canterlot. Sure she was good at playing the bass, and sure she landed herself a position as the Lead Bassist in the Canterlot Symphony, but that was just foal's play. Octavia had always mentally prepared herself for the time she realized that she was destined to do something great. Something amazing. Something incredible.

She stepped forward.

The line stepped forward with her, much more satisfied that they wouldn't have to yell at her for stepping out again.

She flattened her ears against the sides of her head and blew air out her nostrils. Parting a few locks of hair to scratch at her neck, Octavia frowned to nopony but herself—especially since there were no other ponies to be seen, anyway—and silently prayed she'd be able to get out of the slightly claustrophobic most-definitely blazing air inside the restaurant. With heat came sweat, and a sweaty Octavia was an absolutely cranky one. She would have loved to practice her irritation on the definitely-deserving Valkyrie, but W, T, and Lavi sure as hay didn't deserve to witness the horrendous explosion that would have likely occurred.

Flicking her head back with a lengthy sigh, Octavia brought a hoof up and scratched at her eye, a hard frown plastered on her lips as she sucked in through her nose. This action—an admittedly regrettable one at that—served only one real, horrible, teasing purpose. With the aroma of salted fries, sizzling hayburgers, and peppered salads dancing through the humid air like valiant, armored knights with lances under their wings and their cape of delicious flowers flowing behind them, Octavia found herself salivating at the corner of her lip. Noticing it, she widened her eyes, stood completely still for a second, and sucked it back up like a chameleon after a lovely meal of bug guts and tree sap.

Slightly afraid that somepony had witnessed her disgusting action, she craned her neck, felt it give way like a rotten piece of driftwood, and looked around to inwardly assure herself that she had safely gotten away with her action. It may not have benefited her in any real way—seeing as how not a single individual in this incredibly unappealing town personally knew her or what careers she was currently employed in—but one thing that Octavia wholeheartedly believed in was that it was always the thought that counted and not its actual results. This self-prescribed thought process led Octavia's sights to a lone Diamond Dog sitting at a table with a rather bright tropical shirt on, his hands grasping either side of an oozing hamburger with grease dripping down his chin. Moving his jaw around like a busy bovine, he regarded the mare with a pair of rough eyebrows that held an irredeemable wish to escape their light blue confinements and a frown so heavy she could see the two stumps of his bottom teeth sticking out from his bottom lip.

If Diamond Dogs bore actual resemblances to the adorable breeds of domestic canines, Octavia deduced that this jewel-obsessed brute would be a rather ugly looking Pug, or a Bulldog on a bad, bad day, presumably one without a relaxing belly rub or a delightful nap under the blazing sun. Nonetheless, the Dog's look of... annoyance, she assumed, served its purpose. Slowly turning her head back around, Octavia found enough time to cough into a hoof to allow her to once again foresee the forward movement of the lunch line. As she was now accustomed to, this was accompanied by the loud call of a rather... young sounding voice, now that she heard it in closer proximity.

"Number two-fourteen-fifteen!"

She got on her tippy hooves and leaned to her left, now intent on seeing just how young the individual manning the register was. If he was a teenager, maybe she could find an incredibly easy way to ward him away from this kind of job, and set him on the right path to redemption in his parents' eyes and a much better-led life devoid of anything with salt or grease clinging to its messy bottoms. A familiar groan from behind her caused her to retreat back to her prior position and turn her head with an annoyed glare.

"Sputnik, how long is this gonna take?" Valkyrie rasped, dragging her claws down her eyelids. "I'm hungry as hell! My gizzard is just itching for some fries here!"

"Stop complaining, would you Val?"

The griffon bore her teeth and crossed her forelegs.

"You're hungry too, aren't you W?" Not giving him enough time to respond, she quickly added with a firm glare, "Would it kill you to stop telling me what to do for once?"

"Oh, yes, I'm hungry too," W replied, not a single ounce of emotion in his voice as he slowly turned his head to face his subordinate. "Unlike you, though, I don't have to go around gorging myself because I think I'm too skinny. Also, yes."

"Ouch," Lavi proclaimed, sucking on her bottom beak and flinching away from W's sight.

"Number twelve-eighteen-fourteen!"

As the line moved forward once more like a monotonous group of cogs in an equally boring machine, Octavia widened her purple eyes and realized she was currently in the middle of a griffon sandwich, with both sides of her hopefully toasted bread carrying dangerous crank weapons and enough thick armor to withstand more than a few talon swipes. Octavia, on the other hoof, wasn't so fortunate to have a thick hide on her body, and observing the now hostile looks directed from Valkyrie to W, she wasn't sure that now was a good time to like it that way.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Octavia sucked in a breath, not realizing that she hadn't had enough oxygen in her system until she swallowed three more. W spun, a confused look smothered on his face. Octavia bore her teeth and ducked as the griffon's Magicarm on his back swung around and about clocked her in the muzzle.

She looked over to where W now faced, and was absolutely surprised when she found an honestly miserable looking Unicorn manning the register, a folded white hat atop his rust-orange head, which he adjusted before continuing. "Sir, you're holding up the line."

"Oh," was W's simple, almost nonchalant reply. His head swiveling about, he looked to the line behind him, observed the presumably impatient looking glowers and glares from various creatures of the entire world, coughed into a talon, and turned to Octavia with a seemingly dumbfounded, "Uhh..." that reminded the mare of a swimming instructor who'd just been asked if foals could float. Obviously, they couldn't. Who would ask such a thing–

"You wanna go first, Octavia?"

...first? Octavia had never gone... first before. She felt an answer on the very edge of her pink tongue, but something caused her to open her mouth and simply drone the most inhumane noise she'd ever made in her entire life. It bore an odd resemblance to the auditory offspring of a fuzzy walrus on a caffeine high, and a cat's loud yawn after waking up to the sun no longer grazing their undercarriage, one they shrilled at the top of their lungs as they arched their back and stretched their dumb little cat paws. Octavia had never really been a fan of cats—seeing as how she was on the brink of being horribly allergic—and she most definitely learned to hate them even more once Vinyl had gotten her own little sack of feces called Woofy. Vinyl had relented on giving the damned thing to her coltfriend a few streets down, but the smell of spoiled litter and fish carcasses still loitered through the air like the stain of confidence upon the Unicorn's sunglass-propped brow.

Octavia had now just realized that the Unicorn manning the register was still frowning at her, as if he'd attached fish hooks to hundred pound weights and stuck them into the corners of his lips. His yellow eyes stared straight back at her as he thumped one hoof on the wooden countertop in front of him, while the other one scratched at the large scruff of black facial hair sprouting from his chin. Opening his mouth as if to say something, he instead sucked in a large gasp of air and pursed his lips to his left side, waggling his eyebrows at her almost angrily. It was then that Octavia noticed she had been... scooted closer to the Unicorn. She turned her head back to glare at Lavi, who simply raised a talon and made a circle with her thumb and pointer.

There was something to say about the flannel shirt the Unicorn was wearing, a noticeable box shape hiding behind one of its front pockets. It was colored a dark sage green, like it had been taken straight out of a dense pine forest somewhere back westward a ways, or carbon copied off of W's shemagh that always lay wrapped around his gray feathered neck. There was something to say about his long, bedraggled black mane; scruffy, messy, and wispy, it looked like the hair of a mask-wearing psychopath after living in the woods by himself, or like the remnants of medicinal cotton balls after tearing them apart too far. There was something to say about his posture, which he readjusted so that he was now, oh, scratching... his... eyelids so dangerously Octavia swore she'd heard Valkyrie whistle from behind her.

This behavior struck a peculiar spark in her.

The quiet murmurs of the line waiting impatiently for their food suddenly grew to abrupt, sh sharpening whispers.

The Unicorn caught her attention by rapping on the counter, almost teetering the cash register sitting nearby. "Do you want something to eat, ma'am?"

Octavia adjusted her hat. She walked up to the counter. She reared up on her hindlegs, then allowed her fores to clip and clop onto the surface. Narrowing her eyes, she shot a hot burst of air out of her nose, scrunched up her muzzle, and replied confidently, "Salad, thank you."

The Unicorn regarded her with a deadpan look, complete with a single eyebrow that ever so tantalizingly rose upward, accompanying the stretching of his chin and the scruff of facial hair that sat comfortably with it. His frown deepened ever so glumly. This was not the reaction Octavia had expected. Maybe a simple chuckle, or a snort of laughter, or maybe just a tilting of his head, not... where was he going?

The stallion was now walking to Octavia's left in a bit of a hurry, his hoof waving as he called, "Chili Pepper, you're up!" He didn't even bother turning his head to address the rather unkempt-looking teenage Pegasus who stepped up after him, who took a second to adjust his hat from under the strict confinements of his green mane and clear his throat from behind a wobbly red hoof. He began to call out orders as his fellow employee lit his horn—eliciting a dijon mustard yellow aura reminiscent of his narrowed irises—and began refilling the small black tubs of small little ketchup, mayonnaise, and relish packets.

Octavia was a bit stunned at the realization that the restaurant apparently had no real care in the entire world for the lavishness of mustard, but she shook her head and turned to W with a soft, "I'll be just a second." She grinned at the griffon as he threw her a look of confusion only to nod afterward in silence, then swiveled about and trotted over to where the Unicorn now stood, his horn levitating another identical tub of ketchup packets into the empty space next to the dreaded mayonnaise ones on the shelf. He paid her no mind, the various sounds of the rowdy kitchen he belonged to being Octavia's only real answer. As the tub thudded into place, the mare had to ask.

"Is there a... reason you lot don't stock mustard here?"

The Unicorn furrowed his brow and tightened his throat, but said nothing. Turning to his right and staring down at something out of Octavia's line of sight, he lit his horn once more and opened what she assumed to be a swinging door if the clatter against the adjacent wall was any indication. A spray bottle with a light blue liquid inside came into view, followed by a yellow dish rag that he magicked from the counter next to him. Unfolding it in his aura, he adjusted his hat with a low hum, raised the spray bottle up, and shot its contents onto a rather suspect stain coating a corner of the table close to him. Wiping it with a hellishly squeaky sound, he gazed Octavia's way out of the corner of his eyes every now and then, his cleaning work growing more and more aggressive.

He'd burn a hole through the marble if he wasn't more careful.

"It wouldn't hurt to be a bit more... soft with it, would it?"

He growled at her. She debated taking a step back, but without a flick of her head to look behind her, she wasn't entirely sure she'd be stepping hoof onto a clean surface. She stood her ground, but cleared her throat. The Unicorn continued to scrub hard.

"I um, noticed that you're a pony." Stupid, Octavia. Stupid. "A bit odd to reside in a town such as this, don't you think?" Better?

He snorted. "Sure beats Canterlot."

Octavia's eyes widened, both because he'd finally spoken, and that he'd... kind of... hurt her a little bit.

"You've got a point though," the Unicorn continued, not even looking up from his work as he frowned at his targeted ketchup stain. "This place is pretty anti-pony." Raising his bottle up, he cocked an eyebrow, admired his work, and hummed to himself, turning about on a swivel to look at Octavia. He took a deep breath, then added, "Well, it's a living though."

"Living can have a few different definitions here," Octavia replied, purple eyes scanning the horrible light fixtures and the peeled away paint lining the walls. "This is akin to a rotten box fished out of the river." She bit her tongue immediately. How in the hell was she supposed to talk to this stallion after insulting his workspace? If somepony had insulted her playing the bass, she'd glare at them, frown a disgusting frown, and tell them off with the utmost casual expression she could muster...

...she stopped. Her nose instinctively went up, sniffling at the air in front of her. What was that smell?

Octavia cast her glance downward, and found the Unicorn cupping a hoof around a burning object held in his other hoof. A lighter, surrounded in his magical aura, quickly sank back into his flannel shirt's pocket as he lowered one leg and raised the other to his lips. Chomping down on the white cigarette in between his teeth, he puffed out a cloud of white smoke and frowned at her. "It's really not." His fag gained a new outline, one that floated it up next to his face as he pursed his lips and blew another burst of gloom onto the counter. "I actually really love working here," he said, the deepest frown Octavia had ever seen plastered on his mouth. "Nice ponies..." Octavia frowned at him disbelievingly. He didn't rephrase his blasphemous statement, much to her surprise. "...good food, a nice paycheck. It's all I could ever need." He returned the cigarette to his mouth, then widened his eyes and looked at Octavia. "You're still here?" He nodded toward the register. "You know your food's ready, right?"

Was it? Octavia turned her head. W was leaning a few inches over the counter to grab at the large brown bag being handed to him by Chili Pepper. A large splotch discolored the bottom of the sack, a telltale sign of good food and horrible bathroom hours if Octavia's past experiences were any fond reminder. W gave her a look of curiosity, completely betraying the admittedly adorable twinkly stars in both Lavi's and Valkyrie's eyes and the rare grin on T's beak. The four griffons began walking toward the other side of the restaurant, W in particular giving her a nod toward their presumed destination. She nodded back, then craned her neck around to gaze at the Unicorn.

"So you're with those griffons then, huh?"

Octavia growled. Oh no he wasn't.

"You could just... leave, you know."

He about choked on his cigarette. "Leave what, my job?"

Octavia bobbed her head.

"You do know I can't do that, right?" He scrunched his muzzle, then scratched his head. "I mean, not saying that I would anyway, since I love it here and everything, but I just... can't."

Octavia cocked her head. "What, is Breezies secretly some kind of mob boss headquarters? Did you sign a blood pact or something?"

The Unicorn lowered his head and stared at her from between his eyebrows. "Very funny. No." He raised his head again, then levitated a small plastic casing of twenty-ounce cups from a cabinet next to him, passing them toward the back of the kitchen with a deadpan look just as an employee yelled through the blaring of an alarm.

"We need more cups!" Though the voices reverberating from the kitchen continued—even seeming to get louder—Octavia could still distinctly hear the rather astounded voice speak again. "Oh!"

The Unicorn smiled to himself, but downturned it just as quickly as he'd allowed it to come. He blinked in silence for a few seconds, then brought the cigarette back up to his lips and puffed on it. "Where's the bowtie from?" He asked, turning his head to the right to face Octavia. Running his eyes up her neck, he added, "Unless you play the accordion in Tall Tale's Triplet, you don't have a concert tonight, and definitely not here of all places."

Octavia opened her mouth to reply, honestly a bit prepared to answer such a question, but clamped it shut once she realized what he was doing.

"Do you truly like it here?"

The Unicorn sighed into the air, rolling his eyes and staring at the ceiling fan above him. "Why are you still asking me this?"

Octavia stared him straight in the eyes, a glower on her face. "Because I can tell when somepony is bored and absolutely miserable out of their minds." She took a step forward, continuing, "I work at Canterlot, and I see it everyday, and have for the past five years of my life."

The stallion snorted. "Canterlot sucks."

Octavia took a sharp breath, not even believing herself as she involuntarily added, "It does indeed." She felt a small ringing in her ears, like she'd just gone through the train tunnel under Canterlot and was beginning to ascend to the city in the sky. Gritting her teeth, she seethed. Had she really just said that? Canterlot was her home.

The Unicorn tapped a hoof on the counter idly, taking a long drag from his nicotine before pulling it out, studying Octavia in silence, and asking with a smirk, "What's with the hat?"

Octavia lifted her chin. "What's with yours?"

Yellow eyes grew wide, then shrank back to normal size. The Unicorn blinked rapidly, his head turning this way and that as the cigarette in his magic remained as still as a black rock in the desert sun. He continued his action for quite a long while, slowly reclining backward to presumably rest against the white wall standing behind him. His spine thumping against it, he swallowed something in his throat, and his face took on a genuinely confused look. He blinked once more before dipping his head and speaking in a lower volume.

"...I don't know."

"Sesame Seed!"

The Unicorn sprang up, his cigarette silently spilling onto the floor as he began fiddling with his hat and shirt. Octavia eeped in silence and flattened her ears against her head, slowly rotating about to find a rather furious looking griffon stomping up to the apparent Sesame with his face beet red and his blank white teeth grinding against one another like they were two faults of the earth's surface. Growling like a rabid animal, the bird brought out his left claw and shoved it toward the kitchen, shouting, "Get your ass into the kitchen! Smoking, again? How many times have I told you to stop taking smoke breaks in the middle of your damn shift?!"

Sesame got up with a frown on his face and began walking past the griffon. "About fifteen, but I lost count–"

"Don't be smart with me, you little bonehead! Go clean the grease fryer!"

Watching as Sesame simply deadpanned, "On it, boss," the griffon shook his head violently and tutted.

"Lazy, lazy, lazy." He walked over to where his subordinate last sat, bending over and picking up his discarded cigarette from the floor. Raising it up to his green eyes, the griffon hummed at it and frowned more heavily, lightly flicking the offending claw forward and not even watching as it landed in a nearby trash can. Letting out a sigh, he reared up on his hindlegs and placed both his gray claws on the countertop, now staring at Octavia with a hurt expression.

"Terribly sorry about my employee's incompetence, ma'am."

Octavia's eyes darted toward one of the slots lining the divider between the serving area and the kitchen, where said employee was stepping away from an out-of-view corner with his horn lit up brightly. She looked back at the griffon once he continued speaking.

"I do hope he wasn't bothering you, he tends to do that sometimes, I'm afraid." Sesame realized that Octavia was staring at him. The frown on his lips remained still, but he brought the object he was holding into her view. She blinked. What was he doing with the grease fryer? "If it's all the same, I'd like you to return to your seat where you won't be disturbed by the employees. We here at Breezie's try our hardest to bring you the best foods we can–" Sesame turned the corner and was now walking toward the used carsalesbird of a manager. Octavia began to walk more to her left, slightly concerned once she realized she was distracting the griffon as he turned more toward her and presented his back toward the still approaching Sesame.

What was he doing–

"–and to do that, we need full, undivided attention to our grills and our fryers. Have I told you about our french fries?"

Octavia shook her head, her lips pouted out and her eyes wide. Sesame now stood directly behind his boss, an annoyed expression on his face. The heart in her chest was beating heavily, almost drowning out the blood rushing in her ears.

She flitted her eyes back to the griffon. He licked his beak, laughed a short laugh, then grinned at her.

"They're to die for."

Octavia would have rolled over onto the floor and howled at the irony of the griffon's jackassery, but as she gritted her teeth and slowly stumbled back, she realized that the griffon himself was doing a great job of that. Sesame stood over him even after his shockingly frightening action, the fryer in his magic now completely devoid of its previous puddle of fresh fries and scalding grease. The busy noises of the entire restaurant had by now been reduced to only the store's manager's roars of intense pain, and though she couldn't see them all, Octavia felt the eyes of every single occupant staring into her back. Sesame caught her attention, waggling his eyebrows and extinguishing the light on his horn to allow the rectangular cage to thud onto his boss' singed head. As Sesame hopped over the countertop, Octavia was a bit thankful that she couldn't see what had become of the drilling griffon. It most likely wasn't pretty.

She really didn't expect Sesame to go that far.

"We should probably go..." Sesame said, trotting past her.

"Octavia?" The mare turned her head. W, Lavi, Valkyrie, and T stood behind her, their beaks agape and their eyes like saucers.

She looked at them in turn, then swung about to look at the front counter. The screams of the manager still echoed through the establishment.

Oh Gods, what had she done?

Octavia looked back at the griffons, then began cantering toward the exit door with a quick calling of, "We need to leave." With the distinct sounds of claws clattering against wood, Octavia turned the final corner, about slipped on the wet spot of water next to the bright yellow sign, and pushed her way through the door, practically shouting at the blinding sunlight that met her eyes.

Circles
View Online

Stroll

Circles

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The noise was driving her crazy, and there weren't many times that Octavia found herself claiming a sentence bearing any hint of resemblance to that. Sure, her roommate spent a lot of time spinning records and entertaining parties—usually late at night, so as to annoy Octavia to her utmost efforts—but all the Earth Pony had to do was simply wriggle out of her comfortable sheets, drop down to her clean-as-soap floor, groggily trot over to get her broom from her closet across the foot of her bed, and slam its blunt end on the carpet beneath her hooves with a threatening shout of promises better left unsaid that entailed pulling cords and snapping vinyls. Of course, Octavia would never do it—mostly because she knew that her roommate had the capacity to do a lot worse, being a Unicorn and all—but the blaring dubstep downstairs would slightly decelerate all the same, and Octavia could satisfyingly head off to Dream Land once again.

The sound of dripping water from a faucet was also a large detriment to her state of living and sanity. Her roommate had an odd penchant for leaving things just a tad wrong, like a front door that is slightly ajar and allowing any wannabe thieves easy access to their abode, or a toothpaste cap that looked to have been screwed on by a five-year-old filly with some form of arthritis in each one of her little hooves. Octavia was a bit thankful that they didn't share a bathroom, but no matter what time of day it was, she could still hear the telltale sound of an unturned faucet drip drip dripping into the presumably disgusting sink and its contents below. Octavia was a firm believer in privacy—and she'd only been in her roommate's restroom once to retrieve her stolen mane brush—but if the sound were to continue for another moment in her life, the mare would claw her eyes out with a pair of spoons and leave them on the sink as a friendly reminder to switch off all appliances before leaving the house. Maybe then she'd show her.

Her younger brother, back when she still attended middle school, held a particular interest in the little silver spoons and forks that their family used to dine with, always muddling around with them and building "log cabins" as he had aptly named them. Octavia had been young at the time—obviously—and calmly, embarrassingly, shook her gray head whenever her sibling even touched his utensils. She'd gotten picked on horrendously about it once she had told one of her friends, who in turn had told one of her friends, and so on and so forth, but this was something she could easily ignore and roll her eyes at. Still, she had to remind Forte many times that it was silverware, not silver wear. She'd seen her friends put spoons on their muzzles back in grade school, and she'd always wanted to try it until she started seeing it affect her brother.

Her dad, even, was a constant offender of the largest rule in eating history: don't scrape your Godsdamned fork on the Godsdamned plate. Whether it be after another exciting day for him down at the Guard Depot, or just because of his being happy to finally eat with his family day in and day out, the old stallion simply couldn't contain himself from laughing out loud and tapping, sliding, or scraping his forks on their polished plates. Octavia had cringed multiple times as a filly, though it was mostly due to the odd looks of ponies outside directed at the kitchen's nearby window—which Octavia sat by—and her utter hatred of fork scraping extended into her later years. Though Canterlot aristocrats with their big dumb hats and their dumb clothes were well aware of proper etiquette and thus would never even think about messing up that badly, there was always one bad apple in the bunch.

Octavia guessed that that was why Sweet Apple Acres always had the best product. They never really had any bad apples in their baskets.

SKREEEEEEEE.

Octavia slowly turned her head, her purple eyes narrowed beyond belief and an incredibly distressed frown plastered on her lips. The fork in her hoof remained where it was, attacking the otherwise peaceful citizens of her Caesar salad with sharp, destructive dexterity. The griffon sitting at the table next to her swiveled around in her chair casually, the most nonchalant look on her face ever witnessed by the entirety of the world. Seemingly unaware of her hellish onslaught upon the ceramic plate in front of her, Lavi raised an eyebrow and lifted her silver fork from the chili fries sitting next to her burger.

"What?"

Lavi might as well have been dragging her claws down a stretch of green chalkboard. That would've been infinitely better. The snort issued from her beak signified that she really, honestly, legitimately believed she hadn't done anything wrong in the slightest. If Octavia made any noticeable indication that she wholeheartedly agreed with the griffon's apparent innocence, she sure as hell didn't show it in any way, shape, or form. Lavi snorted.

"'f you wanna snag a fry, you're free to."

After what Sesame—that crazy bastard—did with the grease fryer that earlier fried that batch? Surely the griffon was just screwing with her– oh and now she's eating them that's only the slightest bit disgusting.

Octavia screwed up her face in an attempt to show mass disturbance, but she could only feel in horror as she gave a small smile and a bunching of her right cheek. "I believe I'll suffice, Lavi."

"More for me!" the griffon replied happily, an upward inflection accompanying her rising golden claw—filled with salted potatoes—and its shoveling of food down her gullet. Biting down on her lower lip, Octavia swallowed a lump in her throat and turned her attention away from the carnivorous evisceration trying its hardest to be presented to her. She swiveled about in her chair, a want of escape from her current situation branded into her lovingly wandering mind. Lovingly being a... necessary term. She didn't exactly want to punish her mind, did she? That would be horrible, almost like kicking a puppy. A nice, cute, naive puppy—maybe a Corgi of some kind—that hobbled around with its tongue hanging out and dumb little growls and grumbles escaping its ungrown gullet.

Valkyrie still stood as angry as a three-legged bulldog, a single claw reaching up to pull away the dreadfully gray curtains fluttering in front of her just far apart enough for her to look outside without being seen, like some creepy stallion with too much down time and too little social time. She'd seen the newspapers; the reports didn't lie. If the fact that Sesame owned an apartment in this horrible town sounded depressing enough, his chosen locale also coincidentally happened to overlook the street that his workplace was located on. Octavia thought on this for a second, realizing just how agonizing it would be to wake up every single morning at his alarm clock's beckoning call, look outside for the day's most likely terrible—suiting such a town as Tall Tale—weather, and instantly see your wonderful, glorious, lovely fast-food chain that you slaved away at for hours on end day after day week in week out month and month dealing with grease fryers and dealing with meat and yelling at kids and talking to scary dragons and smelling horrible and smoking nicotine and generally being miserable in a town that hated ponies as much as Octavia absolutely vilified the dreaded pile of slob called meatloaves.

She had a bit of a grudge, you see. She wasn't sure she'd gone over that already.

Had she? These things just started blurring together sometimes. Ah... just like high school...

"Hey, Octavia?"

She sat up straight and reflexively lifted her chin, only noticing that she'd done so when W snorted to himself. The mare cocked an inquiring eyebrow as he did so, but quickly realized her movements and cleared her throat more shakily than she would have liked. Thankfully, the griffons around her seemed to neither realize nor care. W, seated at Sesame's navy blue couch, bunched up his claw and the now messily oily rag encased within its iron grasp, pausing to regard it wearily before simply stuffing it down behind his chest plate. Adjusting his hold on Candidate, he threw his left arm onto his crossed hindleg and swiveled about to face her.

"You two about done?" Talk about rushing a lady, old W. He waved his claw around loosely, popping his neck in the process. "We need ta figure out where we're headed next."

"I say we head to Baltimare," Valkyrie said from her position by the window, a single talon still parting the two sheets of fabric and allowing a triangle of sunlight to leak into the otherwise dim apartment's interior. "Horsehoe Bay and everything. Probably got a few ships that can take us back to–"

"If I recall, Val, you're not supposed to speak to a senior officer unless you are spoken to." Octavia saw T, from his position on the floor whittling away at a wooden sphere, smile toothily and shake his head at W's sudden recount. Lavi, out of the corner of her eye, halted her feast for a few seconds of her life, seemingly decided it wasn't worth it to interrupt, and continued again. W looked up, a casual expression on his face as he added, "And nobody bucking spoke to you." The room went quiet. T coughed into a claw. Holding Valkyrie's gaze, W stared at her as if waiting for her to spew a worthless remark, only to slowly crack a smile before chuckling. "You've got a good point though. It's a start, but there's no way in hell I'm heading back to Griffonstone Kingdom without anything to show for it."

Valkyrie shrugged, impressively unfazed by W's kidding around. "Worth a shot," she claimed, turning her head and peering out the window once more. "I doubt the damn thing ever made it out of Griffonia," she kicked something out of Octavia's point of view that sounded metallic, "and I seriously doubt this box has anything to do with it, let alone being anything useful in the first place." The box. The one Octavia had been instructed to help opening when she had met the griffons. She had completely forgotten about it; it hadn't come up in awhile, though that was mostly due to the fact that Valkyrie most likely hid it on her person to avoid paranoia-induced theft or some kind of speciesist thing that Octavia would've loved to verbally ridicule. What kind of pony could just hate somepony else for being who they were? Disregarding Valkyrie's not being a pony in the first place, it just seemed pathetic.

Lavi got out of her seat from next to Octavia, her cardboard lunch tray grasped in a talon and her soda in two. Throwing them into the trash can in the corner of the kitchen, she walked over to where W and the other griffons were situated. Octavia meanwhile was left to dip her chin and stare glumly at her glop-covered tray of salad. If there was ever a more depressing thing than Octavia not finishing a delicious helping of green leaves and assorted vegetables—and not wanting more, even—she wasn't sure she'd ever be prepared to handle it. The more she thought on the matter, the more she slowly realized that salads were kind of dumb, and if she wanted a meal consisting of nature's products alone, she could just head outside and breathe in all the cigarette smoke and ozone drifting into the beautiful, blue, Celestia-blessed sky.

She leaned forward and bit down on the edge of her tray, trotting over to the trash can with rehearsed balance and finesse that she'd acquired after realizing that spilling one's plate of food around bothersome aristocrats and penpushers was something that led to ridicule that she quickly learned to despise... like meatloaf. She found herself dumping her tray into the plastic bag of the dumpster with a hint of anger. Meatloaf. Gods she really–

"How about Canterlot?"

"Gods, please no."

She wiped her front hooves together to rid herself of the muck of ranch, only to look up and cautiously narrow her eyes at the amused looks wafting from the living room. Oh she'd said that aloud. Whoops. She cleared her throat and began to trot over to the quartet as W reached back into his breast plate, retrieved a small square-shaped piece of paper, and began unfolding it on the ground in front of him.

Octavia saw that many red dots had been marked on certain spots on the now obvious map.

"So, we're in Tall Tale," he began, jabbing the paper where four light blue building stood in the middle of an olive green cloud. He looked up, watching as his subordinates and Octavia started to form a half-hearted ellipse around his new position on the white carpet. "That's about as far west in Equestria as you can go. Now, there's the Undiscovered West even further that way," he said, pointing a claw to his left, "but as far as I'm concerned, that's bat country, and we're not stopping there." The griffons chuckled with him. Octavia screwed up her face, wondering what was so funny. Mouthing a silent What? to herself, she continued to listen.

"Our favorite mean-ass bird–" Valkyrie immediately grinned. "–suggested we head back east," he recounted, stabbing the town hall of the town labeled Baltimare, "to Baltimare. We've got Horseshoe Bay to work with, and if we're lucky, we could get old Screwby to help us get back to Griffonstone."

"What about north?" Lavi asked, walking closer to her leader and pointing upward from Tall Tale on the map. "It's been awhile since we've hit up Vanhoover, and it's not too far up."

Valkyrie spoke, "You really wanna listen to those lumberjack ponies just say 'eh' all day? Didn't think so." She hadn't even given Lavi time to respond before finishing for herself. Octavia shook her head.

W gave a sigh, licking his beak absent-mindedly. "Not really my point exactly," he said, raising both his eyebrows and ruffling his feathers, "but I'm not itching to head back to Vanhoover in the first place anyway. Good thinking though– proximity. I like it." Lavi nodded happily, presumably to herself.

Octavia had been watching confusedly, not very familiar with tactics such as these—whatever they were—but she knew an opportunity when she beheld it. Practically springing upward and into the lazily spinning ceiling fan above her head, she opened her mouth and asked.

"What about Ponyville?"

W bit his bottom beak. "Train doesn't head to Ponyville, and I'm not really too excited to stomp around backwoods Equestria hundreds of miles to pony town itself. Good idea though, something might've popped up there. Weirdest things always happen in Ponyville..."

"Like that whole Discord fiasco..." Valkyrie guffawed. Saw it, Octavia thought.

"Or Nightmare Moon," Lavi added. Heard about it, Octavia thought.

"That new Princess, too," T spoke. Kind of figured, Octavia thought. Twilight had to suddenly have wings for a reason, didn't she?

"Hell, those new Elements of Harmony are from there, aren't they, Octavia?" W asked, turning to her. He straightened his back, awaiting her response.

"...yes. They are."

What kind of Godsdamned train didn't go four ways? The Canterlot tunnels headed to here, Ponyville, Baltimare, and Manehattan! She had to take another train just to head back home?! How absurd was that?! She calmed down slightly. At the very least, she'd be home. Then she could turn her oven off and get some peace and quiet again. Finally, she'd be home.

...

Peace and quiet. Peace and...

"Where did Sesame Seed head off to?" Octavia asked, raising an eyebrow and swiveling about on a dime.

"Who?" Valkyrie asked, looking genuinely confused.

"Seriously Val? The guy whose house we're in right now? The stallion who literally burned his boss with french fry grease?" Lavi spat, the frown on her beak almost breaking it in half.

"He's in the bathroom right now," W stated matter-of-factly, pointing to it. "As a matter of fact, he's been in there for a helluva long time..."

Valkyrie raised a claw to the side of her beak. "Hey buddy! You jackin' off in there or–"

UM-BLEGH! COFF COFF COFF!

Octavia gave the others a slightly uncomfortable look. They mirrored it perfectly.

A voice came from behind the door across the living room, muffled and obviously recovering. "Yeah yeah I'm... oh Gods... yeah I'm fine! Just gimme a minute!"

Octavia was patient, and apparently, so were the griffons. They gave him two. Octavia about considered rushing over to see if he needed help, only to halt in her beginning tracks as the orange Unicorn stumbled out of the bathroom, his horn alit to flick off the light switch. Accompanied by the sound of his toilet flushing something Octavia was immensely grateful she didn't have to see, Sesame stuttered.

"S-sorry, just... not good."

"The hell's wrong with you?" Valkyrie asked, "Were you purging in there or what?" Octavia shot the bird a look. Valkyrie caught this, shrugging with a distinct frown on her mug and her eyes on the ceiling.

"Yeah seriously what's up with you?" Lavi prodded rudely.

Sesame blinked, first his left eye and then his right. He nipped quietly. His mane was a wreck. "Never thought I'd actually... do that. Back at the restaurant, y'know?" The others remained silent. Octavia hoped they were simply allowing him to continue like she was. "I actually just lost my job. I– I– I– I just quit!"

Lavi snickered. "At least you didn't get frier'd–"

Octavia slapped the griffon's wrist next to her. Lavi seethed, but said nothing. Valkyrie snorted.

"I just can't believe I did that. It was, like, heat of the moment or something." Sesame blinked twice, sitting his haunches down on the floor. He coughed into a hoof for a second, then rose his head and pointed at Octavia. "It was you."

She silently eeped.

"You made me do it." His expression suddenly changed to one of horror. Waving his hooves around, he sucked on his teeth and sputtered, "I didn't mean it like that!" Somehow, the stallion knew that Octavia wasn't looking to take blame for a case of third-degree burns on a stranger. He wasn't an innocent stranger, mind her, but he was still a stranger. "Like, you talked to me, and that's what made me do it." He stared straight ahead, like he was judging a burning wick of a candle thousands of yards away. When he next spoke, he sounded like he was more asking himself than he was asking her. "How the hell did you do it."

He blinked again, Octavia halting the response on her tongue in case he was going to continue. When he didn't, Octavia raised a hoof.

"Sorry, what're we doing?" Sesame asked abruptly. Octavia huffed, whipping her mane around and running her hoof through it casually.

W smiled at him earnestly, tapping the map and eliciting a resounding scrape. "We're figuring out where we're headed next."

"Baltimare," Sesame said instantly. Obviously anticipating the weird looks on his audience's face, he gave a crooked smile and lit his horn, watching as the map gained a dijon mustard hue. Trotting up to the group, he brought the map over to him and looked over the top of it. Bringing out a hoof, he slid it from Tall Tale and across Canterlot, explaining, "Train here doesn't head to anywhere but. Doesn't go left and it doesn't go right." Bloody hell, Octavia thought. Of course it doesn't. "Straight away to Baltimare," he added, levitating the map back to its owner, "and you don't look the type to enjoy Vanhoover."

Vanhoover was actually a very nice city, Octavia wanted to say. She hadn't had a concert there for awhile, but she could easily remember how extravagant its restaurants and its various food were. The ponies definitely said 'eh' like it was the only letter in the alphabet, but they were kind enough to help the Symphony's carriage get out of the snow one late winter night.

"Definitely not," W replied, nodding. "Baltimare might be a good decision then, but if we don't find anything there I'm going to be very unhappy."

"They've got a pretty big library down there; whatever you're lookin' for probably has some books about it in there," Sesame stated. "Trust me, I once served the head librarian at Breezie's. She wouldn't shut up about it."

The griffons smiled to one another and nodded.

"Well, it's settled then. We'll head to the train station in an hour and set out for Baltimare," W informed the group as he got up, making sure to place the map back behind his armor. "Octavia," he said, turning to the mare as she began to trot toward the kitchen table, "go back and finish your salad if you want, we've got about an hour of Valkyrie complaining ahead of us–"

A trio of knocks suddenly erupted from the front door of the apartment. The interior snapped to silence. Octavia stepped away as the four griffons instantly crouched down into low positions, for some reason reaching for their weapons. W stood still, his claws around Candidate's forward wooden grip.

All five watched as Sesame simply trotted over to the door, standing his ground and puffing out his chest.

"Yeah, who is it?"

A deep, grumbly voice called out, muffled by the four inches of dark oaken wood between him and a pack of heavily armed birds.

"We wanna talk, Sesame–"

"My contract with Greg is over, Boxer. I quit."

"You don't just quit, Sesame! You signed the damn papers, you know what they said–"

"I think I hear my shredder going off in my kitchen. You could probably find it there."

Octavia's eyes widened. This stallion was brave, if nothing else. Maybe a little stupid—considering the owner of the grumbly voice to be some kind of muscular Diamond Dog—but brave nonetheless.

"Once you get your paycheck, we want it, Sesame."

Sesame lightly stamped his hoof. "I owe you nothing–"

Another voice, this one a little more high-pitched and raspy but still masculine, shouted, "How's three hundred bits sound, asshole?"

Sesame's mouth fumbled for a bit, but he sucked in a breath and replied, "Three hundred for what?"

"You're an asshole, asshole," the apparent Boxer called, "every time me and my friends come in to your crummy restaurant, you treat us like garbage and mess up our orders!"

Octavia gave a sideways glance to W and the other griffons. They mirrored it perfectly.

"You're bad business, Boxer. Nothing personal."

"Why I oughta..."

"What?" Sesame asked, shrugging and seemingly unfazed by the thumps now emanating from his door, "You oughta what, Boxer? You're looking at five inches–" Oh, it was five inches now, was it Sesame? Octavia knew a four inch door when she saw it. How else was she supposed to know if something could muffle her roommate's music downstairs? "–of badass oak straight outta Vanhoover! What could you possibly do to break it dow–"

Splinters of wood suddenly exploded into the interior, clattering on the floor and collecting like they were rocks on a riverbed. Stepping out of the stairwell outside Sesame's apartment were a pair of figures Octavia instinctively shrank back from. A Diamond Dog, clad in a black jacket with a purple scarf around his neck, and a light blue minotaur with a pair of denim jeans menacingly stepped forward, cracking their knuckles as they chuckled a fiendish chuckle.

Sesame backpedaled swiftly, seemingly not expecting them to barge in. His one line of defense had vanished.

Eyeing up the griffons and Octavia, Boxer laughed, "I see you made some friends, Sesame. Too bad they'll have ta watch me beat the livin' hell outta you."

Octavia could only gasp as Boxer leaped forward, swiping a balled claw around and striking Sesame across the face. The Unicorn, uttering a short grunt, fell to his left and collapsed on his coffee table, shattering it on impact. As he grit his teeth and attempted to get up, the telltale sounds of Boxer stomping across his floor thudded into Octavia's head. The Dog halted in his tracks, turning his yellow eyes to the quartet of griffons aiming Magicarms at his and his companion's heads. He glared.

"You think your bonehead weapons will hurt me? You birds are stupider than I thought."

W cocked back the small lever behind Candidate's revolving cylinder. His blue eyes narrowed as he replied, "No. My claws will kill you." He jostled Candidate. "These are just for show."

Boxer and the minotaur balled up their fists, arching their backs and hunching over into ready positions. Octavia widened her eyes and frowned, taking a few cautionary steps back. W and the others could fight this one; Octavia needed to see if Sesame was alright first and foremost. The punch of that Diamond Dog looked to have been bone-breaking.

She froze up on the spot as Boxer roared instantly. "No you don't, mud slinger!"

The Dog took a hostile step forward.

"Down, puppy!" Lavi shouted. She fired.

Author's Note

Or is it frier'd?

Spheres
View Online

Stroll

Spheres

Octavia may not have been as great a cook as she'd usually lead herself—and others—to believe, but she had very, very fond memories of working in her parent's kitchen back when she was just a young filly, with its enormous spice rack filled to the brim with dumb names and even dumber tastes, and its shelves constantly splattered with batters, sugars, and sauces on an hourly basis. Though she would've rather been alone to experiment with various foods like scientists with their particularly undeserving lab rats, her greatest, most pleasant memories lay with countless time spent helping her mother and her grandmother make breakfast, lunch or dinner. Hay, even just regular snacks here and there were more than enough to raise her spirits and give her such a large burst of natural high that she'd be bouncing off the blue walls of her house at the mere mention of whisks.

With the Kiss The Cook apron—a cheesy one at that, Gods it was horrible—she'd gotten a few Hearth's Warming Eve's ago and her chef's hat she'd proudly purchased with her very own, self-earned, laboriously-worked-for bits, Octavia would practically fly down the stairs with the zeal of a sky-hungry Pegasus, take a right turn around the corner, and muddle up the spherical carpet marking the entrance to the abode she was so ready to destroy by cooking in the next few seconds. There she would see her grandmother, happily and frequently visiting Octavia's mother and father just to come in and make her acclaimed "world famous" pancakes every morning. Each and every pony who ever lived in the world knew that Grandma Symphonica was most definitely fibbing whenever she spoke said phrase, but as they beheld the large stacks of syrupy goodness that surely would have rivaled Manehattan's entire skyline just by its lonesome, they wouldn't dare voice their understandably justified doubt.

Grandma Symphonica was an absolutely amazing cook. Octavia had mindlessly wandered the streets of Canterlot many times looking for any fair opponent to her Grandmother, but none could come close. Even when she wasn't making her pancakes, the old mare was quite honestly so genius, so masterful, so incredibly tact when it came down to simply cracking an egg over a bowl, that Octavia time and time again exclaimed that she had to have been some sort of expert in the field. Now, Grandma Symphonica may have been a bass player at some point, but there was more than enough ample reason to believe that she had spent her last ten years learning everything she could about making scrambled eggs from grizzled old black belts nestled deep in the distant mountains of Chineigh.

Octavia and her Grandmother were very close, almost like best friends you couldn't quite separate. Octavia may have had her mother and father to talk to about personal issues, but when she and Grandma Symphonica were busy stirring pots and taste-testing in the kitchen way past her bedtime, the young mare wouldn't be able to help just letting all her daily encounters spill out like an angst-ridden sewage vent. Symphonica was wise, befitting such an old mare who'd most assuredly seen everything imaginable when it came to teenage fillies whose drama amounted to things like crushes and bullies. Her Grandma had things to say about those things, and even beyond, to subjects regarding grades, the future, careers, bass playing, music, life, love, and happiness. Even meatloaf, so... that was a good thing to talk about. She was a bit of a wordsmith at that.

Octavia smiled to herself. She still had the piece of paper framed by her bedside–

"You Goddamn scatbreath!"

"Hyaaaaaah!"

She heard the sound of a chair—likely a wooden one, if the horrendous cracking and snapping was any indication—breaking into thousands of itty bitty pieces. If Octavia thought Valkyrie looked it, she was about to use this unwasted opportunity to take what remained of the article of furniture and smash it over the Diamond Dog's head like some kind of pro-wrestler. Octavia shielded both of her gray ears and grit her teeth as the now telltale—as of five minutes ago—sound of a Magicarm savagely crunching into a jaw echoed through Sesame's apartment, ending with the thud of a Diamond Dog body like it had so many times before. By now, the events were rehearsed; Magicarm end to the face, thud, then more hitting, and then another Magicarm end to the face. Honestly, if she were Boxer, she would have just given up by now. She guessed there was more strength in his body than there ever could be in hers, and she wouldn't trade it for the entire world.

Something slammed against a distant wall.

"Dammit! Lavi, hit that son of a bitch!"

"Comin' right up!"

First, another crunch. Then a whine that sounded like a cross between seal mating calls and dogs begging for bacon scraps. Octavia bit her lower lip and hoped that the Diamond Dog wasn't just dead. Even if he was a bit of a jerk, she didn't want to see anything related to a beloved canine deceased on the floor... or really anything for that matter. The urge to vomit about worked its way up her throat.

A flurry of stomps clipped and clopped across the hardwood floor beneath the living room's carpet.

"Duck!"

She heard something crash into what she assumed to be the large oak cabinet that sat in the far corner. It wobbled and wobbled, and then began creaking from an almost unnoticeable volume to a deafening roar until it slammed onto something clearly alive.

"Dammit Valkyrie! That hurt!"

"Get up, idiot!"

Octavia herself grit her teeth and brought up a protective gray foreleg up to her cheek, flinching as the leg of a table chair flew over the counter behind her head and soared into the rest of the kitchen, scoring a hit on a collection of dirty glasses and breaking more than half of them. As its contents shattered and spilled onto the floor, Octavia involuntarily scooted away, bringing the stallion by her side closer to the lazy susan's door adjacent to her body. She turned her head, watching as Sesame's chest rose and fell in what she noted to be a normal-looking fashion. She breathed a sigh of relief, but couldn't quite shake the fact that she felt incredibly useless at this exact second in time. No, it wasn't because she was intelligently hiding inside Sesame's kitchen behind his large countertop while an obviously brutal-sounding, need-she-remind-herself dangerous fight waged beyond in the living room between griffons and a Diamond Dog and minotaur.

She watched as Sesame grit his teeth, slightly shaking his head as his body tried curling up into a ball.

It was more that she didn't know enough in medical terms to selflessly aid Sesame and his injured forehead, as minor and almost childish it appeared to be. She adjusted the foreleg she had placed under his own and up to his right shoulder, bringing his head up and causing him to mutter something definitely not family-friendly under his breath. She'd have to berate him later for cursing, both in general and in front of a lady. It was a bad habit to get into.

"Godsdammit just let me die will ya?" He grumbled half-heartedly, almost as if he didn't quite know what he was saying.

"Oh hush," Octavia replied, quickly repositioning her stature on the floor to better accommodate Sesame's now wriggling figure, "just sit down and think happy thoughts."

Octavia suddenly leaned forward and craned her neck to look at the collection of pots and pans hanging above the countertop, roused by the body that had slammed into the other side of it. She watched as a familiar navy black claw grabbed at a black Stalphalon frying pan, wrenching it from its hanger and beginning its unintended use immediately out of the gate, if the sudden clanging now reverberating through her skull was any way to tell.

"Alley-oop!" The voice of Lavi called, the sound of wood against fur following instantly after.

"That's basketball you–" Valkyrie grunted, "–clod!"

Octavia would have rolled her purple eyes if it weren't for the mumbling emanating from next to her.

"Happy thoughts, huh?" Sesame asked, cracking open an eye and weakly smiling at her from his position on the hardwood, "My bad, I'll get right to it..." He thumped his head against the floor, then bared his teeth . "Gods..."

Octavia chewed on her lower lip, looking around to see if there was anything she could at the very least try helping him with. She tapped her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she looked to her left, then found herself shaking her head at the spoons and forks inside the drawer her eyes had landed on. She looked to the right and past Sesame, about trotting over to the other drawers and shelves she found across the open side of the kitchen until the frying pan, now curled and bent, bounced into view and slid across the floor. The foreleg she had raised in preparation for moving slowly clopped back to her side. Octavia shook her head.

"There has to be something... come ooon," she spoke to herself, her turning growing increasingly faster and more hectic as the precious seconds of the present flew by.

"There's a baking tray in the rack."

Octavia spun. "Excuse me?"

Lavi was currently draped over the top of the counter, her upper body dangling between Octavia and Sesame as she gave an admittedly patient expression toward the latter. She blew the loose feathers atop her head out of her brown eyes, then reached a claw out and grabbed the tray from the black cleaning rack adjacent to her position. Regarding Sesame with a quick, almost happy, "Thanks!" she hopped off the counter and back onto the other side, her new weapon being put to clanging good use. The tray vibrated with the first hit, then began thumping once Lavi realized it was less a shield and more a blunt object. Octavia swallowed a lump down her throat.

"Just..."

"I beg your pardon, Sesame?"

Sesame groaned, rolling over and staring at Octavia with both of his eyes—a more polite way to speak to somepony, she had to inwardly remark. "Just let Boxer do what he has ta do..." he reached a foreleg up and rubbed at his temple, the black locks of his shaggy mane being brushed upward with his movements, "usually all he needs to feel satisfied, and then he leaves. When those griffons get their asses handed to 'em–" Octavia almost scoffed. "–don't fight it."

A hulking figure soared over her head, rustling the pots and pans hangers and careening into the oaken closet door in the corner of the kitchen. Octavia's eyes widened as the minotaur, his jeans and fur now scratched, cut, and split, placed his hands on either side of his sunken head and pulled the appendage out. He turned around, hooves stomping along the ground like a toddler just learning how to walk and instead opting on stumbling about. His yellow tinted eyes spun in his head as he shook it, then landed and locked on Octavia's position.

The mare froze.

"You!"

Octavia's heart halted as the minotaur suddenly charged, roaring all the while in a way she would have ridiculed at any other time.

She turned to her right and quickly shoved Sesame out of the way, then ducked as a blue fist slammed into the area her head had just occupied along the side of the counter. Looking up, and sheepishly grinning as the minotaur's eyes darted down to meet hers, Octavia eeped and rolled forward, successfully dodging the fist's descent into the floor. Landing on all four of her hooves, she spun about and only had time to widen her eyes before the minotaur came crashing into her. Her back thudding against the surface behind her, she involuntarily brought a foreleg up and slammed it into her opponent's face, efficiently buying her time to scramble her hooves around the counter to her rear to find something to use. Her first search ended in a quick failure as her hoof slid down the side and hit something circular on the way down, turning it to the right. Her second went a lot more smoothly, ending in her retrieval of what she seconds later confirmed to be a spatula.

The minotaur reeled in pain and rubbed at the six scrunched up ovals now embedded in his cheek, then bared his teeth and balled his fists up.

Octavia reached for a new object to her left, and found herself breathing heavily as she clutched the apparent hard fabric in her grasp.

The minotaur charged once more, his horns lowered for effect.

Octavia dropped to the floor, her gripping foreleg catapulting forward and planting whatever she had in her hooves onto his head. As she quickly cantered away, praying to the Gods above that she was safe for the time being and that she could rush over to the griffons for help, Octavia took an inward double dog dare to look behind her, and she found herself gawking at what she saw.

The minotaur was stumbling about mindlessly, his hands trying to wrestle the black and white baseball cap coiling around his skull and effectively blinding him.

Octavia smiled, jumped forward a step, wheeled around, and, roaring a shout she swore she'd never harbored in her entire life, bucked the minotaur right in the gut. He crashed back into the closet door spine first, the sounds of his impact combining with snapping wood and crumpling cardboard boxes.

The mare stood still for a short time, her breathing hitched and her body quivering all over. The sounds of fighting from beyond the kitchen were over, replaced by terrifyingly casual banter she couldn't quite understand.

He wasn't dead, was he?

Oh gods she didn't mean to do that no no no.

The minotaur groaned, his head limply rolling about.

Octavia breathed a sigh of relief, then, on shaking hooves, stalked over to the minotaur's position, reached a foreleg out, and grabbed at the baseball cap's curved bill. Glaring at the minotaur's endlessly spinning irises, Octavia gave a smirk, straightened her gripping leg out, and tossed the cap into the air in an attempt to land it on her head like a badass protagonist in her books.

The hat clapped onto the floor by her side.

She frowned.

"Holy hell Octavia!"

The mare in question turned around, a wild grin on her face and her cheeks red. She hoped nopony had seen that.

"You kicked that guy's ass!" Valkyrie shouted, swinging a fist to her left from in front of her breast plate. "Way ta go!"

Octavia's lower lip quivered as she smiled to herself, her head spinning back to look at the minotaur still too dazed to get up and continue fighting.

"Nice job, Octavia," W spoke, "think he'll be outta the count for a little while."

The mare nodded to the old griffon, then suddenly frowned and raised an eyebrow. "What happened to Boxer?"

Valkyrie snickered. Lavi brushed the feathers out of her eyes and jabbed a stubby claw out to the nearby window, its glass completely shattered and letting in the blinding daylight.

"He needed some fresh air."

"He flew like a Pegasus though, damn!" Valkyrie exclaimed, walking over to the window and poking her head out. The otherwise dim apartment's interior was now brighter than the lights that were now scattered and smashed along the carpet. Octavia sucked on her lip. She'd have to be careful walking around on that now. Valkyrie brought a foreleg out, waving it as she called to below, "Hey buddy! No dogs on campus!"

Octavia retrieved her baseball cap from the floor, then placed it on her scalp and looked over at Sesame Seed still lying on the floor. He was looking at her, eyes half-lidded, but a smile on his face as he shook his head and muttered.

"No Godsdamned way..."

Octavia allowed a smile to cross her lips, then sucked a breath in through her nostrils and opened her mouth to ask about what to do next.

"Uh, Octavia?"

She turned to W. And then to T, and Lavi, and Valkyrie. All were backing up cautiously, their eyes wide and their beaks in frowns. Even in the corner of her eye, she saw Sesame rising to his hooves and trying to walk away.

"Yes, W?"

The griffon pointed.

Octavia spun.

The stovetop next to the closet was currently aflame, the assorted rags and paper plates next to it spreading the horrendous orange plague around the other side of the kitchen at a mile a second.

"...whoops."

Shapes
View Online

Stroll

Shapes

She'd bought that oven just a few, short, unentertaining days after she and her roommate had first stepped hoof inside their new house's practically empty interior, when money had been low and better spent on disgustingly gorgeous fast food and spirits were so incredibly high they might as well have been their own little Pegasi with bountiful wings and the whole package. Octavia's roommate had opted on staying home to unpack her various taped-up boxes—and by unpack Octavia inwardly knew it simply meant fling them on the ground like a kind of magic-infused tornado—so it was up to the Earth Pony, once again, to roll her eyes, sigh into the popcorn-painted ceiling, and trot over to the local appliance store to go buy some kitchenware. Octavia may not have been as good a cook as her grandmother, or really anypony for that real matter, but she held the ever so slightest belief that she would fare infinitely better than her mute roommate.

Trotting along the morning dew-stained grass with her chin held high and her posture perfectly straightened, Octavia had walked across the familiar town no real problem. Entering the establishment of her choice—and frowning deeply at the lack of shopping carts she certainly would have loved to make use of—Octavia had been shot at with the horrendous smell of woodwork and the hint of quietly burning plastic. Her main objective was to simply waltz across the store, not ask for any form of help, and find a desirable oven as fast and as soon as was Earthly possible. This massive crusade of hers had been foiled and utterly obliterated in the span of a single minute as some stallion, clad in a straight blue vest she'd have been so incredibly ready to tear off and strangle him with, had cantered over to her position to ask if she needed any assistance. She, of course, knew how rude it was to blow off somepony if they were literally staring you in your face, so she had simply said no and continued on her way. The stallion was... adamant, to say the least, and was swift to tell her that she could call for help by pushing one of the buttons located on each aisle.

She had shaken her head right then and there, but when she found one of those Godsdamned buttons, she had spent a lot more than a healthy amount of time just studying it and lightly tapping it to test how far she could push it in before some pony would come galloping over at the speed of sound. Octavia knew how to not take things too far, and quickly regained her apparently limited composure to walk further into the store. She was a tad grateful that she was in an appliance shop and not some kind of grocery store, citing the ponies approvingly listening to eyeglassed tech nerds as much better alternatives to the silent gawkers and sh-sound sharpening gossipers. Every pace she stepped, not a single pony turned to look at her and raise a brow at her obviously displaced presence in such a town as Ponyville, and that was something that Octavia had found comfort in until she had finally found the kitchen appliances section, neglectfully nestled in the southeast corner of the store so that nopony but troubled teenage chain-smokers could make use of it. Unfortunately for her, such isolation meant that she wouldn't have any real help getting the shining oven/stove combos lining the topmost shelf directly underneath the hanging ceiling lights.

Now, Octavia wasn't stupid. Far from it, in fact. She wasn't going to pull some ridiculously wacky, cartoony scheme to pile things up one over the other to try to pillar herself up to the top.

But she did it anyway.

When she had walked out of the store after paying for it—where flurries of ugly looks suddenly shot her way at the acknowledgment of her chosen item—her prior brushed mane was now fussed up and bedraggled, and her entire body sported a few new bruises. The devilish smirk she had given the vested stallion at the front could have made even Discord zap a pair of pants next to him, put them on one freakish leg at a time, and deafeningly sully them right on the spot. It had been relatively easy to drag the new, apparently envious oven back across town to her and her roommate's home, with the scalding sun and the now staring ponies being her only real complaint. She shouldn't have been surprised in the slightest—and she most certainly hadn't—since she'd carried both her double bass and her music stand countless times in the past with no sign of toiling present on her gray brow.

Octavia had been quick to chuckle at the gaping jaw greeting her once she had returned home, and even quicker to set the whole appliance up in her designated kitchen and test it out almost immediately. As the shadowed inside of her newest loved one lit up brightly from the inside, Octavia's purple eyes had reflected something so incredible, so promising, that she was almost moved to hysterics. Gone with the days of greasy burgers and salty fries, gone with the meals of shame and ridicule, gone with the tub and the pail and the tears!

It had taken little less than a week for Octavia and her roommate to experience problems with it. For starters, the leftmost knob that controlled the adjustable heat of the closest pad port side was a bit faulty at times, to say the least. Many times those few days, Octavia had found herself grumbling very childish things under her breath as she switched the stove on and off to see if she could make a difference somehow, subtle or not. The knob always stuck a little bit, as well, but she and her roommate had simply decided not to use it until they could repair it somehow. Her morning eggs now had to be cooked on the right side, but it was a better fact to face than the stove simply not working.

As for the oven, she was very much content to just say that her first pizza with it wasn't anything very edible, and then satisfyingly leave it at that. The oven was her worst enemy. The stove at the very least had four different areas to use for cooking. The oven had one. And if that one somehow got a single slop of cheese on it, the whole entire thing stopped working like some teenage chain-smoker on his first job working the drive-thru. The middle rack—which she'd use for baking and other such delicacies—was very loose now that she thought about it. She'd had her fair share of slightly inclined cookie dough where the baking pan had tipped just one degree to the side.

Come to think of it, the whole appliance was a bit faulty in itself. Sometimes, the heat would just... turn off at a moment's notice, when its owners were beyond hungry and needed some kind of fuel to continue their artistic works out of sight and out of mind of the town completely surrounding their beings. The oven door was a bit sticky, too. She'd had to force it open with a bit of an aggressive shove many a time. Octavia never really lost her temper, however. She was well-maintained, classy, and so reserved she might as well have been a table at a five-star restaurant. She knew how to control herself, even when her lovely oven was pooping out on its admittedly starving compatriot. She'd always double-check to make sure that it was off, so that nothing caught on fire.

She was always wary of that.

Octavia sniffed at the air, the telltale aroma she'd always dreaded wafting in and settling like pilgrim ponies with their funny hats. Though she lightly cringed for a select few seconds of her life, she quickly swiped at her nose with a hoof and lifted her chin, a clearing of her throat sputtering out not too shortly afterward. This purging caused her to find her throat devastatingly dry, which she intended to immediately change until another smell shot its way toward her. She turned to her left, brow to the sky, and bit her lip at Sesame's upward stare toward what had once been his not-currently-burning house. Nestled in his lips was a new cigarette, its white smoke spiraling into the blue sky to mix with its heavy, dark gray cousins. He hummed a low grumble, blinking and staring as if it wasn't his apartment that was in a present blaze. He may have been a bit more relaxed due to the yellow-suited griffons currently spraying his windows with water, but Octavia had to acknowledge that he had to have harbored at least some form of resentment toward her.

There was no time for lip-biting or looking away. Coughing into a hoof, she spoke softly, "I'm sorry I burnt your apartment down, Sesame–"

"Looks like the only resident here's fire now." He smacked his lips, his teeth taking its one-second turn to clench his cigarette before being relieved once more. "He'll prob'ly enjoy it a lot more than I did."

Octavia blinked at him silently. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, licked her lips, and tried again. "Are you all right?"

Sesame turned and shrugged, now looking at her with his dijon mustard yellow eyes and a small smile on his face. "Never better, actually!" He swiveled about and raised his right foreleg, then shook it limply. "I've... always wanted to paint those walls a charred black anyhow."

Sarcasm. Legitimate sarcasm in the face of financial trouble and possible homelessness. Octavia shook her head and spoke her piece once more. "I'm sorry, Sesame. Truly, I am."

The Unicorn chuckled now. Looking to his left and smiling down at her, he replied, "No, I'm serious though, I really didn't like it there." Pressing his frown into his cheeks and bunching them up, he added almost longingly, "Landlord wouldn't let me keep a dog..." The fire, fortunately confined to Sesame's apartment due to its tortoise-like slow burn, snapped and popped in front of them. "...what kinda bullcrap is that, huh?"

Octavia giggled, despite the circumstances. "Most certainly a cat person."

Sesame snorted, elbowing the mare in her right side. "No kidding! Guy's got, like fifteen of them! That's a mare's thing, not some big burly minotaur's thing!" His eyes went wide, and he sucked in his bottom lip as he gave Octavia a cautious glimpse. He waved a hoof. "No offense, I mean."

"None taken, Sesame," Octavia replied, slightly surprised somepony had actually taken her feelings into account, "I personally love dogs as well."

He raised a brow, the cigarette in his mouth twirling round and round. "Corgis?"

She lifted her chin, a look of amusement framing her features. "Labradors."

"Pegged you for a poodle pony," Sesame admitted, shrugging to himself, "seems to fit you Canterlot guys."

It was her turn to purse her lips and push them to her left side, a glare now narrowing her eyes. "And what is that supposed to imply–"

She stopped, something small and noticeably blunt prodding at her right hindleg. A confused look on her face, she spun about expecting to find some kind of woodpecker continuing its species' combined hatred of her—long story—but was surprised to see a small, really cute, young griffon riding a befittingly tiny skateboard, and wearing a helmet lined with little green dinosaur spikes that was way too big for his feathered head. His green eyes, filled with glee, brightened at her noticing of him, and he leaned forward and balled his claws in front of his face.

"Hi!"

Octavia felt an uncontrollable grin cross her lips. Raising a foreleg up, she bent the end of it like some kind of sock puppet mouth and replied back happily, "Hello there!"

The griffon smiled. "Is that place on fire?"

Octavia blinked. "Yes...! It is!" She awkwardly stood there for a brief few seconds, then threw out a hoof and pointed it at the currently ablaze apartment complex. A lump crawled its way up her throat and decided to just sit there.

The... hatchling(?) shook both his claws, shouting, "That's so awesome!" He turned to the building and added, "Burn, baby, burn!" Octavia's eyes grew wide. This was getting a little weird. He looked back at Octavia and hummed for a second, then suddenly oh'd and excitedly rattled his skateboard. "Hey, you wanna come to the park and meet my friends with me? They've never seen a mare before!"

Octavia's smile wobbled about in amusement. She shook a hoof. "I'm sorry, I have someplace to be. I think, um–" she craned her neck and found Sesame still looking at her with a look of normality. In a bit more hushed tone, she asked "–Sesame, you wanna go?"

Sesame magicked his cigarette and levitated it next to his head as he trotted forward and leaned over. "No thanks, Gorty. Say hi to them for me, though."

"I will, don't worry!" Gorty exclaimed, waving them both goodbye as he began to skate away. Octavia, a bit curious to see which side of the otherwise horrendous town harbored the local park, watched as the griffon went. Her eyes, following him, suddenly darted toward the four other, much larger griffons a few feet away currently having a chat with the pair of blue-clothed police officers who'd look more in line at the beaches of Baltimare than the urban environment of Tall Tale, if their dark aviators and short sleeves were any indication. They'd arrived a few minutes after Octavia, Sesame and W's group had escaped the apartment, and, if her noticing of the denim jeaned minotaur lying on the floor with handcuffs in tandem with Boxer next to him would prove to be any help, were here to take the two to the local jail for—if the justice system here was somehow untouched—a month or so.

Gorty, kicking along the road at the pace of an interested passerby, suddenly bumped into Valkyrie. Octavia's eyes widened. Valkyrie slowly turned around, a frown on her beak and a glare on her brow. Octavia could hear Gorty's gasp of recognition from her position about ten feet away. The pavement beneath her hooves felt a lot more sharp and rocky than she had previously noticed.

"You're a griffon too?! That's so cool!"

Valkyrie stared.

"Hey, you wanna come with me to see my friends?"

"No."

Gorty blinked. Octavia could see him shuffling along the road nervously.

"Have fun gaining abnormal leg muscle though, loser."

If she'd had fists, she would have balled them up and clenched them as tightly as soaking paper towels at Gorty's little sniffles. Bowing his head, he halfheartedly kicked a leg forward, propelling his skateboard a bare inch away from its prior position. Octavia found herself breathing heavily, her head lowered and her teeth bared. Clips and clops of hooves stomped over to her side. Sesame, his cigarette back in his mouth, spoke up.

"Thought she was just angry b'cause she didn't have food in her." He took a drag. "She always like this?"

Octavia shook her head, not even paying attention to the Unicorn trying to initiate conversation.

She spat, her lower lip doing most of the movement as she growled, "Bloody asshole."

She didn't even care that she had just cursed in broad daylight. She inwardly hoped that Sesame had either not noticed, or didn't fully care. Were this any other occasion, she certainly would have thrown a hoof over her mouth and prayed to every single God that had ever, was, and would ever live that nopony had heard her. Paparazzi, as silly and foalish as it may have been for them to peruse the musical department, were everywhere, she swore. Behind the windows at the restaurant, at her front door, inside her potted plant—though that was mostly just that... damned pink party pony that had ruined the Gala a year or so back—it was horrible.

"Gods, I'd hope not," Sesame said from next to her, "can't imagine how'd she act then." Oh, Octavia could imagine just how she'd act then. "Probably... put it into a bucket and, like–"

Octavia incessantly waved both her hooves in an instant, shaking her head with enough vigor to rival that really buff Pegasus back in town. "Going to stop you right there, Sesame. That image is a bit too... risqué for my head." She pressed her sarcastic smile into her cheeks and waggled her eyebrows at the Unicorn's obviously amused expression. He chuckled a short chuckle, then let out a prolonged sigh like he'd just seen his long lost lover.

"Never thought I'd live to see Boxer and Bully taken away." He smacked his lips, turning his head to look back at Octavia. "Or, y'know, at least conscious enough to recognize it through a pair of black eyes and bleeding gums. Guess I've got you and those griffons to thank for that."

Octavia turned to her left just in time to see an orange hoof facing her way, its hovering course oddly stayed.

She looked up at its owner with her eyes narrowed and her head slightly turned back to the right.

Sesame blinked.

"Hoof bump."

"What in the hell is a hoof bump?"

She and her friends had had... hoof fives, hoof shakes, hoof down-low-too-slow-you-prune. The adept gears in her head spun and turned and twisted for any recollection of hoof bumps. None came up, and so she stared at Sesame with the inner feeling of a nervous puppy about ready to piddle. She, of course, wouldn't have. That would be really, really gross.

The end of her left foreleg was suddenly enveloped in a magical aura, and Octavia watched as her hoof lifted up at a bit of an L-shaped angle, flew forward, and hit Sesame's outstretched hoof with a resounding clap. As the Unicorn released his hold on the mare's hoof—which clopped to the pavement absent-mindedly like a phantom limb—he shot air out his nose and mouthed 'wow' before finally having the gall of saying it.

"Wow. You really are from Canterlot, then."

Though she drew a glare and showed it to Sesame, her brain... slightly approved of her action. She'd actually kind of enjoyed that!

"Bah!" Valkyrie's voice called out from deafeningly close to their position. Octavia turned, finding the griffon in question standing next to she and Sesame. W, T, and Lavi still stood a few feet away, conversing with the police officers. "When are you two making friendship bracelets?" She leaned in close to Octavia and added, "I've got one I can put around your neck–"

"That would be a necklace, dear Valkyrie," Octavia interrupted with a straight face. Empty threats didn't necessarily bear any weight.

The griffon rolled her eyes. In the swift moment of relaxation, Sesame glared. Octavia and he could get along just fine.

"Whatever. Gonna have ta say goodbye ta him soon anyway."

"Excuse me?" Octavia asked, taking a step forward.

"He ain't comin' with us," Valkyrie replied, her head slowly shaking to allow her as much glaring as possible.

"As it looks right now," Sesame spoke up, prompting Octavia to swivel about and almost snap her neck in the process, "I'm a bit homeless. And jobless." The normal, almost joyous tone in his voice betrayed the true ice on his words.

Octavia smiled softly as a trio of paws and claws began to scratch at the sidewalk next to Valkyrie. The griffon turned her head to find her feathered companions glowering at her, annoyed. W took a step forward, commenting, "Sorry about that. Didn't think we'd burn the whole thing down, though I can't say it was my fault." He gave Octavia a look that made her stick out her tongue and want to cross her forelegs. The bird chuckled. "What are we talking about with the so-incredibly-nice Valkyrie?"

"Just tellin' the Unicorn he's not comin' with us–"

The griffon's head suddenly shot forward, her beak wide open as a resounding thud sounded out. W's outstretched claw, now exposed due to Valkyrie's leaning forward, returned to its rightful place on the ground. "Really?" He asked, "We burn his house down and muck up his job, and you treat him like shit?"

Valkyrie tilted her injured head and, as if she were slightly afraid she'd be reprimanded, asked, "Unicorn isn't... actually comin' with us, is he?"

W snapped to it, his head swiveling about like a hawk—a feat not too surprising for a bird—to Sesame's position. The Unicorn, his cigarette still burning in his mouth, blinked dumbly.

"What can you bring to the table?"

Sesame cleared his throat. "Well, you know I know a bit about maps." He licked his lips when he noticed the griffon's still facade. "Know a bit of how to lockpick, too." Fortunate. Huh. Now they had a criminal in their depths, or at least a potential one. She didn't mean to accuse, but such a power could only lead to trouble.

W smiled toothily, nudging Lavi next to him as he whispered in a higher volume than was intended for such a thing, "God, just what we were looking for."

"Shut uuup," Lavi said, eyes glaring at the bright blue sky above them. Octavia now had a bit of a hunch over why the griffons first needed her help with that stupid box in the first place. She screwed up her face to quietly giggle, but quickly closed her mouth at Lavi's annoyed scowl. The griffon kept her expression, but shook her head and smiled at the mare, who grinned back in kind. "Anyway, if you're gonna come with us, we're gonna head down to the train station. Might wanna pack up whatever you–"

"My house is gone."

Lavi blinked. Twice. She coughed into a claw, sputtering, "O-oh, right! My bad." She shuffled about, looking every which way and sheepishly grinning at the griffons and ponies currently all wondering if she was all right in her little bird brain. Her smile of sheepishness shifted to one of enjoyment, and she struck a sassy pose as she claimed, "Looking costs extra." She was scowling now. "Are we heading to Baltimare, or what?"

Octavia expected there to be nods, or even simple acknowledgments that Lavi had said something, but the griffons simply turned tail and began walking toward the train station, with its namesake—or at least the first part anyway—screaming in the distance. Sesame, beginning to follow them, brandished a horribly casual look that didn't fit a pony just wandering with strangers. Octavia, trotting over to his side, knew she probably had to get him off this ride as fast as possible. She was going to be home soon, and those griffons probably wouldn't know what to do with him.

"Are you... sure of all this?" She asked, walking alongside him a foot behind the griffons.

Sesame simply looked back at her.

"I mean, my house burned down. Where else would I go?"

She had an answer on her tongue, but it crawled its way back down into her gut and sank there.

Objects
View Online

Stroll

Objects

She wasn't entirely sure how he could do it, how he could just... sit there and smoke a cigarette like he was just going to the grocery store, a mission involving the purchasing of more nicotine and assorted vegetables flashing across his orange Unicorn mind. For Gods' sake, she just practically burned his whole apartment down! He was now out of a home, and also out of a job; both were her fault, and yet still here he was, not growling at her from behind a pair of clenched white teeth and not wringing his hooves together like he were dispelling water from a dangerous weapon of a bath towel, planning a surprise attack that would have made Nightmare Moon drop her jaw in complete and utter awe. The smoke drifting upward from the lit cigarette in Sesame's mouth whipped violently away in the cold wind from outside, gone to join its cousins erupting from his apartment back in Tall Tale a far mile or two ago. The look of absolute peace on his face told stories of stillness and calmness, not orange and yellow flowers blooming across the entirety of his humble abode.

Octavia had to honestly admit that his job may not have been the greatest—in fact it... might have been a bit of a scaldingly greasy, intoxicatingly smelly, socially heavy hellhole—but a job was a job, and if it was enough for him to afford a nice home, surely it couldn't have been that unworthy to slave through. All it took was for some... dumb mare and a group of griffons to tear it away from him like wet looseleaf paper during a rainy day at recess, where the schoolyard bullies in all their pimply, gross, unintelligent glory would start their wobbly approach to snatch her drawing journal away from underneath its gray umbrella and throw it into a nearby puddle, with a bug or two drifting atop its surface like an eternal game of Play Dead. Gods, what a bunch of shriveled prunes. She hoped they were having as bad a time as befitted them in their early years.

She remembered a young mare back when she was in her high school years. She and Octavia weren't exactly friends per say, but they exchanged quiet waves and grinned greetings whenever they spotted one another in the brightly-lit halls like they were. This mare—who Octavia now dreadfully realized she had misplaced the name of—was a badass. She was cool and collected, and she was charismatic and intelligent as hell, but she was so so stupid in the end whenever it came to anything school related. This mare was smart, and even as she slowly discovered pain medicine and alcohol, she remained smart. She continued to be such a thing even as her once amazing grades plummeted to big red F's and universities began pulling their wanting of her for their building. The mare simply didn't care, even when she finally had ponies begin telling her that she would have a hard time surviving after school ended. Not caring was something so unreal to Octavia, something that she would certainly never consider as long as she lived on this green earth, something that would mean the very end of Octavia Philharmonica and all she stood for. Caring in the first place was what had gotten her through her horrible high school with good grades, through the fancy musical academy with standing ovations, and through every day of her early adult life plagued by black notes on white paper and that damned ficus sitting condescendingly in the corner of her small room.

Gods, what would have happened if she hadn't cared for all those years? If she had just went the way of that one mare—who came to every one of her classes stumbling and bumbling away like some putrid drunkard with no alcohol at hoof—and just quietly sat there as her impressive and promising school records began to positively burn up and whisk away into the cold night sky, a smile on her face and a soft reassurance of, "This is fine," plaguing her pink tongue. Sesame had a great idea of wondering where else he would go after losing really everything in his possession. It was an admittedly crucial topic to ponder, one that Octavia should... probably think of pondering as well. If she hadn't cared all her life, she most likely wouldn't end up with all the wonders that she currently held. She wouldn't have had the good fortune of her nice apartment in Canterlot, despite all the ice cream and shower crying she had partaken in inside its walls. She wouldn't have been able to meet Mane Williams while buying yet another bottle of Caberneigh, where she had apparently blacked out after shaking his old hoof and had to be carried outside into the rain so that she wouldn't deter any would-be customers from shopping there. She wouldn't have been able to have a job where all she had to do was play music, the motion of bowing and plucking coming to her gray hooves absent-mindedly after countless years of playing since grade school.

Then again, if she hadn't cared, she most certainly wouldn't have ended up where she is now: sitting inside a black coal train whizzing past wide fields and tall mountains and crystal clear lakes as it huffed and puffed and steamed its way toward the massive city of Baltimare, with its unhealthy assortment of fresh fish markets and uniform-clad sailors walking along the paved streets like they were but normal citizens. The city had great food as far as Octavia could remember, and though she was no longer allowed within fifty yards of that ramen shop down Fourth Street, she'd be damned as could be if she didn't get some noodles in her stomach. She was a tad hungry, now that she thought of it, and if she remembered correctly, there was a nice bakery just a few blocks down the train station.

The ponies of Baltimare were always nice, and they were always ponies to boot, which, after the events of Tall Tale, was so much of a blessing Octavia may as well have put on nun's robes and stared at the blue, blue sky. She pursed her lips. She wouldn't be there for long anyhow, so she guessed that it wouldn't really matter if they were nice or not. As kind and welcoming as W, T, Lavi, and Sesame were to her uninvited self, her quiet, nice home back in Ponyville called to her a lot more than adventure did. She shook her head, a smile crossing her lips. Just a little while longer, and she'd be on a train back to Ponyville. Home. Then, she could sprint her way across town, fumble with her keys, and turn her oven off. The cookies that she had left in there may end up burnt beyond all recognition—and instead resemble misshapen slops of cow dung—but she could always just buy another box of dough... and then end up eating all of it and then cry in the shower for a while. She'd probably have to buy some ice cream as well. Cookies and creme. Maybe a big spoon to go with it; she'd probably be really hungry.

She'd be home, and not off... stomping around the countryside on an adventure that she shouldn't have been on in the first place. She had just wanted to take a nice, relaxing walk to clear her mind, and now she was accompanied by a group of huge griffons, and a Unicorn who didn't give a speckled rat's arse about how his life had practically burned down before his very eyes. The cigarette in his lips continued to burn idly. Maybe he was just compensating for something by smoking. Maybe it was just a case of sick irony. Maybe he secretly wanted to smother her with secondhand vapor. She certainly deserved it after all she had done to him within a couple hours of meeting him.

Octavia suddenly jumped at the sound of something shaking from next to her ear. For a few seconds—with her purple eyes wide and her hooves trembling—she stared out the window to her right and tried searching for what had broken off of the train's wheels, craning her neck and almost snapping it in her panic. Intending on searching the other side, she instead found the source, and slightly frowned at the yellow box currently grasped in W's talons. He blinked at her in silence from his position in the middle of the aisle, but shook the box once more and lifted it to her eyesight.

"Attendant came by while you were reminiscing, said that they were giving these out for free. Thought you'd want it."

She gave a soft smile and leaned away from her seat, then reached a hoof up and grabbed it from his claws. "Thank you."

W nodded, then turned to walk back to his seat. He stopped, however, and looked back at her. "The train'll reach Baltimare in about an hour or so. You can get some rest, if you want." With that, he was gone again.

The smile on Octavia's lips faltered, and then sank down as she frowned and stared out the window. W knew, didn't he?

She looked back down at the box of candies in her hooves, then gave out a sigh as she opened them up from the top. She sank back into her seat and admired the sun, shining brilliantly at her from behind a sea of white clouds. If he knew, well, he wasn't making this any easier.

She took a hoofful of candy and threw them into her mouth anyway.

Author's Note

Holy hell! One year of Stroll! :heart: I love you all! I intend to finish this, no matter how many people read it!

Points
View Online

Stroll

Points

"The nation of Puptopia is a peaceful one, and I will not tolerate such... s-s-such heresy as that you have so blasphemously proclaimed!" Octavia leaned forward in her seat—which wasn't so much of a seat as it was a fully decked-out throne complete with purple fuzz lining, pink fuzzy dice, fuzzy Labs sleeping by its sides, and a nice glass of wine teetering helplessly on one of its arms—and knitted her brow to glare daggers at the two figures standing before her on the long purple carpet leading up to her throne. The one on the right, glasses propped atop his muzzle, coughed into a furry paw, paused to lick at it furiously, stared at it oddly, continued to lick it, and then looked back up at Octavia, determination on his face.

"Meow!"

She stomped a hoof, an absolutely deafening bout of thunderous lightning... stuff echoing across the massive throne room. Her guards, clad in purple bandanas and shiny spaghetti strainers at either side of the entryway door, about jumped out of their skin at the motion. The felines, however, in all their disgustingly suited, hairball-spewing, whisker-sprouting, milk-gorging, everywhere-pissing glory, stared back up at her with steely reserve. The one with dumb glasses adjusted his grip on the dumb little clipboard in his paws, which was most likely filled with nonsense about "Feline Furlow" and "Catty Customers" and other such bloody nonsense.

He and his disgustingly Siamese companion were diplomats from the next land over, the rather minuscule nation of Furball Republic with its incessantly vomiting folk and honestly worrying number of obesity ratings. Hatred of pasta dishes and the citizens of her own country was rife in Furball Republic, a sign that she most certainly shouldn't bother interacting with any claiming to hail from the area. Unfortunately for her, public relations between the two neighboring countries was, as she has admitted, rather troubled, and there was only one real way to fix it and prevent the war that she definitely wouldn't want to partake in.

The other cat raised a paw to speak, like some kind of child who was too afraid to tell the teacher that she had piddled herself.

"Not another word, Mr. Spaghetti!" Octavia shouted, taking a second to press her back against her throne, "I've had enough of your back talk during our sessions with the UAN, and I absolutely refuse to put up with it for any longer."

"Meow! Meow!"

She threw a hoof up to her mouth and gasped, then jabbed it forward and hollered, "You dare spread such... grade school rumors within the confinements of my walls?!" Octavia puffed out her fuzzy-coated chest, straightened her posture, and lifted her chin as regally as she had seen the Queen of the East do so many times on TV. Gods, that mare was so damn cool. "Puppenstein!"

In an instant, the sound of scurrying claws against tile thumped into her eardrums, and with a smile on her face, she watched as the black Lab came rushing into the throne room with a little puppy wobble and an issuance of a resounding, "Aroo!" Plopping his dumb butt on the carpet next to Octavia's throne, he looked up at her, cocked his head to the left, then to the right, and let his tongue flop out the side of his mouth. He barked, causing the two cats still standing in close proximity to flinch and desperately scoot a bare inch away in involuntary fright.

"Puppenstein!" She pointed a hoof into the pup's brown eyes, and then quickly fanned the appendage around to stick it toward the two delegates. "Escort these two the... bloody hell out of my castle..." She watched as the three went, then remembered a recurring problem of theirs and placed a hoof by the side of her mouth to add, "...and make sure they get not an ounce of milk at the train station! Wouldn't want them drunk now, would we?" Puppenstein simply spun around to salute her once more, before joining the two felines as they exited the room. When the sounds of purring and meowing died out, Octavia threw her head back against her throne, then winced and rubbed at her skull when she realized what she had just done.

"Blasted backrest..." Shaking her head, she gritted her teeth, sucked in a breath of choked air, and looked to her right to find her assistant sleeping on the job. As life-threateningly—specifically to her heart, possibly her brain too—cute as he looked, he wasn't getting his dog treats for not writing things down. She delicately rapped a hoof on the arm of her throne and watched as the Corgi immediately awoke. Through dreary eyes and a pair of dumb glasses, he stared at her in silence before softly whining and staring down at the ground. Octavia, leaning over, gave the pup a pat on the head. "No need to feel sorrowful about it, my dear Ein. Everyone makes mistakes."

Ein sniffled a little puppy sniffle—almost ceasing every currently active function of Octavia's beating heart—and perked up, his expertly crocheted purple sweater sliding around his body like the dial on a loose pepper shaker. The mare, playfully rolling her eyes, adjusted the Corgi's article of clothing, smirked at his responsive bark, and pressed a hoof into her cheek as she asked, "What, do tell, is the progress on the recovery of the Treasure Of Charles Bark-ley?"

Octavia watched as the Corgi, now breathing at a mile a second, slammed a orange paw on his blanketed basket, then jammed it on his sheets.

The mare gasped. "She made it back already? Why, I only sent her out on that crusade a bare two days ago!" Octavia watched Ein's gentle panting, then threw her hooves to the ceiling and shouted, "Well?! What are you waiting for?! Send her in!"

Ein saluted her, then turned to his right and waved at the Puppyguards standing... guard by the sides of the door. Sucking in a breath, they brought out each a single foreleg and slowly cracked the large oak doors open. The blinding yellow sunlight, peeking in through the countless layers of clouds hanging high above in the sky, shone down on a single figure standing in the doorway and cast a long black shadow reminiscent of its smoky fur across the steps.

Octavia cleared her throat with a hoof to her lips, then spoke, "Mishka! I see that you have returned, and in much less time than I had prior accounted for!" The Keeshond, dressed in her thick brown winter jacket, raised a paw up to slide her goggles off her eyes then barked her acknowledgment. "No matter!" Octavia continued, flailing a hoof about. "We will simply have to... move the Welcome Home party a few months earlier! Anyhow, do you have it?"

Mishka simply nodded, then craned her neck to her left side and pulled out a large box, which thumped loudly on the floor of the steps leading up to the throne room. Turning to face it, Mishka pawed at its wooden side, then stepped back as a long, slightly wobbly, solid gold stick rattled out of the bits of hay from inside. The effect was instant, as the Puppyguards, Ein, and even Octavia gasped in awe. The last in question was the first to eventually come to.

"By the Gods, the Treasure Of Charles Bark-ley! You found it!" Octavia ascended her gaze, finding the black Keeshond brandishing a tongue-lulling smile. "You're a nationwide hero!" Mishka shuffled on the floor for a bit before barking into the air. "Well?!" Octavia shouted, beckoning the pup with a gray hoof, "Bring it here!"

With a bark and a woof, Mishka bent down to pick the stick up, seemingly realized that she bore no real, possible way to carry it, and quickly clenched it in her strong teeth. Climbing the staircase, the Keeshond sprinted toward the throne room, Treasure in her jaw. Just a split second from crossing the threshold, the pup suddenly connected with either side of the door frame, the stick in her mouth too long to fit through the entryway. Octavia blinked in a stupor as Mishka attempted to walk into the throne room once more, yielding the same results that ended with a resounding thunk and a misunderstanding whine.

The mare leaned forward and rubbed her face with both hooves, the still continuing sounds of Mishka's genuine attempts thumping through the hall. Running the appendages down either side of her muzzle, Octavia sighed heavily and threw one of them outward in a sharp point. "Mishka, left, then right!"

The dog—clearly hearing her under all of her fluffy black fur—took an acknowledging step back, craned her neck to the right, and stuck the first end of Charles Bark-ley's Treasure into the interior of the throne room, which she quickly followed with the other side. Finally walking toward the mare of the land, Mishka's tail wagged at a mile a minute, a display of utter excitement so horrifyingly infectious that Octavia herself barely realized that her smile was threatening to escape her cheeks. The Keeshond's gentle puppy plodding suddenly shifted to a rambunctious full-on sprint as she gave it her all to give the supposedly long-lost fabled artifact to her country's benevolent leader.

Mishka's paws, resonating across the hall, grew louder and louder as she approached Octavia... and continued to grow louder and louder even as the pup stopped, lulled her tongue out, and barked sweet, legitimate nothings into the crisp summer air. Octavia raised a brow, then sat up in her seat as Mishka continued to hoot and holler at her in silence. It hit her with the force of the train she had rode in on.

She knew what this meant. She knew what this sudden drowning out of nature meant; she'd seen it, heard it, and gone through it countless times before in the past. Her purple eyes grew wide, and she raised her head to scream at the heavens that she wasn't done yet, that her adorable puppies still needed her, but suddenly found herself violently flinging upward with dreadful sweat upon her brow and fabulous mane locks sticking out this way and that that came with the realization that she was stirring awake.

"Godsdammit!"

With her heart beating out of her chest, her blood rushing loudly through the entirety of her gray head, and her labored breathing more worrying than she'd ever heard in all those days testing in college, the unmistakable sound of shattered glass made its way over to Octavia, followed almost instantly by a genuinely angry sounding shout.

"Shit!"

The long known stillness of a hotel room slowly caught up to Octavia, who blinked away her crusted eyelids and wiped her face with a dreary hoof. If she wasn't mistaken, that voice that had just cursed belonged to Valkyrie, meaning that the eternally angsty griffon was up at...

Octavia turned her head to the right, silently muttering at the pain in her neck, to find the clock.

...about ten o' clock in the morning, which, if the mare was correct in her perceivings of Valkyrie's character, was something the bird hadn't done since the day she was born on this earth. Octavia reached a hoof up and threw the delightfully green blanket off her body, intending on hitting the shower to rinse all the dirt, mud, and other such gathered atrocities off her fur in an understandable interest in cleanliness. After that, maybe she could get a batch of coffee going and pray to the Gods that vanilla creamer wasn't too far away. If she wasn't miles and miles away from home, she'd have already been awake for about four hours by now, with her polished bow in hoof and her ficus already thoroughly insulted. She found it mildly uncomfortable that she was comforted by this revelation. With a crooked smile on her lips, Octavia had to silently hum at the warmth that came with sleeping in late.

A pair of footsteps stomped across the carpet, which—if Octavia's current prodding of it assured her of anything—needed a desperate cleaning. Turning her head to the source, she found Valkyrie with a claw to her hip, a small frown on her beak, and her unblinking form holding what remained of the coffee pot. The bottom half, prior consisting of glass and not air, was shattered in thousands of pieces, its sharp cousins presumably lying in wait on the floor. Octavia shut her eyes and let out a sigh. There goes that promise.

Valkyrie lifted the pot up slightly, then rattled it as if Octavia somehow had gone blind in her sleep and was hard of seeing at the moment.

"Thanks Octavia."

Octavia reached a foreleg back and rubbed at her spine. At least the griffon wasn't insulting her. She really didn't need such rudeness this early.

"Scared you, did I?"

Valkyrie shrugged with a sigh. "Gonna admit, didn't see it coming." She brought the coffee pot up to the side of her head, looked at it, and pressed her frown into her cheeks. She clucked her tongue, like the red crested folk of farmhouses. "No coffee's gonna suck ass."

"Well," Octavia spoke, falling to the floor and beginning to walk over to the griffon, "for what it's worth, I apologize." Trotting toward the bathroom door in the corner of the hotel room, Octavia found herself the victim of nothing but utter silence. An odd look plastered on her face, she stopped at the foot of the door and turned her head to find Valkyrie leaning against the countertop, her talon still clutching the shattered appliance. "Awfully quiet this morning, are we?"

Valkyrie ran a claw through her head feathers. "It's hard to hate you without any coffee."

Octavia groaned, eyes to the ceiling. "Alright, I get it." She turned back, to the only remaining promise of hot water and suds. Gods, her mane really needed to be clean.

"What are you doing?"

The mare spun around again. She blinked once, and then, after receiving no answer, did it again. She spoke slowly now, as if each word could very well be her last. Considering the individual currently standing in front of her, they very well could be. "I'm... going to go take a shower...?" Hopefully, this statement wouldn't... awaken something inside Valkyrie. The idea of her feathered face pressed against the swirly glass of the shower sliding door with a wild grin and equally wide eyes staring at the mare as she bathed wasn't something she really hoped for.

Valkyrie sucked on her teeth. "Wouldn't do that."

Octavia opened her mouth to protest. Surely whatever the griffon had up her sleeves would turn out to just be simple poppycock–

"Lavi clogged up the drain earlier this morning."

Octavia shut her mouth, thought for a second, then raised a hoof and asked cautiously, "Clogged with what?"

It was Valkyrie's turn to frown and say something utterly ridiculous, but she instead opted on a sly smirk and a snorty chuckle. "I wouldn't ask if I were you."

Purple eyes narrowed. What could she be implying...

Octavia didn't even realize she was clearing her throat with a hoof until something suddenly threatened to climb out of it. Oh Gods that was absolutely vile. She finished, albeit with her lips screwed about and a bemused expression on her face. She turned her head to the right and stared at Valkyrie out of the corner of her eyes. "It isn't... rancid, is it?"

The griffon chuckled. "Oh yeah."

Octavia sucked in a breath, then extended it as she pined for oxygen in her system. A curse threatened to escape her lips, but she stowed it down and silently let it out behind clenched teeth. Great. No shower for a few hours, at the most. The cleaning mare usually came in around mid-day, so her cleanliness wasn't too far away, at least. She blinked for awhile, then brought a hoof up and rubbed vigorously at one of her eyes. "Where's Sesame?"

"Went out t' smoke," Valkyrie replied, crossing her forelegs, "W told him he'd rather not die of secondhand smoke before finishing our job. He hates smoking. Thinks it's stupid and all that."

Octavia, planting her rump on the ground, began fidgeting with her mane to try shaping it into its usual form. "Well," she said, "that makes two of us." As she continued her task—which proved rather difficult considering the lack of any nearby mirrors—Valkyrie shook her head dismissively and spoke.

"That Sesame guy is weird as hell." Octavia paused what she was doing at that, and looked up at Valkyrie before resuming once more, ears perked up in attention that she hoped the griffon would interpret right. "I think he spent the whole night smoking instead of sleeping. Didn't see him come back up after we came in even once." She turned to Octavia and shook again with her eyes to the ceiling. "You ponies are nuts."

"Well, I guess I can–"

"Oh!" Valkyrie stepped forward, snapping a pair of talons together—eliciting a rather suspect sound eerily reminiscent of sharpening steels—and shutting the mare up. "That reminds me, we gotta go downstairs if you wanna go get some food. The others are waiting in the lobby."

"After Breezie's, dear Valkyrie," Octavia spoke, finally satisfied with her smoky mane and silently praying that it looked nice, "I don't think going out for fast food is too much of a wondrous idea."

Valkyrie scoffed, walking toward the mare with an amused look, "Oh please, there's no greasy ass burger places around here." She flashed a toothy grin. "Only grilled or smoked! It's like the best thing about Baltimare."

Octavia raised a brow. She hadn't really paid any close attention to the presence of fast food restaurants in the city. Canterlot was a different story, however. "Not even a McDuckle's?"

Valkyrie shook her feathered white head. "Hell no, mare." She stalked past Octavia and reached for the door knob, then twisted it and swung the white entryway open with a beckoning claw, "Now c'mon, you need some meat on those bones of yours."

The mare pouted out her bottom lip with a soft glare, then raised a foreleg and stared at it, incredibly mindful of its meat-to-bone ratio. It looked plain and simple to her, just like any other Earth Pony out there. In fact, she had to assume that it was a tad stronger, thanks to years of holding up her bass and clutching a bow. Then again, the appearance of pony composition was most certainly a different subject in a griffon's mind. She swallowed a lump. That wasn't a great thing to think on. As Valkyrie walked away, seemingly realizing that waiting for Octavia Philharmonica was a bit of a chore in and of itself, the mare grumbled under her breath. "Ass."

She followed the griffon shortly thereafter, but not before making sure that the room was clean enough for the maid who would surely be arriving soon after their departure. The two beds were only mildly messy, their blankets and sheets scattered about atop them; the countertops and shelves were completely barren; the curtains and other furniture only bore small prints of griffon claws across their figures. The only thing that Octavia really had to feel sorry for was the bathroom. She shuddered, hoping that whatever lay inside wouldn't scar the unfortunate pony who stepped hoof across its threshold.

Spinning about, mostly in reaction to her grumbling stomach that achingly called for any form of sustenance presented to them, Octavia quietly shut their door, made absolutely sure that it was closed, and started a simple trot toward the pair of elevators at the end of the stylishly carpeted corridor. Her purple eyes wandered the walls around her as she went, her brain admiring the antique lamps and fascinating paintings that lined them. Such sights were definite far cries from Tall Tale's; that was certainly for sure.

Her admiration was short-lived, however, as the elevator's position directly across from her suite made itself more known to the mare. Valkyrie, holding the door open with a claw, groaned, "Sputnik, hurry up already. I'm starving." Octavia, deciding that prolonging the griffon's hunger was no intelligent idea, quickened her pace just a tad to show that she had heard her, and hurried into the elevator just as Valkyrie relinquished her steely hold on the metallic door. Taking her place next to the griffon, Octavia stood in silence and waited for her to press the button to go down.

She waited.

And stood.

Octavia turned to her left, blinking at Valkyrie.

The griffons shrugged. "What? You're closer to the door. They're made for ponies, aren't they?"

Octavia glared quietly, but swiveled back around and delicately pressed the in button boldly marked 1. As the sounds of the now moving, creaky elevator cords echoed through the miniature coffin, Octavia stared straight ahead and hoped that Valkyrie wouldn't try to make any small talk. It was always like that with random strangers in elevators. She had to admit that, yes, it was a bit awkward to stand in an elevator with a group and not speak to them as you descended or ascended to your preferred floor, but it didn't mean that you had to go through with it. Octavia had slaved through many, many things that were way worse than the stillness of elevator shafts.

"Do you really wear that bowtie to bed all the time?"

Octavia cleared her throat a lot less violently than she had wanted. Without even moving from her spot, she reached a hoof up and adjusted said accessory, then mentally decided that it looked presentable enough. "Yes." The steady beeping of the floor indicator as it counted down began happily, seemingly unfazed by the outright uncomfortable atmosphere nestled inside its own walls. Octavia blinked, her nostrils bringing in bird-encrusted air that would surely choke her out before they arrived at the first floor.

Valkyrie piped up from next to her.

"Is playing the bass, like, hard?"

Octavia nipped loudly, the remnants of slumber still cooking in her system. "Not once you're proficient enough at it, no."

The indicator dinged 2, a hellish reminder that it wasn't over yet.

Octavia watched as Valkyrie teetered to and fro on all four of her legs, beak humming some low tune Octavia was too preoccupied to decipher. The mare half wished she would collapse onto the floor and clunk her head on something. Maybe then she would stop being so uncharacteristically okay to her.

"Really like that hat, don't ya?"

The mare's eyes widened. Raising a hoof, she lightly tapped the top of her head and realized that she had put W's baseball cap (now hers, she guessed) on without her even noticing. She was without words—something that really didn't make an ounce of sense considering her extensive vocabulary—but tried moving her lips to formulate some anyway.

Octavia paused for awhile, clucked her tongue, and simply replied, "Yes." She took a breath through her nostrils and slowly let it back out. Ahh, the lovely aroma of claustrophobia. Not that Octavia was claustrophobic mind her, no. Had she mentioned Roseluck already?

The indicator dinged 1, and it took all of Octavia's well-preserved reserve to not take a full-on marathon-esque sprint and dive out of the claustrophobic elevator in an attempted escape that would have bewildered any convict in ten centuries' time. Clearing her throat, straightening her posture, puffing out her chest, and delicately trotting out the door, she looked to her left and found W, Lavi, and T patiently waiting by the front door, their beaks and talons waving around as they spoke amongst one another. Narrowing her eyes and blurring the sides of her peripherals, she could barely make out Sesame confirmingly smoking a cigarette right outside, the vapors of his baccy wisping into the hot summer sky.

Trotting over to the trio, Octavia gave a soft smile and called, "Good morning."

They each turned in kind, repeating the nice gesture to her as well. Looking up to her right with an expectant pair of hovering eyebrows, Octavia stared at Valkyrie, who shut her eyes, opened them, stared at the ceiling fans spinning above, and groaned a very obviously annoyed, "Good morning, Octavia." Satisfied, the mare smirked to herself, felt her heart surge, and looked up at W.

"Did you have any place in mind?"

He scratched the back of his head. "Not really." He jabbed Lavi in the side. "Lavi said she's feeling like a nice bowl of ramen, though."

Oh.

That was going to be a problem. Octavia sucked on her bottom lip, slightly wondering in the back of her mind if it was a good idea to tell the others why she had something of a restraining order in effect on one in particular. "If I recall, I don't believe there are any good ramen places around here," she lied incredibly, feeling a tad horrible at Lavi's deflated response. "I do remember there being a rather amazing bakery just a few blocks down the way."

W turned to the others and asked, "What do you guys think?"

Lavi shrugged. "Eh, always wanted t' try crumpets, I guess." Beginning to walk outside, she threw a talon out and shoved the glass front door of the hotel ajar. It creaked and creaked in a dying plead for oil, but stayed its position and started its torrent of letting in hot outdoor air.

"And tea," Valkyrie added with a bassy chuckle, eyeing Octavia the whole way as she followed Lavi outside. Watching as she went in a mildly curious and observant fashion, Octavia saw Lavi approach Sesame, bring a sharp thumb up, and point it back toward where she, T, and W now stood alone. Sesame, turning his head, stared at Octavia with his burning cigarette sticking limply out his mouth. The flame protruding from its end was worryingly large, she noticed. With his shaggy black mane, he might catch fire.

She sucked on her bottom lip and looked up at W again. Just like her house, probably. She bet that that damned ficus would be the only thing to survive in her room. No matter how many times she cursed at it, threw it, and threatened to toss it into the rubbish bin, it always seemed to be content with its miserable form of existence. She pursed her lips and grumbled from somewhere deep and horrid down in her throat somewhere. That ficus really needed some water by now. Hopefully, her roommate was taking care of that.

...

Hopefully her roommate was actually home, and not at her coltfriend's house for a two week-long "stay" consisting of more than just drinking, spinning records, and potentially being complete idiots while ruining her reputation in the already small town of Ponyville.

Scrunching up an eye and bunching up one cheek in a frown, Octavia shrugged an honest shrug. Truthfully, she hadn't really been to Red's at all since the last time she had been here, and the last time she had been here had been... dare she say a year or two ago. She wasn't even fully sure that it was still open at all. As Sesame gave her a flat smile and turned back to Lavi and Valkyrie, Octavia dipped her head and flattened her ears. That Red had always been so unbelievably nice to her; she genuinely hoped that nothing had gone wrong.

W laughed, his gravely voice rousing her from her musings. "Well? Lead on."

Octavia screwed up her face.

The griffon snorted. "What, you think I know where everything here is? We only came here to search the library."

Octavia grinned. "Well, if I'm correct, the library is on the way, so I suppose we'll be knocking two birds with one stone–" She stopped in an instant, a cold shiver running down her spine. Oh hell. Had she really just said that? She shifted her sights to look at W and T, finding them surprisingly calm for such a—as she assumed—distastefully racist comment. The former, bunching up his brow, gave her a crooked grin. The latter simply stared at her, almost tired in a way. The differing reactions she was being presented with did absolutely nothing to aid her in wondering whether she was about to be lynched and stoned. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry. I don't think a little rock is going to take me out," W said, winking at the mare. "Now c'mon. I'm getting pretty hungry, and I don't think I'm alone on that fact."

"Wouldn't want to see Valkyrie get hungry, would we," Octavia bluntly spoke, more an answer to an unspoken question than a... question. She had a bit of an idea what the griffon was like while hungry, and seeing as how she had also skipped out on her apparent daily ritual of morning coffee, those terrifying claws could be at anybody's neck in an instant. That reminded Octavia: she had also skipped out on her morning coffee. She found it absolutely astounding that she was even currently conscious. Tossing her mane and about-facing on a dime, Octavia led the way toward the blinding sun that was surely out to get her for umpteenth day in a row.

Her hooves clip-clopping along the few steps down toward the sidewalk, Octavia was greeted with a sight all too familiar to her all across the street. Pony-drawn carriages, carrying love-drawn ponies, rolled past on the lined pavement in thunderous rounds of clicks and clacks, kicking up small clouds of dust as they went. As far as the eye could see, Unicorns, Pegasi, and Earth Ponies trotted to and fro on the sides of the street, bags of groceries, food, clothes, or all three hanging from their mouths, sides, or saddlebags. Idle chit chat, drowned out by the wooden and steel wheels but continuing unfazed, would prove tough to manage through as always. The skies above, pretty and blue with a few patches of white here and there, were a sharp and very noticeable contrast to the largely tan, black, and brown buildings below it in the bustling city of coastal Baltimare.

Oh hell.

The fish market had to be open by now, in all their ware-flinging glory. Hopefully, the others wouldn't want to go sightseeing for ponies getting clunked upside the head by rainbow trouts. She was glad they had stopped doing it with swordfish after the events of Hole-y Night two months ago. She may not have been in the city when that had occurred, but the news headlines in the papers were a lot more descriptive than she—and her stomach—would have liked.

She shook her head, then looked at the others to make sure they were all there. If she knew anything about places like these, it was that getting lost in the crowd was as easy as the thought of breathing. "So, have we agreed upon the bakery?"

W's head fanned around as he searched for any motion or verbal reply that would show doubt. Finding none, he nodded at Octavia. "Looks like we're all good. Maybe after we're done we can figure out getting a ticket for your ride back home."

Octavia gave a wild smile. "That sounds wonderful, W."

She raised a hoof and turned to begin the walk down to the bakery that she hoped was still active, but instantly collided with somepony's body. Though she was incredibly happy that it was somepony instead of somebody, Octavia still turned about to apologize to her victim as per both common sense and general politeness. As the crowd of ponies continued on their way around them, Octavia cleared her throat and opened her mouth.

"Apologies, sir..." Her voice trailed off. Her eyes grew wide, and the hoof she had raised to continue walking began to tremble like a leaf. Standing in front of her was a yellow Unicorn, his black mane short and his blue eyes almost dwarfing hers. She tried to breathe, but found herself almost going blue after many quick, desperate attempts.

A trio of ponies slowly trotted up to the stallion's side, prompting Octavia to drop her jaw on the floor.

Even without their black stocking masks, she knew who they were.

"Banana Peel," Red Vines spoke up from the Unicorn's side, "you alright back here?"

Who she assumed to be Lionheart stepped forward, seemingly to apologize to her as well for his companion's mishap, but took a step back as he realized just who it was.

It was Lock Jaw who finally approached her, lightly brushing past Banana Peel with a scowl on his lips and caution in his eyes.

"Well well well, who do we have 'ere?"

Ideas
View Online

Stroll

Ideas

Octavia had always held a bit of an almost unhealthy fondness for her own name. She had to admit that it seemed just a tad odd—and maybe slightly depressing—if one were opposed to the name that their mother and fathers had slaved over for months since their child's conception, if even just a bit rude. It would seem a little ungrateful, really. Pony naming conventions were so incredibly difficult and absolutely precise, it was always such a wonder that it consistently appeared to work out in everypony's favor. Though it was a bit humorous whenever she heard of ponies with household names such as Cottage Cheese or Cinnamon Stick—which in turn would cause her to giggle amusingly to herself next time she was forced to buy groceries—one's name was something to be proud of and thereby uphold, and Octavia had always strived to be the best version of Octavia Philharmonica she could be.

Her family's naming schemes always had something to do with music, a tradition that her mother had told her stretched years and years and millennia back during the time of First Harmony, when the very first Celle Violica stepped hoof on the earth. Octavia had always liked her name, though. Octavia, she presumed, was based on octaves, and Philharmonica, she knew, was based on philharmonic, which referred to a symphonic orchestra. It was always fun to inform ponies of what her name was, and then explain it when they raised brows and screwed up their lips in amusement. A soft, unwanted glare would cross her forehead, but she would kindly smile and inwardly remind herself that there was no deep, wondrous, convincing story about the origin of Tomato Paste. Still though, what an ass.

It took her until this very second to realize why she always slightly fidgeted whenever W or the others turned to address Lavi. It was exactly one letter off and in a completely replicated rhyming scheme from a nickname she'd gotten during grade school: Tavi. She'd always... kind of been annoyed by it. What was the point of nicknames, really? Just call the person by their actual name! She'd heard, time and time again, that the excuse for the existence of nicknames was that it was quicker to use one. Quicker by—what—a whole five milliseconds or so? Syllables shouldn't be the reason for misidentification!

Ponies had called her Octi, as well. It pained her in the ever so slightest manner whenever it was used. She'd always held a sort of mind-numbing fear of octopuses—octopi? Octopusi?—since she was a filly. Their... beaks, and their big, bulbous, freakishly gargantuan heads they had as they swam along the ocean depths by way of troglodytic propulsion. She'd always loved swimming when she was younger, but it was always the number one thing that kept her close to the shore and in eyesight of her overprotective mother and father.

Said overprotective mother and father had a strange love for calling Octavia in groups of three, whether it was to get her out of bed in the morning, find out where she had gotten lost in the market, or when they had to tell her to go to sleep because she wouldn't stop practicing her bass lessons. Her friends, even, whenever they all decided to go out to a restaurant and she took too long to order. She wasn't even safe at Symphony rehearsals, where her constant daydreaming was foiled by Frederick or Dan, their conductor. Octavia loved her name, as she had previously mentioned, but when it came to her in the form of three loud, thunderous, usually-belonging-to-parent shouts, she held only slight resentment. She was a grown mare now—and, really, had been for the better part of seven years now—but even at this very moment, she swore she could hear them calling for her from far away somewhere.

"Octavia!"

She groaned from way down in her throat, a gurgly reverberation promising Smoker's Voice if she kept it up. She bared her teeth, reaching for the pillow that she was sure was just above her head. Gods, she really wasn't feeling up to going to school right now.

"Octavia!"

Was it just her groggy misunderstanding, or had her father taken some kind of punch to the gut not two seconds earlier? His voice sounded a lot... deeper and gritty than usual. Adding onto that...

...was that a ringing in her ears?

Oh Gods it was getting louder–

"Octavia!"

She blinked rapidly, the bright sun above blinding her in an instant. Narrowing her purple eyes, she tried to grit her teeth and cringe at the unwelcome delivery of pure Vitamin D, but suddenly realized she was... hyperventilating, as if she were the asthmatic kid back in high school with the paper bag. Wild eyes darted around as Octavia sat up on what she assumed to be the concrete—if the sharp rock and cold pebbles were any indications. Shaking her head, she looked up and found W and Sesame reaching for her with a black claw and an orange hoof. Groaning, she felt the appendages lift her up from the back, shakily plopped all four of her hooves back on the ground, and tried steadying her breathing.

Oh Gods what had just happened. It was like she couldn't... she couldn't breathe! The world was painfully scalding now, and she hadn't a fan anywhere nearby to rid herself of the sweat pouring down her brow. She stared straight ahead, eyes wide, as her chest rose and fell in stammers.

"Thank you," she barely sputtered out, half-heartingly looking to her left and right.

W opened his beak, presumably to ask if she were alright, but was caught off by a voice she found familiar.

"Ya blacked out, lass!" Lock Jaw informed, chuckling potato-encrusted chuckles at her.

She'd what?! Blacked out as in... passed out?! She fainted?! She'd never passed out in her life! Why now?!

"Ya look as if yuh've seen a ghost, little mare! Are you doin' alright?"

She clenched her eyes shut, felt wrinkles on her nose, and opened them not a few seconds after. She glared in silence, not knowing what to really say. Lock Jaw, Lionheart, and Red Vines... the three ponies who'd kidnapped her back in Ponyville. They had caused her to worry about her oven, they had caused her to be out here in the first place... and they were standing right in front of her, right now. Last time she'd seen them, they were heading, what, Southward down the Everfree. How in the wide world of Equestria had they gotten to Baltimare before she had?!

She saw a yellow ear twitch from behind the mass of red that was Red Vines, and remembered Banana Peel as well. He'd been the one who escaped from the homestead back in the Everfree, but he'd been on hoof. How did he get to Lock Jaw and the others, and in turn gotten to Baltimare—again—before she had? She felt her heart twinge just a bit. He'd tricked her as well, back when she'd first met W and them. He wasn't actually a fan at all, and mind her they didn't really exist anyway, but she felt her throat lock up all the same. Banana Peel stared back at her, the look of a kicked puppy plastered on his face. He clearly didn't want to have ran into her, either. Maybe he and his thief friends had a conscious after all.

Wait.

Octavia stopped, her prior look of defiant anger instantly fading to fear. Beyond Banana was a massive shroud of ponies. Had she made a scene by fainting? There were bystanders, for sure. She risked a look behind her and, ignoring the wayward glance from Valkyrie, sucked in a small bubble of air at the other half of watching ponies just behind them. Oh Gods they'd garnered a crowd. The atmosphere was free of spoken words by either party of thieves and griffons, but Octavia knew that their audience was talking amongst themselves like they were watching a Godsdamned movie.

She turned back around. Maybe if there were some paparazzi, they'd only get shots of the back of her head, and then it could be anypony on the front cover of Pony Magazine. She idly brushed her long tail up against her left flank to further disguise herself, the purple Treble Clef wannabe hiding under a swarm of smoky hairs.

"Ya know, mare, it was very rude of ya ta steal away with our bags an' all. Ya call us thieves, but you're the one who made bank."

"Unless you had plans for filly birthday parties, I don't believe the juice boxes and cookies you stole would've meant anything anyway."

Octavia felt nine pairs of eyes suddenly look her way, four of which she could actually see. She swallowed a lump down her throat. Her snark would seriously be the death of her.

Valkyrie's laugh echoed across the sidewalk. Eight pairs, Octavia corrected.

"You guys took juice boxes and cookies?! Sputnik, did you rob a kindergarten?!"

"Shut it, you fowl," Red Vines spat, a growl reverberating from behind her clenched teeth, "the only thing you'd rob is a pregnancy test–"

Octavia leaned her neck back and rotated her head a bit to her right. She muttered a silent, "What?" of puzzlement, but shortly afterward heard an audible version from Lavi next to her.

"What?"

All eyes were on Red Vines, now. The mare looked to her left and right to find the stares of her own companions leering confusedly at her. The mare's Pegasus fur was a deep red, but Octavia could still see the disgruntled blush coloring her cheeks.

"I– I– I... it... because you..."

"Awkwarrrrd..." Lavi sang.

"Right?" Valkyrie asked, as if the two were talking about common interests, "Worst thieves I've ever talked to," she added in a slightly lowered volume.

"How many thieves have you talked to, then?" W asked, attention more fixated on his subordinate than the rising conflict happening right in front of him, "Is that just a thing you do when you're alone or something? Is it a good idea to let you walk around while we go eat?"

"No," Valkyrie said swiftly, almost not letting the older griffon finish.

"Should I have someone watch you or something–"

"No."

"Watching over Valkyrie is like waiting for Gilda to finish baking her scones," T chimed in. Gilda, was that the griffon she'd seen stalking the market a year or two back? The one Rainbow Dash had brought along?

W and the others laughed, obviously tickled by some sort of inside joke that apparently Sesame was part of as well. Octavia turned to her left and cautiously stared at the ex-fry cook as he wiped a tear from his eye.

"And why are you laughing, Sesame?"

"I like to be a part of things."

Octavia rolled her eyes. "Ugh..."

"Hey!"

Octavia looked up. W and the others, presumably, did so as well.

Lionheart had stepped forward, one of his hooves pausing in the air in mid-stomp. Realizing that he had already kicked the concrete once, he stuttered to himself and slowly lowered the offending foreleg. Valkyrie giggled behind Octavia.

"You robbed us of a very important business meeting back in the Everfree! We're not gonna let that stuff fly!"

"Oh please," Lavi replied, "if those ponies we wrangled up in that clearing were your guys, I really doubt there's much you can do."

"Plus the eight or so Octavia took out at the lodge..." T spoke once more.

"Wait, eight?!" Valkyrie asked incredulously, "Why the hell didn't you tell me about that?!"

"I didn't even mean to!" Octavia shouted back, turning her head to glare at the griffon. "It was just... accidental!"

Valkyrie leaned to her left to look over Octavia's shoulder and address her kidnappers. "Eight guys by accident?" Her eyes went up and down. "Geez, you guys should consider getting good at some point."

"Listen, we–"

"First the petty thievery of grade school lunch snacks..." Valkyrie started.

"...and then getting your asses kicked by a mare who can't fight..." Lavi continued.

It was Octavia's turn to gasp and scowl. "Hey!"

"...and now you're making fools of yourselves in broad daylight," T finished, a smile on his beak.

"Fools, huh?" Lock Jaw asked, horn levitating something by his side, "Let's see you call us fools again after this–"

TWEEEEEEET!

The two parties shut their eyes and covered their ears, grimacing at the loud-ass whistle that had assaulted their ear drums. Octavia cursed under her breath. Gods, she'd always hated the staff members with their damn whistles during recess. It was like everything in the world halted at once whenever you heard it. Wincing, she and the others turned to the outside of the sidewalk to find a blue-uniformed figure silently glaring at them with a pair of ropes sticking out of her mouth. Pursing her lips and spitting the bright silver buzzer out onto her clothes, the mare looked to her left with a condescending frown to Octavia and her merry band of griffons and Unicorn. The mare blinked, then swiveled about to look at Lock Jaw and his hearty crew of petty robbers with a deep hum of disapproval.

She gave a sly grin, a hoof adjusting the black brimmed cap atop her head.

"After what, Lock Jaw?"

Octavia turned to the Unicorn, who turned to her in kind. His horn's aura cut out in an instant.

"Hail, what in the hell do ya think you're doin'?"

"Well," the assumed Hail began, flicking a few long dark tangelo hairs out of her eyes, "helping these folks out from the shroud of your spud-famined figure, it looks like."

"Better watch your mouth, Hail–"

"And you better walk away..." Hail shot back, waggling her eyebrows as a hoof went to the side of her uniform, "...unless of course... you want a couple hours in a cell next to Big Boo, who—by the way, Red?—is still waiting for your call!"

Red Vines shuddered like it was thirty below.

"Four of us, and one of you. You wanna try that arrest, still?" Lionheart asked, going into a low crouch.

Hail chuckled to herself and whistled a tune with her ever-so-slightly strong voice, her hoof suddenly coming out with a side-handled police baton that she began spinning around by the nylon wristband as W, simultaneously, reached to his back and pulled Candidate free of its holster.

The police officer and the old griffon exchanged looks of silent approval, then nodded at one another with grins.

"I'll give you five seconds," Hail said, popping her neck, "and maybe you'll figure out what you wanna do."

Lock Jaw looked from one member of his group to the next, and then back again. Shutting his eyes, he let out a long sigh and glared at Hail out of the corner of his eyes. "We'll be back, mare–"

"In hoofcuffs, maybe," Hail retorted, flinging a hoof toward the opposite end of the street. "Now shoo, you're crowding the hotel."

Lock Jaw turned his head and faced Octavia with a snarl. He shook his head, then about-faced with a simple, under-his-breath, "Let's get goin', now."

As the four began trotting away, Hail brought her previously flinging hoof to the sky and waved it around in an arc, calling, "That goes for the rest of you! Move along, now! Nothin' worth seeing here anymore!" The crowd that had enclosed Octavia and the others began to disperse, leaving only Hail and them on the steps leading up to the Red Baron. Octavia felt her heart beating out of her chest. She had gotten through this morning without getting injured. She felt absolutely sure that she would've been attacked then and there.

"Now, 'flaccid' isn't normally a word I'd associate with a stand-off," Hail called, cantering over to Octavia, "but... that was flaccid."

Octavia turned her head to face the approaching officer, whose brilliantly gamboge fur shone at her from underneath a dark blue shirt. She narrowed her eyes at Hail's uniform, noting its odd appearance compared to the usual police officers' she'd seen while they roamed the streets, but didn't think anything of it. The bumps on either side of Hail's body as well told signs of something not quite right, but Octavia shook her head and realized that they were just police equipment attached to her black belt.

"Name's Razor Hail. Hope I wasn't disturbing anything there."

"No ma'am," W replied reassuringly, bringing a claw up in front of the mare, "always nice to avoid kicking ass in the morning."

Hail chuckled, shaking the griffon's claw with a hoof and causing the badge over her heart to jangle, "Always nice to not have to write another damn report." Her hoof clopping back onto the concrete, the officer turned her head and looked at Octavia, who smiled despite the circumstances. "Hey, you're Octavia, right?"

"Indeed I am, Miss Hail," Octavia replied with a curt nod.

"And I'm Sesame–"

"Shut up," Valkyrie spat.

Purple stared into brown. "Do you know of me because of the Canterlot Symphony?"

"Yeah, yeah. You've got that concert in a few days up north, I think."

Right. Octavia sucked in a breath, but let it out when she realized she'd be there in time. Speaking of which, they really had to get going, so...

"We were just heading off to go get some food," W spoke, "you want us to buy you something? You definitely deserve some free food for defusing that bomb."

"Nah," Hail said, the golden badge cresting her hat shimmering in the sun, "but thanks for the offer." She turned around and flicked a fly with her long tail, "I gotta go patrol a few blocks down. Stay safe, though! And I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon, Octavia! Gotta see your bass playing for myself!"

"Later, officer–" Sesame called, interrupted by an overly excited Lavi.

"See ya, Hail!"

"What's so cheery about you, Lavi?" Valkyrie asked, genuinely confused.

"Dude, she's hot!"

"You're not even a lesbian!"

"Hey, I can tell."

Genius
View Online

Stroll

Genius

Octavia's life had—as ridiculous as it felt to say—gone by astoundingly quickly. Why, it felt like just yesterday that she'd been sitting on her recently purchased black sofa with a glass of hard wine on the coffee table before her; twenty-five whole ounces of sorrows drink that certainly wouldn't have been enough for her tall and fancy glass, if the white envelope sitting back-end skyward next to the two held any immediately recognizable sign of denial. Her throat, achingly dry and just crying for prissy alcohol, quivered and stuttered as she had simply stared at the life-stakingly important document surely tucked neatly inside the envelope's folds. It had been a long few months trying to work her way up to even looking at the item laying in front of her, and yet she had all but pushed it away and quietly drank her anxiety away.

As luck had had it, in the witching hours cramped inside that apartment in lower Canterlot, Octavia Philharmonica had been welcomed as a new member of the Canterlot Symphony, and was to head over to the admittedly distant concert hall to start her first day of rehearsal. With an ear-to-ear smile on her face, her bass in its case towed next to her by a hoof, and her posture straightened in preparation, Octavia had walked out her door to continue what she was born to do: play the bass, and play it well. She'd been twenty-one at the time—and actually on her way to twenty-two—and so there had arisen one very little problem, she realized, heading into her new career.

There had been many an internal fight waging in her head, one side supporting being a nice newbie and arriving at rehearsals on time, and the other side belittling such a thing so that she could go and get incredibly drunk. One could very easily bring up both factions in their hooves, hum a nice tune, bring them up and down like some sort of dumbbells, and press their lips together to say very simply, "Octavia, are you ill?" Of course, why would anypony in their right mind decide that drinking was a lot more important than the job they'd worked so hard to get? Octavia did in fact value the Symphony a lot more than unnecessary debauchery, but it really hadn't been called an "internal fight" for nothing.

So it seemed to Octavia, and so it was that she just had to prod a hoof at and question the employee walking past her table.

"Excuse me?" The aproned mare's ears perked up as she slowly trotted back to face Octavia with a new grin on her face. Showmanship and politeness, Octavia knew, but this wasn't a time to go and ridicule such... convenient establishments. Placing a smile of her own on her lips, she brought a hoof up and asked, "Do you have the date and time?"

"Of course, ma'am!" Turning around and staring at the clock, she droned, "Uh... well it looks like it's about eleven forty-five right now..." She about-faced and tapped a hoof to her chin in full view. "So, about eleven forty-five on the seventeenth of May. Saturday."

Octavia's eyes bugged out of her head, but the Pegasus apparently didn't seem to even notice.

"Was there anything else, ma'am?"

Octavia, deciding to pause for a brief second or two before answering, slowly leaned her head forward and rubbed her eyelids with a pair of hooves. Oxygen coming out in heavy bursts out of her nose, she continued this motion of hers unopposed for the span of five unintended seconds, leaned back, dragged the appendages down her cheeks and exposed bright red to the bakery's inhabitants, blinked rapidly, turned her head back to face the employee, and, with her hooves pressing against her jaw and forming a pocket of heat around her lips, quietly replied, "No thank you."

With a way-too-friendly-for-what-she-had-just-witnessed, "You're welcome," the mare retreated further into her wonder of a bakery with its fine lineup of cheese-filled bread rolls and herb-ridden pitas.

Octavia's attention reverted back to her coffee and bagel, but the realization of where she currently was in the tunnel of time was still fresh and haunting in her brain.

"You alright, Octavia?" That question seemed to come up a lot, didn't it? It was more than troubling, but, well, what else was there to expect when Octavia really didn't want to be out and about out here in the first place?

She cleared her throat and steadied her stuttering chest with a hoof. "Not really, but I'm getting there."

Lavi turned her way, brow fixated in a curious position. "Why's that?"

"I just realized what day it was."

Valkyrie chimed in from next to Lavi, her incredibly-acclaimed cup of joe cradled in her claws. "That a big deal or something?"

Octavia fiddled with her lips thoughtfully, eyes staring down at the table's interestingly fine-crafted surface. "I've been away from home for five days."

Lavi sucked in a breath. "Ooh geez, when did you leave?"

She'd thought it had been a Sunday, but, "Middle of the twelfth, I believe." The twelfth was a Monday, if her internal calculations proved right. Had she really been thrown into that wagon on a Monday, though? She could have sworn it was a Sunday; that's why she had thought nopony had been outside to rescue her. They'd all been at church service, right? She hummed to herself, mind racing to try and fit the puzzle pieces together, but Valkyrie interrupted her.

"Five whole days? God, I wish we'd be home after five days..."

"Would you count the day she'd left as one, though?" T asked from across Valkyrie, claw currently grasping the torn end of a baguette.

"Pretty sure you do," Valkyrie replied.

"I don't think so," Lavi piped up, "she was in her house that same day, so that whole day didn't count."

"But it's, like..." Valkyrie began, looking to the ceiling as she counted up with her talons, "...that's how you do it. From, like, twelve on that day, to twelve now, it would be five."

"It's five, Lavi," W said across Octavia, elbows resting on the table to support the evil-mastermind-looking placement of his claws.

"Are you sure?" The griffon in question asked, scratching the back of her feathered head, "I feel like that's wrong."

As the others dabbled in observantly loud banter, Octavia—in the meanwhile—was behaving herself rather nicely, now that her revelations had ended. Though the shake in her hooves as she sipped at her coffee and the small lack of satisfaction that she was met with while gulping it down was still very much there, her quiet demeanor and half-lidded eyes told many promises that she was very content with just keeping to herself at the moment. Here she was, in a random bakery in—what—downtown Baltimare, with a quartet of griffons and a Unicorn sitting down at the same table, and with home miles and miles and a few clattering bits away from her, all of it seemingly fading away with the crunch of her freshly toasted bagel and a swig of her sugared coffee.

Valkyrie as well, as surprising as it was, was still rather downplayed in terms of, well, herself. Even though she was still a tad... rambunctious, it was in no way close to how she usually acted. Perhaps Octavia could try depriving the griffon of her coffee every day...

The sounds of the griffons' still raging conversation/argument about her total away time continuing, Octavia allowed herself a smile, picked up her mug, and drank it of its contents. Sighing into the soothingly breezy interior of the building, she rested her forelegs on the table and balanced the mug with her hooves. A chill running down her spine as she adjusted her position on her chair, Octavia looked to her right to find a rather peculiar sight.

Sesame Seed, his goatee ever-so-slightly waving in the slow wind, was silently staring at the two slices of buttered white toast laid out before him on his plate, eyes wide and posture positively stationary. It was like he was looking at a single, burning candle hundreds of yards away across a nice grassy plain in the night, he was so fixated on it. Octavia blinked first, followed very unintentionally shortly by Sesame, who opened his mouth, waited for a second, and spoke.

"I'm feeling kinda... weirded out."

Octavia smirked. "Why's that?"

"I mostly just ate at, y'know, Breezie's back in Tall tale." Bringing a hoof up to grab at one of his forks, he prodded a corner of his toast and added, "I'm actually eating breakfast food."

As Octavia craned her neck back an inch and silently envied him, Valkyrie suddenly leaned forward in her seat. "I'm surprised you're not fat then, dude," She said, swiveling her head around as if it were a socket wrench and staring straight at Octavia, "unlike Octavia here."

Lavi snorted.

Octavia blinked away the questions and insults that threatened to escape her mind. She wouldn't have another Calamity Mane incident.

"You literally called me skinny not half an hour ago."

"Well," Valkyrie began, sitting back in her seat and grabbing one of her rolls of bread, "I revise my statement."

"How did you even hear that?" Sesame questioned, looking at Valkyrie out of the corner of his eyes.

"We're birds, Sesame," Lavi responded, brushing the feathers out of her sights.

Though Octavia knew that Valkyrie was merely pissing around with her, and possibly only half meant what she had said, the mare still curled a foreleg up and examined it all the same. It looked fine to her. Was what griffons deemed... fat skewed due to their large size? She hoped so. She pursed her lips and pouted. She wasn't fat. In fact, if she was anything, she was a touch strong. Playing the bass came with a lot more than catchy tunes in her head and black notes haunting her nightmares, after all.

...

Speaking of strong and desperately needing to be it...

"You should eat your bread, Sesame," she said, lightly flailing a hoof his way as the griffons became too preoccupied with something about trouts.

The Unicorn scoffed with an eye roll directed at the ceiling. "Yeah, I know. I drink my milk, too."

Ass. Octavia tilted her head. "You don't appear to fill that shirt out very well, it seems."

Sesame chuckled, "Oh go to hell, fine." His horn lighting up, a slice of toast levitated off his plate in a mustard glow and flew into his mouth. As he munched and crunched, face contorting this way and that, he spoke through crumbs. "See, this is why I don't eat toast–"

"Well," Octavia began, "some of us don't have daily access to fast food chains." She raised a brow. "Toast is usually all you can fit into busy mornings."

"What's 'busy'?"

Octavia rolled her eyes and looked back at her food, feeling that the conversation was over. Her hoof barely touched her mug when Sesame spoke again.

"So what was that Hail said, earlier?" Octavia turned to him, her cup raised to her lips anyway. "Concert or something, right?"

The mare waggled her eyebrows, shrugged, and spoke into the bottom of her cup, "Yes." Placing it back onto the table, she continued, "I play the double bass in the Canterlot Symphony. We have a concert in Trottingham this Wednesday, hence my wanting to return home as quickly as possible."

Sesame sucked on his teeth longingly, prompting Octavia to look his way. "Oh..."

Octavia smirked at him slyly. Yeah, she knew that he knew what that entailed.

"Okay, now I feel like a dick about what I said at Breezie's..."

"Don't bother. It gets what it deserves."

A wave passed through Octavia in the blink of an eye, catching her off guard just quickly enough for the dropped mug that had once again been in her hooves to instantly be caught. Shutting her eyes and rubbing at her forehead, she shook her head and looked to make sure that nopony—or nobird(?)—had noticed. Sure enough, the griffons were still caught up in one of their own conversations, each participant either laughing at Valkyrie or trying to say that it had been Lavi instead, the latter of which, apparently, consisted of only Lavi.

"Be right back," Sesame called, prompting Octavia to scootch her chair in, "gonna go take a smoke."

Unhealthy, she thought. "Alright," she said.

W, a foreleg in the air as the door clanged shut in the Unicorn's wake, sighed, dropped his claw, deflated, and glared at the ceiling. "Alright, when Sesame gets back, we'll head out and go get your ticket home, okay Octavia?"

"Okay," she replied, a smile gracing her features as she reached for the other half of her bagel.

"But first..." Lavi promised, slyly grinning at the other griffons, "the matter of the check–"

She didn't even finish her sentence before she, W, and T instantly touched the ends of their beaks with a single talon. Valkyrie, a foreleg raised up to just about her chest level, stared straight up at the ceiling and began pulling at the feathers on her head in an apparent attempt to yank them out as she groaned deafeningly. A few ponies turned to look at the aggressive bird, but decided that confronting her about the noise wasn't worth their lives. As the three seemingly victorious griffons gave an uproarious bout of laughter and clutched their bellies, Valkyrie shouted in a hushed tone, "Why the hell do they even have checks?! This isn't some fancy ass restaurant!"

"Doesn't matter!" Lavi giggled, waving the black booklet in front of her friend's face, "It's right here!"

Valkyrie, glaring at her, hissed from behind clenched white teeth and violently snatched the booklet out of Lavi's claws. Throwing it down on the table and flinging it open to a silent crowd of anticipating birds and an amused mare, she threw a talon and ran parallel lines across the receipt's surface, mouthing words and figures as she went. Reaching the bottom, she stopped, craned her neck back, leaned forward again, narrowed her eyes, widened them, and mouthed a very refined, very quiet, "What?"

"C'mon, Val, you're loaded," Lavi spoke, voice cracking on the last syllable as she tried her hardest to not burst out laughing.

"Oh ha ha," Valkyrie feigned, bringing a claw up—essentially balling up her fist—and retracting all but one rather long talon that she directed toward Lavi's head, "shut up."

Octavia could only watch as the table thumped and bumped as three griffons kicked it with hilarity.

Intelligence
View Online

Stroll

Intelligence

Bits could not, for the life that they lived and promised so enticingly to its fortunate beholders, buy happiness. Octavia had been a rather understanding listener on conversations involving the phrase, whether it be by her teachers who led amazing lives despite their low salaries, or her parents themselves whenever she dared whine about not being able to get something at the store. Looking back on it now, she really didn't need that box of cereal, or that nice dress in the window on 4th Street, but something in her still ached and cracked just wishing for them to be in her gray, gray hooves. She guessed that that was one of the things that was wrong with her; a flaw that... probably a lot of ponies shared alongside her. Bits didn't buy happiness, and quite honestly, Octavia understood that. Hell, even big name celebrities competing in the Equestria Games, being huge movie stars, or singing the lead role in a round-the-world famous band told ponies that met them—reporters, paparazzi, or fans—that once you had a lot of bits, true happiness just constantly seemed out of reach.

Sure, they could buy their massage appointments down in Los Pegasus, or their indoor pools with smoking hot mares or stallions constantly serving them bubbly champagne, but the smile on their sunglasses-propped face would be so incredibly dissatisfied and almost plastic in a way that you could tap them with a hammer and shatter them even a hair's breadth of space away. Bits couldn't buy happiness, and Octavia knew that incredibly well. She may not have had access to the appointments, or the pools—not that she really wanted them, to be honest—but there was a reason she surrounded herself with all sorts of fancy and expensive furniture or meals on a daily basis back in Canterlot.

The flooding of money in her bank account would surely never beat the flooding of her tear ducts.

They didn't buy happiness, but they got her a nice bucket of cookies-and-creme ice cream and an equally nice bottle of Caberneigh Sauvignon once in a while, and even through the tears usually streaming down her cheeks, she had to hate herself for admitting that that was good enough for her.

In the solitude of her regrettably fanciful Canterlot apartment, the sounds of self-indulgence and self-pity were drowned out by the talkative ponies marching aimlessly outside her front door.

Her opinions on bits were incredibly skewed and far apart in terms of making any form of sense in the world to either her or the ponies around her, but she could very easily scrunch her eyes, stick out her tongue in concentration, and confirm that it only took a clattering of a hoofful of bits and a sliding of paper on wood for her to feel absolutely pumped with outright glee. Sure, this occurrence could extend to such times as her receiving the ticket to a movie she'd been anticipating, or being handed a receipt with such a low price she could crack a victory grin at, and to be fair, they were very wondrous things to have happen.

This one time, however, proved to be far more legendary than any of the others.

With a crooked smile reaching both her ears, eyes and nose beginning to burn with the beginning of sobs, and her ears twitching almost impatiently, Octavia stared down at the slip of paper in her shaking hooves and might as well have fainted on the spot. For the low price of twenty bits—and the priceless... price of anxious anticipation—Octavia held something infinitely more important than any old movie voucher.

She waggled the paper in her hooves in an attempt to test its validity. It emanated a most refined wibbity.

This pleased her.

She eyed the contents lining its surface and suppressed the urge to sniffle.

Her ticket home.

Octavia looked up at the sound of throat cleansing, and expected the stallion sitting inside the kiosk to be so enormously happy for her, some random mare who simply threw a few coins at him not a minute or two ago. She expected a toothy grin, and a head nod so firm and silent that he could very well have been a Royal Guard who'd just been impressed; a rare sight one never got to see these days. At the very least, a smile would have sufficed, but no, all she received for her tearful recognition was a blank, blunt, blasphemous, "Next."

With her ticket now stuffed behind the lining of her white collar, Octavia turned around.

A line consisting of three mares and a stallion stared back at her, though their looks of impatience were far cries from the obvious annoyance of their seller of the hour. Recollecting her composure—a rather difficult task considering the small tears already on their way down her cheeks—Octavia raised a hoof to her mouth, gave a little cough, and straightened her posture. "My apologies, all."

She expected a few words of understanding in a similar vein to the ticket seller's now apparently absent smile, but let a frown touch her lips when the exact opposite met her eyes. Despite their rather calm and collected expressions, their tapping of hooves and scratching of their necks made its point. One of the mares even brought a foreleg over to her other, tapping it like she had an invisible watch that just so happened to be stuck at that exact moment. Octavia had half a mind—or, admittedly about three-quarters of one—to stick her tongue out and blow a raspberry at them, but such a thing would probably just end up souring her already descending mood. Taking a foreleg and dragging it down her chest from the base of her neck, the mare cleared her throat once more before briskly trotting away.

She felt pairs of eyes cutting into the back of her head, but with a nasally sigh and a shake of her head, she stepped off the green-painted wooden train platform—about tripped because of the sudden elevation loss—and joined the small group that was standing idly on the outskirts of the one kiosk establishment last time she had spoken to them. As she felt sharp gravel meet the bottom of her weary hooves, Octavia looked to her left and found nothing but streetlights, sidewalks, and apartment buildings stretching far down the road before her in a loud, tan and brown parade. A brow flew to the sky, but she needed only look to the other side to find a sight she hadn't prior thought she'd harbor in her head.

W, Lavi, T, and Sesame were currently crowded around a large black machine sitting on the side of the road, a large brick wall behind it tutting at any possible hoppers or hiders looking to get a free train ride. A small amount of white light emanated from the massive box before them—or massive when next to Sesame, at the very least—highlighting each and every single group member's features and showing their looks of... anticipation to the rest of the world. A realization snapped to Octavia, and she only noticed that her purple eyes were darting around manically when they began to spin around in her head. Valkyrie appeared to be missing, and if such a dreadful thing to hear made any attempt at reminding her, this would only lead to hoofcuffs and prison bars. The things that that brutish griffon could do would most likely get Octavia booted from the Symphony just for witnessing them.

As she approached the now clearly lacking group, she began to hear the telltale sounds of absolute... nonsense waft through the hot air and flow toward her poor, poor eardrums.

"God, could you pick anything more lame?" Lavi asked, suddenly leaning forward and jabbing a claw so hard against what sounded like glass that she might have been able to dent it, "There's some candy bars in there..."

Oh great. They were watching someone pick from a vending machine like they were watching the Crystal Games. Hopefully, they didn't bet on Celestia's Sun Chips. Those things never got sold.

"There's some cookies down in that corner," Sesame piped up, scratching at his scruff with a hoof and adjusting its position every millisecond.

"She doesn't really need to get more fat," Lavi quipped.

"Ha ha ha ha," Valkyrie feigned, causing Octavia to look up to the sky and thank the Gods, "eat a dick, man. It's not like I'm Octavia or anything."

The mare of the hour halted a bare foot away from the group's position, her annoyed scuffling on the pavement prompting her oh-so-wonderful squad to perk up and instantly giggle.

Though she felt a gargantuan amount of ice tipping her next unsavory words, Octavia resumed her pace and stepped toward the four now looking her way. Sesame's horn lit up, and a familiar mustard aura surrounded his cigarette box. T, standing next to him, swiftly nudged him with an elbow. The Unicorn frowned, but released his hold on his dear old nicotine to allow W to speak.

"Everything go alright?"

Octavia grinned, and reached into her collar to pull the train ticket out.

Gods, it felt great to do that.

"Good to hear," W said with a smile, "guess you'll be off soon then–"

"Y'know," Valkyrie interrupted, her talons crumpling her newly purchased snack bag, "I'll never understand pony food." Dipping a pair of claws into its plastic confines, she collected a group of chips and proceeded to throw them down her gullet.

Octavia raised an eyebrow. "Aren't they generally the same?"

Valkyrie chuckled. "I mean, like, you guys have these chip bags..." She raised hers up. "...and like half of the bag is just empty space." She continued to feast on her salted, fatty, unhealthy food and, with a shake of her feathered head that looked more like she was firmly disagreeing with herself, finished with a very blunt, "What a loada shit."

"I don't think you can really trust the chip gods," Lavi shot back almost seriously, "they're not nice people."

"Right?" Valkyrie asked in kind, "I don't want your air, you yeeps, I want my chips."

"No," T spoke up unexpectedly, his low voice a perfect fit for the proposed gods of potato crisps. He cracked a smile as his companions let out a few snorting giggles.

"Are you the chip god?" Sesame asked, looking up at the dark griffon with a face that was teetering on wobbly.

T turned his head and, with a lifting of his chin and a very overly dramatic adjustment of his posture, replied, "Yes, my son."

Octavia, having been in the middle of doing this exact thing, suddenly believed she was being mocked. Ears against her head, she deflated her figure and cleared her throat, then realized she was being foolish. "You're still hungry, Valkyrie?" She asked, trying her hardest to shake her previous thoughts out of her head like water off a dishrag. "We just ate a bare hour ago."

"Hour and a half," W corrected.

Octavia faced him and proceeded to—in a very lady-like fashion—stick her tongue out at him.

"Shut up. Bread is boring," Valkyrie responded, the crackling of her snack bag halting any more back-and-forth she and the mare could have had.

As a pregnant pause in the incredibly ridiculous group banter rose up from the ashes, Octavia took the time to realize that one of her hooves was still extended rather oddly outward. Looking down at it, she realized her mistake and swiftly stuffed her ticket back behind the lining of her Symphony collar. She watched as Sesame, eyeing a nice, T-less opportunity, lit his horn and magicked out another cigarette. To his dismay, T spotted his doing so, but simply hummed and allowed the Unicorn to continue. Sesame, whispering a quick of word of thanks, drew a flame to his mouth and began puffing away from the group's position.

Octavia may have thought smoking a bad habit—and rightfully so—and Sesame's engaging in such a thing strikingly worrying, but he at the very least was courteous about it. If he was content on slowly destroying his brain while they were out and about, he could do so. She wasn't one to judge, not at all, but she sure as hell sat somewhere in the jury.

...

She'd really need to try cutting down on the language. As much as she rather liked being able to speak freely, she'd be going home tomorrow, and practicing normal, professional conversation was going to be a bit challenging to get back to in the span of a couple days. Surely, she couldn't very well mill about and curse in front of the aristocrats once she got to Canterlot. Or Trottingham. Where were they having the concert again? It was the island in the mid-point of the ocean between Griffonia and Ponyville, leaning toward the latter's side. She'd not been in a long while, so her memory was a little fuzzy.

No matter. She needed to watch the language. Case closed.

"Hey, Octavia, you mind taking my bags for a bit?"

Octavia looked up, her purple eyes locking with Lavi's brown ones. The rest of the group was a tad farther away than they prior were; it looked like they were about to start walking again. Octavia tilted her head, her smoky mane hanging freely off the back of her head and flowing toward the street. She cocked an eyebrow. Surely, the griffon didn't actually just say what Octavia had thought she'd said. Judging from the terrifyingly large stature of Lavi in her heavy armor, the bags sitting across her back would definitely be too large for the body of a mere pony.

She chuckled.

Mere. Had she really just said that?

Actually, now that she thought about it, Lavi was a tad smaller than the other griffons in W's group, even Valkyrie. And even then, the largest in the group, W, was only about a head and a half or so taller than Octavia. Maybe they weren't huge like she'd prior thought, but it was still a bit imposing having to look up to talk to any of them. Then again, Octavia had always been a bit... shorter than other ponies, a point of ridicule she'd started listening to for hours upon hours on the playgrounds back in grade school. She was but a few inches or so shorter, but yet others treated her like she was diagnosed with dwarfism.

She refocused her attention on Lavi's face after her little bout of inner bitterness, a smile reappearing on her face and her chin lifting up to speak into the griffon's eyes. Lavi, her neck craned back a few inches and her entire head turned slightly to her left, pressed a straight frown against her cheeks and continued her hold on her backpack's straps in a wary silence. Octavia rolled her eyes.

"Sorry. I seem to have zoned out."

"Yeah," Lavi chuckled, "no kidding. Would you, y'know, mind though?" Her eyes darted toward her right as she leaned forward and rubbed at her spine. "My back gives out sometimes; a lot more than W's, I think, too–"

"Shut up, Lavi," W spat from afar, his deep voice like a buttered knife across burnt toast.

Octavia gave a curt nod, but the picture she'd held in her head of the monstrosity she was about to put on her own back almost caused her to faint. She could handle the messenger bag, but a three-hundred-pound military backpack with pouches and pockets wasn't something she could look forward to, even with her double bass-hardened muscles.

Lavi breathed a genuine sigh of relief, almost making Octavia's soon-to-begin encounter with Tartarus that much more worth it. Bending forward like she was situated on an invisible folding chair, Lavi threw both her front claws toward the straps on her shoulders, then wrestled them off with so much finesse, it was as if she was struggling to rid herself of her coat and snow pants to spend a penny in the loo. Octavia had done that a few times when she was a filly, so she... kind of knew what it looked like when one really needed to piss. Pee. Urinate. She meant urinate.

"Thanks, Octavia, you're a life saver." Finally ridding herself of her hulking accessory, Lavi grabbed one of its straps with a claw and raised it toward the mare. "Here, lemme help you put it on."

She, earlier, felt incredibly confident in her ability to put a backpack on her back. She was admittedly a little stubborn—thanks to her father's genes—but, well, there was a reason that ponies used saddlebags, and not the bird-favored backpacks. She bit her lower lip, but sat on her rear and waited as Lavi folded the right strap of the pack onto the zippers and pouches and, observantly, out of the mare's way. Situating the remaining strap over her right foreleg and under her stomach toward her left hindleg, it was like Octavia was wearing the messenger bag again. Sliding the pack across horizontally across Octavia's back, Lavi grinned and said, "Looks good on you. Hope it's not too heavy."

Octavia opened her mouth to give a dry retort, but pursed her lips and shook her back to test the weight. She found it surprisingly comfortable, and very much not heavy in the slightest. Huh. That actually worked. Well, she might as well take the opportunity and not let her ticket collect her sweat. Reaching toward her neck and pulling her salvation voucher out of her collar, Octavia craned her neck around and bit down on one of Lavi's backpack's zippers, opening it just a tad for her to slip her ticket inside. She reminded herself to get it later when it was time to give Lavi her pack back, and zipped it closed. Looking back up at the griffon, Octavia smirked and nodded. "It's actually just fine, thank you. No need to worry."

"Good. Let's go, then."

The two began to trot after the others, who had already began their walk toward... wherever the group decided to head next. Octavia sucked in a breath and turned to Lavi, preparing to ask the question.

"We're heading to the docks next, if that's cool with you."

Oh. "The docks...!" Octavia grit her teeth, but raised her cheeks up when Lavi turned her way. She'd... rather not get the spray of salt across her face, or some absolute plod shoving her into the bay. To be honest, she'd much rather spend the rest of her time waiting to get home inside the relative safety of a nice restaraunt, or a bar, or maybe another hotel room where she could request some wine and a bucket of ice cream and try loathing herself asleep for the night. She'd been on one hayuva ride—she grinned at her save—and there were a lot of chances for it to continue with her remaining outside where another robbery or another group of bandits could suddenly pop up.

Lavi, eyes darting from her left and to her right, giggled. "Yeah, the uh, the docks. We're just gonna go see if our ride home is still there or not. Old Screwby is a little scattered in the head, so we thought it was a good plan to check up on him."

Octavia spotted a familiar face staring her way as Lavi and her continued walking along the sidewalk, and heard the sound of more collective footsteps when they disappeared.

Oh. The others had waited for them to get closer. That was kind of them.

"Yeah..." W trailed off with a satisfied sigh, "Screwby's a bit... salty, I guess you could say." He adjusted his armor for a second before he continued. "He's been going to and from this harbor to Griffonia for twenty years now. He may seem a bit rude at first, but that's just how he greets new people."

"Yeah, I remember when we first started sailing with him a year or two ago," Valkyrie began, "he kept calling me Valerie." The griffon suddenly laughed to herself, and about started jumping in place as she pointed to W. "And– and– and, he kept calling W his brother's name!"

"We look nothing alike. I'm infinitely prettier than my brother," W claimed, shrugged.

"Those wrinkles do wonders, old man– ow!" Lavi sputtered, holding the side of her head as she burst into laughter.

Octavia looked over at W to find him staring crookedly at T, who simply lowered his arm and calmly said, "Just doing it for you, sir."

"I wouldn't have hit that hard..." W replied, eyeing the injured griffon, "but I suppose she kind of deserved it."

"Hey, at least he's my age–" Valkyrie chimed in.

"He is still five years older than you."

Valkyrie glared back at W devilishly. Snaking her neck around, she responded with a very sassy, "Thirty-four is a very sexy number, W."

"You're a Goddamn animal," W replied.

"We're literally all animals, dude," Sesame regarded W.

Lavi and Valkyrie both clucked their tongues and nodded at the Unicorn's actual fact. "That's right, actually. He's right," the former said.

"And you're literally slowly killing yourself with that box of yours," W shot back, leaning his head over almost as if he wanted to whisper it into Sesame's ear.

"You can literally go to hell," Sesame retorted, apparently wanting to get into a little playful banter with the elder griffon.

"I'll get my truck. We'll go together."

"Just a little Unicorn on griffon action," Lavi affirmed with a wink, "how romantic!"

Octavia realized this was beginning to get a little out of hoof. She hoped that Sesame wasn't seriously going to try and continue this. She wouldn't be able to handle the ridiculously uncomfortable back-and-forth that was about to begin–

"Honey, did you reserve our tables by the lava pits?"

For the love of Princess Celestia and her eighteen teats, please kill her.

"Seems Tirek bought them all out, dear," W beamed, his deep voice taking on an attempt at... was he mocking her right now? "I suppose we can shift our honeymoon near Cerberus' cage; I hear the chains make great ambience for love-making."

If she weren't trotting right now, she'd bury her red face in her hooves and crawl into a corner in the fetal position. Gods, why.

Sesame hummed almost too genuinely, like he was actually lovesick for an old bird.

The sound of concrete clacking below her hooves made way for the creaky sway of wood bridges. Octavia looked around and realized they were now walking into the humble beginnings of Sail And Riggings Land. A few Pegasi and some griffons zipped about atop their respective vessels, tying up loose ropes and fastening knots wherever they could. The prior distant sounds of cawing seagulls and splashing waves now beat heavily into her head, accompanying the unwelcome wave of air-riding salt fresh from the depths of the ocean and straight into her face. Shaking her head, Octavia grumbled sweet nothings to herself and adjusted the hat atop her head so that the wind wouldn't take it.

Gods, she barely even realized it was there. It was already becoming too attached to her.

"If I remember correctly," W began, no longer trying his hardest (and failing) to take on an English accent, "Screwby's ship is a few blocks down. I'll ask around and make sure he's still up there."

"Anything I should know?" Octavia asked, rather worried she'd be on the receiving end of a flintlock in a couple minutes or so, "I'd rather not end up on the receiving end of a flintlock in a couple of minutes from now."

T snorted. Apparently, a serving of flint and smoke was something he rather enjoyed watching.

"If you're nice, he'll like you. Don't do what Valkyrie did and make fun of his hat."

"It was a dumb hat," Valkyrie defended as the group took a sharp left and began to head down a new path.

Octavia looked away from the conversation, deciding that she didn't have any major part to play in it, and turned left to—she didn't know—look for fish or something. A pair of stallions hammering away at a ship's side spotted her staring at them, and dropped their tools to wink at her and try striking handsome poses. She frowned and rolled her eyes, then decided that maybe a part in the conversation for her could come up at some point.

"Hope he still has my flashlight. Left it when we got off last time," Lavi admitted, a sense of resignment in her voice.

"I'm sure he does," W quickly replied, patting his subordinate on the shoulder, "old bird doesn't have much use for a flashlight."

"Why not?" Sesame asked.

"He's got an eyepatch that he never takes off, even though both his eyes are good. Says the one is always in the dark, so he adapts quicker to night time," Valkyrie explained. "Load of bull, if I ever knew it."

"Makes sense," W shrugged, "you know that's how that works, right?"

"I went to school, W."

"Could've fooled me–"

A trio of deafening thumps suddenly exploded across the dock. With her heart now racing—and her mind cursing itself for thinking up something that would actually occur—Octavia took a cautious step back from the massive pirate ship in front of her and the others, purple eyes scanning the top of its right side to look for whoever had just dropped a heavy wooden crate near them. Staring straight up into the sun, she watched as a shrouded figure leaned over the edge and shouted at them.

"Avast, ye scuttlebutts! Who goes there?!"

Octavia lowered the hoof she'd placed across her brow and shut her eyes. Oh Gods, not another Tall Tale gate encounter.

W was, just as last time, the one to step forward and wave a talon around. "Is Screwby still around? We need to talk to him!"

The figure looked left and right, as if eyeing something far off in the distance, and shook his head, the tricorne atop his silhouetted head jostling about loosely.

"Ol' Screwby? He 'asn't been seen fer weeks!" Octavia screwed up her face. This guy sounded like he came straight out of an old cheesy pirate movie. It was just so... cliché.

W sighed, his beak audibly clicking as he did so. "Well, who's the captain while he's gone? Can I speak to them?"

The figure chuckled a hearty laugh, and pointed to himself with what looked to be a talon. "I'm the captain of the Scuttlebug, here, so what d'ya want, lad?"

W, frowning, looked over his shoulder and gazed at his companion's expressions. Octavia shrugged at him. He returned the gesture almost half-heartedly, and sucked in a breath before asking, "Who are you, then? Don't think I recognize your voice!"

The figure bellowed once more, then disappeared for a good three seconds. With a loud fwoosh and a giddy cry, he hopped off the side of the ship and grabbed hold of a rope as he descended. Surely gaining third-degree burns, he landed on the docks with a resounding, "Haw!" and wiped his talons like he'd just washed them in a sink. Bringing one up, he adjusted his navy blue tricorne, brushed dust off his likewise navy robes, and reached out for one of W's, singing, "The name's Andy Trout, boyo!" He tipped his hat when he looked at Valkyrie, Lavi, and Octavia, winking. "But you can call me Andy."

"Holy shit, hot," Valkyrie whispered, leaning toward Lavi and Octavia.

Andy looked over expectantly at W, who narrowed his eyes for a brief second before bringing up a claw and shaking Andy's. Nodding vigorously to himself, Andy called, "Good, good! Now, would ya like ta come aboard?"

Valkyrie opened her mouth to say something, but Lavi immediately elbowed her in the armored gut. How she could do such a thing and not grimace in pain was beyond Octavia.

The crew looked over one another, noting the hesitant and cautious expressions on all but–

Valkyrie suddenly unfurled her wings and flew up. Grabbing ahold of the railing, she hoisted herself over the edge without a word and disappeared from sight.

W, T, Lavi, Octavia, and Sesame all stared up at the space that their "beloved" aggressor had previously occupied, their lips against their cheeks and their eyes glazed over. They all turned as one toward Andy, who flinched with an expectant grin.

"Well? Looks like one of ya's excited! Go on! I'll be right behind ya!"

A genuinely saddened Valkyrie cried from above. "Awww!"

T rolled his eyes as he took a few steps forward and followed Valkyrie's example. Lavi, looking Sesame and Octavia over, opened her mouth to say something, shut it, then decided to say something nicer. "Be careful."

Octavia waved as the griffon joined T up top. W, stomping over, leaned forward and asked her and Sesame, "You both want a lift?"

"What, on your back?" Sesame asked.

W blinked at him.

Octavia, sensing a sarcastic remark, lightly bumped Sesame out of the way and politely said, "No thank you."

"I'm good too," Sesame quipped.

"Will you be alright on the ropes, then?"

Octavia turned to the one that Andy had descended down on. It swayed in the wind for a brief second before suddenly coiling up in a heap on the floor in a dead silence. She swiveled about and faced W once more.

"We'll make do."

Stupidity
View Online

Stroll

Stupidity

Octavia... didn't actually really mind boats.

They were, to her, kind of quaint in a way. Something about the idea of these massive, hulking beasts of wood, or metal, or aluminum just streaming across the seas with the ease and seamlessness of a sled on a winter hill impressed her more than she could even wholly comprehend. How did it work, anyway? Was it just because they were hollow on the inside, acting like a more structurally sound pool noodle? Was it just because their wide figures distributed more weight across the water more evenly, like the old interesting fact of lying on a bed of needles instead of planting just a hoof into it? Octavia had a lot of questions, and to be fair, she'd always held a large sense of wonderment at the mechanics of boat floating, but in the end, she usually didn't set her body on one with the intention of pitching any of them.

She'd had her fair share of being on boats, and not in the She-Went-With-Her-Father-And-Slash-Or-Her-Grandpa-On-Fishing-Trips kinds of ways. Her Symphony carriages usually went to and fro along cobblestone-lined streets, past quiet buildings and infinitely quieter inhabitants, only noticeable by the yellow tint of their indoor lighting seen from their exterior windows. Her head would usually thunk against the sill of the carriage door, too heavy and so blasphemously burning that she wouldn't even feel the hooves trying to pull her away from a serious case of hemorrhaging... or whatever you got from hitting your head too hard. She was pretty sure it was hemorrhaging. Maybe there was another name for it.

But yes, there were times when her carriage would find itself not clicking and clacking along a still, pleasantly peaceful street, instead met with the sound of boarding ponies, creaking wood planks, and billowing smoke stacks. The Canterlot Symphony was, clearly, plenty much popular in Equestria, and any amount of time they weren't stuck couped up inside some chokingly dry concert hall, they were being shipped off like drafted soldiers on a claustrophobic, massive, technically isolated cruise ship. A yacht, every blue moon. Both occasions would begin with a multitude of denial, bargaining, and outright anger bursting from Octavia herself, all ending up with the astute observation that being cramped in a dumb old boat for a few days or weeks wasn't something any single pony on the face of the earth could bear in the slightest. She had to admit that she'd recently glossed over these seaways trips in her previous... whatever these happened to be, but, to be fair, they weren't fond memories of hers that she'd like to actually acknowledge, and all for one simple reason.

By the end of it, she'd be absolutely piss drunk, rocking around completely out of sync with the tiny tiny waves clashing with the ship's bow, and overall whooping and hollering like some kind of speed-hungry Pegasus zipping across the bright blue sky. She may have embarrassed her oh-so-wondrous bandmates a couple times—as Octavia liked to pretend that she couldn't count up to one hundred and twenty-seven because of course she'd counted shut up—but, to be so incredibly karmic and just, they mostly deserved it, and if she could just lose herself for a bit while doing it, it was the greatest responsibility to not have any responsibility.

This rang true for a rather inappropriate time of debauchery she'd ridden on... on the maiden voyage of one of the newest, most modern, most luxurious, and most grand cruise ships, one E.Q. Celestial Sunrise. The parting ceremony and christening were some of the biggest wastes of alcohol the mare had ever witnessed, and while ponies all across the ship were celebrating and shouting with joy and hopping around with outright happiness for something they probably shouldn't have, Octavia was out and about hoping to find a nice bar where she could get a nice drink. She'd had to, for the next week, bugger off to her room every once in a while just to rest her aching head. Margaritas the size of her head were so enticing, but, yet, so vampiric.

The staff of the cruise ship—or the yacht, lest she forget—were always so decently kind and charitable. Sneaking her a drink, or giving her a high hoof, or showing her pictures of their dogs. Sailors, surprisingly, had an odd liking of Corgis and other small dogs, though it was probably because they were easy to smuggle and just bring along with you on trips you shouldn't be able to bring anything alien on. Corgis were pretty... eh, to be perfectly, brutally, completely honest. Sure they had those cute, little stubby legs of theirs, but she was, understandably, more a Labrador kind of mare.

The floors were always kind of well-maintained, with custodians walking along with a soaking mop by their side about every single hour that Octavia found herself trotting around the corridors and hallways and expanses that the ship had to offer. There was not a single speck of dirt or grime marring their admittedly beautiful surfaces, but the occasional dust bunny, piece of candy, and cigarette butt still remained, like the twisted, bestial, black forms of trees after a devastating forest fire that was sure to take everything out in its wake.

...

Oh.

Octavia scooted a few inches to her left, her nose dipped and pointing toward the barrel that the rather twig-like griffon was now bending over to pick up. With a huff, a puff, and a snort out of his nose that would have torn some poor piglet's house down, he rose to his prior altitude with the aid of his hindlegs, regarded the mare with a cocked eyebrow and a silent frown, then turned around and firemare-carried his take back across the deck of the apparent Scuttlebug. Returning to her spot with an overexaggerated sidestep, Octavia set her jaw and swallowed a lump down her throat. It was one thing to be in a city like Baltimare or Tall Tale—though the latter was really the only unexplored territory—but something about being on the front step of an unfamiliar pirate ship with bandana-wearing and sword toting griffons uprose a slight twinge and unsettling in her gut.

It was definitely a far cry from being on the deck of a cruise ship. While she could very easily and safely compare a cruise ship's deck to a nice, polished, freshly dish washed piece of imported china, this pirate ship's deck was more akin to a pre-teen's bedroom right at the very cusp of both angst and self-proclaimed grunge music. Teen spirit held a bit of a bitter smell; spoiled dreams, deep lyrics, and outright nonsensical beliefs usually led to such. Octavia had been a teen at some point in her life—that much she'd admit—so her recognition and acknowledgment of such things weren't just petty assumption.

She wasn't a stranger to singing; she was sure most teens back then weren't. The times when one were alone were usually well-spent on bursting out in song or talking audibly to oneself, and Octavia had had her fair share of spouting out Cigare Brûlé songs whenever her parents decided to go out and do something besides watch over their dumb little children. Fall Creek Colts Choir had been a favorite of hers, as distorted and layered as its lyrics had been, and the occasional Slew Of Choices with its falsettos worked wonders for the pipes she'd always wished she'd harbored.

Honestly, singing wasn't too much of a stranger to her in her adult life either. She couldn't go a single week without hearing the citizens of Ponyville bursting into seemingly rehearsed song and dance numbers, and there had been many a cold morning when she swore they were getting closer and closer to her home for the sole goal of rattling her eardrums and receiving some kind of restraining order. She wouldn't have the gall to actually go through with something—and it was mostly just a stretch of a joke anyway—but she couldn't say it hadn't crossed her mind at some point or the other.

These seafaring griffons surely weren't singing about anything regarding friendship, or smiles, or whatever—in fact, it sounded vaguely like it discussed drunken sailors bedding captain's daughters—and it was kind of beginning to both worry and reassure her.

Octavia's eyes darted down to the hard, creaky wood beneath her. Her hooves shuffled almost hesitantly along the surface, and she felt her ears flatten against the sides of her head. Seeking something worthwhile she could engage in, she reached a foreleg up to adjust her prior perfectly positioned ballcap's bill. Her attention high up thanks to it, she was now forced to look at the lovely crew toiling about with the aimlessness and general carefree attitude of a stay-at-home father. A duo of gold-beaked birds stood in the middle of the deck, eyes toward the sky as they yanked at a set of pulleys that squeaked and creaked with the sea salt presumably living inside them.

Her ears flicked upward involuntarily as she swore she caught the sound of her name, but they went back down when she lost the conversation amidst the sea of other conversations surrounding the ship.

Sea.

Ships.

Godsdammit.

"Hey there, Gibbs, still got the cobwebs?"

Through the swarm of male voices came Lavi's feminine one, and so Octavia turned her head to the left to find her approaching a navy blue and gray griffon who held a rather... ghetto—for lack of a better term—looking guitar in her talons. Gibbs got up and, setting her guitar down next to the bench she was previously sitting on, promptly slapped Lavi right on her armored ass. This display of Hoofball-esque camaraderie went apparently uncared for by Lavi, who wheeled about and socked Gibbs in the arm. Both chuckled to one another, rubbing at their now stricken areas absent-mindedly.

"Eat a dick, Lavi," Gibbs shot back finally, shaking her bandana-wrapped head with a grin.

"One day, Gibbs."

Octavia caught the sight of T making a relaxingly calm pace toward the distant set of double doors at the far left of the ship, a usual telltale sign of the captain's quarters. She didn't really read pirate stories too often, but she knew enough to know that the large rear end of the deck always housed the leader's living space, where they counted their plunder for the week, sharpened their curved swords, and polished their seventeen horribly crafted flintlocks. She felt a tad proud that she had slyly sleuthed about and knew that beforehand, but her eyes took notice of the large lettering above the doors that read Andy Trout, and she frowned against her cheeks. She could never really win, could she?

Realizing that she'd missed what T was attempting to do, she shook her head to dispel the thoughts and curses rummaging around her brain, brushed a few locks of her mane out of her eyes, and looked back to the captain's quarters to find the griffon sitting in front of a pony-tall bookcase. With books in both talons, he looked from his left and to his right like he was judging the two articles. His scrutinizing eyes that Octavia could see even from her rather distant position darted to and fro; obviously some kind of incredible dilemma for him. To be fair and true, Octavia had done the same thing a few times back in grade school with library books. There were always so many she wanted to read, but due dates were quick and students could only borrow two at a time.

Gods, that librarian was so kind. She had a hedgehog named Barb that she'd let out a few times when Octavia's class went over. Cute as a button, and oh so curious. Not like a dog, though. It still would've been infinitely cooler if it were a dog.

"Kind of daunting, isn't it?"

Octavia perked up, the dumb smile on her lips instantly faltering as she looked around for whoever had interrupted her.

Her search was quick, as she needed only look directly to her right to find the source.

"Sorry?"

W chuckled. "I said, 'kind of daunting, isn't it?'"

Octavia scoffed, a hoof flailing around as she blew far too many raspberries. "Oh, it's nothing."

"You're a bad liar," came Sesame from her left.

"Wanker," Octavia spat, turning to him with a soft glare and only half-kidding.

Sesame opened his mouth to give a witty quip, but, apparently feeling he was satisfied, simply shook his head with a grin and looked up at the sky.

"We won't be long here; don't worry," W reassured her, his neck craning around so he could stare down at her, "we just need to tell Andy here that we wanna head out in the next few days."

"That soon?" Octavia asked, cocking her head. "You only just got here yesterday."

W nodded his head back toward the crowd of pirates with a snort. "Yeah, well, I think with the way Val's acting right now, she'd kill me if we didn't head out sooner."

Octavia wheeled about, her mane tossing and whipping at her left cheek. From across the deck, indeed, was Valkyrie. She might as well have had hearts in her eyes; strolling alongside Andy Trout, she looked to be hanging on every single word that he spoke without giving out any of her own. What looked to be a soft sigh escaped her beak every ten seconds or so, and the absolutely botched grin on it as well wouldn't have looked out of place in some sort of cartoon. Octavia didn't rather want to compare Valkyrie to her precious canine loves, but if she really had to choose something—and this something caused her quite honestly the greatest pain she could ever experience in her life—it would be a two-week-old French bulldog with no vaccinations and all the wandering, following, and tailcoat-gripping of an infant foal.

Gods, foals scared her sometimes.

"Are those Lavi's?" Octavia didn't even have time to look at W before she felt his claws reach around to the bags over her spine and unclasp the clip along the strap. Shaking his head as he yanked them off her with a single arm, he rolled his eyes. "Goddammit. Lazier every day, I swear–"

"Oh, it's fine!" Octavia replied, "I told her it was alright for her to do so. They weren't too heavy anyway."

W looked her up and down—foreleg pressed against his right shoulder and still clutching the straps—and frowned. "You're shaking."

Octavia looked down. She locked her legs. She looked back up.

"No."

To be fair though that was an immense weight off her back—literally. She shook herself like a dog as a delightful shudder ran up and down her spine. Maybe she should've just given the bags to W earlier.

She looked back at the accessory with an observant eye and a judging mind. They didn't look too heavy to her, but she guessed that her assumptions were a tad skewed thanks to W basically hiding it away from her on the other side of his body. From what she could see, though, Lavi really needed to take more care of her bags. There were small tears, holes, and what looked to even be claw markings from some kind of bear/panther hellspawn. Octavia's insistence on orderly fashion raised a bit of an uproar with the honestly thousands upon thousands of open zippers and pouches lining the backpack's surface, most of which appeared to hold many important looking items and papers.

Oh yes, her ticket home was in there somewhere too. She had forgotten which pocket she'd put it inside. Now that she thought about it, maybe keeping it behind her collar's lining was a better idea. Lavi could very easily misplace her ticket amongst the hundreds of other assorted articles nestled next to it like some kind of sardine can. Honestly, she'd already forgotten what it looked like.

...

Her ears flicked upward and a grin drew on her face. Oh, there it was!

...

Wait. She'd zipped the pocket closed, hadn't she?

...

She blinked.

Her eyes followed it as it continued to drift with the light breeze courtesy of the harbor. Without even a single word, motion, or thought, Octavia watched her ticket float lazily down toward the dock like a descending autumn leaf, barely miss the wooden planks marking the dock itself, and settle atop the calm, murky green waters. In that instant, a nearby seagull—casually paddling across the sea—suddenly darted toward Octavia's train ticket and, believing it to be some kind of artificial, stamped, inked, wood-birthed, bleach white, definitely-not-food food, promptly dipped its head, opened its beak, and gobbled it up. Looking back up to the source—Octavia—as if to thank her, it opened its beak yet again, cawed, then opened its wings and quickly flew off.

Octavia, leaning against the railing of the ship, could only blink and very lightly, very nonchalantly, very destroyed, dead, broken, and battered both inside and outside, press a frown against her cheeks.

Her salvation didn't last even an hour or so.

She sucked in a small breath after realizing that she was having a bit of a difficult time swallowing the normal, healthy amount down.

W, completely unaware of what had just occurred, leaned forward from Octavia's right and asked, "You drop something?"

Sesame, having watched the entire thing alongside the mare like the two were watching a Godsdamned movie, simply widened his eyes, grinned, and swiveled about to stare at her.

Octavia let out a long sigh, leaned further against the railing, and dragged her two front hooves down the entirety of her face, groaning all the while.

Finally, she turned back around to face the deck of the Scuttlebug, face completely drained. Pausing yet again to wipe it with a hoof, she moaned into the appendage and, in a raspy voice, exclaimed, "I need a drink."

Failure
View Online

Stroll

Failure

Paper. It was a bit of a driving force in her life, wasn't it?

Now that she squinted her eyes and looked back on it, the only surprise granted upon her was that she hadn't noticed it earlier. She'd spent long nights red-eyed and clasped in her pink robe, her rear in her seat and the object scattered in front of her like the aftermath of a daycare center. In the light of the kitchen ceiling fan, Octavia would rub at her cheeks with a sigh and stare at what was to be seen.

The fine slip carrying the endless number of zeroes she'd always felt very uncomfortable retrieving from her mailbox, and infinitely moreso taking down to the local bank. A lump quaking in her shivering throat and an empty promise marked in fine black ink fueling a trip to a public place filled with green glares and scrunched noses. If she couldn't call herself lucky for anything else, she could count herself in for not having vomited inside the establishment for the past five years.

The notices on her schedule—usually accompanying the prior document—that told her of future destinations for concerts and other events that she most certainly couldn't miss for the world. A pointing of hooves and a flurry of knife-bladed voices singing to her with her entering the concert hall, the owners of which being ones that she'd rather not have to deal with for this lifetime or the next. Beauty Brass and her absolutely ridiculous sousaphone, or Frederick with his... everything, or Symphony with... she'd much rather not talk about. She could handle anypony else before Symphony could get through to her.

The double-sided, triple-checked, quadruple-paged sheets she slaved over every waking moment she so much as breathed, black dots on thin black lines that informed her what she was doing, how she was going to do it, and when she would do it. A slur here from a low B to a high F. Vigorous sixteenth notes from a quiet, arco piano up to a boisterous, pizzicato fortissimo. Low, fast, fuerte bow strokes that made her appear to simply be running her hooves ineffectively up and down the graceful neck of her beautiful, beloved double bass.

Her mind went to the piece of paper she was sure was still hanging idly over her bedpost, tear marks, ink splotches, and tears marring its life-saving surface, shying and hiding away behind a lovely, expensive, glimmering picture frame. They may have spoken a thousand words, but the paper's contents shouted a million. Gods, she really needed it right now. This whole thing was just becoming a mess...

With a glare to nopony but herself and a swipe across her eyelids from her left cheek to her right, Octavia huffed, sighed, and lightly dropped down onto the docks. She really didn't want to start crying right now.

She was actually relatively glad that the only choice of alcohol on the proclaimed Scuttlebug happened to be rum. She wasn't sure just how much of an emotional wreck she'd become. If anything, she could make a well-educated guess that she'd simply crawl behind a group of barrels and have to be carried back to the hotel by Unicorn magic or black claws.

The last time she'd had rum, it had been some kind of costume party back during her days in the Academy. The night was rather blurry, hard to remember, and so downright volatile that she'd squashed what little she could remember down into the deepest, most solitary parts of her mind to the point that trying to recall it at the moment was like a good dream.

She'd gone as Daring Do, mind. Who the hell wouldn't dress up as Daring Do for Nightmare Night? Twilight Sparkle?

Suffice to say, though, she'd decided to opt on not joining in drunken sea shanties and embarrassing W and the others. Drowning in sorrows wasn't the only thing that could happen up on that ship, and she really didn't want to take part in any of it as long as she lived. So, with a very resolute, not-too-obvious fib, Octavia had excused herself so that she could head out and ask when the train—arriving tomorrow—would arrive. She, apparently, had forgotten, and so needed to make absolutely sure she knew exactly when her trip back home would arrive. W had raised a brow, marveled at the fact that it wasn't displayed anywhere on her ticket, and overall glanced at her suspiciously, but he hadn't pried, and she had escaped.

For now, at the very least.

And now, she had to figure out what she was going to do, and fast, because she was incredibly, genuinely, completely, definitely, surely, honestly losing it right now.

Oh Gods oh hell oh dammit!

What was she going to do? What?! She couldn't just go back and buy another ticket! What if somepony else needed it, and her buying another one only barred them from seeing somepony special on the other side? A sister, or– or– or a wife! A marefriend! Or a coltfriend! Someone important! What if they were sold out anyway? What if she couldn't buy another one? What if she got robbed on her way back to the station, or there had been some kind of crime previously and the whole thing was just taped off now? What if she couldn't?!

What if she couldn't get home?!

"So we going back to the station or what?"

The incredibly unexpected voice from next to her caused her to jump, look sharply in its direction, and immediately glare with the intensity of a thousand dry-heaving suns. Brushing away a few locks of her mane out of her eyes, Octavia straightened her posture and looked the stallion up and down accusingly.

"And just what in the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

Sesame chuckled to himself, cigarette poking out of his closed, smiling lips. Lighting his horn and magicking it out, he waggled his eyebrows at her and replied, "Just making sure you don't end up purging in the bathroom."

Octavia clenched her jaw.

Sesame shook his head. "You don't want W to know, do you?" He asked at once.

"Not a chance, pal," Octavia instantly replied with a shake of her own.

"So, what, you just plan on pretending you never got a ticket or..."

Octavia quickened her pace a tad, hoping that the stallion would get the message that she was trying to convey. "I plan on..." She trailed off, then gave the top left of her vision a hard, wobbly stare. "...doing something that, maybe, is too confidential for your ears."

"Just tell him a bird ate it or something."

Octavia shook her head, jaw gaping as she murmured to the air, "For the love of the Gods, Sesame..."

The sounds of his now distant hooves increased in volume and quantity. She didn't need to look to her right to know that the Unicorn was smirking at her.

"Damn, you walk fast–"

"I have places to be and no one to see," Octavia instantly interrupted, eyes staring straight forward as she continued trotting back toward the town square. To be fair, she didn't... actually have any semblance of a plan in her head in the slightest. Not to say she couldn't come up with something; she wasn't exactly horrible under pressure.

"Didn't know you were half Zebra, Octavia."

The mare shut her eyes and sucked in a long breath, then opened them so that she didn't bump into anything in front of Sesame. He probably wouldn't let it go. Or he'd tell the others, who in turn wouldn't let it go.

"Just go back and tell him. He'll just go buy you another one, won't he?"

"What, and end up wasting his time for some dumb mare who put her last one in an open zipper?" Octavia asked, looking at the stallion with a sideways glance. This moment of situational awareness helped the mare notice that she and Sesame had officially exited the docks.

"Oh is that what happened?"

Octavia felt heat rise in her cheeks. Sure that Sesame could very easily see the coat of pink amidst the sea of gray, she looked away, stared at the ground, pursed her lips, and shot a dirty look back at him to simply sputter, "Shut up."

"Was that a yes?"

"On your bike, Sesame," Octavia said, flitting a hoof back toward the wooden docks and seagull scat, "I'm going to go back to the hotel and cry in the shower."

Sesame immediately laughed like he'd held a belly full of beer. "So that you can't tell if you're crying or not?"

Octavia snorted. "Blazes, how did you know?"

"Smoker's habit," he replied, rotating the cigarette round and round with his teeth, "we always know what's wrong with someone."

Octavia hummed. "Is that so? What of me, then?"

He barely even let her finish her sentence before he calmly told her, "You feel devastatingly lonely and drink too much."

The mare raised a hoof to tut at him and tell him that he was wrong. The hoof faltered for a very brief second as her eyes widened, but continued as she cleared her throat, pushed her rising feelings back down with the force of a steam train, and spoke, "Not even close, I'm afraid."

Sesame shrugged. "Weeeell, it's hit or miss."

The two ponies now trotted toward nowhere in complete silence, the hustling world around them—and the bustling ponies inhabiting it—going about their day undeterred, as if the attention and companionship of the pair were something it didn't require. Ponies manning four-wheeled stands called to massive crowds standing in front of them, their aproned bodies advertising and recommending their daily goods. The crowds themselves clamored forward, the clanging of bits accompanying their fervent nods and wild smiles. Pony-powered wagons rattled and creaked along the roads, their operators and customers speaking to one another like lifetime old pals. The smell of baked bread, steaming pasta, and fragrant flowers all but assaulted Octavia's nose, causing her to scrunch it up and wish that she was inside her home with the curtains closed and ice cream at hoof.

Her roommate was home if she remembered correctly. Hopefully, she wouldn't eat all the food Octavia had made before she had left. It'd be an incredible bother to try and make it all again. Her hay sandwiches and noodle cups were prized possessions of hers, and if she couldn't have one of either when she stepped through that bloody front door, it was going to actually be bloody.

...

She suddenly grew aware that Sesame was looking her way. She turned to look back at him almost cautiously, then screwed up her face when the stallion turned away from her purple gaze. Mouthing a particularly choice set of words to herself—and any paparazzi that may have been watching her—she squinted, craned her neck back, and faced forward yet again to test something. Sure enough, much to her chagrin, the stallion rotated about and glanced at her yet again, but this time for only half a dozen or so seconds before humming to himself.

Almost amused, she asked, "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Sesame groaned, "Gods I knew you'd say something–"

"Well excuse me if you just so happen to keep glancing my way, and then shy away when I do the same like some sort of grade school filly."

Sesame set his lips in a neutral line for a second, then nodded his head toward her. "Just find it weird you're still wearing that."

Octavia's eyes darted down to her neck, then back up. "I wear my bowtie every day, Sesame. It's Royal Canterlot Symphony attire–"

He looked back at her, raising a hoof and patting his mane, "I mean the– the hat."

She looked up. The bottom of the baseball cap's bill stared back at her. She, in a lower volume than she was used to, cursed to herself.

Sesame gave a breath-crusted laugh. "What? Did you forget you were wearing it?"

Octavia found herself still staring bemusedly up at the article. She'd go cross-eyed if she wasn't careful. "A little, I'll admit."

Again. "It'll happen; trust me."

"To be fair, you were required to wear that sad excuse for a hat every day." She grabbed at her hat's bill and took it off her head. Uncaring of the hat hair she most certainly was currently harboring—for now—she studied the accessory like a math test and showed it to Sesame. "I could very easily just place this on a shelf somewhere, or give it back to W after expressing disapproval."

"True, true," Sesame said, nodding, "but you wouldn't would you?"

"Surely not," Octavia replied, flipping it back over so that its open end faced her. "I rather like it, to be completely honest." She replaced it back over her mane as Sesame watched and then chortled. Curious, she glared at him with pursed lips. "What?"

"You're not even wearing it right."

"Please, there's not a single tantalizing promise that could make me wrestle it around my poor, poor scalp. I find it delightfully comfortable just where it is," Octavia scoffed, absent-mindedly prodding said location. It rested atop her mane right where her ears started, an infinitely better alternative to the death grip she was used to seeing on users of the sort. If Sesame really wanted the mare to look like she were pitching for the Manehattan Merriams, he'd have to see it in his dreams.

...

She really hoped not, actually. Maybe it'd be best if he didn't see it all. Or her at all.

Octavia looked at the stallion, who clearly saw her in his peripherals and shook his head to further emphasize his amusement.

The sounds of their hooves clipping and clopping along the sidewalk thumped in Octavia's ears.

"You're not going back to the hotel, are you?"

"Of course I am, you duffer," Octavia said, shooting the Unicorn a cocked brow, "what else would I be doing?"

Sesame simply pointed a hoof to the mare's left. Octavia looked there.

The Red Baron Hotel stared at her in all its sun-kissed glory from across the street.

Octavia didn't even realize she was still walking until Sesame pointed it out as well.

"You're still walking."

"And you should turn around and do the same," Octavia spat, growling at him. Sesame's chest croaked as he snorted. His following silence her answer, she added, "What did you even tell the others before you left?"

"I was taking a piss."

"You're on a boat, Sesame," Octavia, not really buying it, informed him.

"Seagulls bite hard, Octavia."

"I wouldn't know."

"Your ticket says otherwise–"

Sesame almost tripped onto the sidewalk, aided by the surprise gray hoof having halted his foreleg.

"Rude," he said with a grin.

"Give, receive, you plonker," she replied. Looking forward with a giggle, Octavia's eyes widened for a brief second before she added, "Train station's over there."

"I was right, then," Sesame concluded, doing a little dance as he walked alongside her. If it weren't for his being taller than her and his possible strength underneath all that flannel, she would've strangled him for doing so.

"What else would I do?" Octavia asked with sincerity in her voice. To be honest, any other idea the Unicorn might have brewing up in his nicotine-plagued brain was one she would take, consider, and probably go through with.

As they neared the three-way intersection and stopped at the stoplight, Sesame pitched it.

"Why don't you just hitchhike on the train?"

Octavia prodded the button on the side of the pole with noticeable annoyance. A frown was set on her lips, but it vanished when the previously red pony on the other end of the street turned snow white. She was a little happy that traffic wasn't too busy up here. Replacing her grimace and dipping her head, Octavia glared at Sesame from beneath her brow. "Being cornered by alcohol-drinking, razor-blade-carrying, slumming homeless ponies certainly isn't the way I'd want to go out."

The two walked between the two white lines on the road toward the station as Sesame innocently asked, "You'd fit right in though, wouldn't you?"

"Ha ha, ass," Octavia feigned with a hiss.

"Am I wrong, though?" Sesame inquired as they ascended the step toward the station's booth.

"I don't rightly know. You ever hear of lung rot, Sesame?"

Sesame's mouth formed an 'o' shape. "Oh ho ho, you're cutting deep now. That's screwed up, mare."

"Give, receive," Octavia sang, slowing her pace so she didn't accidentally bump into the kiosk while conversing with Sesame. The stallion in question, staring ahead, widened his eyes, halted in his tracks, and nudged her side with a sucking of his lower teeth. Octavia turned to look at what he'd seen, then craned her neck back, cocked an eyebrow, squinted, brought her neck back to its prior position, pushed it forward, opened her mouth, read what the loosely draping sign in the window said, shot her neck back again, narrowed her eyes even harder, reread what she saw for a second time, frowned, and glared at the gray Earth Pony now in focus in the glass of the kiosk.

Sesame seemed to be a bit slower than she was.

He scratched his chin and elicited a rather disgusting, meaty sound from his goatee. "'Getting lunch. Come back later.'"

Octavia looked up and to her right, finding the large lamppost housing the clock that was the norm at train stations.

"It's one o' clock."

"Yeah?" Sesame asked quizzically as if not noticing the ridiculousness of such a break.

"Who in the world is still eating lunch at one o' clock?"

"Me, some days," Sesame replied almost too quickly.

Octavia glanced back at the clock. The seconds continued to tick away as if life itself hadn't just royally eviscerated her.

Pressing a frown against her cheeks, Octavia stared at the candle burning in her vision a thousand yards away; a bout of screaming, heavy breathing, and bulldog-esque sweating was effectively stalled for the time being. The clock continued to tick silently in her peripherals.

"So, what now?" Sesame asked, throwing his cigarette on the floor and stamping it out.

"First, you pick up your Godsdamned cigarette off the ground." He did so wide-eyed, clearly not expecting such a thing out of her mouth. "Second," she continued in a definitely more cheery tone, "we head back."

She barely turned fully around when Sesame stuttered, "Wh– What, you don't wanna wait for him?"

"Stallion like that probably fancies a dozen boxes of cheeseburgers. He won't be back for awhile." Walking past the stationary Sesame, she splayed her ears back and expected to hear no clever retort, but was painfully reminded that she was with Sesame and not somepony else.

"Remind you of anypony?"

"I will actively attempt to punch you straight in your bloody jaw."

Silence.

"Back to the others?" Sesame asked at last.

"Back to the others," Octavia confirmed, shaking her head and starting the long walk to the docks.

Disappointment
View Online

Stroll

Disappointment

Octavia could talk to her friends about anything, and she wholeheartedly meant anything. Her time in grade, middle, and high school was absolutely filled to the brim with excited, hyped-up discussions between her, Lyra, Harvest, and Colgate, ranging from such topics as silly straws in bubbly soda to the current political views on the day's metropolitan society. There had been a nice, delightfully shaded spot on the eastern wall of her elementary school, below the scratchy white box that remained the last remnant of the massive banner that hung over it, and it was there that the group first began their social upbringings. Every day when they were finished with lunch, they sprinted their little legs off and practically flew to their selected area of the building to start up their new topic of the day.

Lyra thoroughly enjoyed talking about colts, the stereotypical thing of filly conversations that Octavia tended to back away from whenever it popped up. She could go on and on about the Unicorn ("Do you see him? By the swing?") that she had prior bumped into while standing in line for recess the week before, and then she could point a hoof and joke about the mane style of the Pegasus standing out in the baseball field, stretching his wings with his other flight-capable friends as they debated whether or not they could make a run for it. Or fly for it. Flight? Whatever.

Colgate rather liked whenever they talked about food. She'd always wanted to follow her father's footsteps and take up a position as a dentist when she was older, and she loved to annoy her friends with nutritional facts and prompt reminders of brushing one's teeth after eating away at a nice hayburger. To be honest, it was actually rather admirable in a way. The filly was so prepared—so very sure—for her after-school career, and here she was already showing the signs of those mares who would hand you a toothbrush for Nightmare Night instead of the usual helping of candy.

Harvest could—and very will did—converse about everything. She held views on dogs, and cats, and pencils, and teachers, and all kinds of things that would assure her friends that she probably knew anything in the world there was to know. The filly was a bit "on the fence" about the first, thought the second was better off peeing in litter boxes—the opinion of which was instantly rewarded with a high hoof by Octavia herself—always had a hard time with the third, and liked all but two of the fourth. To be honest, Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Syrup were just a tad on the hostile side, but Octavia wasn't exactly on bad terms with them. Harvest, on the other hand, might have had recurring eraser mishaps with them, but that was beside the point.

Octavia felt comfortable around them, and, together, she could ramble for hours as if doing so were some kind of social game.

Talking was important to a pony's life. It built up and strengthened their social skills that they so desperately needed, and could start new relationships or rekindle already existing ones just with a few exchanged words. Soft hello's in the hallway, congratulatory high hoofs for doing good on a test, and playful bumps in the lunch line while waiting for Roseluck to get her peaches off the ground again. Talking was how one communicated with their fellow pony, and talking was how one remained sane in this wide world of Equestria.

Octavia barely talked to others nowadays, and that was all for a very good reason. Keeping to herself was kind of nice, and she'd much rather not let people see how much of a behind-the-curtains mess she actually was, and she wasn't talking about her bedraggled mane, bunched-up pink bathrobe, and baggy eyelids. If she opened up her front door when they knocked, beckoned a hoof in, and showed them the garbage pail, they could see the bottles of wine and champagne lying at the bottom of the plastic bag. Pulling apart the fridge doors would reveal tubs upon tubs of ice cream. If you looked in her shower you could very faintly make out the worn down marks of an immobile Earth Pony.

Maybe she was just... scared of talking to others. Maybe they'd take note of her personality, or chortle at her odd obsession with canines. Living with a mute was great.

Sesame hummed. He had an odd affinity for low notes.

She turned her head to look at him, reminded of the conversation at hand.

He sucked in his bottom lip, hummed again, gave her a goofy grin, and said finally, "I'd have to say Language Arts."

Octavia instantly scoffed. "Please, is it that hard to write down words on a piece of paper?"

"Hey," Sesame shot, pointing a hoof at himself as he continued walking alongside her, "you asked me what I didn't like. I have my reasons."

Now, Octavia may not have known Sesame as closely as her friends, but she had to admit that he was one hay of a conversationalist. He may have been a tad hypocritical about her drinking while he slowly killed himself with the arguably worse nicotine, but he could talk up a storm that any Pegasus would be jealous of. She cocked her head with a like eyebrow. "Oh, huh? What would that be?"

"I hate taking notes."

Octavia rolled her eyes. "You have to do that in every class, Sesame. It's not a sort of exclusive."

Sesame shrugged and glared at her. "Oh yeah? What's your least favorite, then?"

Octavia pursed her lips and regarded the sun hanging high above her and to the right. She let out a low note—a delightful E sharp—and looked back at the Unicorn by her side. "Science."

"What, you didn't like making things explode?" Sesame asked, an almost genuine tone in his voice telling her that he was possibly offended. Octavia shrugged. Making things explode meant that you had messed something up, so, no, she didn't even think about it. "I thought it was pretty interesting. Kinda fun, too."

"I don't know about your school, Sesame," Octavia began, catching the Unicorn's gaze, "but my science class was filled with equations, formulas, and sequences that would be much better off as coded messages to Griffonia."

Sesame sniggered, shoulders bunching up and down as he clenched the cigarette in his lips. "Which one'd you take?"

"Chemistry."

The Unicorn laughed a lot harder than Octavia would have thought possible for such a simple, one-worded answer. For a second, she had half a mind to prod at him and ask what else lay in his cigarette's lining.

"One of my friends, actually, took Chemistry too." He coughed into a hoof to regain his composure before he continued, "He, uh, mixed up some of his chemicals during a lab and set his eyebrows on fire. His partner next to him started socking him in the face because she panicked and was trying to put him out."

The word "lab" caused a bit of a falter and hesitation in Octavia's amusement, and for a split second she swore that she could hear barking in the distance, but she shook her head and jostled her mane at him. "How'd the trip to the nurse go?"

"Oh, it went great. She handed him some ice and then wrapped it up with gauze against his face. He said he almost got frostbite because he couldn't get the damn thing off."

She snickered, then fell silent.

The pair continued trotting back toward the docks in a peaceful quiet until Sesame broke it.

"Speaking of chemistry, you notice Valkyrie with Andy awhile ago?"

Yes, she had. She felt an odd smile cross her lips, one that she immediately raised a fuss about. Was she happy for the prudish griffon, or was she just relatively glad that there was something else that Valkyrie could occupy herself with besides making fun of her? Oh no now there were images in her head. "Oh, it was impossible to miss it." That sounded like a neutral enough answer to her. Oh Gods this was actually bugging her now.

"Oh yeah, no, I think her dirty jokes on the ladder were evidence enough," Sesame replied, "I'm just a little surprised is all. I would've expected Lavi more than the rest of them."

"Definitely. I find that mares go after bad colts more often than colts going after bad mares. Then again, they're griffons, but–"

"I can't tell, though—is Lavi a lesbian?"

Octavia felt a small tickle in her stomach and immediately started coughing. Sesame raised a brow and opened his mouth, presumably to ask if she was okay, but she raised a hoof up and bunched up her cheeks. With shaky breath, "Assuredly not, Sesame."

"That thing with Hail, though..." That did happen.

"Just a joke, I'm sure." Was she sure, though? Really, really sure?

"And she slapped that griffon's ass." That occurred. Fair enough.

"The stallions at my high school on the Hoofball team did that all the time."

The two stopped, having reached the end of the sidewalk, and looked to their left and right for any sign of a nearby carriage or wagon. Finding a large sardine pack on the far right and only a single taxi heading their way from the other side, they trotted across the street and reached the opposite sidewalk. Their conversation once again resumed, with Sesame taking his next turn.

"How'd you meet 'em, anyway?"

Octavia blinked. Was he– no... was he? "W and the others?" She hoped her voice wasn't quivering.

"Yeah."

Octavia sucked on her lower lip. This wasn't something she was too excited to retell, or even recall in the first place. That whole thing had been part of a not-so-great day. What kind of way could she shorten it so that her getting kidnapped was cropped out? She prodded at her cheek for a few seconds, hummed, and explained, "I met them around Ponyville. They needed my help opening the box that Lavi has." That was good enough, and wasn't entirely untrue. The Everfree Forest was relatively around Ponyville, and they did need her help opening the box... the contents of which she still didn't know. She didn't want to pry, because it was probably important to W and the others and didn't actually concern her, but she was just a touch curious about what she'd almost been attacked for back in that clearing.

"Why're they here anyway? Do you know?"

Octavia pouted out her lower lip, shaking her head loosely and wide-eyed. "I don't rightly know, Sesame. It doesn't really matter to me, I find. They'll beee..." she let a sigh out of her nose, "...off on their merry way tomorrow, and I'll be heading back home."

"What's your plan for a new ticket?"

Octavia side-stepped a bright red fire hydrant lying on the sidewalk, giving herself ample enough time to think something up before she had to admit to herself that she actually had no idea. "I'll try to, I guess, sneak away when we all return to the hotel and buy one. Hopefully, the station is actually being manned by then, and I'll be able to get back before anypony notices."

"They're griffons–"

"Shut up."

...

Oh she didn't actually mean it.

She flicked her chin toward him. He mouthed a feigned, "oh," before actually replying, "Sounds like a good plan. Here's hoping." There was a long pause before he clicked his tongue and asked, "What do you think I should do?"

"What do you mean?" She inquired.

"Well, you're going back to Ponyville. Where does that leave me, y'know?"

Octavia dipped her head and splayed her ears back. There it was again. That little burning inside her stomach that usually cooked her alive from the inside. She felt a frown break through the clouds and didn't even try to stop it.

"Hey."

His snap shattered her brick wall, and she perked her ears up to glance at him.

His expression, previously angry, softened up relatively quickly. He tilted his head and added, "I told you that it's fine, okay? Don't get down and shit on me. I told you it was fine. That place sucked."

The hat hanging over her head still felt a lot heavier than usual, but the small spring in her step made a slight, welcomed return.

"Thank you."

The smell of salty air and the sound of seagulls grew in volume, ceasing their conversation and prompting Octavia to look toward their destination. She found it just a tad queer that trips up and down the streets were always so incredibly quick when she was talking to somepony. She flicked her tail idly as the Baltimare Docks sign passed by over the duo. Her hooves felt the concrete prior beneath them give way to an audibly creaking set of wooden slats that she swore would give way at any second.

It was another short while before Sesame spoke up again.

"I think I wanna go with them."

If she'd had any amount of water residing in her mouth, she would have looked the Unicorn straight in the face and spewed it across his forehead. She gave a double-take to make up for the lack of liquids. "Are you sure?" The lack of an instant response caused her to shuffle a tad as they continued trotting. "Griffonia... it isn't Equestria by any definition, Sesame. Surely it's no Itrot, but it's..." She trailed off when she noticed Sesame's very simple, very nonchalant shrug. He wasn't actually considering this, was he? Hell, even she didn't know what Griffonia was like! She'd heard stories about how less wealthy it all was, and if she learned anything from her time in Canterlot, no bits equaled whiny ponies and aggressive tones. There was no telling what a country-wide version of that could lead to.

"Maybe..."

She looked his way again.

"Maybe I need something like this."

Octavia scrunched her eyes shut tightly, wrinkles appearing around her nose as she crinkled it in pain. A dull ringing, sudden and definitely impactful, had set in her two, poor ears. Attempting to blink it away as quickly as she could before the Unicorn noticed, she shook her head and brushed her mane back to its usual state with a hoof. The ringing declined before simply disappearing.

"I mean, like, you always read about ponies going off on grand adventures. Hell, the Elements back in Ponyville do it all the time, don't they?" Sesame asked, glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes.

"When there aren't any deafening explosions, oddly rehearsed song-and-dance-numbers, and Bumblebears, they do tend to head off to Gods know where at the drop of the metaphorical hat."

"Exactly," Sesame exclaimed, as if the mare hadn't realized what she was confirming when she had last talked, "maybe this is something I need to do. This could be a good thing. No more standing in that cramped room, listening to my asshole boss and contemplating sweet death–"

"Um..."

"–now it's just me, and I can do whatever I want."

Octavia felt a cold shiver go up and then down her spine. She gulped. She was now heavily considering seeing what else was lying in his cigarette right now. Surely, living alongside a group of merc griffons and flintlock-carrying pirates wasn't something he was actually looking into. Maybe he was just tired. She knew what it was like to start babbling when the bags under her eyes reached another five or so pounds.

Sesame scratched at his goatee, signifying what Octavia hoped to be the end of their conversation for the time being. If there was anything the Unicorn should be doing at this moment in time, it was recollecting his thoughts so he could dash them all by the time the day was over. He'd probably just hitch a ride on the train and head to nearby Fillydelphia. Maybe he could work in a sandwich shop or something considerably healthier than his last job, where he couldn't burn other people with scalding grease fryers and smoke cigarettes inside.

The next few seconds went by without any further voices, save for the distant ones belonging to seacolts and harbormasters, and Octavia was able to let out a sigh. It may have been about two in the afternoon on a bright, sunny day, but the mare was already feeling dreadfully tired. Maybe this is what it was like to be out and about amongst other ponies. She wasn't a terribly big fan of it, truthfully. A whole day was really all she could take. She wished she was back home, behind a locked door, nice curtains, crafted wood, and a gliding bow.

The two ponies kept up their trot back toward the Scuttlebug, one humming a nice tune and the other silently analyzing it. They took a hairpin-like left turn and saw the massive ship appear at the far end of the dock... and a few individuals beside it, if Octavia squinted her eyes and leaned forward enough. Quickening her pace a tad—and checking to make sure that Sesame noticed and joined her—she cantered across the rickety wooden boards and slowly realized that the figures belonged to... W and the others. She raised a brow. Did they get off to search for her and Sesame?

Reaching within earshot, she heard the voices of griffons finishing their goodbyes for the day.

"...back tomorrow, Andy," W claimed, shaking the sailor's outstretched claw.

"Thanks for taking us!" Lavi beamed with a smile, adjusting her pack.

"Ohhh, my pleasure boyos. I'll be seein' ye tomorrow." Andy turned to look at Valkyrie, who remained standing still as her three companions began walking toward Octavia and Sesame. "You too, lass."

As giddy as a Chineigh school filly, Valkyrie nodded at Andy and joined the others. Octavia groaned as she realized what was happening. She and Sesame had just walked all the way back here, only for them to just turn right back around. Sometimes, Tartarus seemed to have more of a connection to the daily events of her life than she'd thought possible.

W flashed the mare a grin as he grew closer. She mimicked the gesture and wheeled around so she could trot by his side.

She heard Lavi regard Sesame, "Long piss, huh Sesame?"

He laughed in response. "Like a Wonderbolt, Lavi."

"Are we, by any chance, heading back to the hotel, W?" Octavia asked, looking up at the old griffon.

He looked back down at her. He shook his head. Octavia felt a frown appear.

"We're just gonna make a quick stop at the library. Need to look for something."

Did the universe just get together one day and make a blood pact to prolong Octavia's return home however possible?

She grumbled to herself and pouted.

It sure seemed like it.

Mortification
View Online

Stroll

Mortification

Reading was an escape. A fun, loopy slide that twisted and turned round and round, sending the mare further and further away from whatever chose to ail her at a breakneck, quite possibly record-breaking speed that any Wonderbolt would have silently nodded and smiled impressively at. Reading was a savior, if she was going to go so far in admitting. There had been many a time when she was a filly when there was nothing that could assist her in any form or fashion. Sawing away at her monstrously deep double bass only served to remind her of what she was supposed to be doing anyway. Her friends weren't always up for life-threatening hikes into the woods, sometimes keeping to themselves so they could do something infinitely more intelligent with their lives. Her three wonderful Labs, as spry and jovial as they may have been, had their own times when they didn't particularly wish to engage in a game of fetch with the young mare.

It only took the single turning of a snow white page and the sound of accidentally—slightly—ripped paper to send Octavia off on some dumb little adventure, or story, or anything that could keep her mind occupied and far away from the problems plaguing her head. If a supposed friend of hers suddenly up and spat at her with a slew of insults and name calling, if the weather was just a tad too dreary, or even if she was just having an absolutely Godsawful day—probably the result of a day-to-day teenage existence mixed with hormones and school—Octavia would very professionally lift her chin, adjust her posture like she'd seen her mother do during her concerts, and very calmly walk toward the library to check out a book. It was almost therapeutic in a way.

She could walk hundreds of miles on a straight channel if the sides were lined with books.

While stalking through the rows and rows of bookshelves, a twist of her gray head could reveal a touching love story about a griffon and a pony along the border line of their countries. A whipping of her smoky mane could help shine the light coming in from the window above her onto the cover of a non-fictional memoir about life-saving, medicinal-if-you-would dogs. A sparkle of her purple eyes would mirror back at her from the surface of a tale about the horrors of explosive war, slow death, and the tyrannical uprising of an abused underdog born in the depths of an alleyway marked with Princess-defacing propaganda and leftover, sagging cardboard boxes branded with the logo of a dangerous bomb company.

She could turn to her right and find a cute picture book with a little dragon who had some serious catsup issues.

All in all, however, there were many things that made Octavia happy, and one of them was a good book. Hay, even one that looked moderately appealing at the most could grab her attention and inform her of a vastly underrated author that deserved more attention, the name of which she would constantly mention here and there so somepony could look at her one day and say, "Hey, who's 'so-and-so'?" And then she would giggle to herself and proudly reply in a loud tone, "Oh, they're just the great author who wrote 'this-and-that'! You should check them out; they're highly unknown right now."

Gods, she was a dumb kid.

...

A dumb kid who, without any ounce of boastfulness or self-horn-tooting, was pretty book-savvy. There weren't too many genres she strayed away from—though her mother was a little more than a tad upset when she found her youngest daughter nose-deep into The Mad Mare by Bowling Lane—so Octavia had pretty much read it all, and savored the trip the whole way. Scrambled quotes she'd hastily written down on loose-leaf paper were still framed and tacked to a wall somewhere around her present-day house. A few of her own copies were nestled an inch inside her bookshelf that was more filled with leftover snacks, mugs, and sheet music than precious reading material. She could probably recite each and every line from The Cardboard Time Machine's first book in the series, one that she'd read and perused and skimmed through so much that she constantly tore and had to repair pages.

Really, if someone wasn't aware of her whereabouts, and she wasn't off somewhere mucking about with her dear old friends, she was on a library bender that wouldn't see its end until the next century if she wasn't stopped. She'd return home at the drop of a hat, however, with no amount of fuss and no pouting lips. Instead, she'd march out into the cold, dripping rain, smile at the clouds above, scurry back to her house, and fall onto her bed with a bag of newly checked-out books by her side. Reading was an escape, and it gave her a way to escape the dreadful safety of her house without actually stepping hoof outside.

Actually, now that she thought about it, she could probably glare at books and claim their existence as being her one reason for keeping to herself these days. You couldn't quite crack open a fresh one and hum at every little printed word if a pony was nagging at you quietly from behind a pair of tinted shades, now, could you?

To be honest, she... could, and actually kind of did a lot. Maybe that was why her roommate just sat there most of the time. There was no point in communicating with someone if they just ignored you.

...

Geez, she was a bit of a jerk, wasn't she?

...

She turned to her right. Through the cracks of a sparsely populated bookshelf, she could spy the four griffons thumbing through piles and piles of old, new, large, and small books on a round table. Lavi was holding a book in both claws, turning it over and over with a shut eye. T sat beside her, quietly seated and looking like he was too engrossed with whatever sat in his grasp. W, standing at the other side, was holding an open novel in a talon or two, his head darting to and fro to the likewise open gateways lying on the table directly in front of him. One, apparently, seemed to ridicule him with its irrelevance. He shut it with a shake of his head and placed it on the pile to his left, adding to its height. Valkyrie was standing next to her superior, back straight and her face almost hidden behind her choice of pastime. She looked like one of those fillies who tried too hard to make it look like they were reading when their teacher was looking. She'd seen it a lot with the popular girls in her middle school classes. Their resident smoker, meanwhile, was doing what he did best outside. Craning her neck and narrowing her eyes, Octavia searched for any sign of devilry or mischief in Valkyrie's eyes, or movements, or anything, but only found a disgruntled frown and a low curse that everypony in the library could hear.

Her spying glance flitted over to a pair of ponies near the griffons' table; a mother and her child. At the sound of the unexpected utterance, the former glared, bared her teeth, and covered the ears of the latter. They simply pressed their lips against their cheeks and stared back up at their caretaker.

W, having taken notice of the innocent bystanders, stopped what he was doing for a second, looked their way, whispered a quick apology, and elbowed the culprit next to him. Valkyrie put her book down and stared back at him, somehow not realizing what she'd done within the boundaries of a public, family-friendly city library. Considering who it was, "family-friendly" probably wasn't a good way to describe who or what they really stood for. In fact, most of the things that came to Octavia's mind to do the job instead weren't words she liked to let out into the world.

Or anywhere for that matter.

Space included.

Octavia turned back to what was currently afoot: the magazine currently opened to page thirteen in her hooves. Adjusting her position on the floor, the mare bunched up her shoulders and shielded her dive by placing its bottom end closer against her stomach. Lower lip pouted out idly, she quietly turned the pages to see what else was in the latest issue; she hadn't been able to get a hold of last month's, thanks to another concert they'd had—which, for whoever's information, ended up pretty shoddily—and this month's was wholeheartedly promised to be a good one. It had been hyped up for the better part of almost half a year now, and Octavia wasn't just going to wait around for Trottingham to go to the store and see what all the heavily anticipated fuss was about.

Page sixteen now.

Her eyes widened.

Holy shit.

"Hey Octavia–"

The mare in question jumped up at the sound of another individual's voice, heart lodged in her throat as she practically shoved her magazine back into the shelf that she'd got it from. Breathing in and out through her nostrils so that whoever it was couldn't see how quickly she was taking in oxygen, Octavia turned to the far end of the aisle and saw Lavi standing there with the most contained bout of laughter the mare had ever witnessed behind a pair of squirrelly cheeks. Octavia cleared her throat. Lavi turned her head to her right, still staring at the mare out of the corner of her eyes.

She smirked.

"Was that Snatcher?"

Octavia screwed up her face.

"I'm not familiar with the name, Lavi."

The griffon's grin increased in volume. Octavia remained calm. Not that she had any reason to be anything but. She wasn't doing anything.

Lavi leaned a little to her left. Octavia mirrored her by leaning to her right.

Lavi leaned a little to her right. Octavia, her left.

Lavi's eyes narrowed. Octavia's in kind.

As if a switch had been thrown, Lavi suddenly perked up with an almost overexaggerated rolling of her shoulders. Bringing up a fist, she pointed a thumb back at her companions' table and explained, "So the others might need some help with getting more books."

Octavia's jaw dropped as she let out a large sigh. "More? By the Gods, we've been in here for the past two hours!" She bunched up her cheeks in a frown and shook her head, the glare on her face addressed to the griffons still skimming through books across the room. She pouted out her bottom lip when she realized her tone, then raised a brow at Lavi. "Not that I'm complaining, mind." She really wasn't. It was actually a bit of a nice break from walking outside, walking outside in the hot sun, and walking outside in general.

Lavi made a shrug in the direction of the magazine that Octavia wasn't earlier reading. "Clearly," she said with a snort. Turning, she looked over her shoulder and beckoned, "C'mon. Valkyrie's gettin' a little butthurt over it, and unless you wanna see this place without its rooof..."

Octavia flattened her lips and drew her neck back with a brow to the air, thinking that such a drastic course of action was on a much, much broader and more controversial spectrum than the aggressive griffon usually tended to not stray too far from, but widened her eyes and hurriedly followed Lavi's tail when she realized that that was foolish thinking. If anything, sparing the town entirely was probably the least Valkyrie would wander off and go do. The poor, fish-flinging citizens of Baltimare surely didn't deserve a thorough incineration by way of angry cat bird.

Now that she thought about it, she couldn't really think of anyone, any place, or anything– wait, meatloaf.

Yes.

With her newly-remembered mortal enemy now lodged somewhere deep in the cruxes of her brain, Octavia turned the corner at the end of the magazine section and headed to the right, toward the round tables and soft blue chairs that she found hard pressed to not simply fall into and snooze upon. It was only a few hours past the afternoon, and she was feeling absolutely beat. Maybe, if the others took longer than she was currently estimating, she could sneak away into the nearby bathroom or something like at rehearsals and go to sleep, then say she was vomiting when she exited the room so she could be quickly excused and sent home. Home sounded pretty alright right now.

...

Changing topics, she had to admit that there was some kind of... difference heading into a seemingly trivial study session now compared to her days back in the Academy. The haunting flashbacks creeping into her mind—deemed far too risque and downright horrible for the world to hear—were thoroughly squashed back down to Tartarus where they deserved to stay, and she flicked her smoky tail behind her and continued on her way.

She hummed to herself, cocked her head, stared out a nearby window at the busy road outside, and supposed that it felt different because, really, what was there to lose right now if she didn't succeed in studying up with the griffons? A flurry of curses from Valkyrie? An anguished sigh from Lavi? W in a crummy mood? As much as she very much didn't want that to occur, she had to admit that it was a far cry from the devastating results that came with failing back at the Academy.

Back then, there was a lot more than just simple sorrow that emerged from royally banging up your tests, and—consequently—the rest of your life, or as much of a life as your musical career could bestow upon you. Back then, being starved beyond all belief, stressed out to the point of tearing her mane out, and tired as all hell was a normal thing for Octavia, who woke up at two in the morning to get as much studying as she could in and then went to bed at midnight only to repeat the unhealthy cycle a bare hour later. Back then, there was an actual reason for her horrible washed, rinsed, and repeated act, a very simple one that just the utterance of it was an ample enough fuel to keep Octavia from crashing onto her table with a deafening clunk of her Earth Pony head and a scattering of her mane across the milk-stained oak.

Symphony rehearsed the phrase as well, the arsehole.

"F is for failure."

Poetic, in a way, but blunt and to the point. Which wasn't blunt, actually. Blunt was, like, a hammer, and a point was the end of a knife. A blunt knife point was pretty much useless in a way, almost like the trash cans and rubbish bags that she was so fond of comparing herself to in an only half-jesting manner. You couldn't rightfully carve out a pumpkin for Nightmare Night with a hammer, now, could you? You could try, but it would be one big bloody mess. One big, orange, pulpy mess that would rival any glass of orange juice Octavia had poured herself as a filly. She was not a particularly huge fan of the drink, it turned out. One bad experience with clumps of pulp was enough to put her off the drink forever.

Whatever. She'd always liked wine more anyhow.

On the subject of wine, Valkyrie threw Octavia's train of thought off the rails as she practically threw her book onto the round table with an overly long, drawn-out sigh and an aggressive rubbing of the bridge of her nose. "These Goddamn things are gonna make me kill myself. Seriously."

Octavia continued her trot toward the griffon group, listening for any response to the mean old bird that she could deem valid enough to not spit back at. With nothing but a shaking of W's head and a turning of Lavi's head to face the mare, Octavia cantered past the latter and asked the former, "What exactly do you need, W?"

W looked up from his rapid studies for just a second, snorted, then went back to it. "Just some help, is all."

Octavia rolled her eyes. That was a bit of a dumb question. Lavi already told her what they needed. "Which sections would you like for me to look through?" She asked, already turning her body around to head back toward the aisles of bookshelves lining the rest of the library. She wasn't exactly going to be unhappy to search for more books, but at the same time, Academy flashbacks bit at the back of her head. If she wasn't traumatized already, she would be soon.

W chuckled. Octavia, not noticing anything funny happening prior to it, raised a brow and scanned her surroundings as the griffon told her, "Oh, we don't need anything like that." Octavia swiftly turned to her left, an evil scowl on her face and her lower lip pouted out. Lavi, the victim of her angry onslaught, only gave a girlish giggle in response. The mare growled from deep within her throat. "We just need you to help us over here." Letting out a low drone as he turned to the pile on his right, he stuck out a claw and prodded their spines as he added, "Don't have a lot left, if you don't mind."

Octavia grinned. "Of course; no problem," she replied, a shiver running up and down her spine before she trotted around the back of T and headed toward W's side. The old griffon, noticing her choice out of the corner of his eyes, released one of his claw's grips from the side of the book he was reading and nudged the chair next to him out.

The mare about tripped to the floor, having not expected such a gesture. Barely catching herself, she plopped herself onto the rather shoddy piece of furniture, spoke a quick but genuine words of thanks to W—who nodded and hummed at her—and leaned forward to get to work. Her hooves, familiarizing themselves with the act of grabbing massive books to surf through them after an almost five-year drought, quickly reached toward the pile to her left.

Gods, this was going to be pretty boring this time around. As fond as her memories of libraries had been, her later years had told her that the premises of such places were pretty much vacuums that sucked the life out of anyone's prior wonderful day with the intensity of a punctured space station wall. If she couldn't rightly blame her lack of sleep for the bags under her eyes back during her days at the Academy, the dim lights of the local library with the kind librarian heading the front desk and the rows of reading ponies sharing her troubles were next in line.

Grabbing hold of the first book on top, Octavia brought it back toward her chest and let it thump in front of her on the table. She raised a brow when she noticed the title.

She regarded W, "'A Guide On Griffonian Artifacts', by Bird Watcher?" The old bird glanced her way, blinking silently. Turning her head to her right and staring at him from the left corner of her eyes, she asked, "Just what are you looking for?"

The three other griffons turned about and watched W as well, prompting Octavia to peer at them in kind. With their lips (beaks?) pressed against their cheeks, they remained quiet as if anticipating some kind of answer from their leader. Octavia, prodding her chin with a dainty hoof, joined in on their gazes.

W let out a little tut and spoke like he was long dreading his response. "Look for anything with the title of Boreas."

Octavia drew her neck back. Boreas? Was he massacring the word Borealis somehow? As she'd bore witness to, pony culture and griffon culture were very evidently far apart in terms of similarities to each other, but she was preeeetty sure that the Northern Lights were still called the Northern Lights overseas. She hummed to herself, but decided not to question it. Pointing out people's mistakes in daily dialogue turned out to be a lot more tedious than one would think.

She shook her head as she brought a hoof up and leafed through the pages lying before her, the sound of old paper crinkling in her flickering ears. Boreas. Octavia let out a small snort. Just what were the griffons doing looking for a natural phenomenon in a book about artifacts? What– were the, were the Northern Lights just some kind of idol left over by the Gods? She turned another page. Boreas. What a cute little–

She stopped.

She blinked. Then leaned forward. Then narrowed her eyes. Then let her jaw slack. Then mouthed the words she found. Finished, she turned her head and found W staring at her, probably out of legitimate concern for her prior questionable actions.

Octavia took a quick glance back at the book to make sure she wasn't hallucinating somehow. Was it a typo, maybe?

She pursed her lips and asked, "The Idol of Boreas?"

Devastation
View Online

Stroll

Devastation

Cutie Marks were like scars in a way. If you had one, it meant that you'd done something to earn it. You'd gone out miles and miles (possibly) and risked life and limb and hair and tail (also possibly) for the sole purpose of achieving a goal or a series of goals. Maybe you believed that professional skydiving was your destiny in life, and so you'd gathered up sticks from the park near your house, loose-leaf paper from your school desk, and string from your shoddy kite lying prior happily in the garage, then ventured off in the dead of the night to go and practice your proclaimed talent atop the highest standing mountain in the country.

Perhaps you thought yourself to be a bit of an artist. As befell most "artists" of the decade, you became desperately starved and practically homeless in your search for worldwide fame. With an illegally bought spray can from a flea market and a blank subway wall, you spread your name across cities and technically achieved what you wanted, but not in the brightest light if any legal team bearing any semblance of a brain was to narrow an eye and glare up at it.

Possibly, you'd been called beautiful or even just simply attractive by random passersby, as creepy and/or unnerving as it sounded. Such an utterance of words had awoken some kind of fire inside your belly, one that caused you to rise up and try to seek a life as a model of some sort. Visions of lacey stocking magazine covers with your face on them and parties laden with alcohol and spiked drinks danced in your head like sugarplums on a Hearth's Warming Eve night, and so you'd relentlessly scoured markets and malls and boutiques just praying that some kind of big name celebrity in the modeling business just so happened to be visiting your lowly town with a population of less than a hundred middle-class ponies. Next thing you knew, you were lying on a stranger's couch in a windy city with dust under your burning nostrils and a sharp razor blade on the table in front of you, not a bit to your name but more than enough on your hospital bill.

Either way, the soft, attention-grabbing glow emanating from your flanks turned out to be a brighter light than the life you were leading. With a turn of your head and a blinking of your fatigue-crusted eyelids, you'd finally see what you were made to do. You'd be tired, homesick, hopeless, and nervous beyond all belief, but would it have been worth it? A blue bungee cord, or a splotchy paintbrush, or an open magazine on your ass didn't seem like much of a reward for hard work to her. Then again, she bore some kind of amalgamated purple treble clef and toted it around every place she dared walk across, so who was she to ponder?

She still wasn't quite sure why hers turned out like it did. Her family had always had a history with Cutie Marks related to music, and the anticipation for hers was nothing too well thought of. Her father's was a treble clef, befitting his name, and her mother's was a viola clef, befitting hers. Her older sister had a whole note, and her younger brother grew up to have a forte symbol. A quick tracing back to her family's history revealed to her long lines of quarter notes and rests and clefs and the likes, the most boring kind of scrapbook that just focused on old, dead pony flanks.

It had been a most bizarre series of events when Octavia had gotten hers. She played the double bass—a pretty obvious fact considering her career—which used the bass clef. On her flank was a treble clef, or at least a tried version of one that looked straight out of a filly coloring book. Why was it that the one thing she was born to do wasn't plastered on her side like everypony else? And why did it not even bear any remote resemblance to what it was supposed to be?

Her concerns weren't well-hidden—as she'd been rather vocal around that period of time—and so she'd gone to the local doctor's a day or two after getting her Cutie Mark. There, the licensed, kind, truthful ponies had told her and her family that little Octavia Philharmonica had a minor case of Mark Morphing, some kind of very made-up "disease" that Octavia was later shown as being very real, and very uncommon. It wasn't fatal, or even lethal in any case, but it was the reason her Cutie Mark looked so unlike the clef it so desired to be. To be fair, it... did feel kind of unique. She had a cool-looking Cutie Mark she could say was "mutated", which would quickly get her up to the tops of the social ladder at her grade school, because apparently sixth graders had huge hard-ons for things that just didn't make any sense.

Still though, her Cutie Mark had always been a strange thing to look at every morning in the fogged up mirror in her bathroom. Her wet mane and fur were constantly forgotten as Octavia opted on simply staring at her treble clef wannabe with the curiosity, wonderment, and outright mind boggled state of a self-conflicted pony standing in front of the McDuckle's cash registers. She'd seen such individuals many times during her nightly excursions. Just figure out what you wanted! Stop holding up the... darn line! If you couldn't decide whether you wanted fries or apples as your side dish, get the bloody hell out of the way so others could order what they wanted! Was it too much of an effort to step aside and figure it out on your own time?!

Some ponies just made no sense, really. Just two months ago, she'd been practicing with the Symphony up in Canterlot, and the day had been going as per usual: boring, overly long, and yawn-inducing. But it was work, and she enjoyed it, because she could play her bass. Anyway, the rehearsal was unusually quiet that day—which nopony complained about, because they all secretly hated each other—until two ponies in the viola section had ruined the peace with a rising-in-volume conversation about their weekend plans. This was, clearly, not supposed to occur in the slightest, and so Dan had taken his baton and practically snapped it in half across his stand. Still, the two conversing ponies continued to almost yell at each other, completely unaware and possibly not caring about where they were, who they were with, and what they were both doing and ceasing.

As it may have had it, they were promptly kicked out for the day and sent back home. Conversations may have been allowed in the room on a good day, but literal shouting matches were the haphazardly-drawn line in the sand.

Needless to say, Cutie Marks were odd, and hers was dumb. This tried symbol on both her flanks—stitched on her saddlebags back in Canterlot and apparently well-known in the music industry—was what she was recognized for. What somepony would see as she walked along the streets and immediately point a hoof at. What people would know as the Cutie Mark of one bass-playing Earth Pony. Why did it have to be so... outlandish?

As bad as hers may have been, it was at the very least acres better than Sesame's.

"What the hell is that thing?"

Octavia turned her attention back to the conversation at hoof, finding the Unicorn shutting his eyes with a long sigh. If it weren't for Valkyrie's incessant interrogations, she would've thought he was just in withdrawal after not having a cigarette for five minutes.

"It's a burger with a spatula behind it."

Octavia cast her glance downward to Sesame's flank. What appeared to be a pale brown macaroon with a radar dish shone at her and the likewise staring forms of Lavi and Valkyrie from the light leaking in above her and oh now she could see a burger and a spatula in there. She raised a brow, mane and ears flicking and moving with her head. She screwed up her face.

Valkyrie did the same, turning away slightly to silently judge him. Or something.

Lavi broke the pregnant pause with a stammered, "Is– is that a beef patty...?"

Sesame pressed his lips against his cheeks, and, for a second, Octavia could spot, analyze, and define the pain present in his eyes, but he pushed his head back and forth in a half-hearted nod.

Silence.

"That's messed up."

An absolutely disheartened chuckle. "Right?" Sesame asked, teeth glimmering despite it all.

Speaking of messed up, Octavia still needed to take a shower before the day was over. The staff would have surely cleaned up the room by now—if her looking at the clock, shoddy subtraction skills, and acknowledgment were any reliable tools—and the bathroom would be free if she called dibs on it when they stepped outside the library.

Oh Gods the maids probably thought it was her who had made the mess in the bathroom, not some much larger griffon with bladder issues. Lavi had probably subjected the poor ponies to one hell of a traumatizing time, and as they pulled off their hazmat suits and filtered gas masks, they were probably cursing Octavia with all their might, and not the heavily armored, spunky griffon. She sneered and crinkled her nose at the realization that, even if she had nothing to do with something, it always found its way into her lap.

The fact remained, though, that she really needed to wash up. Get the leaves and gunk out of her mane, and rid herself of the mud, dust, and other assorted natural atrocities she was exposed to on her unintended trip. Hopefully, the others wouldn't mind her actually going first. She didn't mean to be rude at all, but the griffons struck her as not particularly caring about their cleanliness. Travelling to and fro with heavy armor seemed to yield too much of a bother by taking it all off to splash in a creek. Adding onto that, if Sesame cared about being clean at all as well, he probably wouldn't have taken up his last job. Not to say that working in a fast food joint instantly marked you as filthy... but she'd seen his work environment. There was nothing really charming about open grease fryers and paper hats.

Then again, there was nothing too promising in a life as a double bassist, but at least she couldn't get salt or mud in her mane.

A series of thumps, a resounding slide, and a clicking of talons caught Octavia's attention yet again, bringing her back to Earth. Looking at the front counter, she found W grabbing the book she'd earlier searched through from the counter in front of the employee working it. The Pegasus, gray glasses propped atop her middle-aged nose, gave a kind smile and a wave as she spoke.

"It's due two weeks from now, as is our standard. You all have a good day now."

"We will, ma'am–"

"You too, miss–"

"See ya–"

"Whatever–"

"Later, beautiful."

Octavia and the librarian both cringed at that, then collectively rolled their eyes when the Unicorn followed the others toward the front door. Octavia, raising a hoof to do the same, suddenly stopped when the librarian called, "That means you too, Miss Philharmonica." She stopped and turned, opened her mouth to reply, worked her jaw, hummed absent-mindedly, looked to the floor, looked back into the other mare's eyes, and bunched up her cheeks in a small smile.

"Farewell, ma'am. Thank you for the help."

As Octavia trotted off at a noticeably quicker pace than she was intending to, the librarian's voice sounded out once more, almost causing her to trip into the door and into the sunlight of the outside world.

"Thank you for the music."

The bell hanging above the entryway jingle jangled as the group stepped back out onto the sidewalk of Baltimare. The blue sky burned Octavia's eyes, the scent of salt and fish assaulted her nostrils with their ghastly, strong odor, and the local ponies stopped to admire the odd group as they continued on their way. Lavi, squeeing quietly, grabbed the book from W's claws and pumped her closed fist against her armored chest.

"Score one for the Birds' Eyes!"

Birds' Eyes? Was that–

"Don't get too excited now. Still got an ocean left t' go," W explained, causing Lavi to deflate just a tad.

Squishing her beak together, Lavi crossed her arms. "You're no fun, ya old coot."

As they descended the steps, "I'm forty-two."

Valkyrie took a second to feignedly cough into a claw. "Mmmiddle age."

"Middle age?" W asked, looking at Valkyrie, "How about middle talon?" He held up his fist, displaying, as he'd foretold, his middle talon.

The apparent Birds' Eyes erupted in a fit of laughter. Sesame joined. Octavia gave him a scowl and a shake of her head. Sesame stopped.

Lavi, having descended from some kind of amusement high, sighed longingly, "Ahhhh, grind my gizzard that's some funny stuff."

"Being old's no joke, guys," Valkyrie claimed, waggling her eyebrows at her companions.

"What do you know about old, Val?" T inquired, almost scaring Octavia into believing some new individual had suddenly joined their conversation.

"I'm older than both of you–"

"Are you pulling the age card? Really?" Lavi replied, jaw slack.

"Three years–"

"Five for me," Lavi interrupted T, who seemed to not care in the slightest as the group started along the sidewalk. Octavia believed in that moment that T just didn't like talking in general, and that if anyone could stop him from engaging in the act, they were alright with him. She had to try that sometime today.

"Counts," Valkyrie sang.

"Barely," shot Lavi.

"How old are you, Octavia?" Valkyrie now directed her attention to the mare.

There was no real use in lying. She was going to be gone tomorrow anyway.

"Twenty-five."

Valkyrie snickered at Lavi's unexpected groan. Lifting a talon from her fist, the latter displayed it to Octavia with an exasperated, "Up by one! Goddammit!"

"What about you, Sesame?" Valkyrie motioned toward him with a nod of her head. The Unicorn shuffled for a second next to Octavia before quietly, almost hesitantly responding.

"Twenty-two."

Lavi d'awwed in an instant. "Aww, you're just a little baby."

"Shut up."

"C'mon now, leave him alone," W warned, snatching the book from Lavi’s grasp.

"Thank you–"

"He just needs his naptime is all."

Another burst of laughter. W, slowing his pace a little bit, nudged Sesame in the elbow with a grin as he passed by him, like an uncle who joked about your recently dead girlfriend. Quietly, Sesame narrowed his eyes and screwed up his face to keep up with the charade, but broke out a cigarette, lit it, and stuck it in his mouth before calling from ahead of the pack, "This baby'll give you secondhoof smoke if you're downwind of 'm."

"Ohhh!" Lavi whooped, holding her claws up to her beak.

"If he does that, he's getting strangled in his crib," W spat.

"Ohhhhhh!" Valkyrie hollered, making a wide circle with a closed fist next to her.

"Like Trainspying?" T asked.

"It died of neglect, not strangulation," Lavi corrected.

"Still creepy though," Valkyrie affirmed, lightly shivering under the hot sun.

"Oh yeah, no, super creep, " Lavi nodded fervently. Octavia had to agree. That ceiling scene was the most downright disturbing thing she'd ever seen in a movie, let alone real life. It just casually turned its heeeead and, it was like an owl and eugh! Gods, she was glad she wasn't watching Trainspying right now. There were things to be thankful for on a daily basis, and that was one of Octavia's for the day.

Lost in her thoughts, she barely avoided W when he accidentally slowed his pace too much, his own mind someplace else as he read from the book he'd checked out. Letting out a small gasp as she sidestepped the large griffon, Octavia raised a brow and watched his eyes go wide as well. Turning to face her as they continued back to the hotel, he cleared his throat.

"Sorry, Octavia."

"It's quite alright, W. We were both a little out of it there," the mare beamed, rolling her eyes.

A silence took over the two as W peered away at his book again. Octavia, looking to the clouds above her and to her left and right, asked, "So why that book in particular?"

"Hmm?" W hummed.

"I said, 'so why that'–"

"Oh," W muttered, shutting the mare up, "this was just one of the ones that actually explained what we needed."

Bugger her. There were a lot more books about artifacts back in that library. It was absolutely massive! They just hadn't gone and looked deep enough. Something quietly ached at her and told her that the group of griffons wasn't as used to unearthing old books for long night study sessions as she was. Gods, the Academy was one wild time.

Octavia smirked. "The Idol of Boreas, right?"

W clicked his beak. Lifting his chin up and staring at her out of the corner of his eyes, he responded in a low voice—which wasn't saying much considering him—and a likewise grumble, "That's the one, yeah."

"Why are you so disheartened telling me about it?" Octavia asked. Despite what she'd just said previously, his attitude was still easily detectable underneath all that gruff voice.

"Same reason we have codenames, Octavia–"

"Which you've spoiled twice, double-yew," Octavia interrupted with a sly grin and a furrowed brow.

"They would've told you at some point anyway." W opened his beak and gave a little note, then corrected, "Well, Lavi would have. Valkyrie would've given you a fake one that sounds vaguely like 'Andy Trout'."

Octavia giggled. "That wouldn't surprise me."

"Me neither."

The two continued to walk alongside each other. From up front, an argument about whether or not the seagulls flying above their heads could communicate with griffons rose up from underneath the noise of a bustling city raging like a forest fire around them. In the blistering heat of the long-past-afternoon sun, Octavia reached up and adjusted her bowtie. W, as if sensing her motions, idly moved his shemagh around.

W sucked in a breath, prompting a turning of Octavia's head.

"It's not here."

"What isn't?"

W cleared his throat, a rather impressive display that reminded Octavia of the subtle grinding process of hundreds of old razor blades. "I have a very strong feeling that the Idol is in Griffonia, not Equestria." He raised the book up and presently waggled it at her. "I also have a very strong feeling that this'll be enough to finally make my superiors realize it too."

"One book would be enough, you think?"

W looked at the novel, then turned it over in his claw. Studying it for a time, he said, "It's a shot that might as well be taken. I've been telling them for years that this whole excursion thing is just a waste of time. Never… actually… thought about getting another source to explain it to them until now. I'm sure though."

"Bloody well better," Octavia snapped, "you've gone through all this work in a foreign country, and still don't fancy a nice hike across the dreaded land of the ponies."

W chuckled. "Trust me, it's a lot less that, and more that we'd burn the whole damn place to the ground if it ended up surfacing over here." Either ignoring or simply not noticing Octavia's quiet eep and folding of her ears, he continued, "They'll focus their attention back on Griffonia itself, and maybe send more people eastward."

Octavia raised a brow. "You lot are rather committed to that Idol, aren't you?"

"It's an important one. We find it and, well…"

"'Well' what?"

W rolled his shoulders. "...well, the griffons will finally be up on top again." He dipped his head and looked at her. "I mean, not in a let's-conquer-everything-else-and-slaughter-thousands kind of way, of course. More like, um..."

Octavia snorted. "Morale."

"Simply, yes."

Octavia bunched up her cheeks in a grin as she watched W adjust his posture ever so slightly. The feeling of patriotism was practically burning off his armor plating. She sucked in a breath in a small gasp, catching the griffon's attention. Giving an open smile, she clucked her tongue and had a life-changing revelation.

"Glory," she said, nodding.

W raised an eyebrow.

"Lavi let slip back at the cave." She looked up. "Your name means 'glory'. Your real name, that is."

"Cute, huh?" W asked in the lowest voice he could muster, like one of her schoolmates after showing off her newly acquired Cutie Mark to the class.

"I would've said 'fitting', but I think 'admirable' is a good one, too."

"Admirable," W repeated, "admirable." He let a burst of air out of his nose, faced forward, then cracked a smile.

"Admirable," Octavia mimicked.

W hummed.

"I guess so," he said.

Desolation
View Online

Stroll

Desolation

Family meet-ups, nowadays, tended to end up rather negatively for Octavia. Save for the usual get-together that happened every reoccurring autumn, Octavia's relatives and family friends met up at least three times each year, the dates of which always happened to be the literal, outright worst times for the mare's busy, bass-career. There had been many a time when she'd simply opted on sighing, pressing her lips against her cheeks, shaking her head at the calendar hanging on the wall in front of her, and basically saying, "Screw it," before catching the next train to the concert hall. Octavia may have been completely, undeniably and... admittedly cluelessly loyal to those closest to her, but the questions she'd be subjected to, like a burning snowstorm that buggered up your nose and crusted the ends of your individual strands of fur, would absolutely ruin everything else that would make the whole reunion worth the ticket price, the tiredness in her hooves, and the looks of amusement when her cousins heard her accent again.

Her parents were the main culprits, which made the whole matter infinitely worse than it would've been if it had been anypony else. She loved both her parents to the cold depths of hell and right back to her waking nightmare of a life, but they had a knack for eternally nagging and pestering her with the most nonsense kinds of questions that she'd just roll her eyes at, shake her head, and grab a fork to dig back into her positively scrumptious biscuits and bowl of salad so she could pretend she didn't have to answer more.

This had been a recurring thing when Octavia was a filly, as well.

Her parents—her father, exceptionally so—were very overprotective of their kids, and Octavia was no proper exception. As a matter of fact, she probably had it the worst of her three siblings. Their "precious middle daughter", destined for "greatness" and absolutely brimming with "promise", was not allowed to step hoof outside and join her friends if even a single individual of the opposite gender was waiting with them. Of course, being a kid and slightly hating her parents at the time, she and her companions had learned to simply hide any guys that were going to be around them for the day, and so thereafter she'd created a nice exploit to get past her parent's strict rulings.

This kind of absolutely ridiculous overwatch had a root even further back as well, when, instead of giggling about colts on the playground—which she, admittedly, did do a few times—she was focusing on how much rosin was on her bow, if it was perfectly positioned, and whether or not she was putting enough pressure on it when she slid it across her four reverberating strings. Her practicing was important to her, but it always seemed loads more important to her parents, who, as they headed off to bed, always told Octavia to make sure that she practiced her bass that night. Setting her bow down, turning the page of her music book, and turning toward the wide open door with sweat on her brow, the young filly would grumble nothings under her breath and continue what she had already, for the past few hours or so, been doing.

It actually happened a lot, now that she thought about it.

She'd be sitting at the kitchen table, pencil coiled in her hoof and scribbling angrily away at the paper in front of her, when her parents would stride around the room and tell her to get started on her homework before she could go and "not" play her bass. This common event cut a lot deeper as well, because she'd usually be working on the very last question of her daily assignment whenever it happened, and her focus would be sullied and riddled with new thoughts of annoyance and angst.

Such buggery was why Octavia had a fondness for straying away from family get-togethers. Every single party, and meal, and simple lounge-about were plagued with incessant interrogations addressed to her poor, poor self and her—strictly assumed—poor life.

Her parents—and her other relatives occasionally—wouldn't stop nagging her about whether or not she was currently dating someone, or when they were going to have grandchildren, or if she was expecting, or when her baby was due, or when their well-deserving daughter was finally going to settle down on an early retirement fund and build up a nice life for herself.

She always reminded them that she didn't want to be with some kind of stuck-up, nose-held-high-in-the-air noble, that she wasn't a huge fan of children and legitimately never wanted to bear any as long as she lived, that, no Aunt Rosin, she wasn't expecting, that, yes Uncle Trompeto, her dress was a tad loose around her stomach and now she felt a little hurt, and that she already had a nice life for herself, for their information. Eating ice cream and loathing herself was probably the greatest things she could be doing with what she'd built up thus far in her career. At the very least, she wasn't going outside and doing anything stupid, now, was she?

"Psst!"

Oh wait.

She was.

Barely suppressing the jump that threatened to throw her to the roof above her head, Octavia raised both her eyebrows and smoothly stared straight ahead at the machine still spilling coffee into the mug underneath its nozzle. Idly working her jaw around like a grazing cow– wait no, she wasn't fat, shut up!

...

Godsdammit.

Idly working her jaw around like a grazing cow, Octavia smacked her lips disinterestedly and turned her head to the right. Sesame's black mane jostled to and fro as he continued his sneaky pose on the floor. She looked down. Sesame stared back up at her.

She blinked.

He did the same.

Octavia narrowed her eyes ever so slightly—mostly due to the ceiling lights she still wasn't used to—waited for Sesame to say something else, and simply turned back to her developing cup of coffee, still steadily pittering away in front of her face. Whatever the nicotine-addicted Unicorn had to possibly say to her was by no means more important than her boiling brew. It had been a hell of a long day for her and everybody else, what with all the scary pirates, and boring libraries, and hours and hours of doing practically nothing in a city Octavia wasn't really accustomed to nor saw reason to be in the first place.

When she was doing the same thing all by her lonesome back in Ponyville, it seemed a lot more... exciting somehow. Solitude did wonders for the amount of absolute nothing Octavia could do, but being around others made her restrain herself in the slightest sort of fashion. She knew what restraint was, because, really, she'd had to stop herself from saying the outright stupidest things countless times when dealing with Canterlot—and other city—locals, but it felt a tad different with the Birds' Eyes and Sesame.

Gods if this was what it was like having friends as an adult, she didn't think she could keep doing it. No wonder she kept to herself ninety-percent of the time.

She blinked, the only way she knew how to cease her many trains of thought before they sped away from their respective stations. The coffee maker was motionless and silent, and the other sounds of the hotel room flooded her head like a tidal wave once more as she reached up to grab her piping hot mug.

Octavia didn't need to turn her head—nor really wanted to, anyway—to know that W and Lavi were still sitting at the far table, huddled over the artifact guidebook like an unlucky Hoofball team down by one at the end of the fourth quarter and talking it up like it was a bulging wallet they'd discovered on the side of the road next to their local arcade. She couldn't blame them, seeing its incredible importance, but Valkyrie sure could.

Her voice riddled with crunching and disgustingly audible chewing, she creaked the springs on one of the room's beds to seemingly adjust her position and groaned at them, "Could you guys read any louder?"

Lavi was quick on the draw. "Fat ass."

"Wet head."

W chuckled deeply.

Lavi growled to herself, the clearly angry turning of a page accompanying it.

"Spronker."

"Go yeep, eaglet."

Octavia began to wonder whether or not the griffons were just making up these slurs to impress her or something. Spronker sounded like some kind of cleaning product that would get the burn marks out of her oven.

...

She really hoped her cookies were okay. When she got back tomorrow, it'd be the first thing on her list to eat, unless they'd burned away as quietly as T still assuredly reading and overall keeping to himself in the farthest corner of the room.

"Octavia!"

Octavia pressed her lips against her cheeks and lowered her cup from her lips. Looking back down at the floor to her right, she watched as Sesame turned to his left hindleg and shook it, most likely because it had fallen asleep in the mare's ignorance of his presence, but also probably because of his odd-looking attempt at a crouched figure. She raised a brow to question it, but realized all too late that she wasn't supposed to be taking notice of him. A quick flick of her head to the couch on the Unicorn's left and a thorough checking out of its height helped Octavia deduce what Sesame's intentions were, if his tried "whispering" wasn't already an aid enough.

The stallion was trying to be sneaky.

She flattened her eyebrows and fell to her haunches, cradling her coffee in both hooves.

"What?" She asked nonchalantly and definitely above the Unicorn's wanted volume, not fully knowing what exactly he was wanting. She had a bit of an idea about his topic of the hour, but truth be told she wasn't trying to think about it all too much herself.

Sesame grit his teeth and hurriedly looked the griffons' way. Octavia did the same.

The four birds continued what they were doing as if the mare and stallion weren't even alive.

"Keep it down, Octavia!" He hushed, waving a foreleg up and down with his words.

She grinned at him and cocked an eyebrow. "Oh," she practically shouted, "I'm sorry Sesame."

Sesame groaned as he shrank lower to the ground and let out a shaky breath. "Look, what are you gonna do about the..." He trailed off, tilted his head at a forty-five degree angle, and clicked his tongue as he nodded toward the exit door of the hotel room.

Octavia blinked.

Yep.

"The ticket?"

Sesame nodded like some kind of patient dog.

"I'll..." She pursed her lips to the side. She brought them back, then created different beginnings of different letters with them as she hummed a low C to herself. Finally, she bit on her cheek and swirled her coffee around in front of her. "...I'll... figure something out...?"

Sesame waggled his eyebrows at her. "You'll have to think of something quick."

"Whatever's the rush?"

"Tomorrow'll be here eventually, Octavia."

She stole a glance at the clock, remembering that it was around six in the afternoon and they still had a little less than six more hours until the next day arrived, but found where it stood on the wall above the cabinet opposite her and whispered a low curse to herself when she saw that it was actually a little later than she'd prior thought.

"Y'see, I was thinking..."

Octavia looked at Sesame to show her interest in whatever convoluted scheme he was planning.

He adjusted his position on the carpet once more and opened his mouth for two seconds with an intake of breath, then slowly continued, "...when we go out tomorrow and head off to the ship, you could–" He brought up a hoof and shook it like he was riddled with arthritis, then moved it from his left and to his right, "–sneak away and try to go snatch a ticket really quick."

Octavia took a sip from her brew. "What if, in the slightest chance, they're closed?"

"Damn, you're right. It's Sunday tomorrow." He scratched at his goatee and hummed. "Well, if they are—which, well I wouldn't even know actually—then you can always take a carriage."

"That's a fair point, I guess," Octavia admitted, "but it'd take a lot longer on one of those than a train, and I'd like to get there as quickly as possible."

Sesame snapped, startling the mare mainly because he, as a pony, bore no fingers or claws to do such a thing. "Got it!"

Octavia hoped he didn't take it literally when she dipped her head and spoke a muffled, "Hit me," into the bottom of her cup.

"I could go with you when you head out and help you pry open the kiosk's shutters or whatever they've got!" He laughed, showing his teeth as he nodded. "I'm sure I could pick the lock on whatever pad they've got, and we could even break in without stepping hoof next to it!"

Octavia screwed up her face, but felt a wobbly grin cross it. "Oh, huh? By that method, we could very simply just teleport the ticket out of it, can't we?"

Sesame a-ha'd, "Yeah, we could actually!"

An old scene playing out her in head, Octavia snorted and added, "Maybe while you're searching around in there, you'll find Ol' Skinny Dipper's gold teeth–"

A whinny escaped Sesame as he threw his head back and barked at the ceiling in amusement, "Next to– next to his–"

"His fishing rod!"

Sesame pointed a hoof at her and squealed, "His–!" His flannel-covered stomach rumbled in time with his whoop, "Aaaahahaha!"

Octavia, snickering behind a hoof like any refined mare would, turned her head to the right and found four pairs of eyes now staring their way. Well, three, now that W shook his head with a smile of his own and poked his beak back into his book.

"In The Dark is such a good film," Sesame finally sighed, free of his laughing high.

"Definitely one of Star Bright's better roles, I find," Octavia claimed, cheeks rising once more, "then again, I still think Redemption was better for her."

"Oh, hell yeah," Sesame replied, mane jostling as he nodded, "that scene in the bar with the shot glass is a work of art."

"'Just make sure it's cold,'" Octavia recited in an attempted gravelly voice that was marred by her accent. She leaned toward Sesame and waited for his continuation with bated breath.

"'Cold as my dead wife,'" the Unicorn responded likewise, eliciting a wild grin from the mare, "'with all the cheap sex too.'"

Octavia hummed at the Unicorn in front of her and drank the last drops of her coffee down her throat, then, while looking for the trash can, remembered their prior discussion, and threw the cup into the bin with anticipation racing in her mind.

Sesame coughed into a hoof. "Back to the matter at hoof, though, Octavia. You should figure out what you're gonna do."

She sucked on her teeth and stole another glance at the clock. The train station wasn't too far from the hotel, and she could prooobably reach it before it closed at seven if she made a quick canter, but even then, she knew that walking around a city she didn't know at night wasn't too bright an idea, if she could excuse her horribly ashamed self for the unintended pun. Grumbling, she pursed her lips again and idly tossed her mane.

"What should I tell them, you think?"

"What," Sesame asked, "you're heading out now?"

"I might not get a favorable chance tomorrow," Octavia explained, fumbling with her hair, "and I'd rather not sleep on something as... harrowing as that." She'd done so with much worse things before. It wasn't any fun.

Sesamed clucked his tongue. "Bathroom?"

"Mares don't take that long, Sesame."

He scratched his chin again.

Octavia helped him out, "I was just thinking of telling them I was heading to the lobby."

"But what if they come down to look for you?"

"You're here, aren't you?"

Sesame shook his head in an instant, "Oh, I am not covering for you on this–"

"You hatched the scheme," Octavia reminded him slyly.

"They'll hatch me!" Sesame shot back, throwing a hoof in the griffons' direction as if what he'd just said made even the slightest amount of sense.

Octavia raised an eyebrow.

Sesame—still holding his leg up—shut his mouth, let his appendage fall to the floor limply, and sighed. "Godsdammit, fine." The mare, getting up to head out, adjusted her bowtie when she stepped past Sesame, who called after her in a hushed whisper, "Be careful, though, alright?"

"I think you know I can handle myself quite alright," Octavia affirmed, a hoof raised up to continue her pace.

"Maybe they do," Sesame replied.

He hadn't seen her back at the lodge, or in the clearing. He had a fair point.

"Where ya goin', Octavia?" Lavi's voice called, prompting the mare to look at the griffon and find her peering at her from behind W's book.

Octavia pressed her lips together and looked around the room to find literally everybody now staring at her.

"Just... heading down to the lobby for a pint."

She noticed W's immediate frown and wished she could just strangle the old coot for not enjoying the idea of fun, but shook her head and turned to the door before the lot could question her further.

"Hey, before you go!"

Octavia let out an overly-exaggerated sigh, then faced Valkyrie with a likewise overdramatized smile on her face.

"You mind telling 'em t' get us some more pillows?"

The mare twisted the knob and fled with a very unreassuring, "Oh, of course, I'll get right on that," that she hoped Valkyrie would grovel at.

Shutting the door behind her, she stepped out into the dimly lit hallway and stood there for awhile, her hoof still grasping the door knob. It was absolutely silent now. Only the low buzzing of the ceiling lights still called out to her, and even then, she was able to let out a burst of air and revel in the abrupt peace and quiet she was meeting and greeting with. Retracting her outstretched hoof and placing it against her face, she rubbed at her forehead and shook her mane around.

"Zacherle, this is a bad idea."

She sucked in a breath, paused, looked at her hotel room and the people surely waiting inside, cleared her throat, and trotted toward the elevator at the end of the corridor with a hurried pace. She may have been lying about the pint, but she sure as hell could use one now.

Dissolution
View Online

Stroll

Dissolution

As a filly, you couldn't step a single, small hoof outside your door without hearing others your age worrying about it. Her fantasy books told of countless young ponies, quaking and shivering in the safety of their own houses and under the comfort of their own fuzzy blankets, their wide eyes staring hundreds of yards away at their shut closets. Her classmates at school talked it up like it was the second coming of Nightmare Moon, sharing with each other a like-minded, full-on fear of anything that barely moved, slowly turned, or even blinked during it. Her own parents had warned her of walking around while it was doing its business in the sky, citing infinite dangers and shocking police reports as reason enough for their child—who was known to be adventurous, and stubborn, and stuck-up, and dumb—to simply lie in her bed and pretend she wasn't awake.

The night time.

Some ponies were terribly scared of it—which she couldn't blame, seeing as how the worst kinds of things always happened during then—staying cooped up inside their respective houses around dusk and turning on the highest number of bright yellow lights they could to keep even the smallest shadow from touching their beloved four walls. They would throw their drapes closed with mighty huffs of disapproval at the clock's reading, shaking their heads and growling obscenities as the hours ticked and tocked steadily by. The night held danger, they reasoned, and was nothing to either enjoy or even look forward to. So, wasting hundreds in their infinitely rising electric bills, they sat all cozy and warm in their couch and read twenty-page magazines about other pony's lives.

Octavia had always held half a mind to do the exact same. Staying inside, away from the cold, and reading a nice book in her big bed always looked more appealing to her fatigue-ridden, note-plagued mind, and many times did she blink her dreary eyes and find herself walking over to her bookshelf to look for the night's reading material, which—courtesy of the... admittedly high number of occasions—usually dwindled on fresh supply. Then, as if she were turning off her lights to try and get her body to rest, she'd flatten her lips, roll her eyes, mind her now aching stomach, and trot out the door to go and get a hayburger or something. Tacos on Wednesdays, though. She had routines.

The streets of Canterlot, though patrolled by Royal Guards twenty-four-seven, were still rather risky to traverse at night. There was the infrequent thief here and there that, while later apprehended, left quite the injured victim in their wake. It felt incredibly rude and horrible to say so, but, from her point of view, she could very well see why the nobles brave enough to go outside their houses seemed like such great targets. When you were staring at the darkened sky with each and every single step you took, nary an ounce of common sense biting at you, you could only realize you were being robbed when the clothes hugging your body began being torn off.

Octavia didn't really like wearing clothes. She had a sweater or two hanging in her closet, and she wore the occasional dress to fancy events at the request of the hosts, but her trademark pink bowtie and white collar were, well, trademark for a reason. While she hadn't had any prior experiences in being tackled to the cold pavement by an unseen force and robbed of all her personal items—thankfully—she couldn't stand on the sidelines, raise a hoof, and laugh at the misfortune of those less fortunate. With her mane style, posture, and seemingly well-maintained appearance, she was probably a target just waiting to happen. She'd always really liked the way she did her mane—it hadn't changed since grade school—but if she could get out of a bad situation, she'd be more than glad about putting it up with a scrunchie or two.

This whole thing sounded like some kind of spy movie, now that she was focusing and talking about it. Being a target, changing her mane to not be suspected, stalking around at night. Some would call her uncouth; others would just say she was dumb, but she knew which places to go and which places to avoid.

There lived a homeless Pegasus on the corner of Solace Street, his hooves wielding empty beer bottles in place of the usual switchblade and the accent on his lips one of someone who'd fit in more in the south than up north. Word passed around Canterlot like a wildfire, and the word was that he wasn't homeless. In fact, he didn't even live in Canterlot at all. He swooped down every now and then when he was bored and just sort of... mulled about, for lack of a better word. Term. Mulled about was two words, so it wouldn't be singular like that. Mulled about is a term. It's something you do. You can mull, but she hadn't said mull so–

"Shit!"

Octavia backpedaled a few steps, gritting her teeth and rubbing at her forehead with a free gray hoof. Sucking on her bottom lip, she looked up at what had stopped her and felt her inner frown only deepen when she saw the red stop sign telling her exactly what she should've been doing.

"Bloody..." She cursed, shaking her head and turning around to see if anypony had seen the astronomical stupidity she'd just showcased. In the glow of Luna's Moon and Sky, the hundreds of streetlamps stretching down the street, and her own hazed mind, there didn't appear to be a single scrutinizing eye as far she could see. Clearing her throat like she'd just fumbled with a word and not like she'd just smacked literally head-first into a stop sign pole, Octavia adjusted her bowtie and glared at her street bouncer as she passed it by. What was next? If she wasn't careful, she'd probably trot straight onto a busy street, or fall off a bridge or something. These mental musings, these... monologs were, very genuinely, going to become the epitome of death for her.

At the very least, and on the smallest bright side she'd ever encountered in her life thus far, she'd be with her own thoughts and not just by herself when she died. There was a comfort there, faint and almost absent, but it was drowned out by her stunning realization that what she'd just thought was incredibly mental. She was turning into Aunt Mezzo. This was a problem.

She growled, more at herself than to the sign still definitely chortling at her to her rear. She needed to focus. This was a bit of a last chance situation. Home called to her clearer than a telephone, and if her walking up the street at the start of the twilight was all that was needed to return there, it was definitely worth it to kick her head out of its ramblings and work on getting it to the train station. She blinked. Apparently, if she was remembering where she was right, she'd done a pretty good job of the whole thing.

Though the streets were bare empty, Octavia still tapped the button next to her, turned to her left, to her right, and then to her left again before proceeding across the road, trotting—or, well, admittedly more like hopping—up the wooden steps, and taking a left to find the vendor still hard at work yawning into his hoof and smacking his lips together like he'd just woken up. Considering the time of day, he probably had. Straightening her posture, lifting her legs up just the slightest, and took up a quick canter to purchase another ticket.

The stallion, clearly recognizing her despite her greatest—albeit obviously futile—attempts, sat up in his little chair, leaned forward, craned his neck, stared to the rear and right of his kiosk, then sat back down. Octavia, having stopped at his second movement, turned her head a little and gave him a little look out the corners of her eyes. He narrowed his own, seemingly to repeat the odd gesture, but rolled them instead and pointed a hoof back where he'd been staring.

"You two plan that or somethin'?"

Octavia bent her left legs a tad and followed where his gaze trailed off to. Not finding anything, save for a few pieces of trash somepony ought to have cleaned up by now, she returned to a normal standing position and walked over to the counter with a frown on her lips. Adjusting the back of her ballcap, she sucked in a breath and asked, "Pardon?"

The stallion opened his mouth to reply, closed it, then shook his head. "Nothin'. Whaddyou want?"

Calm. "A ticket to Ponyville, if you wouldn't particularly mind."

"Ahp," he responded almost immediately after her, "no can do, mare." He bent at the elbow and motioned toward their previous point of no-interest. "Already sold the last one to the guy before ya."

"Before me? Excuse me, but I didn't see a single living soul on this whole street until meeting your ungodsly gaze." The vendor's eyebrows went up at that. Octavia's as well, but only two seconds afterward. Oh. Whoops. She flashed him a grin and dipped her chin. He glared at her and let out a low growl.

He fixed his posture on his chair with an infinitely more aggressive attitude, then curled his lip and explained, "That's what I was saying when you rolled up. He stepped off the instant you got on. Thought you two had planned it or somethin'."

Her hoof came a bare centimeter close to stamping on the ground like that of a prepubescent mare who'd been told she couldn't go to a rock concert. Trust her. She knew. Maybe not the rock part, but still–

"How hard would it be to simply just... print out another one, you think?" She fluttered her long eyelashes at him, mostly because she legitimately felt bad about her earlier insult and thought she could try to be nice.

This had no effect on the stallion. He simply chuckled a very unearthly chuckle, shook his head, and asked, "Do you know how trains work, mare?"

Her retort came out a lot snippier and saltier than she'd liked, "Well, I believe they go on rails with the assistance of coal fires."

"What makes up a train?"

"Bits of loud metal and horrible people."

"People. Yeah. How many you think?"

"Usually twenty-five to thirty or so. I don't... usually count, mind, but–"

The stallion slammed his hoof on the counter, causing her to eep and jump back. "Well, sorry to disappoint, Miss Thirty-One."

She worked her jaw around and began to walk forward again, "No need to be a cock Mister–" Octavia shrank back yet again as the gate of the kiosk banged shut, easily waking up any sleeping ponies for blocks around. Pouting out her lower lip and staring at the closed station, she shot her head forward and issued the only foreign curse she liked to admit, "Chatte." Satisfied with the deathly quiet that met her fondly excused Prench, she spat out a small harrumph and turned tail to begin trotting back to the hotel.

Octavia's hoof barely grazed the ground before an idea sprouted within the depths of her mind. Deciding that this one such occurrence was a keeper, she narrowed her eyes and scanned the streets to look for her target. Not to the left, no... no, that's a cart over there... there!

Down the street directly ahead of her was a lone figure, his magic placing something into the almost unnoticeable saddlebags draped over his sides.

There he is.

Looks like she was heading back toward the hotel in the end anyway! Everything would go according to plan. She'd bargain for the ticket, head back to the Baron, grab a pint like she'd promised herself, and tuck it away before heading off to bed for some well-deserved shut-eye! Perfect!

Octavia minded both her sides and trotted down the side of the road again. Craning her neck forward as she began descending the street, she glared hard at the stallion trotting ahead of her and realized that he was much further away than she'd previously assumed him to be. If that vendor hadn't taken up her time, she could very well already be enjoying a nice glass of wine right now within the comfort of her own reflection.

Humming to herself the beginnings of a short tune, Octavia quickened her pace to catch up with the pony.

She increased it even more. Was he... running from her? She was making a bit of a racket, stomping toward him at her new jogging pace. Maybe he was just in a hurry. She was. It wasn't too farfetched an idea.

Quieting her hoofsteps and cringing at the running posture she was now engaged in, Octavia galloped as stealthily and as quickly as she could. If she could liken her maneuvers to something that happened to exist in the world to somepony watching her right now, she'd have to say she might look like a stray dog with only three legs and a group of females to chase after. Running wasn't her strong suit, if she was going to be honest.

Another series of musings, another case with a street sign, though this one was successfully avoided and given a stern curse by the mare who continued to speed down the sidewalk. Almost there. She could make out the horn on his head and the short mane that didn't try at all to hide it.

She perked up her chin and wet her lips to call, "Excuse me!" but found only a hoof and a grouping of whispers that suddenly jolted her out of her body and dragged her into an alleyway to her right. Her Earth Pony instincts kicking in—ignoring the heart that was currently seizing with fright—she raised a hindleg up and jabbed at the body she was sure was directly behind her. Finding only pain in the form of the brick wall of the building, she sputtered at the hoof still clutching at her mouth and bared her teeth to begin gnawing at it.

"Godsdammit, calm the hell down!"

The hoof let go, and Octavia took the time to, instead of scream, whip about and try punching at her opponent with a shaky, "I'll break your bloody fetlocks you–"

Her foreleg raised, Octavia looked up and blinked.

The other mare adjusted her blue cap and tutted at her, "What the hell are you doing out here?"

Spitting out a short gasp, lifting her chin, and brushing herself off as she stepped back, Octavia replied, "I could very well ask you the same thing, officer."

Purple stared into brown.

Razor Hail tipped her hat. The badge on the front of it glimmered in the dark.

Shaking her head, Octavia rolled her eyes and felt for her heart. Gods, she about lost it. Where was her pulse– what was her pulse? Okay okay okay, where is it first, actually? Neck, below the jaw, don't press too hard...

"Saw what you were doing. You want that ticket, don't you?"

"You were spying, were you?" Octavia questioned, clenching her jaw.

"Well, not on you," Hail chuckled, stretching her forelegs out and not even flinching at the deafening pops she was met with. "You want it though–" CRACK "–don't you?"

"It's the way home," Octavia answered, brushing a few locks of her mane out of her eyes.

"I'll get it for you then," Hail promised, leaning forward and kicking out her hindlegs. Watching her left one jut out and shake, she smiled at it and looked back at Octavia, adding, "But only if you help me bust his operation by the docks."

Octavia's response was very normal. Simple. Casual, even.

She turned around and began walking out of the alley.

She heard a trio of clip-clops along the cobblestone, then craned her neck back when Hail appeared from her right and got in her way.

"Oh no no no, you're not just leaving–"

"I don't think my only way home is worth my life. At least, not in this kind of way..." Octavia shot, lifting a hoof to sidestep the officer.

"It's not life or death," Hail insisted, frowning, "you really think I'd just ask a civilian to help me break jaws and a few limbs in a shady dockside warehouse? We may be police officers but we're not assholes."

"Still," Octavia reminded, "just because you don't want things to turn ugly doesn't mean they won't."

"What kinda logic is that?" Hail giggled.

"...normal...?" Octavia asked with a sideways glance.

"Look, it's not even that hard, alright? I wouldn't ask if I had even a thought it'd get bad."

Octavia sucked in a breath that seemed a lot larger than she'd anticipated.

"What would you have me do?"

"I need you t' go there and buy a fish."

"..."

Hail clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes.

"They've got drugs in them."

"Well, figures–"

"Just ask them if you could, possibly, purchase a Largemouth Bass. Ponies only want that kind of thing if they're sick or dying or something."

Octavia hummed, "Who says I'm neither of those?"

Hail laughed. "Cute." She coughed into a hoof and adjusted her cap's bill. "You in or not? I can't just go and buy something when I'm dressed as a cop."

Octavia pressed her frown against her cheeks. "You're not going to arrest me for purchasing drugs, are you? I've never had any ample reason to even look up how to do such a thing in my life."

At this, Hail tapped her side with a foreleg and winked at her. "Got the fuzzy cuffs just for later, Octavia."

Octavia shut her eyes and held them tightly. Stop stop stop get that out stop stoooooop.

Hail patted her on the back, effectively flinging her eyelids open and eliciting a small yelp.

"Come on then. Let's go bust some baddies."

She trotted off without another word, but with a lot of happy notes.

Stepping out of the alleyway after her, Octavia looked to her left and saw the bright sign of the Red Baron glaring hotly at her. For a second, she debated heading back and burying herself under a pile of coats and blankets, but barely realized she was walking after Hail until she had turned her head away from it.

...if she thought things weren't going to go poorly, it wouldn't hurt to try and help the local law enforcement. How hard could it be?

She nipped loudly. Hail didn't seem to notice.

Octavia was desperately gonna need that pint after this. This was turning out to be a pretty disgustingly horrible series of events.

Suspension
View Online

Stroll

Suspension

Rehearsals were one of the most important things when it came to a job such as hers. Every witching hour of every waking day of every single week, the Canterlot Symphony all filed onto the stage of the nearby theatre, set up their jet black stands, unfolded their creaky old chairs—in the case of the cellists, at least—propped their music folders onto the first, and absolutely disregarded the second—again, in the case of the cellists.

It was there, in that dreadfully large room, that every one of their pieces of music came to life with the crack—literally, as their conductor broke many—of a baton and the setting of fine mane hairs against equally finely rosined strings, from C to G to D to A to E and sometimes to another A if they all felt like it during their ritualistic warm-up. Section by section, they would go from the first violins, then to the second violins, to the violas, to the cellos, and finally ending with the double basses in a harmonized A, which would go down to D and then G and by then everypony got the point so they just started finagling the whole thing as Dan, their ever-so wondrous conductor, bobbed his head, grinned, and anticipated his lovely retirement at the ripe age of thirty-four.

Rehearsals were, well, they were where the screw-ups happened, were brought up, laughed at, snorted at, made fun of, ridiculed, joked about, brought up again, improved upon, fixed, generalized, hypothesized, and then brought up again. A viola cracked at a soli, made a distressing bird call to the demonic denizens of Tartarus below, and roused suspicion from the audience? Crack the whip, focus on it for a whole hour at least, play it under pressure, then clap hooves when they nailed it. A cello's G string snapped during Neightoven's Luna's Moonlight Sonata? Send them out to the street, corral them into the nearest string shop, get a new one, bring it back, settle back in their chairs because they were practically—very effectively—useless without them, place the replacement into its new home, tune it, put compound on their pegs, and resume Bar 85 where they'd left off. A double bass screeched, a rare occurrence thanks to her constant hawkeye–

"Hey, chop chop. Focus."

Octavia blinked away her thought bubble, which burst into the night sky and flew into the heavens.

She hated rehearsals. They were boring, and stupid, and unnecessary because they were the Canterlot Symphony and somepony was going to muddle it up anyway. She was going to get to that, but the uniformed mare standing next to her with a glare crossing her brow and a wrinkled nose was a very leading cause to her not doing so. For now, she stowed the thought and decided she'd get to it later. Pursing out her lower lip, cocking her head, and attempting to look interested, Octavia opened her mouth to reply cooly.

"Did you even listen to a word I was saying?"

Octavia shot her eyebrows up. "I'm here to buy a Largemouth Bass for fifty whole bits. The doorpony's name is Wallaby Way, which, might I add, sounds horribly familiar to me somehow, and he'll be standing guard next to me as the others get my order. I am not to stare anywhere but the floor, wall, door, or street, and certainly not at the blatantly active police officer hiding in the bushes nearby, and my fifty bits are hiding in my ballcap."

Hail smirked, but turned her cheek and screwed up her face as she leaned forward and asked, "Aaaand?"

"Oh, and my parents are dead so I desperately need a kick."

"And you're also a drug addict, so..." Hail flicked a hoof, "...act jittery."

Octavia shuffled on the floor. She suddenly felt a lot smaller than the two story warehouse they were standing in front of. These street lanterns weren't doing a very fine job of keeping her mind at ease, Gods, was it hot in here or was it just the room in here? Eyes panned upward, settling on the admittedly beautiful job that Princess Luna was doing tonight, then plummeted to the ground and splattered to find Razor Hail still looking at her with the expression of somepony waiting for the late bus.

Oh Gods she was suddenly really scatterbrained–

Hail flashed a grin that shone in the light of the street lantern above them. Leaning forward, she reached a hoof out and gently patted Octavia on the side. "Heeey, you're doing a good job already! Keep it up!"

Octavia cleared her throat and lifted her chin. "My high school Orchestra teacher said the exact same thing to me."

"Yeah–"

"He did this with us as well. Lined us up like animals."

"Okay, that's–"

Octavia turned her head. "Then he shot us."

Hail took a step back, watching Octavia out of the corner of her brown eyes. Her badge, catching the lantern, glimmered at her and caused her to grind her teeth and shy away for a second. "Okay, what's wrong with you? You don't act like this; are you okay? Are you just nervous?"

Octavia flexed her chin and gave the most overly exaggerated shrug ever witnessed in Equestria. "I've never bought drugs before, officer. This whole 'act cool so I don't get shot' thing is a new event to me."

Hail fell to her haunches with a deep groan, then threw her face into her forehooves so hard that Octavia swore she'd injure her eyes. "You're not gonna get shot– they're not gonna shoot you." Still cupping her cheeks with her hooves, Hail looked up at Octavia from underneath her blue hat and asked, "Do you really think I'd take you here to help me if I knew you'd get hurt? I've scouted this place out for the past few weeks, all they've got is, like..." she fumbled with the mane draping over her eyes from her cap, then swept the hoof out and tilted her head at Octavia, "...box cutters, and I doubt anyone in there is smart enough to even hold one."

Octavia padded the cobblestone beneath their now seven hooves.

"They're all Unicorns."

Octavia reached a hoof up and adjusted her bowtie. Shutting her eyes as the fine cloth grazed along her fur, she puffed out her cheeks and began steadying her breathing. Ears twitching here and there, she felt a small pit suddenly make itself known in her stomach. It opened the door for her alcohol, gave it a hoofshake and an earnest smile, invited them in for tea, then sat down and talked about Mozart awhile. As she transferred her area of breathing from her mouth and to her nostrils, she sent a new guest knocking at the pit's door. When the pit opened it, it was suddenly tackled to the ground, stabbed by a pair of filly scissor blades, thrown against the nearby petunias, slammed into the fine mahogany coffee table, dragged along the carpet of booze, and kicked down the stairs toward the bladder because that's how anatomy worked maybe. Triumphant, the lungs, waving their dirtied scissor blades and bunching up their cheeks at the alcohol still gawking at them, clapped hooves and went about their business in peace.

A moment of the purest zen coursed through Octavia's body, causing a very drawn out moan to escape her lips.

She opened her eyes when she realized just what had happened.

Hail was standing on three legs, the fourth pressed against her lips as she gave Octavia a Kubrick stare.

Octavia's eye twitched, and a bead of sweat dripped down her forehead.

Hail's next words were quick, quiet, and, seemingly, afraid to emerge. "Octavia what the hell was that–"

Octavia sprang forward, teeth grinding against one another as she delightfully—and simultaneously nervously—began nudging Hail away from the door. "Hey, I believe that I'm all right now, why don't you just go hide in the bushes and make yourself useful for once–"

"I'm a cop, Octavia–"

"Shut up," she replied, spit flinging.

Hail's response, as she trotted over to the bush, was immediate. She snickered like a schoolyard bully.

"And stop laughing!"

Hail let out a whoop, almost tripping into the shrubbery where she most certainly belonged. Octavia swiveling about and tugging at her collar, felt the lump escape her stomach, climb up her trachea, and lodge itself deep within her throat. She suddenly struggled to swallow the lump already present in her mouth down. Oh Gods that was embarrassing. No that was more than embarrassing that was just awful, and weird, and oh Gods it was really hard to breathe again.

With her hoof shaking a mile a millisecond, her smile clearly fake and much too wide, her stance not as proper as she would've wanted, her bowtie at an eighty-nine point nine-degree angle, her breathing hitched and plagued by fits, and her self-esteem plummeting by every perturbed, powerful, deafeningly loud heartbeat, Octavia knocked on the door to the warehouse, minded the sign near the knob that said 'knock twice', and knocked again before she'd have to repeat the code.

Almost immediately, a navy blue stallion, his tan mane slicked back with more grease than Sesame's favorite weapon, cracked open the door by just a bare inch and a quarter, gazed at her through the crack, then narrowed his eyes. From inside, newly unveiled, came the sounds of a very obviously busy establishment. Plates clanked, hammers smashed, voices spoke, and hooves stomped. If she didn't somehow bear the knowledge that this warehouse was the site of a very illegal, seafood-disguised drug joint, she would've wanted to enter this pretty... shady looking bar next time she was in town for a night.

"Hello?" The stallion asked in the most innocent-sounding voice ever, as if he were a child answering a door for the local neighbors while his parents were out.

"Uh, good evening sir," Octavia began, feeling her heart steady as she felt herself approach slightly familiar territory once again. Puffing out her chest, lifting her chin, tossing her mane, and clearing her throat, she continued, "I was out and about this past hour and I... well, I got..." she leaned forward and tilted her head away from the stallion still peeking at her from behind the door, "...the itch, you see–"

"We don't sell bath salts, mare," the stallion replied, drowning out the unmistakable sound of Hail slapping one—scratch that—both her hooves into her face.

Octavia felt her cheeks go rosy, "No no no, sir, not... eugh, not that. I meant," she coughed, "you see, that I... well, I need a kick."

At that, her adversary's face lit up. Disappearing for a second, he reemerged in a sea of yellow light that created a huge rectangle on the shadows that lay around Octavia prior. Chuckling, he asked, "Well, geez, shoulda just said that earlier." Bringing out a hoof and leaning forward, he added, "Don't worry about the bath salts thing, seriously. I get nervous when I come in for work here all the time."

"Ehhhh..." Octavia attempted to laugh, ending up looking like the one awkward, corner-camping mare at Prom. That wasn't a personal anecdote; she didn't go to her Prom because she was practicing her double bass. There were better things in her life at that point, but she would've much rather liked staying home, eating ice cream, and arranging a new piece that she'd just burn in her parents' fireplace later. The more she pondered on her younger years, the more she realized she hadn't really changed an ounce. For better or for worse was a suspect line, but at least she wasn't bothering anypony–

"Anyway, what would ya like?"

Octavia snapped back to reality, shaking her head like a wet dog and scrunching up her eyes to the point of seeing stars when she cracked them open again.

"Oh," she oh'd, "I'd like a Largemouth Bass, if you wouldn't mind."

The Unicorn hummed, his clipboard (when did he have a clipboard?) flying toward the front of his face. A pen, chained forever to the block of wood by a simple piece of twine, floated up alongside it, dropped down, and quickly checked off something before the Unicorn lowered both objects and winked at her, "All right, we'll have it out in a second." Taking a step backward to crabwalk back into the warehouse, he sucked on his teeth, looked at Octavia, mirrored her suddenly frightened, if curious expression, and asked, "Hey, hope ya don't mind if I get a guy to watch you while I go and get it." Noticing Octavia's crackling beginnings of disapproval, he violently waggled a hoof, "It's...! It's just company policy, don't worry. He's not gonna... rough you up, and sink an ax into your side." Octavia's frown widened. The Unicorn noticed. "I'll... just go get it."

Trotting back into the building, and apparently high-hoofing somepony on the way in, the Unicorn was replaced with, to Octavia's infinitely genuine surprise, another Unicorn, this one a sage green and sporting a shaggy blonde mane. Taking—literally—the exact same place as his coworker, he scuffed up the floors with both his gaze and his hooves, then looked back up at Octavia and smirked.

"Hi," he greeted her, his voice gruff but his word sincere.

"Evening," Octavia replied, though rather hesitantly and shakily.

Her interesting conversationalist of a temporary companion raised a hoof up to his mouth, coughed, then clip clopped back onto the ground. Pursing out his lips and looking to his left—which almost revealed to him the protruding police officer hat of one Razor Hail through the dark—and then to his right, he clucked his tongue and began swaying to and fro with a tune tooting through the salty, very rubbish air. Razor Hail, realizing she'd almost been seen, fell back down to her haunches and rustled the bush in her wake.

The Unicorn's eyes darted over to it, but he said nothing and continuing whistling.

Just when Octavia felt like her head was about ready to burst into some kind of British water balloon, her adversary suddenly perked up, lips still in an 'o' shape, and half-turned around to find who Hail claimed to be Wallaby. They exchanged a flurry of hushed words that tried their hardest to catch Octavia' ears, then switched places yet again. The sage Unicorn fled back into the warehouse as Wallaby ran a hoof through his greased mane, his magical aura simultaneously surrounding a small plastic bag floating in the air next to him.

"Here you are. One," he paused, bringing up his recently sticky hoof and flexing it at the end, "'Largemouth Bass'."

Octavia cleared her throat, mouth shut firmly. She opened it, realizing she'd need to reply, "Well, thank you." Grabbing the bag from his magic and placing it on the ground next to her, she bent over to grasp it in her teeth and begin trotting away until Wallaby spoke once more.

"Now," he began, a very... distinctly low chuckle escaping his lips. Octavia's eyes widened. "I hope you and your cop friend over there in that bush enjoy this just as much as me and my boys are gonna enjoy this."

Octavia barely had time to register Hail's voice shouting, "Behind!" before she felt herself crouch to the cobblestone, press her forelegs against what she stomped on, and abruptly shoot her hindlegs out like the blast of a thousand-ton cannon. The pony previously trying to flank her, according to her judgments... and the bone she surely, horrendously bucked, instantly flew back a foot further behind her and crumpled onto the street in a daze. Not seeing a spare second to reflect on her thankfulness of being born an Earth Pony, she spun back around—disregarding her completely unfortunate opponent—and sucked in a cold breath.

Wallaby was slowly approaching her, horn lit. Coming out by his side was a rather sharp looking kitchen knife.

Octavia felt every nerve of her body freeze, but she found the urge to move deep inside her head and began to backpedal. She eyed the Largemouth Bass lying on the ground next to her, and thought of the exact way she'd reach over and swing it around in her teeth so that she could–

Clippity clop clippity clop clippity clop.

Octavia, and Wallaby, turned just in time to find Razor Hail sprinting toward them, her nightstick wedged between her frowning lips. In a bare second, she closed the short distance, lowered her left shoulder toward Wallaby, and very swiftly threw her right hoof into the left side of his head, sending him to her left, which she instantly followed by spitting out her weapon, coiling it in her left hoof, and flinging it across his right cheek before he even touched the ground, sending him back to the right in a torrent of spit. He crashed onto the sidewalk with only an involuntarily blown raspberry, then lay still and stared up at the stars. A trio of blue robins, chirping and tweeting, began flying tight circles around his head.

Octavia realized she was still alive, kicking, and breathing, then suddenly found trouble with the third. Her neck craned back and her purple eyes bugged out, she lifted a hoof to her chest and stayed it to help steady herself. Hail, still in her striking pose, slowly looked up at Octavia with her tongue lulled out and her mane swept the wrong way. Rising to a standing position, she ended her post-takedown exercise by swiping at her forehead—both to correct her mane and fling away sweat—and holstering her nighstick back onto the left side of her belt.

Either would have spoken a word to break the deathly quiet, but the inside of the warehouse was already hustling up a massive storm. Shouts for Wallaby and one Looking Glass sprang up out of the night, accompanied by a flurry of hooves against wood that sounded more like a hulking Hydra was stalking toward the two mares.

Octavia, her throat dry, quaked out, "We got the fish. Can we leave?"

Hail tapped her tongue against her lower lip, then looked down at Wallaby's body and dragged him out of the doorway. "Sec," she said, like some kind of teenager prolonging her arrival to the family dinner.

Octavia peeled her ears back and felt her hooves shake against her weight.

Another stallion suddenly burst through the warehouse door, his magic carrying with him a spade. He looked around for a split second before his eyes caught on Octavia. He bunched up his right cheek and issued a very guttural sounding growl.

Octavia eeped.

Before either could so much as think of flinching, Hail raised a hoof up once more, bashed the Unicorn in the cheek, and watched as he fell to the ground.

"I'm good," Hail claimed with an upward inflection before taking up a canter and grabbing the Largemouth Bass.

Joining her, Octavia shook her head and spat, "You've got problems, officer."

Galloping down the street, they took a right turn and disappeared from sight, leaving behind a trio of dazed ponies and a hurricane of angry dealers.

Disruption
View Online

Stroll

Disruption

The vast, practically limitless country of Equestria was a most extravagant kind of place when it fully came down to discussing it. Wondrous, rich, cultivated plains and farms riddled with profit and success; seemingly tireless, snow-capped mountains and the breathtaking, eye-widening views they gave any brave enough to mount them; dense, fruitful forests that bled beautiful wildlife across the land unopposed and unscathed; carefully small towns that didn't inhibit nature in any way, shape, or imaginable form; weather, and thus, life, at the beck and call and the flapping of Pegasus wings. Equestria was a perfect country, and she couldn't admit otherwise even if she wasn't patriotic in the slightest.

There was not a thing wrong or even particularly dastardly within a single centimeter of its borders, but that didn't necessarily stop whatever horribles happened beyond them. Nowadays, only the newspapers and emergency rooms would be the true bearers of bad news. You'd read about all kinds of horrible things going on across the pond, from the dispersal and spread of massive Zebrican tribes across the entirety of the vicious, dry safari, to the Griffons butting empty heads, sharp claws, and ceaseless guns with their neighboring Hippogriffs in a standstill war that had no real end in its sights. The time of homeland warfare had long passed before Octavia was even an idea in Viola Symphonica's symphonic little head, but the idea that she was here and there was there was more than enough to cause her to simply curl up in her nice house, shut her eyes, and be immensely grateful that she was living at least a peaceful life.

Maybe that's why music was so well received. You might not have been able to fully change the life you were living, but you could at the very least put it on pause for a little while.

It was a companion of sorts, like an astronomically glorious Labrador or a nice glass of wine she felt almost scared to nip at. You didn't really need anything too fancy to start up a wondrous tune. You could start by belting out your favorite lyrics, or purse your two lips and whistle like a joyous spring bird, or you could simply frog it and hum from way down in your throat somewhere, a bassy sound so low and growly that it never truly sounded like you were actually making it. Octavia didn't pride herself on her singing voice, despite compliments whenever she found time to zone out and quietly mutter nothings to herself, and whistling annoyed miles more than it impressed. Humming was what she stuck to, and you could do whole heaps of it standing next to your double bass and staring at the clock.

Dan may have been her—their—conductor, the one pony who kept them in tempo and line as they casually strode through each and every single one of their pieces, but what was on the paper in front of her was her true boss. Despite the lack of a pair of suspenders, a buzzcut, and a cigar, the black dots, and swishes, and lines, and curves, and hashes, and words, and phrases, and numbers were what truly told her what, when, how, and where to play. Maybe she'd start on an eighth rest, followed by an ascending A-scale and ending with a high G. Maybe she'd go down low and stay there for the entire piece as a quiet backdrop—a happy little tree—then suddenly go into a crescendo and crash into the viola and violin parts like a bombastic drum substitution.

The music was her driver, and she was just trying to get through the ride.

That is to say, she was just trying to reassure the other victims next to her that she at the very least was going to get out of the wreck alive.

Hapless curses aside, Octavia knew her shit.

It would, at the usual, take her at least twice a perusing, and scouring, and observing, and studying, and glancing of her future music sheets for her to fully know all that she needed to know. In the same fashion, but definitely not even close to the same time, to a uni student studying hard for an important exam, Octavia would shoot her eyes across the snow white pieces of paper in front of her, murmur to herself about what she was going to scrounge up for her dinner that night, hum little bits of what she saw, bob her head to and fro like she belonged more in the sea than on the land, and figure out what was expected of her within half a day or so. The other half, when she wasn't sleeping, was spent practicing lightly between bathroom breaks, and wine breaks, and snack breaks, and more wine breaks, and dinner time, and after dinner time, and crying time, and shower time.

After that, with the rest of the weeks that somepony else in the Symphony would use to tirelessly rehearse day in day out presented to her, Octavia would gaze at her music half-heartedly while making coffee in her kitchen, read a book or two, drink some wine, or lounge about on her couch and look at photos of dogs.

The notes may have been the driver, but she was pretty much strapped in the second she arrived. There was no way out, but she knew what she was getting into and was more than prepared for it. She'd study it, and she'd know it by heart and mind.

Octavia blinked. The ticket in her hooves fluttered softly in the light wind blowing through the street. She would have taken a second to look up at the sky and gauge whether or not it was the result of the weather or the carts passing by, but a low voice caused her eyes to remain on level with the street she was currently standing on.

W, standing just on the edge of the crosswalk before her, was turning at the body, one claw tugging at a strap on his backpack and the other tapping on the concrete. His blue eyes regarded her a second before his gravelly voice did. "Octavia, c'mon. Carts're coming."

Octavia looked across the way and, despite believing in W's word, only began trotting forward when she caught sight of the white light in the shape of a mare in a brisk canter. Placing her ticket back behind her collar and pressing her hat down onto her head just the slightest, she grit her teeth and sheepishly looked at the carts and carriages waiting patiently for the pedestrians to go past. The words of countless apologies were on her tongue, but they were stuck there, and remained stuck there until she joined the others on the opposite sidewalk. There the words retreated back into her gut, got mixed up like some kind of alphabet soup, and eroded away before ever being used.

The sound of panting caused Octavia to wheel about in a stupor. Formerly behind her, Lavi was staring at the sidewalk, her back slumped and her tongue lulling out as she stammered, "Did... did everyone make it?!"

Octavia rolled her eyes.

The others probably didn't care.

W extended a claw to the sputtering bird, reassuring her, "Still breathing, Private."

"Don't touch me!" Lavi half screeched half giggled, barely able to keep her frown in form as the others laughed with her. Her attempted words, "I barely made it back there!" were marred with stops and starts and small fits of crackling that sounded more at home on Octavia's grade school playground.

Valkyrie cracked open her beak.

Oh Gods kill her.

"That was nuts!" She boomed, shaking her head and pointing at the slug-like carriages making an absolutely hellish pace on the street they'd just endured. "Almost lost my footing for a second!"

It was, to Octavia's surprise, T's turn. He smirked, and barely turned his head to glance at Sesame next to Octavia. "Had to keep watch on Sesame there. Almost lost the poor guy."

Sesame snorted. Octavia swore he'd choked for a second. "Don't think even a smoke could calm me down after that."

Despite the fact that he'd added onto their dumb little charade fairly impressively, the only one to fail at laughing this time around ended up being W, whose prior amused expression felt as flat as a sudden decline in the ocean's completely darkened surface. His beak clicking, he let out a low grunt that Octavia could make out even as the other three griffons and Unicorn snickered like little idiots with one another. Judging by the fact that Lavi was now plucking at Sesame's cheeks like one of her beloved double bass strings, Valkyrie was poking the air in front of the poor stallion, T was shaking his head with his teeth barely showing, and Sesame himself lightly was swatting at his attackers, the comparison wasn't all too far-fetched.

Octavia was already lifting a hoof and moving to join W when he turned at his stomach, raised a whole claw, and beckoned their companions with a grumbly, "Come on you Goddamned hooligans." The salty remark held a legitimate kick, but the small smirk he brandished betrayed it perfectly. Scrambling back to traveling mode like a bunch of delinquent brothers told to quit mulling about at the county fair, they accompanied the two sane members in a similar fashion to Octavia back in her grade school: like geese, in single file, right behind them, with leaking muzzles and quivering lower halves and half their brains.

They were probably all waddling, too.

"Spend a lot of time in there, huh?"

"Where's that?" Octavia asked, her eyes peering to her right. Finding the bill of her ballcap blocking W's blue eyes, she lifted her chin up a little more, found that it was just the slightest bit uncomfortable of a position to maintain, and continued doing it simply out of interest of being polite.

W hummed. "Your head," he said with a grin finally.

Octavia felt like kicking at the pebbles she'd just trotted over. She pouted out her lower lip, sucked it back in, flattened it, grumbled to herself where nopony could hear her—which W in fact happened to, according to his little belly chortle—and craned her neck around so hard her mane whipped at her. A fully revisited, toothy smile was plastered sloppily on her deafeningly feigned face.

"I find it to be a much nicer place to be nowadays."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh, very much so," Octavia said matter-of-factly like she'd somehow had better things to do, facing forward just in time to sidestep a pedestrian. It continued to amaze her just how nonchalant and uncaring ponies were; the stallion didn't even bat an eyelash at the ballcap wearing Earth Pony, the living cigarette of a Unicorn, and the four, armed, hulking griffons walking briskly next to them. "All the music and ice cream I could ever want."

"God what I wouldn't give to have a nice scoop right now," W sighed longingly, prompting Octavia to double-take at the very idea that W had feelings and emotions.

"Right?" Octavia giggled breathily. "A nice waffle cone with cookie dough ice cream..."

"Cookie dough?" W asked suddenly, glancing her way as if she'd insulted his family or something, "What are you, five?"

Octavia harumphed. The fact that she legitimately felt a little hurt by his poking fun at her made her keep it all inside, within the confines of the glass jar she'd been gradually leaking since fillyhood. "If you have to be five to enjoy the simple splendors of life, then I'd have to assume so."

"Well, yeah, you'd have to be six to enjoy pistachio, wouldn't you?"

"I think you'd just need to be mentally handicapped in every form and fashion."

"First off," W started, barely able to contain the fit of laughter threatening to erupt after the mare's blunt retort, "rude."

"Oh Gods you're not a bloody Nut Lover are you?" Octavia asked, immediately regretting the slang term only she and her close friends had made up back in high school that W had no way in the world of correctly receiving and interpreting. She bit on her tongue to try and force the words to come climbing back inside, but the only thing she found was a dull tongue and a burning rush of a headache.

"Bloody?"

Gods damn this accent.

W hummed. The small amount of time she was giving him—mostly due to her not really knowing how to save face—was being used very wisely by the old griffon. Fortunately for her, the mercy inside his gizzard (if she was being correct about the whole half-bird thing and remembered what she'd learned from that owl project back in grade school) was particularly swelling at that moment. He puffed out his chest in a large intake of breath, looked behind them for a basic spell, turned back, and beamed, "Second, pistachio is a Godsend."

"Pish posh," Octavia whinnied, almost tripping onto the pavement as she felt a hoof go up to flail uselessly with her response. Catching herself certainly faster than anyone could've noticed, she lifted her chin and whipped her mane over the other side of her neck, then swiveled about to address her companion with a simple, "You're daft."

W's response was silent at first, very swift, definitely just, and most of all very much unexpected. Octavia only realized he'd reached over and tapped her ballcap's bill down over her face when she had stopped to fix it with a snort on her muzzle.

"Gah!" She sputtered, pushing the article back onto her scalp, "You're such a bastard."

"W's dad left when he was young," Valkyrie told her, prompting the mare to look up at her with a smirk.

Lavi shook her head. "Never knew 'im," she said, then, looking at W, "You poor guy."

"He's dating his mother now, actually," T added, scratching at his neck.

W fixed his stance from one of walking to one of standing still. Octavia felt a very small frown cross her lips. She'd much rather not block the sidewalk in the middle of a busy day...

"She's a very nice lady, I'll have you know," W defended, placing his right claw over his heart as if his mother was somehow encased within the depths of his figure.

"Ah dude," Sesame's voice piped up, causing Octavia and the others to all spin around face him, "speaking of very nice ladies, what kinda dog do you think that is, Octavia?"

What kinda dog do you think that is, Octavia?

What kinda dog do you think

What kinda dog do you

dog do you

dog

Octavia's face lit up with the instantaneous flick of a Hearth's Warming Tree at the first second of winter. A smile, miles long and practically unexaggerated at this point, curved across her lips and pressed against her eyelids. Her heart, prior at a normal, very healthy pace, got down low on its legs, crouched down, and shot forward like a marathon runner with the speed of Rainbow Dash's thought process or at the very least what she figured was her thought process you had to think quickly if you were in the air or else you'd crash before anything maybe into a building or a wall or some bricks or a mountain or even a collection of trees with some nice apples DOG!

She felt her stomach scrape and scratch against the sidewalk pavement and start a little collection of horrible little pebbles underneath her, but neither her starry eyes nor her violently petting foreleg cared in the slightest.

"Oh my Gods who's a good dog?! It's you! It's you! Can you believe that it's you?! It is, love! It's you!" Octavia's jaw tapped against the ground as she presented a gaping smile to the gloriously adorable canine in front of her. Her two hooves hovered over her head and pointed directly at the pooch's head like two arrows to a prize in some kind of game show, with all the glamor and jazz to boot.

The Border Terrier, rather small for its size, bobbed its cute little head up and down with its tongue flopped out as it panted into her face. If her brain wasn't playing any tricks on her, it appeared to be smiling right back at her!

She shot a leg forward and began scratching at its left ear, which it so kindly received by tilting its head toward her and closing its eyes. Letting out a small squee, Octavia looked up and craned her neck to stare at the owner.

"Male or female?"

The owner, which Octavia didn't care to properly identify, droned, "Uh... boy?"

Octavia hummed to herself, then to the dog when she repositioned herself. Resting her head against a propped-up foreleg, she chimed, "Well... you're a good one at that, you are."

The Terrier yipped at her, its scruffy face never failing to look excited despite the breed's usually pissy appearance.

Octavia let out a prolonged, very real sigh, rolling over a bit and scratching the dog's other ear. "Gods... I love you so much." Rolling back over, she reached out, scooted an inch forward, and held the Terrier's head in her forelegs. "What I wouldn't give to stoop low to petty thievery right at this moment."

Her wistful woes now publicized, Octavia was met with the anticipated withdrawal of the dog by way of leash and pony-delivered, "Godsdamned weirdo." Remaining on the floor where she'd prior been lying in pure, unaltered heaven, she turned her head at the sound of hoofsteps and claws and pressed her cheek against the earth.

"Get the camera," Valkyrie's voice started.

A light punch.

"Don't tell her..." Lavi complained.

Something was lightly placed onto her head, which, at the moment, only served to shade the entire left side of her face from the sun above.

"Ran off so fast you dropped your hat," W explained.

Octavia groaned, lip in a wobble. Her purple eyes, trying to distance themselves from the quintet standing next to her, found the sidewalk again.

"I miss that dog..."

Severance
View Online

Stroll

Severance

If she were going to be completely honest with herself, and therefore remain a horribly broken record of an Earth Pony, Octavia was legitimately looking forward with all of her being to returning to the wondrous meshing-together of wood, stone, and hay that she so liked to call her home.

The nice, massive green bush she'd proudly call her own fancywork in the shape of an eighth note standing silently and rustlingly next to the mailbox that lay pretty much devoid of letters bearing her name, the fact of which slightly depressed her and sank her further into the glass of wine or the cup of coffee she was nursing at the time of thinking about it. The two-faced coloration of the whole thing looking like it belonged in some children's cartoon and not in the actual, living world that she so woefully was walking in. The flowers she'd bugged off from a market happily smiling past her in an effort to try remaining alive; the glass windows with the blue bass clefs plastered across them with the haphazard results of an impatient pony who was wasting useless time until their dinner—noodle cups and wine—that day.

The admittedly beautiful view of the town of glorious Ponyville frequently, and definitely much better off, seen from behind the only curtain Octavia liked to peel away these days. The couch she so loved to keep next to the entrance for the sole purpose of falling into, sleeping on, reading around, eating near, and staring at before doing any of the former. The piano she spent more days glaring at than actually playing, a fond, constant reminder that buying whatever you saw fit in such a small town in such a—kind of—small house only led to bothersome glances and objects you couldn't easily move without asking for help. Octavia didn't like asking for help. That was probably why the piano remained where it was, directly on the spot she would've liked placing another couch.

Home, though.

Back to the dragging mornings and empty rebellions, fueled by three cups of raw coffee and little munchies on cream cheese-topped bagels. Back to unkempt manes and pink bathrobes she was all too dreary to fix or discard, respectively. Back to hours of wasteful lounging about and racing minds better left untapped, where the only thing to keep you company was a forced Unicorn mute, pictures of happy puppies, books she'd already read fifteen times over, under, through, and over again, and food and drinks she'd feel all too excited and simultaneously miserable to feast on.

The poor, poor oven, prior rife with soft, hot, gooey chocolate chip cookies she was pretty sure she could easily get back to after taking a quick walk around town. The poor, poor goods, left to rise, flatten, enlarge, blacken, burn, roast, smolder, and then die away in a most horrible, terrifying, genuinely scary kind of send-off. Her house—which was probably not even standing at this point, either by way of cookie-induced fire or bored, crazed, experimental, poorly excitable Unicorn fire—and its kitchen smoking and puffing like Sesame Seed from across her.

Lavi grabbed Sesame's cigarette out of his mouth with two talons, did a little flip with it in her grasp, and flicked it into the garbage can.

"Hey!" Sesame griped.

"Lavi, that's still burning," W said calmly.

"Oh shit," was the swift, matter-of-fact-but-still-definitely-worried reply. Lavi rose from her seat in an instant, swiveling about—possibly breaking a few discs in her spine or whatever they had—and reaching into the dumper with gusto.

Yes, home.

She'd like nothing more than to be there. There, she could play her music in peace. Prepare for Trottingham in the next couple of days. Meet up with her bandmates in the concert hall and rehearse for a few hours on Pavaneigh and The Swan, both pieces being two of her absolute favorites in the world. Pavaneigh for its lonely sounding violin solo and its longing notes, and The Swan for literally everything about everything in its everything. Come to think of it, the entire Carnival Of The Animals was simply gorgeous. Silent Signs was an absolutely incredible composer, the beautiful bastard camel he was, and if she could go back in time to when he was still blessing the earth with his life, she'd plant a kiss on his cheek and squish him until he pushed her off his long-legged body.

Gods she was so jealous of cellists.

The ponies of Trottingham were nice folk. She thought. Had she gone there already? With all the places the Symphony went, she thought that she'd at least remember a few of them. They all kind of... melded together into one stream of regretful nights and long mornings. As a matter of fact, they reminded her of her house. Home. That place she was going to be. That place she belonged. That place she really really wanted to be at right now to get away from the absolute... atrocities of table manners, proper behavior, and tableware exercises she was currently witnessing.

When they weren't touching beaks in a quiet bakery indoors, the Birds' Eyes made one hell of a ruckus and a full-fledged scene that prompted her to suddenly mind her baseball cap and lower its bill an inch more.

"You throw another fry over here, I'm leaning over and stabbing you with my knife."

Octavia stopped what she was doing, lips pressed against her cheeks, and thereafter continued keeping to herself and the Caesar Salad beneath her gray fork and white knife.

"Work faster!" Valkyrie played, bringing a balled-up claw behind her head and repeatedly swinging it near Lavi's head. "Work faster!"

Lavi looked up from her hunched-over position, tapping the small box with a talon before quickly snatching one of Valkyrie's fries.

The response was instant.

"That's dirty fighting."

"Your whip skills suck," Lavi replied, opening her beak wide as Valkyrie's mother and tossing the potato down her gullet for all to see before going back to her prior pastime. A nearby stallion, spotted by Octavia's peripherals, viewed the display as violent terrorism, adjusted his glasses, meeped, and collected his things before sprinting off. Though not willing to point it out—as Valkyrie would most likely jump at the chance to make fun of more ponies—Octavia let out a small, unnoticeable giggle, then hummed to herself and chewed on a piece of lettuce.

"How's it at, you two?" W asked, politely wiping his beak with a napkin and childishly crumpling it up onto the table.

Sesame's clear retort of "Who the hell says that?" was cut off by Lavi, who nudged the Unicorn with her elbow and spoke.

"Well, it's going, I guess. Then again, I'm just kind of watching and not really doing anything."

"'Just sit there and look pretty, darling,'" Sesame responded with not an ounce of a sense of actual emotion, his eyes never leaving the two bobby pins wrestling around the lock in front of his face.

"Aww, you think I'm–"

"It's a quote. From a movie," Sesame interrupted, horn still ablaze. Octavia bit her lip and peeled her ears back.

"You know what's also a quote from a movie?" Lavi asked, her voice betraying the results one would usually find after such a blunt remark.

Sesame leaned his head to his left a bit, slipping his tongue out of his mouth. "What's that?"

Lavi brought up a claw and bumped Sesame on the back of his head.

He grit his teeth and worked his jaw around, looking at the griffon next to him and growling, albeit weirdly lispy, "Godthdammit! I almotht bit oth my thriggin' to'gue!" He rubbed at his injury absent-mindedly, glaring at Lavi the entire time.

"She's sensitive about her weight," Valkyrie remarked with a smirk.

Lavi turned about with the finesse of a ground-ridden, one-winged hawk. "You like sailors!"

Valkyrie hissed, "They're strong!"

"They hit and quit!" Lavi spat, her beak in a grin.

Valkyrie mirrored the expression, shooting back, "Don't you mean like T's dad?"

"My dad actually came back, mind you both," T replied, pausing to sip from his straw-protruding, plastic-confined soft drink.

"When? Yesterday?" Lavi asked, placing a closed claw against her hip and raising a brow all sassy-like.

"Dunno," T began, taking another sip, "I'd ask your mom."

Valkyrie picked up a french fry and tossed it at T. Despite everything Octavia had learned and been told about the griffon by her close friends and allies, her aim was true as honesty, and the slice landed and sat atop T's perpetually frowning beak. She and Lavi both burst into laughter, completely missing T as he pinched the fry off, moved his arm over the table, and plunked it into Valkyrie's drink at the very exact moment she cracked open an eyelid, wiped away a tear, leaned forward, and raised her cup's bottom to the sky.

She sputtered and hacked up a lung or five, slamming her drink down onto the table and sticking out her tongue. "The hell was that?!"

"Couldn't wait," W answered, chin resting on his interlaced talons. "Told you three I had t' go."

"Thought we already changed your diapers, old coot," Valkyrie coughed, screwing her face up at her leader while fishing around in her drink for the intruder. Her expression lightened up at dizzying speed, ending in a toothy, barely-held-in-grin when Lavi began snickering.

W, reaching to his left, grabbed hold of the parasol's rod sticking out of the middle of the table and flicked the lever down on its side. The red and white umbrella thoroughly thunked on Lavi's cutely feathered head, causing her to whisper a small curse and began pushing it back up. Octavia, in the meanwhile, was relatively glad that she, as a pony, was slightly shorter than griffons. Maybe being small wasn't a bad thing to be after all. At least, in the company of griffons. With ponies, there was endless ridicule.

She didn't miss high school.

"You're punishing me for laughing?!" Lavi asked, locking the umbrella back in its prior position.

"I'm punishing you for being alive."

"Blame Lavi'th mom for that one, I think," Sesame quipped, stopping his work for a second to regard the griffon across the table and to his left with his tongue showing between his lips. How he was able to make progress on a small lock underneath the shade of two umbrellas was something Octavia found legitimately impressive.

Octavia hummed at her salad.

"Which one?" Valkyrie chimed, earning an elbow from an angry Lavi—which looked like it really hurt—who rested the arm on the table and pointed a stubby talon at her opponent after the fact.

"Don't pay what Val says any mind, Sesame–" she began with a certain bite in her words.

"Oh, I won't–"

"–she's got three stepdads," she continued, ignoring Sesame's shaking of his mane, then turned to her subject, "all hippogriffs. Least if she were a griffon she'd feel ashamed of herself. But because she's a hooflover, she doesn't feel bad about selling her ass on the corner lot next to Grandpa Gruff's birdhouse."

Octavia had borne witness to many a cat fight while attending high school back in the day. Usually, such hallway encounters ended in pullings of flowing manes, wrestling on the floors, astute proclamations of female dogs, and shoutings of blunt racism that made no sense of being brought up in the slightest. She'd never really involved herself in such events, but she liked to remain a bystander, see who was more steadily approaching a victory, and start picking out a side to root and shout for, albeit silently where it could all fester like a mental illness. Gods she was a horrible pony.

"Last day with us, and you get to watch them argue at lunch. How about that?" W asked from next to her, prompting her to set her tableware down on the napkin adjacent to her plate, mind her misaligned fork, stick out her tongue, and, while still looking the griffon's way, adjust its position.

A sour, very much wretched taste worked its way onto her poor tastebuds, but she was very much certain with herself that it was because she'd just bitten on a piece of an apple. Why anyone in their right minds would put a Red Delicious on a veggie salad was beyond her and might've been against a law if she remembered correctly. Taking up her napkin in both hooves, she pursed her lips and discarded the faulty fruit, making sure to fake a cough before bundling up the paper and tossing it next to her plate again. Admittedly, she... didn't like to think about how it was to be her last encounter with the griffons and Sesame, but she couldn't just quite ignore W's question at the same time. She swallowed a lump down her throat and picked up her fork again.

"Not quite the send-off I was expecting, mind, but I have to admit that it's better than walking around town," Octavia replied, stabbing a crouton and thereafter realizing that such an action was impossible.

"Well," W said, clapping his talons together like her school teacher used to do—thank you, Mr. Bon, for all your vivid, planetary teachings—and grinning a cheeky grin, "still have a few hours left. Got any deep, dark secrets left to share before we leave?"

She laughed, "Oh, I have an unsustainable, particularly raging fetish for Hydras. I hope you're all right with that fact." Her bunched up cheeks and upward inflection were simple disguises; they hid the very angry little mare who was currently berating herself for using "unsustainable" the completely wrong way. Gods, could she even comprehend speaking? She'd have to thoroughly adjust herself in front of her mirror for a few hours when she returned home, despite the now suddenly realized revelation that she'd have to actually look at that gray mare again for a long period of time. She'd have to suck it up and make more than just an attempt or two to return back to her long-rehearsed sophistication, otherwise her bandmates—sans Concerto, the lovely stallion—would poke fun with fifteen short sticks and never let up.

"I have to deal with Valkyrie wanting to bang fish and Lavi constantly confusing her sexuality," W replied toothily, "I think I can handle you liking three heads at once."

"Smarmy bastard," Octavia coughed, "I bet Candidate there is more than just your weapon of choice."

W, if he had lips, would've pursed them as he hunched over and instinctively reached for the fine weapon sat up next to him on the bench. "Why I never!"

All right, the attempts at her accent were cute the first time. Now they were just getting dumb.

Her own thoughts didn't seem to perturb Lavi, who—seemingly caught in a lull in her argument—held her stomach and shot her head back to seemingly laugh at the sun's misery of being the sun and therefore un-layable.

Octavia flexed her chin and pressed her lower lip upward in a pout, eyes narrowed and ears against her head. Her ballcap, prior securely tucked onto her head, tilted just a tad.

"So," W began again in a much calmer tone, catching her attention once more. She turned to her right, then up, and locked eyes with him. Lavi and Sesame across the table were back to what they were doing—or at least what Sesame was doing, at the very least—with Valkyrie keeping to herself to finish her food. One of Octavia's eyebrows went to the sky as she screwed her face up. "What's first on the agenda for Octavia Philharmonica when she gets back home?"

"Wellllll," Octavia droned, rolling her eyes to her left and following the direction with the rest of her neck only to come back again, "first off is my oven."

"Oh-ho-hooo, I know where this is going," W claimed, tapping a claw on his plate. Sitting straight on his seat, he asked, "What was it? Pizza? Maybe with pineapple on top?"

"Cookies," she sighed, "most assuredly a black mess as of days ago."

"Whoa!" came Valkyrie from the other side of the table. "You had T in your oven?"

T simply responded by taking up his arm and swiping Valkyrie's drink off the table.

Octavia bit her lower lip, expecting a savage, no-holds-barred beatdown from the chaotic griffon, who narrowed her eyes and... whimpered like a child. Valkyrie leaned over to her left to assess the damage that had been dealt, making sure to tell T that he was, "such a pee-pee hole," as she went down. She was being oddly... what was the word, non-confrontational today. Octavia wondered what had happened to the stars the night prior, and just how oddly they must have aligned.

"Oh God, I hope you at least have another tin of dough somewhere," W admitted, seemingly finding talking with the mare to be miles more important than supervising his dysfunctional teammates. He shrugged for a second before holding his stomach and chuckling over the sound of Valkyrie slamming her cup onto the table, "Now I feel bad for not shipping you home sooner!"

That wasn't necessarily his fault. "That wasn't entirely your fault. First, the train, then Tall Tale, then no ride from there." Octavia bunched up her cheeks and deflated. "No matter. I'll be off in the end one way or another."

She felt a nudge at her shoulder and looked up at the source.

"Hell of a walk, huh?"

There was the slightest bit of frost dangling off her tongue, but she worked her jaw a half second and reconsidered, "Quite."

"You fought bandit ponies," W started, bringing out a claw and showing it to her. "Eight, to be specific." He held up the next digit. "Tread through a Godawful cave." Another. "Cradle-robbed a fry cook."

"Dick," came Sesame from across Octavia, attention still somewhat fixated on the box.

"And fought off a minotaur." One more. Now it looked like he was rearing to give Octavia a high—what would that be—four? He assisted her with her horrible math skills, bringing his elbow up off the table to show her his four claws. "There's a story there. Think your bandmates would believe it?"

Octavia let out more of a scoff than a laugh, touching a hoof to her chest, "Gods, no. If I even made mention that I'd even gone outside, they'd call me out on it and never get off it."

"You tell me you live in Ponyville and you never go outside?" Sesame asked, finally rousing himself from his work.

"What's so good about Ponyville?" Valkyrie questioned, snatching Lavi's drink from in front of her and raising it to her chin.

"It's pretty country," Sesame responded, turning to the griffon with a leaning forward and a clip clop of his hooves on the table.

Lavi, grabbing hold of the now-open box in her claws, motioned at W for a second, then suddenly tossed the container behind her boredly and directly into the dumpster. "Dead end," she said quietly, shrugging.

"Damn," W replied.

Octavia shook her head with an odd look on her face. Wait, that was that? Nothing?

"Wouldn't know about it," Valkyrie grumbled. Octavia took notice of a very sudden, very swift, very quick-to-disappear look of anger on W's face, but didn't wish to push it. "We've got great things, too!" she continued very enthusiastically, "Gruff, Greta, Gabby, Gilda, Gordon, Gonzo, Gabe, Garza, Grundle..."

"You griffons are really fond of your G's," Sesame noted, voicing Octavia's wonderment for her. Despite her inner insistence on not arousing any very loud arguments and hurtful name calling, she clucked her tongue like the brethren of the other four of her lunchmates.

"Actually, why is that anyhow?" She watched as Lavi closed her eyes and looked down, shoulders fidgeting and bouncing as her beak upturned. Valkyrie raised a talon to her mouth and turned away, head shaking. T, smirking, stole a glance at W, who tutted at his subordinates' lack of insight.

"Naming convention," he said finally, "ever since King Grover. Griffons name their kids something with G in them if they're royalty." He rolled his blue eyes, brought up a talon of his own, and made a circle near his head with it. "Nowadays, they just do it because... why not?"

"What of you lot, then?" Octavia asked, taking a second each to look at the four members of the apparent Birds' Eyes. "Lavi..." Lavi struck a pose. "Valkyrie..." Valkyrie pointed her stubby talon toward the ground, or, what was immediately underneath it, her fries. "T..." T hummed a note. G sharp. Impressive. "W..." W looked at her. "No G's." She finished matter-of-factly.

"Our parents never loved us," Lavi admitted, tone infinitely betraying such a fact.

"That's why we all left home, actually," T added, "couldn't live in such a G kind of world."

"And now we shoot people for a living!" Valkyrie chimed in, grinning cheekily and placing her arm over Lavi's armored shoulders.

"Pay her no mind," W grunted, "we generally only shoot people if we have to."

"Or shoot at," Lavi said, then, regarding the griffon across and to her left, "though that's usually T's job. Keeps them right where we want them."

Octavia screwed up her face.

Lavi took up a shooting position from where she sat, though it looked a little more... compact(?) than the rifles Octavia had seen both her and W use. "He just clicks a button and DOODOODOODOODOODOODOODOODOODOO!"

"It's also how I'll break my wrists one day," T proclaimed, frowning.

"Slippery as Valkyrie's mom when that happens. Like arthritis in an earthquake," Lavi compared, chuckling a little at her own joke.

Octavia took mind of Valkyrie, whose eyes—and head—suddenly darted over just an inch to their left. The mare rose a brow and opened her mouth.

"I think it's safe to say you won't miss us when you leave," Lavi piped up, cutting Octavia off from her first consonant.

At that, Octavia felt a bit off. Her ears flattened against her head again, but one look from W next to her caused her to reach a hoof up to her scalp and fake an itch. She... she would. Surely, she would. At least, just a little, maybe. Or a lot. There was a degree there. Somewhere.

She looked up yet again. Valkyrie was now moving her neck around to see over T's head at a slightly worrying pace.

"Found someone–" Lavi began.

Valkyrie cut her off by lightly slapping her beak down, practically hopping from her seat like a horny rabbit during summer, brushing salt off her armor, spreading her dark brown wings, and zipping away across the street.

Everyone turned toward the direction she was headed, and no one was surprised.

Valkyrie touched down on the ground near the entrance to the docks, a blue-robed, tricorn-wearing griffon walking along the cobblestone on his hindlegs, a pair of barrels hoisted over his shoulder. He looked at her when she landed, and immediately began speaking to her in a volume deafeningly loud enough for Octavia and the others to hear from their outdoor table a few blocks down. Even amidst the sea of happily conversing ponies, Andy Trout always made sure that he was heard and heard well.

Octavia licked her lips. "Should we go after her?"

W hummed. "Nah. Give her a minute."

Octavia pursed her lips, watching as Valkyrie and Andy began descending down the docks.

Valkyrie turned her head to her right and let out a genuine, large, chipper laugh.

Octavia shook her head and stared at her salad. It was such a bewilderment just how much of a crush Valkyrie had on that poor sailor. Of all the griffons—or ponies—she found attraction in the one that would bring her back home. A single soul she could've easily missed.

Octavia looked back up.

And she smiled.

Detachment
View Online

Stroll

Detachment

Goodbyes.

Octavia was relatively, moderately, genuinely, honestly, simply, easily, definitely, undeniably, seriously, very much absolutely horrible at them. She had a bit of a penchant—in fact, it might have been more of a knack than anything else—for making farewells and adieus as horribly awkward as was physically and mentally possible and dragging them out much much longer than that, with either a wrong wave of her little gray hoof or a stutter in her dialogue that spoke more volumes of stress than the blue moon screeching of her beautiful double bass.

Goodbyes were aplenty in her younger years as a filly, with her grandmother or her cousins—sometimes and—visiting almost monthly and either cooking glorious, Gods-sent cuisine in the case of the former, or stirring up trouble in a nice pot of already fuming rubbish for miles and miles in the case of, mainly, Pizzi and Cadenza, the little rascals. Their visits were generally short and quick, like a good dream nowadays—even if she was admittedly starting to get tired of having camote in her hair, Pizzi—and so Octavia would go with her immediate family to go and amiably escort their relative to the nearest train station to send them back home.

Clutching their ticket(s) in their hooves, they'd turn back toward the family that had housed them for the past few days or week and begin embracing and promising return trips.

This was where Octavia first began feeling like she honestly had some kind of social issue way deep down. Maybe in her heart somewhere. It would only make sense that the thing that helped her live brought her eternal problems. She was usually the last one to say goodbye to whoever it was that was standing in front of her—now was it Aunt Trompeta or Cousin Fiddle for the love of all the Gods please get this right—and with a younger brother, an older sister, a mother, and a father, she had more than enough time to fully figure out, decide on, and finalize what all she was going to say as a final, overall farewell from the entire household. Then again, her dogs wouldn't be with them, so it wasn't truly the entire household, but you couldn't rightly bring three dysfunctional Labradors onto the streets of Canterlot, which she thought was pretty bloody stupid, and oh yeah.

You would think that her smart, assuredly not overly-inflated-ego of a filly mind would think up something adorable, or intelligent, or even so much as proper, befitting the family of five refined Earth Ponies parting ways on the train station, two wearing bowties and collars, one wearing an old blue kepi, and one of the first two dreading each and every time they spoke because there was no conceivable possibility that they would actually say something coherent to the equine ears.

So, as the train prepared to leave the station and head back toward San Palomino, Octavia would raise a hoof, wave it, and remark,

"See you later, alligator!"

She could have very easily said literally anything else that came to her mind, with little semblances of filly words that made no discernable definition when stacked atop one another bouncing and racing and zipping around her brain prior to her monthly mistake, but her tongue gathered her frequented, go-to catchphrase no matter how many others sentences she tossed at it. A losing battle. A slope to push a boulder up for all of eternity. What a past life to have lived. Despite her own reservations, her relatives found it cute.

Which was stupid.

Still though... goodbyes, or farewells, or adieus, or chip-chip-cheerios I'll be seeing you around the bend mate off to go eat some crumpets and tea and use weird currency... they were important. Farewells were, not the... crumpets, and the tea. Farewells were peace of mind, really. A reminder that you'd known someone for long enough to exchange simple words with them, knowing they'd be back in one way or the other, this life or next. Sometimes there were tears, sometimes there were short breaths of relief, and sometimes there was genuine heartbreak and shockingly immediate longing. There was moving out, there was camote in her hair, and there was deployment. Through it all, there were still the important goodbyes, and hugs, and kisses, and everything in between. She may not have liked the idea of the Academy, and maybe Pizzi was a bit of a cock, and the idea of her little Forte going off to Gods' nowhere scared her almost more than falling, but parting words were more important than her own skin.

For Gods' sake she was horrible right now.

Maybe if she'd turned on her bright little oven light with a little flick of the little black switch, waved a hoof at each and every one of her beloved chocolate cookies, and blew them all a collective kiss for good measure, they'd still all be alive and well and still soft to nibble on. Her roommate was probably eating them right now. The bastard. Vinyl always had a way of stealing her most precious things, holding them for a high ransom, and just simply giving them back for free as the straws began bending and cracking in the form of a very much buggered Earth Pony. They would probably have to be glass straws; plastic straws weren't very well known for their breakability.

Octavia was pretty much miles more than garbage at both saying and receiving goodbyes, which was a substantially large factor why she was generally being a tad on the quiet side about parting ways with W and the other griffons. She wasn't counting Sesame; she was sure she could stop him from actually going through with joining them. She knew a foolhardy plan inside and out whenever she so much as caught the scent of one; she'd once tried to learn the trombone out of a combination of legitimate interest and mind-numbing, skull-crushing boredom. Sesame may have been incredibly adamant about the necessaries of his going along with the Birds' Eyes on their sea-crossing voyage, but the fact remained at the end of her musing that he most likely switched out his nicotine back home with his narcotics and hadn't been in the brightest clarity of mind since leaving Tall Tale.

She wouldn't tell him now, at the very least. Despite his clear inebriation—would that be the right word?—he was making quite the impact on the many boxes, crates, and bags of things still lying on the docks next to the Scuttlebug. Humming a peculiar tune under his breath, he clenched his sizzling cigarette in smiling teeth and turned about, his horn glowing a dijon mustard that reminded Octavia that she was still a slight hungry now that she thought about it. A trio of crates—one marked with SUPPLIES, the one atop it marked with MORE SUPPLIES, and the third marked, in dark, haphazard lines that made Octavia flex her chin, PORN—along with an olive green duffel bag floated up the ramp next to Sesame, passed another griffon pushing two barrels upward, and landed in Valkyrie's arms. Not even breaking a sweat, she turned swiftly to her left, dumped her take, and turned around just in time to catch a soft, small, mushy bag that jingled and jangled as she fumbled with it. Lavi, the one who'd thrown it her way, raised a single claw to her beak, shook her head, and pointed up at the deck of the ship.

Valkyrie nodded, then began to turn around. She, as well as Octavia, looked back at Lavi to find her forming an O with one talon and pointing the same claw with the other, which she placed in and out of the O with a chuckle on her breath. Valkyrie shook her head and hoisted the bag over her shoulder, quickly disappearing into the storage area of the vessel. Laughing the encounter off heartily, Lavi turned around... to find W standing directly behind her. She would've bumped into him had she stepped a centimeter further backward. She eeped, even if Octavia couldn't rightly hear her from far away, but straightened herself up and gave W a hard salute. He returned the gesture rapidly, then deflated as quickly as that and patted his subordinate on the shoulder. She returned to her prior ready position, taking the crate that Sesame had been hovering near her for the now passed two minutes.

"She's a fiiine vessel, ain't she lass?"

Octavia jumped and, in tandem with the hair caught in her throat, pretty much almost died on the spot. She flexed her chin—surely creating quite the ugly wrinkle-fest in the process—and craned her neck around to see Andy Trout standing at her right side. He looked down at her with his eyes—scratch that... when did he start wearing an eyepatch?—and nudged her.

"Come on, she ain't a rent boy. What do ya think?"

Octavia pursed her lips, then turned away from Andy, stared at the side of the Scuttlebug, then gazed high. Way high. The four sail posts, two big ones in the front and two smaller ones in the back, were certainly... tall, which made the whole ship certainly... tall.

"Well, it's..." Octavia began, wetting her lips, blinking, then raising a hoof over her eyes to shield them from the heavens, "...it's certainly big."

"I," Andy replied, confusing Octavia. She looked over at him when he grinned at the Scuttlebug and sighed, then realized that he'd actually said, "Aye." Turning away on the promise that he was done attempting to speak to her, he thwarted her life's goals and added, "She's one helluva galleon, she is. Sixteen cannons on both 'er sides, iron-backed walls capable of deflecting anything fired at 'em, finely-weaved sails built to withstand e'en the toughest of winds, a battering ram in the shape of a majestic swordfish," he looked down at her, "and a mini-bar."

Just what was he implying?

Octavia suddenly remembered Lavi's pantomiming from earlier, and practically made herself jump by spouting, "Oh! I believe that Valkyrie was searching for you earlier, Mr. Trout."

Andy waggled his eyebrows, which didn't amount to much. His tricorn fidgeted a bit, though. "Ah, she did, did she? Fine lass. You two related?"

Octavia bugged her eyes out and craned her neck back. "Excuse me?"

Andy was halted from his response by a loud, chipper, very giddy, "Andy!" from above. He looked up in time with Octavia to watch Valkyrie leap from the lip of the ship, unfurl her wings, and glide down to the two's position with the gracefulness of a blind bulldog skittering across an iced-over ocean in a sandstorm. She stumbled when she landed, almost unnoticeably, and pushed the long feathers out of her eyes to hold up the jingly bag in her talons with a grin on her beak.

"Ah, what's this, lass?" Andy asked, stepping over to her and motioning for it.

Valkyrie snorted as she tossed it to Andy, astronomically screwing up, "This is how we're taking the ride on you– with you, on-onboard the... the ship." She coughed. "Money."

Andy dug into the bag after pulling it open, stuck his tongue out, and brought out a bright, shimmering jewel. Octavia widened her eyes. She remembered those! From the Smokey Mountains!

"The hell is all this?"

Valkyrie struck a pose, placing both her forelegs—Octavia still wasn't sure whether they counted as arms or legs—on her armored hips. "I stole those from a dragon over in the Smokey Mountains way west thataway," She began, pointing like a compass with a stubby claw back toward Tall Tale, "wouldn't believe how anal they get."

Andy threw his head back and laughed at the sun's capacity of being garbage and overrated, held his stomach, then suddenly placed an arm over Valkyrie's opposite shoulder and brought her in close. "Ahaha! You'll be a fine pirate in no time, Valkyrie." Seemingly not noticing the griffon's squees, he looked over to his left at a passing griffon carrying a crate with an, "In fact..." clicked two talons, waited for him to walk back over to him, and grabbed the horned helmet adorning his head. Andy, likewise ignoring his crewmember's perturbed look, placed the helmet on Valkyrie—which turned out to be a tad too big for her head and fell over her eyes—and resumed, "...you can be me new first mate!"

The helmetless griffon, helmetless, suddenly frowned with the weight of Octavia's self-esteem, adjusting his red scarf and sputtering, "B-but Captain... I'm your first mate!"

"Stow it Brighteyes, or I'll make ya share doo-tees with Simple Jeffrey."

Brighteyes, looking at the ground, gave a half-hearted salute and turned around, walking away with his crate and a low, "Aye aye... Captain." As he continued onward, he bumped into Sesame, who glanced at him with his cigarette bobbing up and down, nodded toward the cargo hold, and patted him on the back before watching him go. Octavia hummed. He was already mates with some of the crew. That was most assuredly going to provide a bit of a problem for her later.

"Is Gibbs still here?" Valkyrie asked suddenly, looking up at Andy still holding her by his side.

"Aye. She's eatin', I think. Or maybe she's playin' away up there with the crew."

The three stopped what they were doing at the sound of rustled feathers and broken wind. They turned as a single unit toward Lavi as she lowered herself to the dock with a wild grin on her face.

"I heard Gibbs somewhere in there! You telling them about how she almost broke her guh-tar that one time?"

Octavia cringed at the horrible, botched, mispronunciation of the wondrous, crass instrument, but stopped herself before she could begin chewing on her lip and peeling her ears back. She looked over at Valkyrie, slightly curious about the apparent story herself, but frowned when the griffon shook her head.

"I wasn't even there when that happened."

Lavi smirked. "It's a good story, trust me! I gotta tell you it sometime oh– hey, T. How's the cobwebs?" She scooted to her right, cocking an eyebrow at the black griffon as he took her prior position on the boards.

"Growing," he replied, regarding the shorter griffon—if an inch or so fully counted as shorter when discussing griffons—and shrugging his armored shoulder shrug... thing. Shut up.

Octavia saw Sesame’s Unicorn head poking through the two griffons' sides before he chimed in, "We talkin' about spiders over here?" T and Lavi sidestepped, allowing him access to their schoolyard circle that gave Octavia pause.

"Oh yeah. Nether spiders," Lavi responded, obviously expecting him to get the joke.

"Never heard of 'em. I remember there was a spider back in my bathroom in my apartment," he began, an upward inflection signifying a long-winded, awkward, weird, dumb, very Octavia-like continuation, "Godsdamn thing was like a grapefruit! Had t' get a cup and fling it outside before it could eat me in my sleep!"

"God, you'd waste a perfectly good cup?" Valkyrie asked, completely casual to the arm still draped over her shoulder.

"I have a lot of cups."

"Are you the Cup God?" Lavi asked, giggling.

"Me and the Chip God should join forces," Sesame replied with a huge, toothy grin, staring at T.

T smirked as well, fumbling with what looked to be the strap on his shoulder. "Can you fire a gun?"

"I watched Storm The Beach when I was a kid." Octavia flinched at that. That opening scene was visually, mentally scarring. How in the bloody hell could a kid stomach that amount of onscreen death?

Lavi shook her head as she spoke, "We have literally no idea what that–"

"You're hired," T proclaimed, holding his talon out and shaking Sesame's quickly outstretched hoof.

Octavia knew that griffons never had huge differences in height apart from centimeters and single-digit-inches, but W still towered over his subordinates all the same.

"You're not inducting him into the squad, are you T?" He asked, raising a brow with a firm, definitely feigned frown plastered on his beak.

"They're part of the God Squad," Valkyrie pitched. Octavia hated that she really liked that name.

"Ah," W exclaimed, "who's Sputnik, then?"

"Not that kind of god, old coot," Lavi shot, elbowing her leader with an... elbow.

"Apparently yer boy here's god of chips," Andy told W, "and the little one reigns over cups."

"Well, Chipstar's already a thing. They could always use some competition, though," W chuckled deeply, waggling his brow at Sesame.

"Won't be any better than Chipstar," Sesame admitted, shaking his head.

"You guys have Chipstar?" Lavi asked.

Would someone please fill Octavia in on what the hell Chipstar was?!

"Yeah, there was one down the street in Tall Tale," Sesame replied.

Lavi, Valkyrie, and even T turned to W simultaneously. It was the first that voiced the rest's thoughts.

"W, can we please go back t' Tall Tale?"

"Maybe next year," W kind of promised, patting Lavi with the outside of his wing.

"What," Octavia spoke up, feeling it was her time to add into the mess of a conversation, "you lot actually think you're coming back?"

Valkyrie addressed her instead of the anticipated W, "We may totally think you ponies are horrible garbage monsters, and hate you at the same time, but this place ain't so bad." If Octavia hadn't seen Valkyrie say it herself, she most certainly wouldn't have believed that line to have emerged from that mouth.

"Wait, you hate me too?" Sesame asked, pointing a hoof at his green flannel'd heart.

Octavia frowned. Bringing up Valkyrie's opposition might've just reverted her back to her pre-morning state. As much as she'd felt creeped out and almost appalled by Valkyrie's sudden niceness—or at least slight, but definitely still weird friendliness—it wasn't something she found totally unwelcome. She... actually kind of liked it, to be honest, but then again, who didn't like a nice case of nice once in awhile?

Valkyrie hummed. "It's about equal. Then again, I still haven't had my morning coffee."

"It's the afternoon, it's..." Lavi began, then looked up at the sky and corrected, "almost the afternoon." She furrowed her brow. "You've had more than plenty of chances."

"Won't have too many more," W fessed up. Octavia tilted her head, but replaced it when she saw him point a stubby claw toward the cargo bay's ramp. A pair of griffons were rolling up the last few barrels remaining on the dock, the last remnants of... everything the ship needed so desperately to pack up before it headed out.

"Oh yeah!" Lavi exclaimed, looking that way. "Oh God, I hope I brought sunscreen."

"You want me t' put it on your ass again, Lavi?" Valkyrie asked—or, Octavia guessed, assed—dipping her head to sort through one of the pouches on her breastplate.

"Do you really have t' ass?" Lavi replied in kind, definitely, hopelessly, shamelessly stealing Octavia's joke from within her little head. How she managed the feat, Octavia would most likely never find out.

"You're stupid," Valkyrie snipped, taking out a small bottle and tossing it to Lavi.

Catching it, she began flicking it open and closed with a claw, like some old greaser in a dumb flic flipping a straight razor around to impress literally nopony. Octavia still had to hum at it though. It was... kind of melodic. Like a metronome.

"Please don't have any of that for the whole two weeks," W groaned, sighing and shaking his head. "I won't be able to bear it."

"Two weeks?" Octavia asked.

"That's how long the trip takes, usually. Give or take, at least," T answered her.

"It's a long two weeks with these two," W added, sweeping a talon over Valkyrie and Lavi. "You wouldn't believe the bickering. It's like they're married."

"She doesn't like the color of the drapes I put up," Lavi said, elbowing Valkyrie.

"Lavi is actually gay," Valkyrie droned matter-of-factly.

"No I'm not! Sputnik, people are gonna actually start thinking that you asshole!" Lavi replied open-mouthed, crossing her arms.

"I've honestly been questioning it," T admitted.

"I've accepted it," W claimed.

"You're old. Aren't you supposed t' be, like, home-uh-phobic?" Lavi asked.

"I know that's just a shot at me," W began, "but what."

"'But what?' Dude, that rhymed," Sesame noted, chuckling.

"W the rapper," Lavi beamed, eyeing her leader.

"Are you performing at Glastonmary?" Octavia asked hopefully, prompting the six others around her to burst into laughter. She joined in without a second thought, something in her gut holding her at gunpoint with the promise of... something. She realized this gut feeling much too late, and practically began quaking when W spoke up yet again.

"So... this is it, then."

This was supposed to be the moment that Octavia was essentially free. Free to return to Ponyville. Free to step out of the train and forget literally everything to sprint to her front door. Free to kick the damn thing down and turn off her oven. Free to practice her double bass. Free to sleep in her own bed. Free to return home.

So why did that simple sentence cause such an overwhelming oblivion of dread?

She looked around at the party forming the tight circle with her, and found them all giving small nods to acknowledge the floor and most certainly not the next few exchanges about to occur.

T was the first to turn Octavia's way. His actions were quick as he walked over and grabbed her in a hug. Such an infeasibly swift, and very unexpected course of mind caused her to simply blank out on what was occurring. Only when he spoke did she come back to Earth.

"It was The Art Of War. Good book," he said simply, stepping back.

"That's very cliché of you," Octavia responded, tilting her head at him.

He only nodded.

"Thank you for beating up Desert Fruit," she added, not wanting to be insulting in her last words to him. Thank you's were always good for goodbyes, right? Oh Zacherle she was screwing up again wasn't she?

"It was fun. He liked t' slap. Safe travels, Octavia."

He unfurled his wings, gave her a stubby-claw-up, and flew up to the deck of the ship a good ten or twenty feet up.

"Best be startin' 'er up. We're still a few hours from departure but, well, there ain't nothin' left t' do," Andy coughed, striking a pose and patting his blue robes. Adjusting the front of his tricorn—and apparently shaking loose a small sardine that had been lodged inside of it—he turned to Octavia and tipped the accessory. "Be seein' you, lass."

"I should probably go, too," came Valkyrie's expected, but definitely cautiously ambitious piping up from next to him. She looked over at Octavia and seemingly hesitated in walking away without another word, but stayed her ground, fully swiveled about, and simply nudged her with an armored elbow that was like the corner of a wooden table. "Despite, you're a badass. If you can handle me, well... you're not bad for a pony."

"Goodb–" Octavia started.

"You still suck though." She raised a talon and waved it. "See ya."

She and Andy flew up to the deck in tandem with one another.

That had gone... slightly better than Octavia had expected. No real insult she hadn't heard before, either from herself or somepony else, and not a bad term whatsoever.

Three remained, and the first of those three's face began Octavia's small, why-the-hell-is-this-happening tear roll.

Lavi quickly rushed her like she was holding the game-winning Hoofball in a tight, tight hug that pretty much cut out each and every bit of oxygen that had dared travel through her system.

"Goddammit I'm gonna miss your ass."

Octavia sucked in a breath—an almost hopeless battle oh Gods why someone please—and found the sweet, sweet air to reply, "I'll miss you too."

She relinquished her deathgrip on Octavia for a brief second to hold her out in front of her and stare at her like a child in her mother's arms, then quickly brought the mare's head over to her other shoulder and squeezed again. "Aahhh! You were like a big sister to me. Never had one of those, but you were a good one!"

That was... actually, legitimately sweet of her to say, after all her years of being relatively moderate to Forte in her own just opinion. A bout of tears slid down her cheeks, a probable result of Lavi possibly pressing them from way deep down in there. Way deep.

Once again, Lavi held Octavia in front of her, then let go with one talon to move the feathers out of her eyes. Finally, thankfully, she placed her back down on the ground, dabbed at her right eyelid, and sniffled. Oh Gods she was crying too.

Lavi sucked in her gut like a proud dog, breathed out, and lifted her chin with a grin. She... saluted her.

"Kick some ass, Octavia. Have fun getting home."

"Goodbye, Lavi."

Lavi about-faced and flew upward, blessed to have not witnessed Octavia stopping herself from attempting a salute. Her father may have been in the Guard, but she tended to not involve herself in the dumb army conversations he'd had with Forte. Maybe that's... never her mind.

Octavia sucked in a breath. Now was the time. She looked over at Sesame to find that he was already trying to leave. Maybe he wasn't good at goodbyes, either.

"Thanks, Octavia."

"Sesame, I–"

"Wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you." He chuckled, a cigarette surprisingly not teetering between his lips. "Who woulda thought burning down my apartment would be the best thing to happen to me?"

"Yes, it's just that–"

"Now, I'm my own pony. I can make my own decisions and not be... tied up to that shitty restaurant and those horrible bosses."

Octavia lowered the hoof she only now realized she was raising.

"Now, I can... go on an adventure. Like a road trip high schoolers always wanted. Would love t' see the look on Plum's face. Probably still purple."

Sesame turned around, then turned back around in the likeness of a tired dog in its bed. Walking over to Octavia, he stopped, hummed, narrowed his eyes, widened them, and brought up a hoof. Octavia knew what that meant now, and quickly, promptly, hoof bumped him. He grinned wildly at her remembrance and nodded rapidly, positively beaming.

Taking a step back, he called, "Hell of a mare, Octavia. Now, go home."

He walked toward the cargo bay ramp, probably because he had no other way of escaping the conversation, and motioned at a griffon that was poking his head out to talk to him as he ascended the slope.

Octavia stared at her forelegs, knowing full well who was left.

Each second came silence, and she opened and closed her mouth countless times to say literally anything that came to mind.

She hated to say it, but she was doing all she could to keep the bad part from prolonging.

"I... never really apologized for all of that, did I?"

Octavia looked up, an honestly confused look on her face. "For all of what, Dunnkirk?"

"For uh... pushing you into the mud when we first met and, being an overall cunt the whole time."

His out-of-the-blue word choice, though not unusual in her own vocabulary, was unexpected in his. She stared at the ground again.

He laughed, assuredly not at her. His cheerfulness prompted her to stop minding herself so much.

"I really didn't mean to push you that hard. I apologized after I did it, but I didn't think you'd heard me. I... um, was anxious then. We'd just found the box, and I really thought that, well, wanted there to be something in it for my people. I was in a rush, to put it bluntly."

"While I may have not thoroughly enjoyed the bits of leaves and dirt on my legs, I can't say that I would've trusted a complete stranger in the slightest. Mainly because I also didn't as well."

"Well, yeah, but I think that I had a gun on you then, too," he snorted, patting Candidate.

"You shouldn't worry about that. I put all my spite into Valkyrie, as long as that lasted."

W shook his head, beaming. "I'm glad you never let her get to you too much. Would've hated seeing you change."

"Change?" Octavia asked. "Unless of course you saw something besides a hermit, I think there's lots of change I could always be doing."

W snorted again. "You've got something special in you, Octavia."

"Think that might be the salad."

"It was a good salad, wasn't it?" W asked.

"Oh Gods yes."

"But no, you've... I see potential, Octavia. You're almost half my age, and I already know you'll be doing loads more in your time than I have mine."

Octavia sucked in her lips and shook her with a cheeky grin.

"You've fought in wars, W."

"And you're still alive."

Octavia turned her head and glared at him out of the corners of her eyes.

"I think that that means a lot of something."

"Something?"

"A good something, Octavia. For a good mare."

He reached up with a talon and ruffled her mane underneath her ballcap.

"Good luck."

He presented the talon her way.

She brought up a hoof and shook it.

The feeling of four digits was outweighed by how warm the gesture was. She sniffled.

As the two brought back all four appendages down onto the ground, they looked at one another in silence.

"Well," W began, breaking it.

"Well," Octavia mirrored, continuing to break it for as long as she could.

"Well. Goodbye, Octavia Philharmonica."

"Farewell, W."

The griffon looked at her one last time. Blue into purple.

And then he unfurled his wings, looked up at the top of the Scuttlebug, and flew away with a graceful hiss.

Octavia stared up until the sun began welling up her eyelids. Looking back down, and shaking her head, she rubbed at them and fled the scene as quickly as possible.

She was suddenly feeling... very thirsty.

Misery
View Online

Stroll

Misery

"So then I told her... well, I didn't tell her, I asked her. I said, 'do you have a jersey? Because I need your name and number.'"

Octavia let out a huge, uproarious, completely juvenile whoop more at home at a Hoofball game than in her current residence, throwing her head back and tossing her mane across her spine as she bellowed toward the ceiling, absolutely positive that what had just been told was funny not only because of the little glass sitting in front of her on the counter, awaiting further tipping and emptying. She returned down to the sweet, sweet embrace of Earth, and thereafter her senses, wiping an eye with a wobbly hoof and a shake of her — now that she thought about it — annoyingly pulsing skull.

"And what did Frail shhay?" She asked, waggling her eyebrows at him as he chuckled in kind.

"Please, he didn't even care. In fact, I think he was curious enough for a threesome."

"Fuhuhuhu!" Octavia chortled, settling her drink back on the counter so she didn't drop it. Which wasn't unusual. Or would be the first time. "I doubt you'd even be able to contain yourshelf. Jussht busy away with Frail and leave the poor dear to watch you two make out the whole night."

Concerto's brown mane shimmied as he nodded vigorously. Shimmied. Like Saint Nick on a chimney in the dead of winter. She always wondered how he managed to do that every year. "Well, everypony needs to see something new once in awhile."

Octavia shook. "I'd have to... disagree with that."

"Oh yeah?" Concerto asked, turning to her. "You've only been playing with us for almost a year so far. You'll find that it's infinitely harder to avoid new encounters than you think."

"I suppose," Octavia supposed, reaching for her glass and muttering, "I hardly think I'll grow to like Symphony any generation soon."

"The Symphony's not too terrible," Concerto claimed. Octavia frowned. She didn't mean the Symphony Symphony. "You'll get used to it. Plus, you could make a better name for yourself playing that double bass than sitting next to Parish or Ballad."

"Shhhhould be fine," Octavia slurred.

She peeled her ears back and minded her throat.

Oh yeah. She was on her fifth drink. It's funny how the bottom of a glass looked the same no matter how many times you looked into one.

Being drunk was something. Some kind of something. The kind of something that was, in a way, vaguely similar in form and — consequently — fashion to a dividing line. A wedge in the front of a locomotive (what were those called again she knew the word but it wasn't trickling from her tongue at the moment) in case of debris or bovines blocking their path to, in finality, success, in the shape of a bright train station and bits in its occupants' pockets. A wedge that didn't stop for one second, very reliably able to violently push out any and every kind of something else that dared to hurt what was trudging along amiably behind it, kicking a cloud of dust and furious wind in its thin-walled wake.

If Octavia was a boss Gods kind of Godsdamned train, her passengers would freeze to death in the summer and her coal ponies would hate her insides every minute they worked at them.

"I mean, the glass is empty," Concerto piped up, prompting Octavia to lower it from her gaze. Ha. Gaze. "You could always eat it like Discord in those old tales."

"You can't even read, Concerto."

"That's unfair," Concerto shot back, pointing a hoof, then coiling it around his own cup and taking a swig. "And untrue," he tried, letting out a breath. "You're a liar, Octavia. You're a liar and I hate you."

"You're brown."

"I'm a lightish brown, thanks," Concerto affirmed, brushing a hoof down his chest. "And you look like a donkey."

She felt a breath catch in her gut before it could even think about exploding out. She pushed it back down with a small, nasally sigh, and blinked at her coworker. That remark was a bit of a line-crosser, but she wouldn't — couldn't — really afford to get pissy at her only real friend in her new workplace over a little, jokingly spat insult in the midst of an irreversible, definitely-regretful-tomorrow-morning bender of a night.

According to Concerto, the members of the Canterlot Symphony, buggered as they were, never particularly indulged in such nonsense as "juvenile drinking sprees" unless it was holiday, and even then, they'd be so prim, proper, and modest going about it that they'd pretty much be a church priest without all the inappropriate colt touching. She... hadn't known of any actual examples of such a thing. In fact, every priest she'd ever met were either massive cocks, or as nice as could be. Then again, you'd think that they'd try to be as nice as could be to lower suspicion oh Gods no!

"So, first year," Concerto started, as if the title was something worth even adding. Rude. She knew he didn't mean it, but, still. She was back in grade school, with unnecessary nicknames that didn't stop sticking to her, like Teacher's Pet, and Bitch. "How are you enjoying it so far?"

Octavia sat up a tad, turning to face Concerto. She looked back down at her cup out of the corners of her eyes, pouted her lower lip, and gave a shrug.

Though her response wasn't one so deviously planned, and, in fact, surprised her just a bit, there was still a deep-down part of her that expected Concerto to give her a somber reaction, one of half-lidded eyes and acknowledging nods. Maybe a hug. A drink would've been nice, too. A drink would've always been nice. A drink or four. Five? Was she on five?

She took the second to look down at her frothy-edged glass, blink at the bubbles that met her gaze, and finish what remained inside before her thoughts could continue festering, an open wound on the inside of her cheek that met every meal she ever ate. No matter. She'd just keep adding onto her horribly growing number. What negativity ever came of drinking, besides alcoholism, liver failure, scaldingly hot retching, eternal vomiting, kidney failure, dependence, hallucinations, birth defects, blackouts, pinprick brains, lung infection, blunt death, worried friends, worried camps, worried group chats, worried lessons, worried parents, worried self, worried life, worried hospital, worried cards, worried IVs, worried machines, worried Unicorn magic, worried coworkers, actually maybe not the worried coworkers...

"How's the apartment?"

Octavia let out a little noise, blinking herself back into the reality-based side of the world. That she lived on. In. Reality. Whatever.

"I worry that it'sh," she crinkled her nose, "it'sh, bleh, it'sh it'sh it'sh..." Concerto let out a whinny, almost knocking his drink to the floor. Octavia in the meanwhile found herself narrowing her eyes, leaning forward, and talking to the little shotglass slightly to the left of her, "...it'sh, um, I worry that it'sh... too shmall?"

Concerto tilted his head. "Too small? Really?"

"Are you coming ont'me?" Octavia asked.

"Gods I'd hope not. Frail would be incredibly upset if I brought a mare home."

"What if I sat on that niccce sofa you had and just watched you two all night?"

"Then you might be Wrong, too," Concerto inside-joked.

Octavia widened her eyes. Then she narrowed them. Not that that mattered. On her tongue sat a very comprehensive, exquisitely coherent choice of words that would make Concerto giggle out of his dumb little seat and stop the entire waking world in its earthly tracks.

She opened her mouth and very aptly belched in his face.

Concerto turned his head and fussed up his face like he'd heard a crass joke, bit on a fresh lemon, or, as was this time, smelt something particularly dastardly. Octavia gave a wobbly grin at absolutely nothing, content with her response. Waving a hoof around and groaning, Concerto griped, "Gods, mare. You sick freak. You damn mutie."

Octavia put her glass back down after having picked it up, stared at it, and realized it was empty again.

"Are those all words your mother shaid to you at shome point? Shome... uh–"

"I'll have you know my mother was very supportive in my formative years."

Octavia had... no response to that. No reply, really. No real one, at least.

"Mmhm."

She diverted her attention elsewhere. Waving a little hoof, she caught the sight of the bartender, mouthed a quick word, and pointed at her glass. The Unicorn looked her way, nodded, and turned around to fetch another glass.

Seemingly satisfied with himself, Concerto hummed along to Pavane and busied himself with tapping on the top of the counter to the rhythm, either completely adverse to the promptly fired looks of the other patrons aimed his way, or not caring in the absolute slightest. Seeing as how it was Concerto sitting next to her and not some other pony like Parish or Frederick, it was most likely the latter.

She buried her cheek into a hoof and turned at the hip to look his way. She heard him stutter and slur into the right note after having started on a flat one, watched as he pursed his lips and crinkled his nose, and giggled childishly as he muttered a very small, "Shit," that sounded through the whole bar.

Concerto. Concerto Concerto Concerto.

She smirked, right hoof subconsciously reaching for her glass.

He was a friend. An incredible, sheltering one, like a sturdy house, or a bridge overhang after trudging through the lovely rain. Rain was a beautiful thing, but you didn't really want to get fully soaked to the bone and sick as a dog now, did you? He was the first pony in the Symphony to have introduced himself to her when she'd started a few months prior, bass case in tow and a huge, very much wrong smile plastered on her face. So far, she'd known him by two names. The first was the one he'd made up on the spot. I. C. Wiener turned out to be a very recognizably false alias, but she'd still lost her way and howled at it as he vehemently denied its transparency, ignoring the "hurry ups" and "get on with its" from the other band members glaring at the two.

Concerto proved to be a lovely companion. The saving grace from under the deathly scowl of Frederick or Beauty Brass that swept her up and helped her laugh a little bit. He was fun when they were focused. He was laughing when they were frowning. He was respectful when they were as bloody rude as they could manage without being fired, which, thanks to Dan's being part of a self-established neutral party, pretty much only barred them from flat-out throwing punches at one another, which it came to many a time. Octavia never pushed that far. She and Concerto may have been the two odd ones out, but they didn't dare step too far out of line.

Come to think of it, every near-brawl that had occurred since she'd joined up had been started by Beauty, continued by Frederick, and provoked by Parish, with the last two being the ones to actually bump heads. Usually it was over something as outrageously appalling like skipping a single rest — Frederick — or being too tight-assed — Parish — and so the fisticuffs (hooficuffs?) would just begin to, well, begin before someone was able to stop it. Which was usually Beauty, who pushed and pushed and let up just as the straws snapped in a case of the utmost indecency Octavia had ever borne witness to. And she'd seen the end of Hoofball games, where proxies yelled at coaches for the team, and coaches punished the team for... themselves? She never really understood it. Which was why she never played sports.

Being part of a team under the rule of a single, older pony seemed absolutely ridiculous.

Instead, she'd spent most of her high school days eating lunch with her friends by themselves, and keeping to mainly herself anytime she wasn't doing that. It turned out to be a bit of a lonely system, but it worked for her, and it wasn't really lonely in the end anyway, so why did she just call it lonely? Gods. Idiot.

Lonely. Being lonely.

If somepony had walked down 10th Street, looked to their right after five minutes of wandering, found the strength to smile at the horrible sign out front, and walked into Lefty's at that exact moment, they'd narrow their eyes in response to the low — actually, almost completely absent — lighting, look at the counter, spy her sitting on one of the stools, and just assume she was a lonely mare down on her luck with some guy next to her pestering her for sex... and sometimes trying to grab her beer. She slapped Concerto's hoof. He snickered and returned to his prior, not-screwing-with-her position.

She wasn't lonely, though, so they'd be wrong on all accounts. She was just a regular, Canterlot, upper-class, refined, classical, scrupulous Earth Pony mare with bits in her little bag on the counter next to her fifteen or more drinks, head hung low and her eyes doing nothing but glazing and staring like some kind of sentient doughnut utterly focused on the small wayward scratches cut into the wine cabinet's finely curved corners. Deep in her stomach were ounces of alcohol, and nestled in her brain were shambling, rambling, damn-bling thoughts that never left no matter how wet her throat was.

Actually, come to think of it, maybe she was lonely. She certainly looked it. Oh Gods she was lonely– was she lonely? No. But was she? She couldn't be. Twenty-one years of age didn't — shouldn't — equal lonely. Twenty-one years of age meant parties, and fun, and booze, and parties, and fun, and... and parties! She had the booze part, which she so promptly exercised by tapping her glass and eliciting a raised ear from Concerto, so she couldn't have been lonely!

Oh Gods what did it mean to be lonely, actually? It was, like, lacking. Of ponies. Or people, or people! She wasn't being racist. Speciesist? Whatever. Lonely was the lack of something. Anything, really. Lonely was... missing something. Missing as in absentia, or just aching for a prior known colleague of sorts. Lonely was her apartment, part of the lovely Strafford Apartment Complex filled with horrible characters that either already hated her being there, or wanted her gone because the others already hated her being there. Apartment 29, hers, was at the tip-top of the building — a corner apartment as well — and so even further was it isolated from the rest of the world she barely inhabited. It gave her a nice view, but you couldn't necessarily make friends with the waning sunlight and the rising moonlight. Princess Luna and Princess Celestia were never ponies you could just befriend, after all, if Frederick was to be wholeheartedly believed. She wondered if the Princesses ever got lonely.

Lonely was not something wonderful. That... was stupid of her to say. Of course it wasn't wonderful. It was Godsawful. Being lonely was absolutely miserable.

Loneliness at its core was misery at its finest.

Loneliness was trotting down the streets of Canterlot and not feeling an ounce of belonging. Loneliness was living in Ponyville and feeling the exact same thing. There was a certain sense of home that just never truly met her, even when she'd been living down in San Palomino and her birthplace was completely surrounding her. She never felt it walking through her front door, and she never felt it tucking herself in at night. Home was just a word she used because, well, what else did you call your place of residence besides exactly that? And it wasn't like she was completely alien to being home. She enjoyed the warmth and coziness of carpets under her hooves, and dogs meandering about panting and loving her, and it was very obviously home. But... maybe then her problem wasn't not feeling at home.

Maybe it was just the feeling of... mediocrity. Looking at her crumpled up songs in her hooves after digging them out of the rubbish bin, seconds before being tossed back in. Rearing up onto her hindlegs to begin playing her bass. Risking a look out into the audience to find them absolutely enamored with her and the others' performance. Waking up in the morning, mane bedraggled and eyes struggling to remain open. Staring into the mirror and finding a gray mare with a dark gray mane and purple eyes and a white collar with a pink bowtie's band wrapped around it and hidden from view.

They went hoof in hoof, didn't they?

There was nothing more lonely than the feeling of mediocrity adjacent an opus.

Other things went hoof in hoof as well, though. Friends, like Concerto, and hard times somehow, always, found a very well-wanted connection together. When you were crying, or sad, or distressed, or angry, or distant, or numb, or nervous, or scared, friends would swoop in to be by your side, and if they weren't, well, then they weren't really friends, then, were they? Hoof in hoof. Talon in talon. Water in Beagle. W in T. Lavi in Valkyrie. Octavia in Sesame. Most of her life had been hard times — not as hard as, say, refugees, or the homeless — and it seemed that most of her life had been spurred on by nothing but Good Samaritans just trying to be decent people. Decent people. Not just ponies, but people. Real people, with real things that they were better off doing, instead put on hold just to give her an ounce of assistance. A gallon of it, mostly. Like a gallon of milk. Always there in the store, and always willing to better you.

Then again, she was deathly frightened of going out and buying milk. So many kinds, with differences she didn't — couldn't — really decipher. Milk jugs weren't supposed to be Daring Do puzzles.

Hoof in hoof. Hoof... on hoof. Hoof on... her shoulder.

There was a hoof on her shoulder.

She rose from her stool with the renewed vitality of a disturbed comatose patient.

"Buh?!"

She blinked and shook her head violently, trying her best to dispel the cacophony of her mind. Groaning, she worked her jaw around and began popping her forelegs.

"You were takin' a pretty 'ardcore nap there, mare. You all right?"

Octavia cleared her throat, leaning a tad forward to a proper, completely-awake sitting position. "Terribly sorry, sir. I'm perfectly fine, thank you."

The bartender, a Unicorn with a fantastically curly mustache and a head of messy hair, raised an eyebrow and smirked at her.

"Just feelin' like a couple thousand drinks, today?" He asked, bringing a hoof up and fanning it around the counter in front of him and her. Octavia looked. There were about seventeen glasses there. Much less than a thousand. She understood the sarcasm, but she would've joked a hundred instead of a thousand. Who rounded up by two digits?

She shrugged. "Just that kind of day, it seems."

The bartender chuckled. "Good answer." He coughed. "So, what are you getting up to in Baltimare these days?"

Octavia placed a hoof over her mouth to suppress a yawn. Barely succeeding, she tapped her half-empty glass and creaked her stool beneath her. "Won't be long before I leave, mind. It's nothing too important anyhow."

Friends in hard times. This stallion was another example. Could have just let her fester, but he took the time to prod for the better of both of them.

"I'll take that," the Unicorn replied, lighting his horn and adjusting the upside-down cups sitting patiently on the counter to be filled. "Not too many interesting things happening here anyway. Just another city in Equestria. Not like Ponyville. Now that's a place to be."

"I live in Ponyville, actually," Octavia smirked, catching the Unicorn's attention and eliciting a hum, "and it's miles different from any other place around here."

"Got your Elements..." he started.

"...and the catastrophes..." Octavia resumed.

"...and the new Princess..."

"...and random, upbeat songs–"

"Seriously!" He shouted, "How the hell do they even do that?!"

Octavia shrugged. "I have not a single clue. Some days, I'll be drinking my coffee, pull the curtains, and see the entire town doing the Charleston down the street."

"Meanwhile, I'm stuck managing a bar in downtown Baltimare at eleven-forty-seven in the morning with ponies like Em Dash stealing every waking bit from under my nose."

"Hey, that's a lie and you know it, Honey! You always know when I steal from you!" A voice from behind Octavia called, one that sounded like the largest amount of hype packed into the smallest amount of stallion. She was willing to risk a glance, but it was more than a tad rude to turn away from a conversation.

The apparent Honey brought up a hoof and aimed it at Em, clicking his tongue and spouting, "Damn right! Here, catch!"

Octavia raised her hooves up to her chest and ducked as a foaming flagon soared over her head and landed onto Em's table.

"Eyyyyy!"

"Eyyyyyyyy!" Honey replied more vigorously in kind. He wiped his hooves and placed them on the counter. "So, uh..." he sucked on his teeth and scratched his neck, "...don't wanna be a stick in the mud, but we've, uh, kinda got rules here."

Octavia raised a brow. In the light of the bar, Honey looked like he was legitimately regretting whatever he was bringing up.

He motioned to his head.

Octavia tilted hers.

Honey smacked his lips. "You mind taking off the hat? It's just polite is all." He brought up a hoof and pointed at the doorway. "We've got a hat rack by the door, if you wanna put it there and not risk it being in the splash zone."

Oh. Octavia reached up to the ballcap's bill and took it off her head, then placed it on the counter in front of her.

She reached for her glass.

Then she stopped.

She looked back at the ballcap.

She continued looking at the ballcap.

She was still looking at the ballcap, which prompted Honey to also look at the ballcap.

They were both looking at the ballcap.

Honey spoke up, "Yeah. It's your ballcap. What do you–"

Octavia jumped from her seat, snatching the ballcap in her teeth and throwing down two bits in one fell swoop. Spinning around as she hit the floor, she barely told the entire building that she was, "leaving for a tad," before pouncing through the front door and landing on the street in a now dreadfully hot mess that crumpled and groaned like an old discarded beanbag chair. Shaking her head and cursing at the birds that were desperately fleeing the orbit around her skull, she scrambled to her hooves, bit on the ballcap once more, and began sprinting as fast she could muster down the busy street of almost-noon-ish Baltimare.

Racing down the sidewalk at a breakneck, definitely record speed, Octavia brushed past faceless ponies who swiveled about and shouted at her shadow, mind one, no two, three, no absolutely ahead of her every step of the way. The sound of her hooves clip-clopping against the concrete faded away as her heavy breathing and drum-like heart hammered into her ears. Even as her head told her to avoid the little box of construction on the sewer grate at the corner, she ducked her head, peeled her ears back, and jumped over the black and yellow lines of tape.

She thereafter snagged the final line, felt her grace instantly disappear, and hit the ground face first. Almost smacking herself in the nose as she shot back up, Octavia ignored the ponies who had stopped to assess and question her injuries, crossed the raging street without waiting before the crosswalk, weaved in and out of the waiting traffic — who shouted angry names and cursed stupid slang as she went along — and continued on her way without caring about the dust and rocks plaguing her face. She instantly cared about it, however, after thinking about it, and brought a swift hoof up to wipe her features before returning to her full-on mad dash toward the docks.

It was a blurred flurry of red-faced, heart-blasting, ear-shattering galloping as Octavia sped past the restaurant that had created her day's salad earlier, bumped into a duo of sailors who raised a tiny upset at her, and began storming down the dock. The thump-thump-thumping of her four hooves dwarfed the seagulls cawing overhead, the riggings creaking and crackling, and, now that she drew near to the Scuttlebug, the uproarious sea shanties bellowing to the entire world.

She took a sharp left and practically flew down the last line of wooden slats, only able to catch a breath when she saw the loading ramp still leading toward the rear end of the open cargo bay. Quickening her pace and just now beginning to feel that unmistakable pit grow in her gut, she jumped up the steps, skittered to a halt, and looked around for any sign of movement that could have somehow belonged to W. She released her grasp on the ballcap's bill and deposited it on her hoof, idly — lazily — jostling it about as she softly walked around the room.

"W? Are you around?"

She found herself looking to her left and right in her search, and only found barrels, crates, and boxes of things she couldn't rightly make out in the sub-darkness. Clearing her throat, she raised her voice so she could be heard above the shanties raging above her head on the deck.

"W? It's Octavia. I have your hat."

The bartender — she'd already forgotten his name — had said that it was, what, eleven-forty-five or so? With her run, it was, maybe, eleven-fifty-five, which meant that she still had an hour and five before the ship was due to leave for Griffonia. Where in the hell was everybody? She at least expected to find T down here, trying his hardest to read by himself away from all the noise, and knowing him, he'd know where W was, or at least take the hat off her and give it to him the next time they passed.

She changed her request. "T? Are you down here? Maybe in a corner somewhere?"

Octavia leaned to and fro on her hooves to look at the corners of the cargo bay, and found a new stream of light suddenly shine in from the heavens.

The voices, now loud as could be, unknowingly sang to her with astonishingly harmonized vocals, "Still alive, all you love!" before being muffled once more. Octavia, seizing the opportunity, trotted over to the hatch and saw what had been deposited. A few duffle bags lay on the ground in a heap, bulging and sagging from oddly-shaped items trying their hardest to escape from within. She looked up, finding the sky and the main mast of the Scuttlebug, hoping to signal a passing griffon to open the door and help her out.

She saw an object move into view, and raised a hoof to begin waving.

It wasn't a griffon per-say. It was the ass of one, and it suddenly pressed against the hatch's little window and stayed there.

Octavia shook her head wildly, climbing the small stepladder up with her brow furrowed. Raising a hoof, she banged on the wooden frame, but found not a bit of success. The ass remained where it was.

She turned about. No matter. She'd just have to climb up. From the outside. On the rigging.

Octavia hurried down the body of the ship back toward the loading ramp, turned a corner, and suddenly felt her heart cease.

The opening she'd used to enter had been shut. A few boxes and crates sat just at the edge of the loading area, blocking off any chance she could climb over and try to force it open.

Her breathing spasming and her head now nauseously swimming, she vaulted over the obstacles and tried it anyway.

It was only about twelve! What the hell was going on?!

Octavia pressed her face against one of the windows on the ship's closed ramp, looking for anyone that could help open it back up. Her eyes flipped from object to object, finally settling on a clock situated near the dock's central area.

It read 12:59.

Octavia's jaw fell slack.

"Oh my Gods, it's Daylight Savings Time."

She inched away from the window, raised up a hoof, and tapped on the wood. This tapping became knocking. And this knocking became punching.

Her stomach began to roll and slosh and gurgle, and she watched as the dock began to move away from her ever so slowly, like a beast lumbering toward you in a nightmare.

Her punching turned into slamming.

"Somebody! Godsdammit! Somebody, please! Let me out!"

She grit her teeth and began using both her forelegs.

She had to catch a train.

"I have to catch a train!"

She had to go to Ponyville.

"I have to go to Ponyville!"

She had to go home.

"I have to go... ho-ome!"

She could barely see now. Her sniffling was catching up to her.

There was something wet on her hooves, and for a second she believed that she'd touched the water.

"Please!"

She pulled back her right foreleg and struck as hard as she could.

She wanted to go home.

"I want to go home!"

She fell back with that, rolling across the crates and the boxes and landing in a sputtering heap on the floor.

"Somebody, please!" She sucked on her teeth and looked around for anybody that could help her, but the only noises came from the outside taunting her just above her head.

Octavia placed her hooves on the ground, and suddenly cursed, falling back onto her stomach.

She brought her hooves up to her eyes and stared at them.

Cracked, and bleeding, they wobbled in her vision and began to dematerialize before her very eyes.

Godsdammit this couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening.

She was feeling light-headed now. She'd pass out if she weren't careful.

This wasn't real. She was on the train. She was going home.

Octavia rose to her hooves again, and fell down once more.

"Oh Gods oh please no. No no no."

She tucked her forelegs in in front of her stomach and shut her eyes.

"This is a nightmare. This is a nightmare. We're asleep, and we're going home."

Octavia hacked out a wail.

"We're asleep, and we're going home."

She opened her eyes, just the slightest, to look out the back window of the ship.

The boats and the docks began to shrink in size.

The city of Baltimare began to shrink in size.

The train station began to shrink in size.

The town of Ponyville began to shrink in size.

Home. Her home. Home began to shrink in size.

"Just a nightmare," she said to the water.

"Just a nightmare," she said to the dark cargo bay.

"Just... a nightmare," she said to the ship.

"We're going home," she said to the floor.

"We're going home," she said to nobody.

Woe
View Online

Stroll

Woe

"Captain! We've got a stowaway!"

Octavia shot awake, the deafening voice bouncing around her breathlessly spinning mind and washing over her like a gargantuan wave. Her heart burst into activity, silencing her inner workings to take over every little bit of her eardrums and quake as hard as was earthly possible. The brain she so constantly conflicted with was awash with ice, muddling up her movements and causing her to simply hyperventilate and sweep her gaze around in an attempt to figure out where she was.

From a long, otherworldly rectangle of white light reaching far into her entrapment, she could squint her eyes and make out old, creaky wooden floorboards and countless barrels and boxes lining the walls in front of her. A violent, absolutely furious storm was raging horribly directly outside, only to very quickly furrow its brow, triangulate her exact position, and begin taking form practically right next to her.

Octavia grit her teeth, shut her eyes tight, and attempted to get onto all four of her hooves.

She barely made contact before collapsing back onto her stomach with a whispered curse that echoed in her skull.

"Shhhit!"

Grinding her teeth together, she cracked open an eyelid to try to glare at her right forehoof.

"Stowaway!" Came the voice again, this time infinitely closer. The storm was now right on top of her.

Octavia whipped her head around and felt her breath catch in her throat.

Immediately, she felt three claws grab at her forelegs and yank her off the ground.

"Son of a bitch!"

"Get her topside!"

"Up, boys!"

Octavia's response was instant.

Opening her mouth as wide as possible, she bared her teeth and bit down on the closest arm she could blindly find.

"Aaaah! Sputnik!"

One of the claws grasping her left foreleg relinquished its iron grip, instead opting on tugging her ear.

"Mother– come on, you Goddamn mudslinger!"

Octavia spit a little collection of white feathers onto the ground trailing quickly behind her, opened her mouth to go in for another devastating run, and suddenly had to turn away as her captors brought her toward the light still streaming in from the middle of the otherwise dark cargo bay.

The griffons let go of her as one, and for a second she believed they were throwing her up into the golden gates of heaven, but she suddenly hit the reality of the cold ground hard with her chin and a loud thump that sounded out twice in succession. The ends of her forelegs burning from heat, her head still swimming like she was enduring ten-foot waves, her mane wispy and blocking her sights, and her cheeks still crusty with salt, Octavia opened her eyes ever so slowly and cringed at the sights that met her gaze.

It was as angelically blue as far as she could see on both her left and her right sides. The open sea and the open sky met at the horizon, their only major difference being the presence of long, jagged, winter white clouds streaking in number overhead. Four tall poles, their blank white sails jostling in the wind, tried their damnedest to reach the sun, completely ignoring its blinding appearance that Octavia now grimaced at. A group of seagulls, cawing indiscernible conversations to one another and the griffon sitting in the crow's nest, circled around the perimeter, gliding here and there to try and impress anyone stupid enough to sit and watch them. The ship, due to its massive figure, bobbed ever so slightly to and fro as it went, creating a particularly nice and stable ground for Octavia to be torn away from yet again.

In the corners of her eyes, a large crowd of clothed griffons turned their heads and watched as two of their companions dragged a lone mare back across the deck, narrowing their eyes in either suspicion or distrust if their frowns and ruffled feathers meant even an ounce of anything to her at the moment.

"We've got a stowaway, Captain!" One of them yelled again, hoping that somehow their incredibly ugly vocal cord invention made a sizable impact amidst the sea of now whispering voices and wide water.

Octavia hung her head, unable to do anything remotely impeding with her forelegs clasped and her hindlegs dragging painfully on the floor behind her. The pulling stopped with no warning, prompting her to drop to her stomach and slam her chin once more onto cold, wet steel. She clenched her eyes shut, hearing nothing but her own breathing inside, the seagulls above, and the low, groaning waves of the ocean crashing against the massive vessel below.

The voices suddenly came as one horrendous rush.

"Who the hell's that?"

"Stowaway!"

"It's a pony!"

"Goddamn pony!"

"Sputnik..."

"Where was she?"

"...can't believe this!"

A claw pulled at her left foreleg, almost chucking her to the unforgiving ground once more. She craned her neck around and gazed upward to find a dark gray, feathered head with green eyes glaring down at her and baring its teeth.

"What's your name, stowaway?" He spat, furiously shaking her leg and consequently her entire body.

The crowd shuffled in the corner of her eyes as a quintet of figures pushed and shoved their ways to the front.

Octavia's heart skipped a beat.

Half a second passed before one of the five suddenly leapt forward without a sound, a clenched fist soaring through the air that obliterated Octavia's holder's face and sent him a whole two feet back with nothing but a low grunt and a flurry of spittle. A trio of noises sounded out in unison, presumably belonging to a group of poor, unsuspecting barrels now needlessly toppled over. Octavia leaned forward, grabbing at her aching wrist as her savior directed his attention to her right, coiled his talons around his new target's beak, raised him off the floor, and thereafter slammed him downward scalp first with a horrible crash. Octavia turned around at the sound of something clicking to find her third captor raising his forelegs up and shaking his head like a dog.

W cocked the hammer back on Candidate, one eye closed and the other gazing down the rifle's barrel.

"Back," the old griffon ordered, shaking the business end of his Magicarm for further, deathly important emphasis.

The pirate backpedaled wordlessly, prompting W to suddenly holster his gun onto his back, turn on the heel, and fall to the floor in front of Octavia. He wasted not a single second before reaching forward and snatching her up in a tight hug that halted her breath. A large, warm arm grazed her spine. Knowing W, there was a joke about to emerge from either his throat or his smirk that was completely inappropriate, and she waited for it with bated breath for a span of five seconds.

His gruff voice broke any kind of tear duct she was hoping to reinforce.

"You're okay. You're okay."

A wave, not unlike the previous one, blasted past her, and she shivered under W's large embrace.

Tender. Like her mother and father after a bad day of school. After a bad test day or a little filly feud.

Octavia clenched her eyes together and felt her eyelids moisten. She clenched her lower lip as hard as she could.

A little, terrified noise escaped from the depths of her gut.

She blinked as W's embrace shifted to two claws on both her shoulders.

The old griffon was staring at her, and only now could she make out the large wrinkles underlying his features and cresting his forehead.

"What happened?" He asked, shaking her a tad. "What..." his sights drew down to the left foreleg she was currently wiping her eyes with, and he let go of one of her shoulders to look at the bottom of it. "...shit, what, Octavia, you're bleeding." He turned around at the waist and hollered, "Lavi! Get over here!"

Lavi wasted no time in sprinting over to the two, grabbing at one of the bags sitting at her hip.

"Her hooves–"

"I gotcha," she interrupted, pulling one of her straps back across her back to better access the kit now lying over her stomach. Octavia suddenly noticed the red plus sign professionally stitched onto its front pouch. "Nurse Lavi to the rescue," Lavi exclaimed under her breath, flinging the pouch open.

"What happened, Octavia?"

"I..." She began, her breath failing to circulate. "I... I, erm..."

W reached over to his side and pulled out an olive green flask. He unscrewed the cap and held it out to her.

Octavia's hooves shakily took hold of it and helped her take a long swig. W took it back as she found her voice again.

"I... I was at a bar..."

Lavi pulled out a little purple bottle and a few white squares of cloth.

"I remembered your hat and... I came back over to the ship to give it back to you."

W sucked in a breath through his nostrils. She could tell that he didn't like hearing that.

"When I..." she paused as Lavi wrapped one of the now apparent bandages around her hoof, then stopped herself from cursing as loud as she could muster at the contact. Her next word came out miles more forced than she would've liked. "When I was looking for you in the cargo bay I... the loading ramp, it..." she stopped, pulling away from Lavi to fan herself with a hoof, "...just shut."

"What have ya done this time, Wake?" A feminine, very much unwanted voice called out amongst the crowd.

"Shut it," W spat, not even looking their way as he grabbed another one of the bandages.

Wake?

A pale orange griffon stepped out from the hybrid depths, a tattered white shirt gracing her upper body and a bandana wrapped tightly around her feathered skull to signify the complete loss of blood flow to her brain.

W returned to Octavia.

"What about your hooves? How did you–"

"Who the hell even is this pony? Some kinda burden you picked up from Equestria?"

"I said shut it."

At that, with one of his claws holding up her left foreleg and the other clutching a roll of gauze, W turned his head and actually hissed.

"She's a friend, you hard-boiled cunt."

The word started up a halt in her head. Not the hard-boiled thing... the, the... friend? Friend. She was W's friend. Because... he'd just said so. Mind, they were obviously friends before, but... were they actually? It wasn't that she was unprepared for the term, but... well, maybe she was. She'd have absolutely loved to be his friend, and his saying so made her slightly happy, even as he betrayed the notion by screwing with her wounds.

"Sorry," he whispered, unraveling his attempt to try again.

"Pretty sure you can do loads better than a Pee Why Tee, Wake."

"Hey, that mare beat the holy hell out of eight ponies by herself way west, and kicked a minotaur's ass in Tall Tale!" came... Valkyrie? Sure enough, the aggressive griffon stomped over to the other mean bird and glared daggers into her head. "The hell did you do this week? Sing shanties and–" she stopped, clenching her fists and moving them up and down in a stack, "–hoist a sail or two?"

The orange one simply brought up a flat claw and pushed Valkyrie a full step and a half back.

"Piss off, Cait," went another voice.

"Thanks Gibbs," Lavi hollered, her volume a little too uncomfortably loud in Octavia's peeled-back ears.

"Sic the player on me, huh? Figures," Cait grumbled, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. "Where the hell is Andy?"

"He's takin' a dump over the back," someone on the stern of the ship shouted back.

"He's–"

"He's takin' a shit."

"Ugh!" Cait squawked, grinding her fists together and storming away. "Damn you idiots. I'll send you all to the Upstairs, one day."

"Are she and Valkyrie related, perhaps?" Octavia found the time to ask as W and Lavi finished wrapping her forelegs up.

"Please," Lavi replied, blowing a raspberry and flailing her newly freed claw, "Val's an only child. A case of Douchebag is just... kind of the norm for griffons."

But not them.

"But not you," Octavia noted softly.

Lavi bunched up a cheek in a smile.

"Not us."

"Can someone help me out with Gabe and Kade?" A pirate asked.

"Yeah, I've got ya." Another answered.

W sat up and turned to Octavia's right. He brought up two talons and snapped at something past her peripherals. "Hey! The hell are you doing?"

"I mean, you beat the hell out of 'em, Wake, they need t' lie down–"

"Leave 'em," he demanded, brow furrowing, "they're already lying down."

"...fine."

"All right, man."

W shifted his gaze back over to Octavia and began reaching into his backpack. "Look, you stay here with Lavi. Answer anything she asks you, unless it's about vaginas."

"Oh f-"

Octavia smirked as W brought out a folded, heavy-looking piece of fabric.

"I'll go to the wheel and tell Andy t' turn 'er around."

Octavia sniffed. "He'll do that?" The very idea of such a monstrous vessel about-facing in the water was more than enough to itch at her skepticism, even if it meant returning home.

W chuckled. "I'll make him." He unfolded the article and revealed to her its massive figure. Throwing it around her, he coughed into a claw, cleared his throat, and rose to all fours. "Just stay here."

She adjusted the griffon-made blanket around her body and searched for words. It was turning into a bit of a hardship as the comforter did its magic and caused her to blink a few times in rapid, undesirable succession.

Finally, she looked up and asked, "Do you think he'll do it?"

Even Lavi, who had taken the time to stuff her gear back into her medic pack, swiveled about to look at him in kind.

W closed his eyes to suck in a breath, then opened them to expel it.

Octavia knew that meaning more than all too well.

"I'll make him."

Octavia flexed her chin.

Lavi, in the corner of her eyes, did the same, dipping her frowning face for a brief second before peering back up.

"We'll get you home, Octavia," W told her.

He breathed in and out through his nostrils again, stood there for awhile, then nodded little nods.

"No matter what. I promise you."

Octavia blinked.

Open seas, which meant they were already at a fair distance from Baltimare. They could still be inside Horseshoe Bay, though, so they could possibly dock at the spits and send her off from there, but she couldn't feel a bit of reassurance about that without having to ask somebody. And the fact that she'd be stopping their voyage to do nothing but leave didn't bring up any good results about going through with such a thing.

They could be within Equestria's reach.

Or they could be already well on their way to Griffonia's waters.

Octavia lifted her gaze.

"Okay."

With that, W turned about and walked back toward the stern, not even turning at the hip to the akimbo arms and waggling eyebrows directed his way.

Octavia sat on her haunches, letting go of the right side of her new blanket to assess an importance of hers.

She looked down and reached a hoof up.

She silently adjusted her bowtie, blew a small fleck of wood off of it, and covered herself once more, her purple eyes glazing over as the sounds of the roaring ocean, the exuberant seagulls, the growing distance, and the newly busying crew onboard rose up once more in clarity.

Burden
View Online

Stroll

Burden

W's word meant more than everything to her by this point. Even if it turned out to be more than just a singular word, which would still be considered "his word" — no s — for some reason, Octavia found a deep, earnest trust with the old griffon she'd usually only unearth in a close friend of hers or a familial figure of some kind. Her parents, for example. Then again, you were kind of supposed to trust them, since they wasted many months dealing with you screwing up one's diet and then eighteen years dealing with you in general as you struggled to break free like some kind of nuclear-tested lab rat. She could handle the holiday photos, and the dumb dresses that she secretly may or may not have held a small amount of an affinity for, and the snipping and snapping of fights here and there, but staying with her doting mother and her overly-friendly father past the age of eighteen was something neither they nor she remotely wished to see happen.

She still trusted them, however. To death, even. Hers or theirs.

She trusted her mother when she was told not to sit and stare at that one pony standing idly at the corner of the Happy & Healthy store dressed in the brown jacket, navy blue beanie, and the sign hanging around his neck that read something she'd much rather not remember.

She trusted her father when he had told her what kind of a life she'd end up leading if she didn't have her double bass and bow to rely on, involving flipping burgers and traveling by way of rusted boxcar. It wasn't necessarily a scare tactic or anything of the sort, seeing as how both he and she knew all too well that she didn't despise playing the bass in any way, shape, or form, but it was... a gentle reminder...?

She trusted her father when he informed her that that... pony, if she could even call him that, from middle school was acquainted with sixteen types of bad eggs, and that the only thing he'd give her was somepony's right ear, or the coordinates to his barrels of money buried in the desert, or... or his left nut. Gods, please. He'd have done literally anything to keep his most prized, most overused, most assuredly shriveled life sake alive. Not to say that the left one was more savored somehow. Or maybe it was. Did stallions name their nuts, and did they do it individually or just as a whole unit?

...

She screwed up her face, pouted out her lower lip, and tugged at her warm blanket to cover up her right shoulder.

Where... yes.

She trusted W very much.

And she trusted her parents.

But, even then, there were arguments that were waged, like little wars that never left the premises of the house unless all the windows were cracked open and the next-door neighbors were... cooking or something on their back porch. Arguing with parents, or really anyone close to her was a dangerous kind of game. Legitimately hurtful words could come out, sneers could be interpreted wrong, and each and every single breath you took meant ammunition for your opponent of the hour — it was usually an hour — that they definitely wouldn't fire into the dirt.

Arguments were hellish things, but Octavia was one hell of a wrangler in response.

Octavia was, at the end of the long day, a very convincing pony, and she won most if not every single argument she ever took part in. The others didn't count, because she didn't want to just up and admit that they had gone toward the opposite side.

Against her mother about her staying up two hours after her grade school bedtime. The book she was reading was certainly not for the next day's test — which wasn't even transpiring in the first place — but her mother was satisfied with the answer, and so Octavia had been able to giggle mischievously, clear her filly throat, and turn the next page of her fantasy novel in quiet peace.

Against her father after she'd been caught baking cookies late one night. And then a few more nights. And then pretty much every night except for Thursday for some reason. Baking was a very important skill to learn, and since the only real time she had to herself was when she was supposed to be sleeping, there was a reason for letting them accidentally burn because she'd been so engrossed in the conversation that she'd forgotten their existence. Thanks Dad.

Against her little brother whenever she hogged all the ice cream. Only big ponies could stomach large intakes of sugar at once, and if somepony his age ate even two bowls of cookie dough ice cream, he'd burst like a watermelon and not taste nearly as good. Even as he'd teared up and fled back upstairs, Octavia had won. Little bastard.

Against her older sister when she'd get home from work to find Octavia rooting through her closet for old dresses that, lest she forget, didn't even fit anymore! They... they didn't fit anymore. That was really all Octavia needed to say. Her older sister wasn't exactly a prune when it came to clothes. Less occupied space in her closet meant more things to buy, because she deeefinitely needed more cloches and cardigans in her wardrobe. Godsdammit cardigans were so cute.

Against... uh, oh! Against Lyra when she'd absolutely eviscerated her train of thought and accidentally said that cats were, at the bare minimum, decent at best. Cats were dumb. Lyra wholeheartedly agreed, but she liked Corgis, so she was wrong anyway.

Hmm.

Against Beauty Brass — actually fairly recently — when she, a brass player, "politely" in the lightest sort of meaning informed Octavia, a strings player, about the professional, correct way to properly rosin up her bow for "maximum efficiency". The response, "Eat a chode," was on the tip of her tongue, but Beauty Brass wasn't someone she really hated, so a kind, "Turn around, Brasshole," was enough to cause a giggle and an about-face.

Arguments were quite useless, but Octavia wasn't all too bad at them. She could be a champion if there existed some kind of league for them. She could start up the team. Lead it and all that. Maybe even make the team name. The Argue Crew, or maybe The Dancepack. The Supermarines. Or maybe just Supermarine. Something Prench, perhaps, to rival her favorite band.

She wondered what Time Bomb was doing these days...

Her purple eyes suddenly widened; her neck craned backward in an attempt to start up her legs as well. She followed the source of her sudden fright to find W and Andy walking down the staircase situated in the front of the captain's quarters. He must've been steering when W came up to him... who the hell was driving?

"What in God's name are you–"

"We can't turn back!" Andy quipped, stopping on the staircase to swing about and raise up a foreleg in an L shape. Octavia's ears splayed backward. "Sorry, boyo, but this ship doesn't stop for nothin'!"

The sides of W's beak looked to be fixated with sharp, heavily weighted fish hooks. Did griffons zoom through the clouds and hunt for fish like their more... natural brethren? Was it politically correct to call griffons unnatural compared to hawks, falcons, and eagles? W would've snapped all three in half with his claws as he clenched them tightly, gritting his teeth as he stormed after Andy, who was now walking regally across the deck toward Octavia with his eyes shut and a big grin on his face.

"We haven't been out for more than a day, Andy," W asserted, bringing up a claw and pointing back at the rear of the ship. "We're still in Horseshoe Bay."

Andy spun, halting once more. "What? You wanna become the next Captain Cook, do ya? Map out the next Turnagain Elbow?"

"Cook was scared of his crew and too stuck up his own ass to admit his failings. You're not an idiot."

"Come t' think of it..." Andy began, rubbing at his chin and glaring sideways up at the sun, "...may have forgotten a compass or two that we might be needin'."

W's lower beak fell slack as his chest rose and fell. He took the quiet, Andy-humming-filled-second to slowly look at Octavia, shake his head at her cocked eyebrow, and then glance back just in time to avoid anything... else, she guessed.

"We've got us a map," Andy... also guessed, she guessed. He shrugged. Definitely guessed. "This isn't me first voyage, anyhow."

W blinked.

"You stole this ship, didn't you."

Andy grinned hugely. He brought up an open claw and shook it. "Course not! Ol' Screwby just up an' bailed one day! Went off to go play cards with some friends of his and never came back! Just the luck of mine that I knew enough to take us home and back!" He placed his clenched claws against his two hips, somehow remaining perfectly balanced despite still being in the on-all-fours position with his stomach over the ground, and adjusted his tricorn.

W turned his head around and regarded the floorboards. A pirate, screwing around with his mates near the edge of the ship, bumped into W's shoulder and creaked the floorboards beneath them. Without even looking, W pointed his elbow and shoved the unwelcome guest away, who returned to his barrel-related festivities completely nonchalantly. Even as the ship steadily rocked like a snoozing infant in mother Ocean's arms, W stood impeccably stable, hummed loudly, and spoke seemingly more for himself than Andy.

"We haven't come up on the spits, yet."

"That we 'aven't, lad."

W looked up.

"Which side is Fort Luna on?"

Andy moved his beak around, frowned, about-faced like a Royal Guard complete with raised foreleg and hindleg, tilted his head left and right, droned a note — maybe a... dammit, he stopped — and replied, "Should be on our left goin' out."

"It's got a pier, right?"

"It's got a mole."

W rubbed his beak. "But we can dock there, can't we?"

Andy nodded firmly. "They'll take us if we need it."

W returned the gesture, grabbing one of his straps along his chest and exhaling, "Ohh, we'll need it." He took a step toward Octavia, stopped, turned, pointed a talon upward, and made a horizontal circle with it. "Tell your men we'll be bumping uglies with Guards at Fort Luna."

Andy made a sound with his cheeks, shrugged, and turned at the heel. "All right, then."

Octavia's smile didn't properly compute for a good three and a quarter seconds, and only then did she become completely, innocently unaware of just how stupid she looked as she finally cracked a wide one. W noticed her approval as he approached, letting one show himself.

"You didn't!"

W chuckled, tilting his head. "Told ya."

She shook her head and bunched up a cheek as W stopped next to her, swept the apparently filthy area underneath him with his tail, and simply plopped down onto the floor with a low thump. As if to assess what had just happened, he stared straight ahead at the — she guessed — not open seas and burst air through his nostrils.

A distant creaking began crackling as he finally said, "Guess we've got it, then."

A likewise far away, "Oh shit, you idiots! Up, not down!" took the place of the now absent creak.

"I suppose so."

W hummed.

Octavia sniffled.

W scratched at the back of his head and then gestured to her legs. "How're your hooves?"

Octavia lifted one of them, causing her blanket to unravel and collapse onto the ground. The bandages were doing what they did best in her life: not showing her if they were even working or not because gauze was such a thick being. Her hoof made a little clop on the floorboards as it reached for the blanket again. "They're fine."

"That's good, then," W replied.

It was a good few seconds before W suddenly flexed his chin, sighed, caught Octavia's gaze, and, without looking at her, obviously irritatedly asked, "Didn't I tell Lavi to stay with you while I talked to Andy?"

Oh, that.

"She had to urinate, apparently."

W snorted. "Probably getting food. Probably making you a salad."

Octavia screwed up her face. "What? Are you implying that there's anything even universally healthy onboard this ship?"

W shrugged. "Beats me. New captain, new meals."

Wait.

Octavia sat up a tad, though not enough so as to make sure her blanket didn't fall. She probably would've cried if that happened to be the case.

"Speaking of healthy... where's Sesame?"

At that, W had no smirk, or chuckle, or jest. Instead, he pursed the ends of his beak... if that was even possible.

"I dunno."

Octavia sometimes had ample reason to believe that she was on some kind of dreadful TV show, and she had to shy away from the suddenly bashed open pair of doors to her left to avoid both the sound and the rust orange blur flying out of it as if on comedic, stage-directed, perfectly-timed cue. Sesame, curled up into some kind of living ball, rolled up to Octavia like a runaway water wheel for pirate battles, completely straightened his body out just shy of her tail, slid on his stomach, and made a C shape with his hindlegs before finally, peacefully, settling.

Octavia opened her mouth to interrupt Sesame before he did the same, but flicked her head around at the sound of stomping emerging from the open doorway.

A large, rectangular-headed griffon squalled his way over to Sesame, a light brown cavalry hat with one side pinned up with a feather sitting snugly atop his scalp. His earth-colored robes wavered as he suddenly shouted.

"You Goddem git! Sleepin' in myyy bunk! Wot in th' bloody 'ell wuh you even thinking, you useless prat?!"

Octavia felt the fish hooks from earlier catch her mouth. She looked over to find Sesame not even close to mirroring her expression. He'd be more than horrible at charades. Probably better than her sister though. Frowns didn't always equal sorrow, love.

"I was tired, dude."

"Tiyuhd?" The hopelessly familiar accent stopped as its owner scoffed, lowered his clenching claws, and shook his head. "He– you wuh tiyuhd wuh you?" Sesame nodded next to Octavia. "Tiyuhd. Wit' allll th' bunks you could make out, you bloody picked mine."

"Yeah, sorry."

"Gormless knob." The foreign curse made no real impact on Sesame. Octavia, in the meanwhile, was reveling at just how rude that that was. The griffon continued. "'ave you know I'd love nothin' moh than t' toss ya out."

"Yeah, sorry."

Octavia snapped to her right, bringing up a hoof to shake the Unicorn awake from whatever stupid slumber he was still enduring. "Sesame, you can't–"

"Ugh," went his — she guessed their — crumpet-loving opposition. Dipping his chin, he adjusted the brim of his hat, finished with a very flat, "On ya bike," and stalked back into the lower regions of the ship.

Sesame slowly rose to his haunches to match Octavia.

She addressed him simply, but very, very curiously. "Do I really sound like that?"

W, in the corner of her eyes, looked away suddenly.

Sesame sucked in both his lips.

"Here and there. I'd love some subtitles one day."

Octavia glared. "Piss off–"

Sesame leaned his head back to try and face the clouds. "Now see, I heard peace off in there, so... y'know, same."

Octavia rolled her eyes left-ways and faced that direction thereafter. If she'd been in the cargo bay earlier, and it had only taken one ladder to send her to the upper deck, then was the center of it the end of an incline? The ship was massive, and there were definitely more places in store apart from simple holding areas for barrels and boxes. Bunks apparently lay in the front down below, so maybe there was–

"So."

Octavia perked her ears up after her prior lowering them to signify the lack of want for a continuation.

"Sea life too tempting in the end, then?"

She grumbled something under her breath, but decided that enough needless annoyance was enough. Finding her sights drawn to the ground in front of her and the devastating splinters the boards promised, she opened her mouth to speak but instead let out a sigh. Afterward, "...I'm afraid it's miles more complicated than that."

Sesame shifted in his natural seat to glance at W.

"Have anything t' do with he and Andy? Heard it from downstairs."

Octavia waggled her eyebrows and snatched up her blanket.

"It has a lot to do with that."

Sesame "Ah'd" and reclined, pushing his front hooves onto the deck behind his back. He looked to his left, at the pirate crew busying about, and then to his right, at the pirate crew busying about, and finally let out a small hum of ostensible glee.

"Well, guess we can sit down and get some sun."

"You're already burnt," Octavia noted.

Sesame dropped to his spine and crossed his forelegs behind his head. With his eyes shut, he rubbed the salt with a shimmering, toothy grin.

"You look like a donkey, bitch."

It was at that moment that Octavia realized how very effective her new, wondrous blanket would work as a makeshift garrote.

Onus
View Online

Stroll

Onus

Waiting was a most impeccably horrid kind of thing, now, wasn't it?

There was nothing more mind-bogglingly stupid than letting out a long, dramatic sigh, plopping your rear on the ground, narrowing your eyes, and having to be patient for something that could very easily never come. It wasn't like the green, green world had anything to actually beam at and gift her, if the past few days of her ever-dwindling life were any wholly real, somewhat believable, or otherwise unfalsified indication of the claim. A nice watch, or a nice book, or a nice pony to talk to helped time absolutely flow by, but, then again, Octavia was never one to wear odd accessories, one to bring a book everywhere she so much as stepped hoof, or one to talk to random people who might call her dumb and lonely and ugly and petite and short and lazy and an alcoholic and fat and gross and boorish and bloody mental and nuts and bonkers and reclusive and dumb.

Waiting was solely meant for the birds high above her head as far as she was concerned.

Not to say that she wasn't patient, per say. Years of living among the upper crust of Canterlot helped to both establish and hone those two skills to the finest pencil point that she might've been able to consider herself a master of it. Prissy, pissy ponies perusing personal payrolls, stopping the long line at the bank and clogging it up like her Great Grandmother's arteries because their addition of nine-thousand and one wasn't fully up to their laughable level of careful scrutiny; two arseholes slowing down hoof traffic on the sidewalk to the concert hall because one of them just recently bought a nice pair of shoes and Gods forbid they get them even slightly soiled and bah who cares who's behind us they probably don't even know who I am except she knew who they were and they were a problem she'd much rather suplex and toss in the dumpster; one unholy sod of a Unicorn who had to stop all profitable business at the McDuckle's because she had to be more than absolutely sure that the gallon of fries she was ordering were gluten-free (which they weren't, by the way) and then ended up just leaving the establishment without paying cash or attention.

The problem stretched a bit further back, now that she thought about it.

Hearth's Warming Day was the unceremonious climax to a whole year of edging that only ended up making her want anything but. Her brother may have been ecstatic to open up his presents to find action figures and play swords, and her sister may have shattered a few windows after unveiling clothes and hats and more clothes and, occasionally, more hats, but Octavia herself never held the impulsiveness to be one of those spoiled rotten fillies — not to say her siblings were — who only cared about the shoddily-wrapped presents and not the lovely weather, or the crackling fire, or the beyond happy parents watching quietly, or the beautiful carols, or what have her. She mainly enjoyed switching between munching on festive cookies, plucking strings to distant noises, sleeping on the couch in an embarrassing position, and talking to her mother and father about her excitement for the season and seasons to come.

She'd actually known a few ponies who were like that when she was younger, and even when she was a tad older as well.

There was one in particular that she was blanking on at the moment. She was a Pegasus who looked like a sentient hybrid between one such race of pony and a banana. Something with a C. C, C, C... blast, she couldn't figure it out. No matter. She would call her "Banana." Banana had two incredibly wonderful parents, one of whom — her father — worked two grueling jobs and the other — well, that was kind of obvious — was a reserve for the military. Both of them were as nice as could be, with nerdy glasses and curly hair that looked like they belonged more among the faces of kindly old nursing home residents, but one encounter with Banana herself was loads more than enough to stay away from anything Banana-related for as long as you walked the earth.

Banana was a bitch.

Octavia and her friends had gone to one of Banana's birthday parties back in grade school, bringing presents and simultaneously adorable and stupid party hats down the road to a fairly normal-looking abode where it turned out that, surprisingly, a lot of ponies had shown up. Banana's parents were so, so heartwarmingly proud of their daughter for making so many amazing friends in their new location, welcoming each filly and colt that walked through the door and making sure to catch their names in case they ever wanted to see them again, and yet... Banana was just particularly... stropping about, glaring at her family whenever they smiled at her and murmuring the worst kinds of things under her breath whenever their backs were turned.

When it came time for the birthday cake, Banana took one second of a gander at it, tilted her head, tilted back, and let loose the most animalistic snarl Octavia had ever heard. And she had three dogs at home. Banana had risen up out of her seat, brought up a hoof, and simply karate chopped the cake like it was a single plank marking her achieving a white belt. As everypony, prior gathered around the dinner table with grins as wide as the sky, gasped and either shied away or looked upward, Banana stomped over to her parents, ground her teeth together dangerously, and yelled loudly enough to wake up Luna still exiled on the moon.

"I asked for strawberry, you Godsless retards!"

Even remembering it today caused her to choke on her spit.

She didn't want to think about it, but for Gods' sake, that was horrendous.

Birthday parties in general were a slight on the amusing side, in her opinion. Though she may have thoroughly liked the idea of celebrating another year of someone's life without being dead or making themselves be dead, the concept of receiving a commendation for just kind of being there was only quietly ridiculous. Birthday parties were meant to be held in private, with much better company like the dozen of lovely pieces of dough in her oven and the half-full bottle of refreshing Sauvignon in the cooler near the fridge that were way nicer than ponies who could call her dumb and ugly and petite and all that at a moment's notice. Or maybe not at a moment's notice. She certainly wouldn't let anypony, mind anything know if she were going to go and drop a bomb like, "You're mental, you anorexic mop," at a party meant for kids. She'd known a guy. In the papers. He was still in jail.

Oh, test results too. That was something you really shouldn't have had to wait for. Sure, mare hours were mare hours and all that, and it wasn't like Octavia's teachers could just go and plug her students' test results into a machine and instantly get the answers to them in the form of countless red X's, but the very real notion of going home after slogging through a test you were — prior to actually pulling out your chair and sitting down — fairly certain you would ace and whittling away at your hooves about attending class the next day wasn't something she was sure anypony found comfort or enjoyment in. Be it medical or academic, test results were scary things to consider. Either one, or neither, or both, what she received thereafter would mean inconceivable success, or crippling failure, or complete kidney collapse. She was very scared about that last one.

Trains, too. She'd touched up on that already, she was sure. Having to wait to get weekly claustrophobia done and over with was a rotten, bogey-covered cherry on top of the accidentally strawberry cake.

Important dates, as well. Annual ones, she could glance at the calendar here and there and very simply deal with. It was the once-in-a-troubled-lifetime ones that really bit her on the arse.

"...so we're planning to stop here..."

Octavia's ears flicked at the rays of sunlight glistening onto the window next to her. With her head resting against the pane, her left foreleg making an L shape to assure comfort she didn't care for, and her tail curled around her body on the chair she was lying in, she blinked twice in rapid succession and struggled to suppress a mouth-widening yawn.

"Left side or ri–"

"On the left." Tap tap. "Fort Luna. We've passed by it before on our way in."

"Don't they have like a rat there or something so we can't dock?"

"A mole, Lavi."

"Duh."

Shoomp.

"Hey–"

"Fish lover–"

...

"Sorry."

Octavia finally let up, sliding her foreleg over and resting her cheek on it. Her neck felt terrible right now but she really didn't want to move at all this chair was so nice.

"It's got a mole, but there's a pier there that we can dock at. We'll drop anchor and send Octavia off from there."

"What's she even doing over there?"

"Oi! Mate! What in the 'ell ah you DOO in?"

"God, your English accent is terrible, Val."

"Octavia."

She felt an ear flip about.

Snap snap!

"Octavia."

She darted up, but didn't leave her chair, and swiveled around to face the center of the room.

"Yes?"

W opened his fist and pressed it against the map on the table. "Hope you don't mind waiting."

Heh.

He nodded his head toward his right side, an obvious sign that he wished for her to join him. Hopping off the wooden chair and trotting over, Octavia stood on her tippy-hooves and stole a glance at the disheveled sheet of paper they were all crowding about. She never really imagined a Captain's Quarters to be so spacious but... bloody hell it was nice in here. There was the big round table they were all outlining, with a deep red cloth draped over it and dozens of rolled up papers strewn about like she was a retired papercolt who couldn't get over the job, there were the carpets and rugs flung haphazardly across the floor in a callback to Octavia's own home-found piece entitled I Bought Too Many Carpets, Vinyl, there were the two rear-fixated D-shaped windows situated to her right on the back of the ship, showing her a lovely view of the ocean, the ocean, and more of the ocean with gold trimmings ooh that was lovely, and there was the quaint bed where Andy probably lay awake thinking about bits and drowning in bits and not drowning without bits.

"It's two days until we reach the spits at the edge of the bay," W's loud, gruff voice arose, prompting a jump and a clearing of her quivering throat. "We'll dock at Fort Luna and see about sending you home from there."

She had to ask.

"Is there a railroad?"

W frowned, but looked down at her and shrugged his shoulders. "If not, I'll call for a carriage."

"I'll–"

"I'll go see about a train," Lavi piped up, probably not even hearing Valkyrie try and propose the same. About-facing and jogging out the door in a blind hurry, she stopped, turned around, reached a claw out, grabbed at the knob, closed the door slightly, opened it, closed it again, opened it, hummed, whispered something crass under her breath, and quickly fled the scene in search of Andy.

Octavia's eyes wandered over to T as he rotated at the waist away from the threshold. He smiled at her and snorted.

"We have to stop meeting like this," he regarded.

What? When she was in trouble and needed help, or... actually... damn it.

"Back to your book, T," she spat, then, remembering what his book actually was, thought back to her few hours reading it, droned, then added, "'F– Fall like a thunderbolt," with a big, stupid grin on her face.

It was enough for T, who nodded approvingly, pulled The Art Of War out of his pocket, and excused himself ("Permission to–" "Go for it.") to go and read in the corner like some kid who'd just discovered his father's shag film collection.

"You ever been to Fort Luna before, Octavia?" W asked, screwing up his face for some reason.

"Can't say that I have," she admitted, shaking her head, "but I do know that it's a fairly sizable establishment."

"Really?" Valkyrie chimed in, pausing her screwing with her feathers to look over. "How big?"

Octavia pursed her lips and worked them around a bit. "About the size of... maybe three-quarters of Tall Tale. Maybe half. My brother was stationed there years ago and he always wrote about how lost he'd get on his first few months." When would poor little Forte learn to use cardinal directions like normal ponies did?

"It's also got a massive cannon near the shore," T called from his corner of the room like some kind of house spider reminding you it was still waiting to murder you when you slept.

"And I never saw it?" Valkyrie asked, mouth agape.

"You must be terribly blind," W diagnosed with a shake of his skull and a crossing of his arms.

"You're the old one, W. Surprised you can still shoot straight with those bags!" Valkyrie shot back, two digits making a Y underneath her own eyes.

"Well, that's why Gordon made you the Aych Ay Em and me the rifle."

Aych Ay... HAM? Made her the HAM?

This elicited something from T that caused him to about drop his book and roar with laughter. Valkyrie made a snapshot of a glare directed his way, but he barely noticed with his eyes as shut as they were. Cheeks red, Valkyrie adjusted her back holster's strap and inquired, "W– What about T then?"

W only smirked. T looked up from his book, appearing legitimately curious about what he'd say.

"He's just scarier, I guess."

"F– Please, I'm way scarier than T is."

Valkyrie wheeled about, possibly to address the griffon she assumed to still be reading in the corner, but eeped loudly and almost jumped out of her armored skin. T sized her up a bare centimeter away from her, but melted his own resolve by chuckling heartily.

"By the Upstairs, you're such a massive dickhead..."

Slam!

A thought about... the subject went back down into the swampy depths of her mind as Andy burst through the unopened door, his tricorne shifting from the hard contact. Octavia craned her neck to see Lavi in tow, mindlessly screwing with her shoulder plates even as she saw Valkyrie gifting her a very kind and very wonderful stink eye.

She finally gave one in kind when Andy stopped next to the map and placed his palms on it, "Sorry about that, lads." He pointed a fat talon behind him. "Was communicatin' with the other ship." Down it went. Wait, what? "There ain't a railroad as far as I remember, but–"

"Another ship?" Octavia, might she note, rudely interrupted.

Andy's beak-smile-thing went straight (how the hell did they morph it like that?) as he stood straight, peered over at the door, then back at Octavia, and then–

"I guess you didn't have time t' see it, after all. With me."

Octavia clip-clopped around the table to follow after Andy and, judging by the noises sounding out shortly after hers, begin a pony-led griffon train outside into the fresh air. Fresh bearing an incredibly fragile, fickle and figurative meaning, considering the orange Unicorn she about bumped into a mere hoofstep out the door. She stopped for a second as he raised his eyebrows up in apparent surprise.

"Sesame, don't you think it's a slight dim to be smoking onboard an all-wooden vessel with flammable sails?"

Sesame pouted out his lower lip. His cigarette continued burning steadily away.

"No."

"Wonderful," Octavia groaned, rolling her eyes and moving her body like she was spazzing out, "come on. We're going topside."

"Aren't we already–"

"Shut up and follow us, Sesame."

Follow he... hopefully ended up actually doing.

"Didn't we tell you t', like, go faaar away from the CQ before lighting up?" Lavi asked Sesame from behind Octavia as she turned the corner and accompanied Andy up the stairs.

"Gobble on my penis."

"Ew, pony penis."

"What do griffon penises look like– "

Nope! That wasn't something Octavia was going to tune into. No thank you. TV off. Mute on. Curtains shut. Door locked. Noooo thank you.

A slight — but still fairly noticeable — change in elevation caused her to snap back to her own concentration as she stepped hoof onto the quarterdeck. A few groups of griffons were chatting amongst one another, leaning on the rails of the ship and otherwise enjoying their little pirate lives and their little pirate things. She wondered what they talked about.

"Our sister!" Andy shouted, stopping near the leftmost side — that would be... starboard if she were facing toward the front of the ship — and fanning an open claw in a circle before him. "The Jackdaw!"

Octavia looked over the edge to, sure enough, find another ship trailing behind the Scuttlebug at its right flank, teetering to and fro as if the waves it were traveling through were rougher than what the Scuttlebug was pulling. Narrowing her eyes, Octavia had to note that it could've passed as the younger sibling of the Scuttlebug if they were living and needed to go... do something that required them to be family. Like a resort or something. With three sails instead of four and a very obviously stouter figure, the Jackdaw creaked and stayed its position in the water.

Andy noticed her staring.

"Lovely little bird, ain't she?"

"I... I wasn't staring."

Andy waggled his eyebrows.

Octavia did the same. "I'm just surprised to see someone else out here, is all."

"Well, lass, we aren't the only kind of ship heading to and from."

Were they all pirates, though?

"Are they all pirates, or..."

"Imports, mostly," W said from behind her and... now next to her. By Gods he was tall. "Blankets, ore, forces, the usual."

"Oh."

Octavia pursed her lips and watched the Jackdaw move next to them, expecting someone else to take up the hard mantle of talking to each other semi-coherently. There was a pause that became a pregnant pause, then a moment of silence, until finally bottoming out to become the worst kind of awkward quiet as one watched a ship, one cleared his pirate throat, one stood completely still, and one scratched her... oh Gods Valkyrie have some class.

Andy broke the silence by bringing up a foreleg, pulling back his sleeve, and looking cock-eyed at the watch on his wrist. "It's about four o' clock." He looked past Octavia to address the rest of the crew. "Anyone up for an early dinner?"

Octavia raised an eyebrow.

She was deathly curious about what a normal cuisine would look like on a pirate vessel. Then again, reading her adventure books as a kid, didn't pirates eat like kings because of all the grabs they bugged off of others? Things like whole pigs, chocolate, sea turtles, fresh veggies, eggs, bread, and even cake sometimes from the sugar they acquired? She remembered filly images of three-legged, long-bearded, one-eyed pony pirates sheathing their sabers as they stumbled about, drinking rum and holding a sauced-up leg of meat in his magic. They probably had lots of food! Not anything like a food court, mind her, but there had to be plates and plates of different things for them all to eat! She didn't expect a nice Caesar, but... oh Gods, what if they had salads? Maybe this whole "waiting on a ship" thing wouldn't be so bad!

"What're we having?" She asked hopefully.

Andy winked, which was weird, because he was wearing an eye patch.

"You'll see."

Culpability
View Online

Stroll

Culpability

Dissappointment was a wretched little thing, whenever it so came to her in her inactive hours. It reared its ugly head about a nearby corner, turning to face her with a disgusting grin and a horrible pair of narrowed eyes in a quiet, judging reminder that, yes, it was still around, and, yes, she was still wholly defined as such a thing. It would appear in the mornings; it would appear at around noon; it would appear around midnight, when her tired mind and aching body could very simply pretend that what she was imagining wasn't something she was imagining. The dark conjured up hundreds of abominable atrocities, and the very idea that she might have sour thoughts amused her more than scared her. The dark helped her lie through her teeth, as well. An awful thing. An awful, wretched little thing.

When she wasn't perturbed enough to stand there and face it, she found a question at her gut that bubbled and troubled inside before dying away without even reaching her throat.

What exactly was disappointment to Octavia? What, in its entire, full, complete, legitimate, honest meaning was the concept of it to her? Its definition?

She was fairly certain that she knew what it meant to her parents, at the very least, and it was equally fairly easy.

The bare second — the tiniest stretch of time — it took for the name, "Octavia", to be uttered from someone's muzzle, be it a family friend, or other relatives, or random passersby, or curious ponies that had decided to just go and ask about. It was something their minds concluded upon every unnecessary occasion their traitorous thoughts lingered on the outcast middle daughter that had fled their family nest in search of proper clarity all those years ago, chasing after promises and proposed destiny in a city higher than the clouds and still anchored to the dirt. Each sigh, and dipping of chins, and grumbled affirmation begrudgingly claiming, "Yes, that's our little Octavia."

She certainly wouldn't applaud herself. She might drunkenly do so within the comfort of her locked doorway, every now and then.

But if she were there, sitting amongst the silhouetted crowd in comfortable seats, holding a pamphlet in your hooves about all the kinds of wonderful melodies you'd be hearing for the next hour or so, and excited beyond all belief, the last thing she'd do is lean back, bring her hooves together, and clap for the gray Earth Pony standing idly on the right side of the Symphony, her bow straight and her posture straighter as her mind struggled to claim the same.

Every morning, at around the same time, Octavia would shoot awake and become aware of her existence once more. She would fling off her bed sheets, yawn into the unoccupied space of her room, and calmly walk into her bathroom to freshen herself up for the day ahead. Wash her toothbrush and scrub her teeth, then brush her mane into its usual shape, then put on her makeup and turn to leave. The bathroom was always filthy to her, and so she wouldn't be able to help but scan its interior as she went to flick the lights off. There, she'd face left.

She felt it every morning. Every time her gaze drew up, down, and up again to settle back onto purple in the glass above the tap.

She was nothing special. Nothing to admire, or love, or gaze upon and even think positively about.

She was just somepony playing an instrument too big for her with people that didn't care for her specifically, but the things she produced. The black notes on white paper. Her coach. Her guide. Its results were all they wanted. All they ever wanted.

Music was a tad useless without fuel for the fire, but people only really cared about the fuel when they didn't have it on them.

Didn't they?

"They did. Definitely."

"You're shitting me."

"No, 'm serious."

The chair next to her creaked in her ears, and the Captain's Quarters, lit by flickering candle light, faded back into acknowledgment. Octavia blinked. W must have been adjusting his seat, seizing the suddenly quiet opportunity as Valkyrie took a second to suck in an abnormally long breath of air and blow it back out.

"Wowwww," was all she had to drone, eyes glazing over at the ceiling before her.

"Now wait a second," came Andy, leaning forward and taking a simultaneous munch on his buttered bread, "that don't make a lick o' sense." He swallowed politely, then gobbled up another bite impolitely. "How in the hell didja even get by?"

"Someone threw a rock a bit past their heads." Andy let out a disbelieving chuckle. "They all scrambled after it and we just..." W brought up a claw and wiggled two of his talons, "...snuck on by them."

"Things were different back then, weren't they?" Lavi asked, her spoon going back into the dinner for the night and ricocheting off its metallic ribbing.

"What do you mean? Border guards are tough now as they were–"

"No I mean, like, you used to be fun back then," Lavi... noted(?), looking up with the most casual look on her face Octavia had ever seen. Valkyrie snickered into her glass of water. W clicked his beak, apparently ignoring the insult as well. "I'm just wondering what happened, is all."

"What happened is that I had to look after three chicks fresh out of the nest who I'd rather have let jumped out the tree."

Valkyrie was on it in an instant with something that didn't actually sound like an insult. "You know, I actually don't remember much from the nest."

"That's because you were a test tube baby," went Lavi.

"My dad actually measured you out in a beaker," came T.

Valkyrie screwed up her face, turning on a dime and pointing at the black griffon. "You don't even have a dad, T. How do you even know what the word means?"

"I know how to read."

"Oh, so the dictionary."

T frowned.

Valkyrie promptly lost her shit, bringing a clenched claw down and banging the tabletop.

Lavi, the deliverer of the apparent third-degree burn, sucked on her teeth and shrugged nonchalantly. "Sorry, T."

"It's okay," T replied, picking up his glass and adding to the bottom of it, "I'll just put termites on your pillow before you go to sleep."

Valkyrie's beak flew wide open. "Bro, that's not cool!"

"Bro! It's just a prank!" Lavi shouted.

"Shred the gnar, bro!" Valkyrie joined.

The two griffons bit their bottom beaks and, as one single unit, leaned over to T's side of the table with anticipating, waggling brows and nasally, barely-held-back giggling fits.

T rolled his eyes and stared straight ahead.

Octavia's eyes did the opposite, or about as opposite as eyes could go considering they could go many different ways. If he was staring straight ahead, actually, the opposite would have been for her to roll hers back into their sockets to show blank, scarringly horrifying white to anypony who bothered to look her way. And that was pretty much impossible, unless she had some kind of a death wish.

Which she might have had, actually, considering what she was currently peering down at.

"I don't think it'll come alive, Octavia."

Octavia snapped to attention. Lavi was talking to her for some reason.

"Pardon?"

Lavi's eyes danced about. Not white as snow, thankfully. She screwed her beak around her face before beaming, "Because you're, like, looking at it like it's gonna come back alive or something."

Octavia raised an eyebrow.

Lavi brought up her two claws and dragged them down her cheeks. The feeling of your own sharp talons against your own soft skin must've been so lovely. "I was implying that... augh my Goood..."

"You're so stupid, Lavi."

"Well you're–"

Octavia's nose dove back down to the delightful, five-star meal in front of her, fit for righteous kings and beautiful queens and dashing dukes and kind-hearted duchesses in one whole sitting. They, just like her, expected some things to turn out certain ways, mostly in their favor for obvious reasons. This plot of land belonged to the farmers, and so it was. She could make a piece of toast for breakfast, and so it happened. The country's wealth should be shared with its people, and so it rained. She could... probably bear going to the grocery store today, and so it staggeringly occurred.

But they, not like her, actually got the results they wanted whenever they wanted them. She was just a regular Earth Pony, not the leader of a sprawling country or even a single group of people.

Dissapointment. There it was again.

Her dinner. Ooh, they connected so... so regrettably.

Octavia was finding herself surprisingly more and more slightly okay with the gauze wrapping around her bloodied hooves—it was hard to even try eating in the first place, let alone hold a wooden spoon, so she had a legitimate excuse for not "overindulging" herself on tonight's cuisine. Plus, she didn't really think, nay, she didn't really want anybody here to offer her a session of childlike spoonfeeding. Not that anyone would actually do that, mind her.

"Bloody hell, I sure do love... cold... canned... ravioli..."

Valkyrie crossed her arms and frowned at her. For Gods' sake, griffon, get your mind off his cock and back onto the reality of this!

Andy shrugged. At least he was okay with it. He pointed a stubby talon behind him and replied, "Well, we've got a half a meatloaf leftover in the mess if you want some o' that, lass."

If Octavia had enough food in her to vomit, she most certainly would have done so. And then she could leave the table. That might've been a good plan, now that she thought of it.

"Not a chance."

"What?"

Her right ear flopped onto her skull; her left folded in on itself. She pursed her lips and regarded W next to her with a grumbly, rumbly, not-so-humbly frown.

"Not a fan of a nice meatloaf?"

Octavia whipped her head around and tossed the length of her mane into a hoof, kneading it as she tutted, "Please, as if such a thing could even achieve a status anywhere remotely near nice."

"My mom actually makes a kickass meatloaf," Lavi claimed with a grin.

"I bet she does–" Octavia began, only for her words to be eviscerated, minced, tossed in a blender, and minced. Wait shit–

"These cans o' ravioli are a prize, little pony!" Andy cheered, grabbing his and jostling it in his grasp. His blue robes shimmied as he did so, sounding the large belts draped over his shoulders like a dancer trying their hardest to impress her by "moving rhythmically". Returning to his seat, he took his spoon up once more and scooped up a serving for himself. "Found 'em buried underground on a remote island a little ways south of here. Barely made out with our lives."

"You might've just stumbled upon some hobo pony's stash," Sesame very reasonably... reasoned.

"Yeah that's kinda screwed up, dude," Lavi admitted, claws at her armored hips.

"Prob'ly his life's goals met," T joined in from the other side. Which was the not-previously-speaking side, to avoid confusion.

"And you just robbed him of it," Lavi finished, tutting and shaking her head slowly like some kind of school teacher.

There was a thought in Octavia's befuddled head earlier. She couldn't quite remember what it was, but it was deathly important. Something about a comparison... a comparison of some sort or another. What... wait... no, it wasn't that. She could compare his beard to anything heavenly. She wasn't sweating, was she? Oh Gods was anyone watching?

She tuned back in for a second and–

"–have you know my crew earned this ravioli!"

"Ever heard of garlic bread?"

Nope. Not an eye on her. Not even W, who was... apparently eating his cold canned ravioli politely and quietly. How nice, actually.

Now... what was it? She wouldn't be able to sleep for the night if she couldn't remember. Gods, it was one of those things that got stuck on the edge of your brain and kept hot-dogging you. It was truly the worst thing– oh!

That's what it was!

She suppressed the wild, crazy, stupid grin on her face that would've attracted attention. That was pleasantly rewarding.

She was comparing this lackluster meal to a positive ideal.

Yes.

This was a bit like a family dinner, if your family just so happened to consist of ruffians the likes of which might never be artfully replicated as long as the world kept spinning lazily in time. It was plain and simple, really, and the similarities were striking.

W was the hardworking father who toiled away in the steel mills to come back home at dusk, one who both joined in his children's dumb exploits and put a damper on them before they strayed too far from safe... or basically intelligent. T was the bookworm of the household, pushing his taped-up glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose and shying away every night after supper, with outdated clothes that better suited Charles Cockins than the modern times he sparsely occupied. Valkyrie was the hot-headed prat who constantly got into trouble and then got upset that people got upset at her actions, the kind of willy who'd proactively beat you up and then say it was you who'd caused it all. Oh and she totally killed that one guy that one time. Lavi was the loving younger sister with shimmering stars in her eyes and genitals on her mind, possibly confused, possibly misunderstood, possibly digging herself a deeper hole whenever she spoke. She might've even reached Chineigh at some point, there.

Octavia hummed.

Hmm.

And she turned to Sesame at W's right side.

Sesame was... he was like the uncle that came by every now and then and hogged your food and smoked on the porch in a subtle invitation to everypony to come out and talk to him, but he grumbled to himself when nobody came, took a dump in your bathtub, and left without even hiding the evidence. He just kind of... left it there. Thanks, Uncle Bigote. Sesame wasn't the fun uncle. Heavens no. Andy was. He'd swing in on a rope, dressed in pirate ensemble much like the one he was wearing now, and swoop the kids up to take them to the shopping mall, where she'd buy a cute dress and a spiffy brush and feel like a million bits until she got home and he had to leave again.

"–any of you."

Valkyrie gasped.

T choked on something in his throat.

Sesame sucked in his bottom lip and looked around.

W continued eating his ravioli.

Lavi held her gut and burst out laughing.

Andy narrowed his eyes and scanned the room. The only things that met his gaze were the magnificent sunset peering in from the windows and the darkening seas rolling beneath them. Oh, and Octavia's eyes, because she had no clue what was happening.

"What about you?"

Octavia touched a hoof to her chest.

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

Sesame snorted.

The room was, otherwise, horribly quiet. Even the hustling and bustling griffon crew outside seemed to have lowered their voices.

"I– I don't..."

"Can ya cook?"

Cook? He... what?

Valkyrie leaned forward in her seat, creaking it all the while.

"Wait wait, you don't mean her–"

"I do, lass," Andy defended, turning her way and then looking back at Octavia. "You don't like the ravioli! Why don't you be the cook?"

The entire table burst out in laughter, apparently hearing some kind of joke in there. What was so funny about that? If anything, it would've felt a tad backhoofed if his smile wasn't as wide as the Western sky.

Andy cracked a grin as well. "Cheers could use some help down there. He's been askin' for a sous-chef for weeks, he has."

"You really don't want her cooking, Andy," Lavi told him, hiding her beak behind a clenched fist.

Sesame giggled, "This whole ship would burst in flames, dude."

Were they referring to– oh the bastards! How in the bloody hell were her, mind them, kicking the ass of a minotaur and accidentally flipping an oven switch in the process even connected?! The nerve of them! Bunch of muppets, this lot...

...

Know what?

Octavia realized herself and cleared her throat.

"Actually, do you know what?"

"No–" started Valkyrie.

"I'd love to," Octavia finished.

At that, Andy's face fell flat. "That wasn't really serious. I was tryin' ta get Lavi or someone down there with Cheers–"

Octavia shook her head furiously. "I'll cook!" She minded the can next to her hooves and slid it away from her where it better belonged. "I feel like I could help this vessel go a long way in terms of vitality, anyway."

Andy's beak moved up and down.

"I'm going to be on my way in a sparse few days anyhow. Why not give it a go?" She asked. She was going to prove them wrong. All of them. A breakfast for five griffons and two ponies was simple enough, and she could use simple ingredients. Simple, simple, simple!

Andy chuckled. "Tell ya what, Octavia." He pointed at her. "You cook up a merry breakfast for the crew in the mornin', and we'll see about you makin' us lunch."

Octavia beamed. That sounded like an, "Okay," to her!

She nodded, cheek bunched up and barely containing her excitement.

Her smile wavered for a brief second that she didn't quite compute, then returned to full form.

"Guess that's settled then," Andy confirmed, returning to his food. "Prob'ly about time ta hit the hay, anyhow."

Her smile fell limp, then became a frown.

She mouthed the previous conversation to herself, then found herself stuck on one word.

Did he say, "crew?"

Responsibility
View Online

Stroll

Responsibility

Had she touched upon the subject of cooking at a moment prior?

Her brain increased its production of continuing to putter along hopelessly amiably, its deeper sections getting off their bent-back lawn chairs to go and scrounge about for the wandering memory. Well... there was meatloaf, and her oven, and... aha! Cooking!

Yes, she'd done it then. She'd lightly tapped the surface of the topic.

She'd have to think of something else to ponder for the time being, seeing as how...

Wait a minute...

It wasn't her cooking. It was Grandma Symphonica's cooking she'd remembered, and her quote-unquote "world famous" pancakes everypony swore were just slightly above ordinary. That isn't to insult her own Grandma, because, well, there weren't too many other things in the world as brutally dastardly and terribly terrible as that. The pancakes, though ordinary in random conversation, were extravagant little bits of eggs and flour she was admittedly missing now that she thought about them. A nice serving of maple syrup imported from Caneighda and purchased at the local grocery store, a nice square of salted butter, and a chocolate chip or two to increase the relative unhealthiness of the whole thing.

Yes, though. She hadn't talked about her cooking before. Her, as in, well, her. Octavia. Philharmonica, obviously. What did Octavia Philharmonica cook when she wasn't thinking stupid things in her dumb head and referring to herself in the third person? What did she scrounge up with all of her salary playing those ancient, beautiful strings? Where did she travel to get ingredients for her five-star meal? Manegolia for her authentic cow meat and greens? The deserts of Saddle Arabia for her freshly-barbecued kabsa? Across the pond for delicate tea leaves?

Her refrigerator, practiced and taught time and time again, for leftover pizza and noodle cups she probably shouldn't actually leave in there that might be a bad idea for everyone and everypony involved?

One of those was true.

And, as a matter of fact, Octavia had never really stepped hoof outside of Equestria, apart from the occasional concert still barely a hair's breadth from her home country's borders.

The time to cook herself a meal came easily, and without a sigh, because, in the end, it was an honestly novice enough task to try sustaining herself with things that she shouldn't try sustaining herself with. Simply throw her stone-cold, practically Hurrying-born pizza onto a dinner plate, or do the same with her noodles and probably begin tearing up at her potential, probable mental handicap, lightly—and by lightly she meant in whatever way she deemed fit in whatever mood she so happened to be in, which more than usually ended up with Vinyl giving her weird, quiet looks as she bumped past her for like sustenance—fling them into the microwave, press a few button combinations she'd ended up writing down out of memory loss, and barely handle living until the whole machine cried out to her that it was done! That it was done! That it was– and then she'd open the damn door, pull out her food, and silently eat it while looking outside her window, wishing she was amongst it.

Her inner musings in the past may have deemed her a slight bit of an indecent slob, but it was quite on the contrary. Besides the fact that she was in the public, scrutinizing eye at least once every month and couldn't afford a cover story about her slightly-increased-by-barely-a-single-waking-pound mainly because her bandmates would never let up, Octavia was careful not to eat too much of one or two—usually two, because the... pizza and the noodles—because of that one story she'd read about the mare in some other country who'd eaten nothing but ramen for half her life and now resembled little more than a four-legged pool noodle. It was always some other figure in some other country. Nothing exciting really happened in Equestria, besides the Mane Six's mishaps, nowadays. When was Equestria going to become host to another legend? Like that one lanky chap who got swole to stop his village from burning, or the oriental mare who gave up her beauty to bestow it upon the world? It wasn't like the country was devoid of talent.

Somepony desperately needed to step up.

She watched her weight a little here and a little there, as in every other month or so, especially since Vinyl very silently, very astutely, very rudely might she add, implied that she had a big ass late one night, but still ate cookie dough ice cream and greasy fast food because... she actually didn't know. Why did she do that? Maybe she was fat– no no no, she wasn't fat. If she was, she wouldn't be... uh... where she... how...

She wasn't fat.

Besides the noodle cups, actually—and the pizza, but that was more a blue moon thing Godsdamn what a good song—there was the bean rice. Noodle cups and bean rice. Simple meals that were equally simple to craft.

Then again, she was pretty much a miserable pile of rubbish anyway, so she'd pretty much ingest anything that met her palate and even slightly pleased her.

See there she was again. Pretty much, pretty much. Did she know any other words besides simply, and pretty much, and practically? Who the hell was she fooling?

Cooking for herself was easy. It was simple. Like lemonade. That's how that expression went, right? Cooking for an entire crew, on the other hoof, was a whole other chapter of a long—too long—story.

As it so happened to be, Octavia was a baker. Noodle cups and bean rice required no real skill. Her twice a year homemade cookies and uneaten birthday cakes required more than a little. It required a lot actually.

She was a baker. She was not a cook.

This may have been a mistake.

She could only stare quietly, ears splayed back, at the pots and pans and dishes and spoons and cutting boards and knives and cleavers and holy hell was that a hatchet? The air making her belly inflate quivered slowly as she now minded it, and could only keep minding it. Oh gods what in the world was she to cook? Did they have eggs? Did they prefer meat? What kind of bread should she use? Sandwiches for everyone? Did they all want a nice hot soup? Some jerky for whatever reason? Did they all just want her to make them hardtack so they could regret both being born and taking up a position onboard a terrible ship?

Octavia cleared her throat and took a step forward. The door up the staircase leading to the outside cracked open, allowed in the rush of the blue, foamy sea and the early morning sunrise, and then suddenly closed. Must have been the wrong way. Too occupied with her own troubled thoughts to take a gander behind her to confirm her suspicions, she felt her gaze shift right toward what looked to be a coat rack. She raised an eyebrow, frowned, then nodded and glowed with a soft smile. Trotting over to the stand, she leaned on her right and pulled at the object of her desire, yanking it free from its finely chipped clasp.

An apron. Despite there being ample enough light streaming in from the windows, she could barely make out the color of it, but shook her head, decided that it didn't matter in the end whether or not it matched her bowtie, cleared her throat again, stopped, cleared it again, and turned back around to assess her situation. Once more, she found herself standing before the little rectangle the crew apparently considered the food preparation counter. An old, patchy wooden countertop with two drawers to her left side, and the wood-fired stove and oven to her right. A single shelf was the abode for what looked to be a collection of herbs and spices, from oregano, to paprika, and to something hastily labeled DO NOT EAT THIS WILL ACTUALLY KILL YOU standing right in the front row for literally everyone to ignore and consume.

Further to the right, past the appliances, was the sink, nothing more than a small counter-set pit with a garden hose for a tap. Hanging from the ceiling in admittedly handy-looking fixtures were more advanced pots and pans, if the term remotely meant anything to... anypony else apart from dear old—young—her. They must have been bought onshore, seeing as how more quality containers were easier to purchase and store than an entire, full kitchen appliance from the local Highe's. What did you do with old kitchen appliances, actually? Uninstall them, sure, but what then? Create a ditch, toss them into that ditch, re-bury said ditch, leave said ditch, never speak of said ditch, and actually forget about said ditch like some kind of unceremonious burden of an accidental corpse?

If she'd been paying more attention, she might have noticed that she was holding and—as of five seconds ago—rubbing her hoof up and down the handle of a steel saucepan nervously, her apron dragging on the floor with its fastening strings loose beyond all Earthly compare. Well, she'd actually felt a name come to mind, but the time to think about tenfold prunes was past, and miles below her. Above? Which one was better, in the long run? Better question: which one made her appear more sure of herself?

She also would have noticed W standing behind her.

She did, eventually.

"Octavia."

"Jeezums!"

She grit her teeth and looked like she were dancing in a native fashion, hooves flying about wildly to catch the saucepan she had accidentally flung upward. With her foolish actions, and manic frantics, the saucepan again flew up to the ceiling, causing Octavia to look straight up and fall onto her back, four hooves in the air as if she were dead on the spot. She shut her eyes and braced for the loud crash signifying her damaging something else besides her self worth, but felt something plop itself into her grasp. Chancing a look, she saw the pan perfectly cupped in her front hooves. W stood over her, claws raised as if he were inwardly debating whether or not to help her up. He and she stared at one another for five whole seconds before W grabbed the saucepan with one claw, presented her the other, and brought her to her four gray hooves.

When it was all said and done...

"Didn't mean t' scare you."

"Of course not," Octavia confirmed, a shiver running up her legs, "you're just naturally tall and imposing and sneak up on me for no reason."

Her half-sarcasm half-legitimately-annoyed retort erupted a bit of a falter in W's own response. He stopped himself in a grunt, hummed, pulled his neck back, stayed it, and thought up something more apt.

"Are you doing okay in here?"

Octavia turned her head and minded the troublesome kitchen arrangement.

"I just want to make sure you're not feeling overwhelmed. You can come upstairs and just say, 'screw it', you know."

Octavia whipped her head around and ran her hooves through her smoky mane. She harumphed. "Fat chance of that. I said I would do it and I..." What? She'd do it? Manage a meal for an entire crew, something she was practically incapable of doing for more than even herself? Stupid idiot. Shouldn't have opened your mouth. Godsdamn her and her– "...I will." She coughed. W raised an eyebrow. Did griffons have eyebrows, really? Where did their brow start?

W began walking around. Octavia, seeing this as some kind of hovercraft parenting, pouted out her bottom lip and all but flew to the countertop. Rearing up on her hindlegs, she brought her hooves up and began pilfering the shelves for anything of actual value.

"So... what's on the menu?"

Octavia grabbed hold of a little plastic container of cumin.

"A tablespoon of cumin and a..." She reached up and examined her next item. "...dash of... blood sugar. Which is apparently sugar doused in what appears to be a red dye or..." She shook the tin. It sloshed about and caked on the sides. "...tomato juice."

"My favorite."

Octavia rolled her eyes and put the two special spices back. "Oh, I bet. Alongside your glorious scones and pistachio ice cream."

"Was that a burn?"

"Most definitely." Or, at least, it was an attempted one. If she knew W, he was built like a wall, in that people couldn't really scale it, and when they did, they looked like a pack of primates trying to dry-hump a banana tree.

...

That was a weird image. What the hell was wrong with her?

"Oh, here."

W brought her back to Earth—or, well, the sea, she guessed—by placing a sizable pot next to her, which clattered on the counter and made her head ring.

She coiled a foreleg, dipped her head, stared at it, and looked back up.

"You were looking at it, so I just thought you were needing it."

Octavia oh'd. "Oh." Dropping back to all fours, and all floors, she stepped over to the counter and pretended to have known what she was doing. "Thank you, W. I guess I might as well go see what there is for the basics."

W was already with her. He pointed a stubby talon toward the nearby corner. "If I remember, there's a chest freezer they keep cold for bread and fish. Dunno about greens." He rubbed at his beak. "Might be in there, too."

"Thank you, W."

Octavia went back to her business, and began opening the two drawers to look for a lighter to start the fire. Finally noticing the sag of her apron—which she also now realized was a dusty, dirt-colored, Earthly-reminiscent brown—she turned her head and tied the strings, only to notice W still standing there rather awkwardly.

The two engaged in a staring match that was one for the ages and recommended for those hard of hearing. Because there was nothing to hear. At least in the room. The sea was still swishing and the crewmembers that were actually awake were still walking about and rousing up a storm outside.

Octavia sucked in her lips.

W blinked as if she'd said something particularly appalling. Unless she'd gone deaf unbeknownst to her, she was sure she hadn't made any wrongdoings.

And then he lifted a foot, then two, stepped away, stepped back, halted in his tracks, made a motion to begin moving again, apparently decided to prolong whatever was continuing to happen, willed himself to go, and finally made for the staircase.

Octavia, feeling a cough and a goofy grin coming up on her face, began to turn around and return to her preparations, only for W to speak up.

"Oh, uh..."

She raised an eyebrow again.

W turned his waist about to his left—a very excruciating task, she felt—reached over to his right hip with his left claw, and pulled out an object that he flicked about with his wrist to unveil. It was white, and black, and... oh!

"You know, I gave this to you so you could keep it."

Octavia sat down on her haunches and took the hat from W's grasp when he showed it to her. Holding it in both her hooves—and simultaneously admiring how soft the thing was—she asked, "Really?"

W snorted. "It's not like I need it." He brandished a grin, now. "Let's make sure you don't go rushing off to give it back to me. It's yours."

Octavia felt a smile grace her lips and reach her cheeks, and she turned the hat around with a hoof, placed it over her head, tossed her mane, and made sure it wouldn't hit the floor.

"Now, you've got a few minutes until Cheers comes down." W reached up and scratched the back of his feathered scalp. "Er... you might recognize him, but... don't let that get you."

W, finally finally, headed for the stairs. Taking a step up, he rested his right foreleg on the rail, turned back, and added, "Oh, and I like my toast crispy on the outside."

Octavia winked and poked the air over his body. "Will do."

He left.

And so she about-faced like she'd once practiced with her brother—which, despite his being younger than her, he was infinitely better at and, also apparently, better enough at to make fun of her for getting twisted in the grass next to their house—cracked open the drawers a slight bit more, and resumed her search for a lighter. Sticking her tongue out, she felt around for the unmistakable figure of, pretty much, a small box, but found nothing but an old oven mitt—which she nodded at and threw onto the counter—a package of shishkebab sticks missing about half their sticks, a bottlecap, a pair of used napkins that caused her to almost vomit upon touching, what looked to be the remnants of a light bulb, and a whole entire hook. As in, for someone's amputated leg. Which can't have been real. Four-legged beings such as them couldn't well function with a hook tipping an appendage, could they?

She thought on it for awhile.

No, they couldn't.

SLAM!

THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP!

...

CREEEEEEAK!

Octavia continued what she was doing, assuming that whoever was behind her was in to just grab a quick bite or two, steal away with a box of mints or something, and be gone. Instead, not another sound met her ears. She found herself curious and, despite every cell inside of her maintaining that she keep her peace, craned her neck around to find an all-too familiar griffon glaring at her with his arms crossed.

His brown robes bunched up because of a probable size miscalculation, his cavalry hat scrunched up against the wall thanks to his "cool guy" bout of leaning, and his frown ever so present on his beak, the griffon that had yelled at Sesame the other day waited for... something, from... someone. Probably her. She wasn't quite sure. If anything, she was waiting for something from him. That accent was more familial to her than the actual person it occupied.

The presumed Cheers spoke up.

"Eet's you, then, innit?"

Cheers. What a perfect, more than apt name for an English-accented griffon with stubbornness on his head and nothing inside his head. Most certainly a nickname. Nobody actually liked to admit they were from across the pond.

Octavia stuttered. "I-I looks like... it–"

"Bloody...!" Cheers started, raising up his claws and dragging them down his hat. Sucking on his teeth and drawing heavy breath, he continued, "Gonna 'ave a chat with Ehndy. You best git–"

"I wanna help!" Shut up shut up!

Cheers straightened a foreleg and pointed it up the staircase. "You kehn 'elp by leavin'." He took off his hat, placed it on an adjacent nightstand, pulled a chef's hat out of his chest pouches, and put it on over his head. "Don't need some goody goody pony know-ih-tall tellin' me my bizniss."

Octavia felt her frown reach its limits. She scurried about and searched the shelf above her head, found what she had barely made out when she'd looked there last, and presented it to Cheers before she'd even realized what horrible idea she'd just gone through with.

"I'll... I'll leaf, all right!"

The room was silent.

Even the cup of bay-leaf she was holding in her hoof looked to be unimpressed. Just like high school.

Stupid Godsdamn idiot.

This was like that time she'd let out a long one during practice, and everypony just looked at her. Mind, she'd eaten a McDuckle's breakfast burrito earlier in the day because she didn't feel like making toast, but the consequences of menial activities weren't things she liked reaping. Actually, if she could, she'd just like to never reap anything in her life as long as she barely occupied it. A life without consequences may have been a wrong one to consider, with a slippery slope she couldn't quite angle herself from tumbling down at the end, but it was still a thought. A nice one, actually.

"Wuz thaht an uh-tempt at a joke?"

Octavia rushed back to reality in a blur, ending her sudden, unexpected ride with a tickle in her throat that she violently coughed at.

"Bah!" Cheers hacked, stomping over to her and snatching the bay-leaf from her hooves. "Touchin' my shhhit wit' yer sick pony hooves... aisle bet you touched my pots an' pans, didn't ya, ya little bugga?"

Octavia fixed a scowl on her face. All right. Canterlot Time.

"Just thought I'd assist you in your endeavours, love. Didn't want you to chip a talon breaking your poor old back for hungry folk."

Cheers opened his beak, shut his eyes, and shouted a very, very loud, "HAW!" to the ceiling, before pulling a box of matches out of one of his coat pockets and pointing at her with the unoccupied claw. "Hungry my ahss. These Sputnik damned birds would eat the bahk off a pine tree." He took out a single match, brought it up to his beak, struck it, and lit the stove with one swift motion. Fanning the flames away, "I'm the only one on this ship that knows what gluten is. Gluten. Just goes t' show ya what kinda pirates this lot are."

Gluten was... like, healthy, right? But if it was healthy, then why were there gluten-free sections of the bread aisle in Ponyville? Was it just another green-freak thing, like vegetable burgers and sweet potato fries? Ponies could digest meat; some didn't think it ethical, some defended the nutritional value. It was a huge controversy these days, but Octavia was on the side of the omnivores. Let them eat meat!

CHSHHH!

Octavia shook her head, mane whipping around.

Cheers looked at her out of the corners of his eyes, regarded her for a second of his apparently busy-body time, and adjusted his chef's hat.

He sighed. "If yoh so adam-it 'bout stayin', you c'n stay right theh in th' cohnuh and play wit' yohself."

If she were anywhere else, Octavia would have covered her mouth with a hoof and gasped. Instead, she was on a pirate ship with pirates and swashbuckling and flintlocks and an English griffon and her friends. She snickered.

"A light bit crude, are we?"

Cheers responded quickly, like he'd anticipated her question somehow or some way, "Moh than thaht, love."

Octavia found no choice presented to her. If she was to actually get a chance at helping him to thereby prove herself a good cook to... whoever she was proving such a thing to, she would have to obey him and do what he said... somewhat. She wasn't too... keen on the last part of that sentence. If– nope! She was going to stop herself there. This wasn't really something to think about or even think about thinking about. The double think. The Elusive Double Think! We've been trying to catch him for years!

The more she said the word "think", the more it sounded like some kind of slur to her oh that's why. It was devastatingly close to... yeah. Okay. She was going to stop saying think. Saying– no. Not saying. Thinking. Think think thinking in her own little head, her own little brain with emphasis on the little and obscure.

SSSSSS.

Ooh.

She sat up a tad and looked over at the frying pan lit up underneath Cheers' eyesight. He must've already had an idea set in his head about what he'd be making for the morning break. With a wooden spoon in a claw and a little cup of red spices in the other, he worked his pretty obvious talent and grumbled something to himself when he noticed her trying to take a peek. Like a child trying to keep his adjacents from reading the book he was currently nose-deep in, he growled and groveled and scooted it a bit further from her sights over to his left. Octavia's response was very simple and very befitting for a pony of her stature.

"Hey–"

"Sit. Or leave."

"I'm not a dog–"

"Walk on all fours like one."

"So do you!"

...

There was a pregnant pause.

Cheers must have realized himself, because he sucked in a really long breath and blew it back out before silently, now more vigorously she noted, returning to his activity. Placing the spoon next to the pan and resting its head on the lip, he stepped away from the pan and began sorting through the drawers in a bent-over position looking more like he'd misplaced a bit in the floorboards at their soles. Neglected like that baby in Trainspying, the pan sizzled and sputtered with the intensity of Octavia herself, and so her attention drew to it like moths to an electronic, state-of-the-art bug-zapper. How unethical.

"Uh..."

"Shut it, mate. Lookin' fer me knives."

Octavia rose to her hooves and looked inside the pan. The small squares sitting inside the oiled, spiced, greasy bowl were bouncing and seizing along the top of its surface like literally anything left on Vinyl's turntable contraption thing whatever-the-hell-it-was-called. She bit on her lip and looked at Cheers. He shook his head, signifying his rising back up to face his possibly burning food, only to stop and shake his head again.

"Wat in th'– God's sake Gary, stop leavin' yer bloody hook in me damned drowuhs..."

No more of this! She was going to make sure something in the kitchen didn't burn and smolder. Not this time. Almost jumping a foot in the air to gallop over to the stovetop, she rose up on her hindlegs, grabbed hold of the frying pan, and shook the whole thing to equalize the crispiness in its products.

What was this? Tofu?

"Oi!"

Octavia peeled her ears back and looked to her immediate left.

"Wat the 'ell did I say 'bout yoh cohnuh?"

Octavia glared. "Oh, get off it, you prat. You've been whining and moping about a sous-chef to Andy forever, and now you've got one. Would you like her to leave or not? I doubt anyone else would take up the mantle of talking to the likes of you."

The room was quiet again.

Just the room, again. Only the room.

Shut up shut up shut up oh Gods why did she say that.

Cheers smirked.

"Food's buh-nin'. Move ih tovuh, and get me th' oats from th' cuh-bird."

Octavia relinquished her grasp on the pan's handle and settled back down onto the floor. She... hadn't expected this. If anything, she was expecting claws to dig into her sides, carry her up the stairs, and chuck her onto the deck to wake everyone else up and worsen things for everybody involved. "What? Change of heart?"

Cheers shook his head. "Change o' mindset, mate. Ya may be rubbish, but ya won't screw up with me directin' ya. T' hell wit' it. Weeyuh only makin' breakfast anyhow. Doubt you could screw up tofu and toast."

Octavia cocked an eyebrow.

"No eggs?"

The griffon shot her a quiet glare.

She sheepishly grinned. "Right. That makes sense." He narrowed his eyes at her, then turned away, looked at her again like she'd tried attacking him from behind, then grumbled an obscenity that sounded an awful lot like disappointment. She knew what those words sounded like without actually hearing them in their entirety. She had a mirror, and it had gotten many an earful in her time.

Nevertheless, she turned around to look for the cupboard, found it, and spoke a little softer, "Right. No eggs."

Cheers apparently didn't hear her, too caught up in the doings he was doing while the winds battered the ship only paces from his being.

Author's Note

I really like this chapter...

Faults
View Online

Stroll

Faults

A singer and songwriter since he'd first stepped weary hoof on the lovely Earth that barely deserved his extravagant presence and wondrous being, Time Bomb wasn't the usual colt you'd first think of when you laid your hopeful, gazing eyes upon him. His deep voice and preferably shaved haircut perturbed more than just the ponies around him—namely his friends, family, and himself whenever he found himself catching a glimpse in the mirror—and he spent most of his school years going through his various bits of schoolwork and only working on them at the last second, which ended up being little more than minutes before its respective class began ticking down its allotted time. Despite a very measurable distance around him, he rose up the ranks of his local Hoofball team and became its starting quarterback, leading his dumbfounded mates—who were left open-mouthed in his flurries of dust—to countless points and hard-earned victories. The Eaux Mares Badgers were both a name and a force to be reckoned with and shied away from to the point of near paranoia upon even the slightest vocal beginnings of the letter B.

He'd started his first band in high school under the name Tick Times Three, or T3 for short. With childhood crush River Rapid on saxophone, best friend Light Beam on drums, acquaintance White Chocolate on bass, met-him-once-and-he-wanted-to-join-up Almond Milk on trumpet, and himself on lead guitar, Time Bomb released a small, self-titled album they distributed among the town for all to hear. As it was, everypony simply threw their self-proclaimed gifts into their respective rubbish bins later that night, and Time Bomb still continued onward until he graduated.

He may have kept completely close contact with Light Beam, but it was River Rapid who was to be attending the same Uni as him, even taking many of the same classes that piqued both their interests in the categories of World History and Fine Arts. Meeting up at lunch together every day and going out to get meals at the cafe, it was love in its simplest form. They held hooves, and they nuzzled necks, and they kissed, and, as nature did what it did best, they took each other for the first time on a cold winter night as the snow trapped their entire building inside and, as the staff members couldn't reach them, the two dorms intermingled and shared the rest of the day until Unicorns were able to dig them all out.

Time Bomb needed something, though. His life was as best as it could possibly be, but there was something missing. The music was barely scraped up in his Fine Arts classes.

He needed a new band.

This one, under the title Maytes, was composed of twelve members in total reaching all across the Uni, from the nerd in the corner of the library to the bench-warming jock catching the game-winning touchdown in the big game. His music became nothing but ambient noise, consisting of wild alto saxophones and blaring trumpets, peppered with twangy banjos and piano keys, and tinted with lonely violins and his own vintage guitar. He had taken a bit of a background position in his new pastime, but it didn't bother him one bit. Maytes was more an experiment than it was an actual band, with many members parting ways after dropping out, graduating, or simply losing interest until it was just Time Bomb and River Rapid once more.

They both graduated at the same ceremony.

The two began living together in a little apartment, sharing smiles and laughs and love and those cute little crinkles on your nose that made the both of them just melt. His eyes were on a shimmering ring. Her eyes were on maternity leave.

And then River Rapid was hit by a carriage while crossing the street late one night.

Time Bomb was more than just destroyed. His whole life had been put in a chokehold and smothered in the matter of three whole minutes. He needed space, and he needed time that he didn't think he could keep looking forward to. So, fleeing his hometown of Eaux Mares, he headed south and found the city of Baltimare in all its coastal glory. He applied for a grocery store job stacking crates, rented a smaller apartment barely fit for a dog, and fell in with another mare named Dream Catcher. He constantly told himself that it was just a way to get over River, but... it wasn't. He was in a terrible, borderline horrifying place, his mind and his body working in tandem to try and send him off with the same fate as his lover, but it was Dream Catcher who kept him back on all four hooves.

She had held a bit of a penchant for singing to him, a liking of which Time Bomb only confessed to sharing with her much, much later late one fall evening. Feeling a pain nestled in his gut, and in his heart, Time Bomb and Dream Catcher put on recording equipment, took out a guitar, and sang a few separated verses with one another until they passed out from exhaustion. As he woke up in a start, Time Bomb felt a chill down his spine, a torrent of ice on his forehead, and a passion in his legs.

Packing up a briefcase, grabbing his recording equipment, and shouldering his guitar, he took the next train back to Eaux Mares.

His father was an outdoors kind of guy who would spend weeks chopping up firewood, observing nature, fishing, and enjoying the soft crunch of dirt cooped up inside his bespoke cabin deep in the woods near the city. A way to get away, as it seemed. Naturally, Time Bomb's first stop back home was his parent's abode, where he simply plopped himself on their couch and stared up at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity and a half. His mother and father both left to go to work, and they wouldn't see him for three whole months.

For Time Bomb, deserting the home he once called his own once more, had retreated to his father's cabin, shut the door, found the bed, and fallen asleep for two whole days. He woke up, feeling his stomach screaming bloody murder at him, and went about doing just what his dad used to do. On the cusp of the brutal northern winter and with the beginnings of a horrid liver infection causing mass destruction of his entire body, Time Bomb—then twenty-five—stayed firmly nestled within the boundaries of his hideaway and grew worse.

Bedridden, anxious, painfully ill, and simply devoid, he clutched his guitar, turned on his recording equipment, and began to sing.

This singing became an obsession of his, something he'd spend the better part of a day doing. Pencils writing down lyrics on scraps of paper, bruises on his hooves from guitar strings, quaking in his throat from his newly found falsetto. He woke up singing in the morning and went to bed thinking about what he'd sing when he arose. He fashioned drums out of a flannel shirt of his and a plant's ceramic pot; he modified an old trumpet laying about to increase its buzz. As the winter months blew onward, his beard grew and his mane went wild.

The blue moons that met his lack of singing were instead focused on reading the one book he'd brought with him: Northern Baring, by author High Tail. In it, a Unicorn mare from the deserts of Appleloosa moves up to Vanhoover at the behest of a friend, and has to deal with the day-and-night differences of a hot sun and a cold breeze. The citizens of Vanhoover, every first snowfall, stop everything that they're doing and crowd the streets to wish everyone a, "bon hiver", Prench for "good winter". A phrase, coming up only once in the story, caught Time Bomb's eye.

The protagonist of the story, not understanding what all was happening, is chuckled at by an old stallion on the corner of the street. On his lips is a comment.

"Cigare brûlé. First winter is a big event up here, lass."

Cigare brûlé. Prench for "burnt cigar", a nickname given to tourists because of how easily noticeable they were, akin to a fuming cigar.

His mono in full swing and his life teetering on ending, Time Bomb felt the name to be powerful, and chose it for himself.

His heart ached, and his head rang, and for three whole months, he remained fixated on nothing but a sole desire.

And there, with that desire, the years and years and dreadful years that had so hopelessly plagued him spilled out in a shrill falsetto, mixing in with the terror and gusts storming outside his lakeside fort.

Under his new moniker, Cigare Brûlé, Time Bomb emerged from the cabin with ten songs under his belt, and, after properly titling them all and ordering them, published his collection under an album simply named, To River, To Night. Though he'd originally intended to remaster what he'd done and give his project to a few groups of friends, it was Light Beam who convinced him to keep it as is and send it to a label. One took him in an instant, and Time Bomb found himself growing to worldwide fame quicker than he ever would have imagined possible.

Releasing two albums and an LP—a self-title, 44, Two Million, and Bit Bank, respectively—Cigare Brûlé became a well-known, well-versed, and incredibly well-received folk band that skyrocketed to critical acclaim.

His songs, from "Mantle" to "The Woods", spoke two-volume pieces to anypony who listened to them, evoking raw emotion and suppressed memories and moving one to unstoppable tears. His method of songwriting—creating the music itself and adding lyrics to it afterward—helped him paint unrestricted pictures of beautiful landscapes, massive ice-tipped mountains, and college universities in the dead of winter. He may have abhorred the term if it was being applied to him, thanks to his uncomparable humbleness, but Time Bomb was one of the greatest lyrical geniuses of the time, able to speak of the heaviest matters that ached one's body and wracked one's mind in the same way it had to him thirteen years before.

At least, that's what Octavia had told her friends growing up.

Either they didn't have the capacity to understand just how wondrous Time Bomb and his music were, or they were just screwing with her. There was no chance that somepony listening to one of his tracks wouldn't fall in love immediately. The very idea of such an occurrence put a residual halt to her mind and made her stutter like she'd just suffered a robotic shutdown and would self-destruct in fifteen seconds. Fourteen, now. Honestly, the idea that she could actually have that happen to her one day and not have the knowledge within her to remember some kind of passcode or the like to stop it frightened her just a bit, but she looked at the floor and rubbed at one of her forelegs to remind herself of her mortality.

There it was. The unmistakable cold, and the sticking-up of her little gray hairs.

The dry, dry husk of Octavia Philharmonica.

There was... but one line that came to her mind at the moment, in a well-broadcasted and very clear attempt to distract herself from further, horrible, slippery-slope self-deprecation.

The first song on To River, To Night was a bit of a traitorous one, if put in regards to the album's title, as it was recorded with Dream Catcher the night before Time Bomb fled her figure. "Sluice," it was called, was widely regarded to concern miscarriage, and newborns—or, she guessed, the... lack... thereof—but, in her mind, it meant something else entirely to her, and because it was music, it was universally encouraged to explore the different definitions that a guitar twang and a head voice could entail.

"Sky was the womb, and she was the moon."

Many people took the word "womb" at face value, and immediately believed that it referred to childbirth.

Octavia saw more different than that. Whether it was because she was genuinely smarter or believed herself to be such so that she wouldn't be able to remember the actual, unwanted answer, she wouldn't know.

The womb was where you were born; where you grew up from a single cell and eventually grew your little hooves, your little brain, and your little earthly being. It's where you were born, and, in essence, is you.

The moon is the largest, brightest, most beautiful thing nestled in the night sky, and still very much present in the day. It shines its light across everything you see and brings clarity to a time most described as harrowing.

Sky was the womb, and she was the moon.

She was the biggest part of what made him, him. But made, not make.

"Octavia, you're stupid."

"You listen to such dumb stuff."

"Dude, so deep."

The responses were very much expected, but Octavia believed time and time again that she could change them—morph them; form them; completely fix them—into something far kinder and intelligent.

She'd, for a time, thought that it was simply because it was her favorite band and she couldn't take criticism in the slightest sense or fashion, and, honestly, looking back, it was more than a tiny bit true, which actually kind of upset her in the present. Wow, what a child.

But no, though, it was... it was just wanting ponies to like what she liked, or did, or created, or made, or whatever.

Her first macaroni art piece she'd artfully vomited together—which barely resembled their abode, could pass as a rocket ship, and would admittedly make a hell of a battering ram—late one afternoon for her father when he returned from work, which he apparently didn't love enough to not put on their refrigerator. Then again, Forte might have... eaten the macaroni off it if it were placed in such an easily abused position so close to the ground, dried dabs of glue and shreds of paper and all. Disgusting little virgin bastard. He was the reason her sister's stupid watercolor art project found its way to the fridge and not her inedible pasta vomit.

She snickered.

Wow.

Digusting little virgin bastard? Look in the mirror, coño.

"You want a plate or–"

Octavia waved a hoof, not even caring about who it was who was trying to initiate conversation with her at the moment.

"I'm busy."

Nothing would have pleased her more than seeing her macaroni art stand proudly next to her school's lunch calendar consisting of mostly dried prunes on the side, below her family's weekend grocery shopping list reminding them to get the right kind of popcorn this time, above the little one-word magnets that she and her sister had used to spell out 'the son made a gross thing', and opposite the little metal popping machine she'd nowadays recognized as a bottle opener, despite its seldom appearances in her delightfully wine-enriched lifestyle. Such an important position to see something in the house, which was why each and every single one of the aforementioned items stood plastered where they were. The fridge brought a crowd every day it remained, and that meant more and more views on her project that she'd worked so, so hard on! She'd learned how to not use glue sticks, which way scissors went, how hard it was to get glue out of your hair, why you shouldn't cut your own hair, why she looked terrible with short hair, why she looked terrible, why she was terrible, and why she, as an Earth Pony, wasn't destined to fiddle and screw with little pieces of macaroni that were better off eaten or shipped overseas to someone who actually needed it. You know. For survival.

She would've loved nothing more than for them all to marvel at something she'd created, not something she'd mimicked.

Sure you could... drag a nice strip of rosined horse mane across four strings in a set pattern and get applause but... it didn't really feel the same, now, did it? It was just like every time somepony had heard it before, just with different ponies filling in different stands. The rising crescendo of Mountain Queen or the longing notes of Pavane were no different between Mozart and herself. All of it was just simple preserving of time, reading from a paper from the inklings from the mind of a pony who'd used all three to deliver what it was she was reading. There were no good players in the industry, just people who could replicate the sounds as close to the original as was possible.

Oh... oh Gods...

But ponies called her good. She didn't believe it when it was said, she didn't like it when it was said, and she barely responded to it when it was said... oh Gods ponies called her good. She was good at the bass. One of the more popular bassists of her time oh Gods she was good. She was good, which meant nothing, because if you were good you were just a good replicator and that didn't really amount to anything good it was borderline plagiarism and that wasn't good oh Gods she was good.

She was good, and that's all that she was known for. Nopony praised her for her milk drinking skills, or her writing posture, or her album collection, or just her in general. They praised the music. Music made the world go round and without it both she and the world were nothing shiiiiiiiiiiit.

Gods... where did it all come from?

Just... all of it. Her. Where did all of her come from? All the fibs, and all the tossing abouts, and all the things she lived while wishing she wasn't. Wait.

Was she having a breakdown?

Was this what it was like to have a breakdown?

Why did she care so much about wanting people to like what she liked? Why did she care so much about wanting people to like what she did? That was just a regular pony emotion, wasn't it? You made something. You were proud of that something. It was only right and practically sensible to want others to like it, too. If somepony looked her in the eyes and said, "Octavia, I think that your dog picture collection is horrendously troglodytic," after proudly presenting it to them with a drum roll and a flashy curtain, she would probably cry a little bit, but a small part of it would be because they didn't like her hours and hours of work that she half-wished she could go and get back. But why did it bother her so much? Most ponies—and believe her, it was most ponies—would simply brush it off with a laugh and a joke and move on, and she always did the same, but... it lingered.

There it was again.

Her first year in the Academy, she'd been struggling on a song, prompting a nearby bassist in her class to mind her.

"Oh, those are slurred. And flats."

"Oh, my mistake."

She carried on, making it through the section and then the entire piece. Just a simple conversation and a bit of assistance.

And then they played it again.

Really, Octavia? That was stupid.

They got past the troubled section.

You actually screwed up at that part? Gods, you're stupid. You're so so stupid. That's the most simple-minded thing you could play, and you flubbed it. Good job, idiot.

They ran through it a third time.

Her eyes glazed over.

Look at you. First year in the Academy and you're a mess. Screwing up on easy lines, making a fool of yourself. What would Mother think of you? She'd be ashamed. Ashamed of how Godsawful and stupid you so very clearly are. Maybe that's why you haven't made many friends here. Maybe they all know that Octavia Philharmonica is a shitty pony and that being friends with her is being friends with every little thing that could go wrong in your day.

And then they got past the part.

You did it again! How stupid could you be?! He's laughing now, but he just doesn't want to say out loud how astronomically mental you are. Look at them all, snickering. But they were right though. They were right to be laughing and to be snickering and to be clutching their stomachs and disrupting the class because you deserve it because you're stupid and ugly and terrible at each and every thing you do.

Her bass was big enough to hide her bow behind, and so she stood in an increasingly blurry room as the piece went by a fourth and presumably final time.

She excused herself to the restroom, locked herself in a stall, and bawled her eyes out until the class was over.

It was hard to get people to like what she did when what she did, she did terribly.

But it was... some kind of confirmation of something. Some kind of confirmation that she was doing something right, a reassurance that she wasn't isolated, alone, and seeking escape from it. She was doing something that brought smiles to ponies, and it was by her own two hooves that that something came to fruition in the first place. If she found herself doing something, and there was nopony around to watch, then there was no real point in doing it. Wasted minutes to hours to days of her life better spent doing what people knew her for. Less time on her own pieces of music and more time on famous ponies' pieces.

She did her own things, but the only real audience ended up being her home. And her home couldn't really give her constructive criticism or a hug and a smile. Well, it could, but she'd have to go back down to Highes and vandalize her house to make it look like it was. Maybe it was worth it. Would be, that is.

Her thoughts ended on the price of four-by-fours, thankfully far and far away from the endless assault of self-harassment she shakingly called her own gray head.

"Holy Sputnik Octavia this is good."

The wooden ship, and its wooden walls, and its wooden tables, and its very much wooden people all rushed back to ample recognition.

Lavi, as well, fizzled back into form.

She was not wooden.

And she had just said something to Octavia.

What...

Oh, she must have been eating Cheers' hashbrowns. Octavia hadn't had any hoof in making it. Cheers had made sure of that. He wouldn't even let her near the stove when he fled the cooler nearby and all but threw a large, orange, hole-ridden plastic sack onto the countertop with a grunt and a very astute blimey.

"Play wit' yohself," became his running joke, and she genuinely considered doing so out of spite until she realized how incredibly bad of an idea that was.

A claw retracted from Lavi's plate, dangling... a small, breaded sardine, its head removed.

Oh.

She'd... made that.

Cheers had had some sardines packed together in the cooler, and some leftover breading for chicken whenever they felt proud enough to "take a bite out 'f our li-ohl brothas," and she'd asked him if it was okay for her to use them both for a combination dish she'd eaten once or twice—actually many times, shut up—back in Canterlot. He'd told her, plain and simply, "Yoh thinkin' wit' yoh 'ead, bu' I 'unno 'bout yoh stomach."

She'd told him, uncommonly and convolutedly, "Eat a dick, you preposterous sack of spoiled spermoids."

He'd laughed, and that was that.

Lavi tossed her head back and thereafter the sardine. It gracefully did a somersault she would have gladly given an eleven, danced through the air upon the wings of glorious angels, shimmered in the bright light of the sun poking in from the slats above their heads, and ended its maneuver by promptly catching on the edge of Lavi's lower beak, where it found itself eviscerated and quietly tucked further into the depths in a similar fashion to a mare being dragged into a crawlspace in a mediocre horror movie.

Octavia still had the nightmares.

That crawlspace hatch always looked so eerily close to the one in her foalhood home.

A fish was dangling in her sights again, this time much closer to her face.

Lavi blinked at her, mimicking her own gesture.

"Hey, you okay? You're, like, really out of it."

Another sardine down a throat.

She'd made that.

Lavi dipped her plate to scratch at a nice heap—not a helping, it was, like, a heap—of hot sauce, and Octavia seized the moment to look at its contents. Some assorted greens, a steaming roll with a square of dripping butter atop it, some rice and beans, and... covering a little over one entire half of her plate, Octavia's breaded sardines. Octavia's. Breaded. Sardines.

She'd made that.

"I made that."

She'd apparently caught Lavi off-guard, as the griffon paused in her glorious feast, her head craned completely backward and her beak wide open like a satisfied pelican. Her eyes went wide, and, without a response from the mare in front of her who suddenly couldn't keep still for some assuredly stupid reason, she dangled her choice of early-day prey like it was a lifeline of sorts.

...

She missed Grandma.

"Did you?"

Lavi gulped it down, licking her beak all dog-like and cracking a grin.

"That's super good. You should make more."

Octavia cocked an eyebrow.

"What, you really think you'll be able to eat it all?"

There had been a lot of sardines and breading in there.

Lavi pointed back at the lines and lines of tables... lining the Scuttlebug's mess hall.

"I mean, if everyone else wasn't hogging them all..." she turned at the hip, still chewing, and shrugged, "...ehhhh probably could."

GUH.

"W-w-w-wait, everyone else?"

Lavi snickered.

"Yeah. Everyone's eating your sardines. Which I guess makes sense, since we're all... birds." Lavi suddenly lowered the foreleg she'd been raising, fish in claws, and placed her food back onto her plate. She looked for a candle thousands of yards in front of her. "Oh God am I having an epi-pen right now?"

Epiphany, dear La...vi...

There was no way that people were actually eating the food she'd cooked. The last time that had happened, Vinyl had gotten profusely sick to the point of projectile vomiting on everything in proximity—which included the fridge, the stove, the microwave, the sink, the trash can, the fridge again, the fridge again, and the bottles of alcohol Octavia had hidden on top of the fridge that had rolled away at the unusual Unicorn contact—and, after a pregnant, well-deserved pause and an evil, evil grin, everything in sight—which included Octavia's morning glass of milk she had been excited to drink because she'd wanted to kick her coffee addiction's little butthole, Octavia's toothbrush down the hall and in its dumb mug that read Brush, Flush, Shush, Octavia's toilet right next to it, Octavia's throw pillow back in the living room, Octavia's sheet music that later turned out to be Vinyl's own, Octavia's milk again, and then finally Octavia's head.

When Octavia had later gone to the black powder store to peruse their blunderbusses, equally sickly and newly showered, she wasn't even the slightest bit surprised to find Vinyl scouring them as well.

Without her head to guide her, her hooves did what they did best and carried her ignorantly forward at a snail's pace that ended after only two steps. Her vertigo somehow neglected at the moment, she stared down the impressively undisturbed line down the mess hall to find griffon upon griffon—sometimes literally, which was kind of weird—chowing down on little fish-shaped bundles of breading, their barely-fresh vegetables, their blistering hot soup, their cans of peaches, and, most importantly, their hashbrowns, temporarily forsaken in favor of gorgeous, fried sardines.

Nopony—excuse her—nobody was gasping at stray hairs (which was a thing that had happened), or throwing things at each other, or even getting the tiniest bit angry. In fact, the whole display was... chummy in a way, reminiscent of a casual Wednesday at her high school when ponies actually ate in the cafeteria and weren't just mulling about playing games or having conversations or, in one particular case that almost got the school shut down, seeing how long they could hold their breath while exposed to hoof-lighter-induced flatulence fume fires. Griffons here and there and pretty much everywhere were talking up a storm about storms, discussing their work and distance traveled for the day, joking about drowning themselves, and giggling at little jokes and funny faces.

Wait. No, she knew it was too good to be true. Griffon stomachs were different from pony stomachs. They had gizzards and such, and so they could stomach even the largest amount of sludge that a pony wouldn't be able to even glimpse without gagging and falling dead on the spot for good old rigor mortis to set in. That was why they were eating her sardines so incredibly quickly and going for more and now lining up for more and bringing back massive piles to their seats and eating them just as quickly as their first round oh Gods they liked it.

Wait but no the stomach thing. Different stomach probably meant different teeth, and tongue, and tastebuds, and likes and dislikes, and oh Gods were they liking it?

"Octavia! There ye are, lass!"

Octavia looked over to find Andy, but instead jumped into the air as he flung his foreleg around her shoulder. She swore that she could see Valkyrie immediately rise from her seat on the opposite side of the ship and look her way, wide-eyed.

Wait who the hell was driving the boat?

"Um, good day..."

Andy, chuckling behind his strong wall of teeth, fanned one of his arms around and presented Cheers to her as he began walking their way.

"Cheers was just tellin' me about the breakfast this mornin'." He blew air out his nostrils and faced the toiling crew. "Seems you're a hit, boyo."

Andy knew that she was a mare, right?

"I wouldn't say so–"

"Gah-uh geev it to ya, luv," Cheers cut her off with a hedge trimmer, crossing his arms and flexing his chin, "they'uh enjoyin' the peace outta yoh sahdeens."

Oh Gods no.

Octavia already felt her face growing red. Oh Gods was there any place she could hide for the next hour?

"I'm sorry–"

"Oh, she only made the sardines, then, did she?" Andy asked, suddenly facing Cheers.

Octavia looked at the English bird, who shook his head with a light grin.

"No. She pretty much made this whole meal herself."

Wait what no–

Octavia's eyes grew wide. She looked at Cheers to show him. He narrowed his own and nodded quietly.

Andy whipped out a wine glass from his pocket, completely out of nowhere considering the pocket's size, and tapped a claw against it like he was rearing to pose a toast at the wedding she'd never have.

"All right, boyos, quiet yourselves down!"

As though hearing a teacher try to begin her lessons for the day, the griffon pirates did as they were told, albeit with a few straggles whispering obscenities and obvious inside jokes loudly concerning tuna.

Oh Gods were they all staring at her?

After a satisfactory amount of silence, "I can tell by my own two ears that you all are enjoyin' yer breakfast this morning."

A roundabout of cheers, whoops, and hollers erupted from the crowd, complete with raised fists and stomping paws.

"As it is, your... lovely chef Cheers had not a single part in today's early meal..."

Andy placed his wine glass back into his longcoat's pocket, raised the foreleg, and extended it to Octavia's side, open-palmed toward the wooden ceiling creaking above them in the quiet.

"Octavia here made it all, from your brocc'li to yer God-gifted sardines."

Oh Gods they were all staring at her oh Gods she was turning beet red almost as much as the tomato soup she'd almost burnt and had actually screwed up anyway so she'd thrown it away which was a big waste of tomatoes and probably would have caused any spaghetti nights onboard the ship to go forsaken Gods she was so so–

"Yeahhhhhh!"

"Go Octavia!"

Weet-wheeooo!

"Thanks, mare!"

"Kick ass!"

"Hell yeah!"

A griffon rose from his seat, large mug in claw. Octavia thought that she saw a beard hanging from his face, but she was beginning to list and go completely off kilter at the moment. His mug shook aggressively as he roared, "Three cheers for Octavia!"

Well that was a bit over–

"Hip hip!"

"Hurrah!"

Three griffons and a shaggy black mane appeared at the far end of the ship.

W, T, and Valkyrie saluted her. Sesame waggled a yellow-shimmering sardine.

In her ear, "Hip hip!"

Next to her, "Hurrah!"

Octavia looked over at Cheers, words failing to spill out of her mouth.

The griffon simply adjusted his cavalry hat, smirked, and strode away, not needing any words.

"Hip hip!"

"Hurrah!"

The pirates let loose with all their might, clapping and stomping and shouting and singing and laughing and whistling and yelling her way.

"Thank you!"

"Thanks, Octavia!"

"You go, mare!"

"Second batch?!"

"Bring 'em on!"

Octavia's nose crinkled, and she suddenly became aware of every little liquid inside of it. She sniffled them back up.

At her home, she would be cooped up inside all day, only slightly pleasing herself with unhealthy foods and tiring music.

But, out here, on the open seas, strangers were enjoying her company and her work just inches from her, praising her and thanking her for a job so incredibly well done.

She was a pony too caught up in her own lack of worth with too much money to throw at it in an attempt to rouse it up.

But these were griffons constantly out in the horrid seas, braving terrifying waves, and bitterly cold conditions, and being served simple meals by a simple pair of claws that joined theirs in hoisting sails, lifting barrels, pulling ropes, bracing walls, and pulling weights the likes of which Octavia could never herself pull. These were people with more to do in their days than she thought she'd had in her head, important to-dos that determined whether or not they'd even still be walking on wood by the end of the night. These were people who actually deserved a good meal at the end of the day.

And she'd given one to them.

Mind, it was in the beginning of the day, but it was the preparation that saved you, not the winging, in the end.

She'd given them something nice to eat before they endured a hard day ahead.

A smile graced her lips, the catalyst that sent a hoofful of tears down her cheeks as well. She wiped them away.

Oh...

Oh Gods she'd just realized...

She'd become her worst enemy.

She choked.

She was... a lunch lady now.

Oh no.

Author's Note

these monologues are getting too real

;_;

please stop me

Lines
View Online

Stroll

Lines

Her attention had drifted wearily upward, to the shimmering blue horizon and the full, bright white moon hanging in a mess of purples and silvers amongst it all, but there was no way to wriggle her way out even if she played the dirtiest she could stomach.

The moon became discernable and blurry beyond all heavenly compare, shifting into an unrecognizable blob as her brain yanked her by the throat and stole her time from the simplicities of basic nature once again.

And the question it had for her was very, very simple, and very, very clear.

Her years of going through school, from grade up to high, the name Octavia Philharmonica brought up enticing, vivid images of dangerous adventures in the nearby Everfree, incomparable spunk that you couldn't help but feel the need to root for, and the largest amount of care-free happiness one could ever imagine in a popularly-believed Canterlot-born filly who just wanted to stick up for anypony who couldn't rightly do it themselves. There was barely anything to worry about back in that day and age—save for not catching up on work in her assigned math book, the rare meatloaf dinner, practicing for Orchestra concerts, and whatever she'd end up wearing for the hot summer day—and her afternoons were spent mindlessly frolicking with her loving friends and bounding over fallen pine trees and skipping flat rocks across silver lakes and throwing rocks at what looked to be mushrooms but oh hell that's a hornet's nest oh Gods oh Lords oh Zacherle get in the lake wow Harvest you got hardcore screwed up guess you suck but we sure scared them off and we did it together high hoof girls and scaling massive boulders and running through the bustling town and laughing genuine laughs and feeling genuine feelings and smiling and running and standing at the top of a hill and seeing for miles, and miles, and miles and now she'd simply just forgotten it all, enjoying her fridge's wonders and not the possibles of her life's, sitting on her couch and ugly crying and taking quiet showers and eating from shitty noodle cups and drinking herself to near death that she sometimes hoped would come early and shaking her head at her past and not even blinking at the five-thousand bit per-week check in her mailbox and the aching question came to her yet again and it was:

What the hell was she even doing with her life?

And the answer she had had waiting for it was very, very simple, and very, very clear.

She was living it.

She'd lost touch with the green leaves and the tall trees that she'd once called her and her friends' borderless domain, but she could only shrug because that's just how life was, and she couldn't stray or dawdle or fidget or stutter lest she end up losing it by either her own hoof or her own head and be completely unable to win it at all. Ha. Win. Like a Godsdamn Hoofball game, with all the Ponyville High results to boot, terrible, asshole players and final scores (or lack thereof) and all. There was no career to be built on being a worry-less child, and that's just because she wasn't a child any longer. She was an adult—or at least in the ever so smallest kind of way—with responsibilities, and a house bill to be paid, and an unjustifiably large appliance bill to be ignored and then begrudgingly paid, and hundreds of importants to remember, and things that she had to do before she lost it all just because she'd been her real self and not the refined, upper-crust mare she'd had to become in order to keep being something in general. She couldn't remain a mistake. She had to become a success. And that success brought with it all the chin flexing, and bow adjusting, and leg lifting, and posture straightening, and chest puffing, and heavy frowning, and bit toting she was so, so well known for doing amongst every little gossiping circle that filled every inconceivably hideous gap in Canterlot's little pockets.

And, despite the success, she still, somehow, some way, remained but a complex mistake. A monument for everypony to see and discuss. A figure to highly regard and aptly sidestep. A living definition of what it was like to strive for everything and find absolutely nothing once you'd surmounted it all. There was nothing in the spoiling money, and the rotting fame, and the flash of the cameras, and the rumble of her bass, and the dark of the night from a homeward wagon window. In the reflection of the bit, and the coffee cup next to the newspaper, and the flickering bulbs, and the polished wood, and the finely carved glass, there was her. And that was the biggest mistake of all.

Her name was still Octavia Philharmonica.

And there was no fixing that.

She finally found the waning strength to control and mind her own blinking back in the present, and the parting waters at the bow of the advancing ship and the creaking of the masts standing tall and the small bells at the corners of the doors and the dragging of the barrels on the partly wet deck approached her ears cautiously, settling on a volume they could all silently appreciate and quickly thereafter ignore.

The soft chill in her bones she shook away returned in her thick fur, and she shivered once again in an involuntary response.

Her ballcap's black bill was blocking her view of the blessed moon, and she lifted her chin to search for its grace.

And it was just what it was.

High up in the sky, as far away as it could possibly be able to be. A smart choice, she noted. An intelligent one far more intelligent than the enemy it skirted.

It wavered again, and she began to look slowly about her surroundings in an attempt to keep herself from drifting off. The bags in her eyes tried their damndest to drag her eyelids down and help her whole body slump over, but she wasn't going to let that happen. She didn't deserve sleep. Not like all the hard workers down below did, pulling ropes and lifting crates and helping keep an entire ship and its occupants afloat and alive. Her friends, even. Sesame had been in a particular hell of a career for a better part of his life, and W, Lavi, Valkyrie, and T were all exciting world wanderers just looking for one precious piece. They had goals, and aspirations in their lives that would lead them to success, and glory, and, of utmost importance, happiness. They had meaning. Method.

Octavia sat on her fat ass in a big fancy house, complaining about feeling "lonely" and selfishly drawing sympathy toward herself like some Godsforsaken vacuum of angsty bullshittery, crying like a little bitch in her bathroom and bloating herself up on her sofa like she was still in middle school and had suffered a terrible, ruthless, anguish-filled break-up that only an unhealthy lifestyle and Godsawful cuisine could barely stave off. She had more than a regular fortune in her bank account, and yet she uselessly wasted her equally useless time whining about it and saying that she didn't deserve it and that it was tough to even look at it all. She constantly placed herself on an infinitely undeserved pedestal she constantly claimed was far, far apart from the rest of the aristocratic company she normally kept, but she was just the same as they were, wasn't she?

Uninspired. Harsh. Bitter. Rude. Uptight. Boastful. Jealous. Ugly. Terrible. Atrocious. Nefarious. A soulless pit of dogshit not a single person on the Earth would bother cleaning up. An astronomical cunt who tore down the spirits of those around her and absorbed them herself, like some kind of... Godsdamned vampire to feed her eternally starving ego and her self-justified misery. When was she going to get it through her head that she had it all? She was at the top of the world. Thousands upon thousands of people would do more than kill for her ridiculously desirable position, and here she was groaning about how hard it was, and how she hated it all, and how she hated herself, and how she wanted nothing more than to just leap from the sidewalk into that incoming wagon streaking mercilessly down the street next to her. She was poison. Like a cancer, or a tumor that was just waiting to burst in your skull and spatter your head across the walls. She was a ticking time bomb. She was herself.

And yet she was standing on the ship of good people, both figuratively and literally. She'd made quick friends with soldiers from the opposite country as her, griffons who treated her kindly and fairly like they would some kind of old friend, but she wasn't any old friend now, was she? She was a burden; she was a snot-faced child they'd been forced into babysitting so she could return home and go back to her "shitty life" and her "crying times" and her "oh-woe-is-me" garbage. She'd burned down the house of a stallion who deserved nothing less than a good ending, his life having only worsened by ten-fold with his unintentional introduction to her walking, talking, miserable mess of a half-assed, cookie-cutter personality. Andy, an innocent boat captain with incomparable spunk. Cheers, even, hailing from the country she always pretended she'd hailed from and helping her achieve a level of recognition she never thought she'd actually admit to having prior received like she'd done so every single time she delved into the underwater minefield that was her own boggled brain and handicapped head. Each and every crew member who worked their hardest to keep the Scuttlebug up and chugging along, raising sails and carrying buckets and cleaning flintlocks and washing decks and cooking food and laughing laughs and being good, good people she couldn't believe she was even allowed to be near. Good, good people doing things they were meant to do.

Those kinds of people were the ones who deserved every good thing in the world. Every wish, and every dream of theirs a reality. Those kinds of people deserved what she didn't, because by no definitive means was she a good person. Those kinds of people, who physically toiled their hours upon hours away with physical labor, nose in the dirt and their legs hard at work to achieve some kind of higher line in the sky. The working class. The good people who went uncredited. They deserved praise, and admiration, and love, and care, and money, and time, and happiness. They deserved to be happy. They worked themselves dry to the bone day in and day out, just trying to get by. Just trying to survive.

What the hell did she do? Play music?

What a fucking joke.

...

She craned her neck forward and stared down, down, down into the black abyss of the night-time waters streaming by the bow, and there was nothing to be found there but a quiet, beckoning comfort and a welcoming pair of wide open arms.

And her heart beat frantically, wanting to leap as well.

SLAM!

An ear of hers went up, the other pointing downward.

"Ugh..."

POOMP POOMP POOMP POOMP.

The ugly gray mare in the lapping water gained a new, refracting friend.

A horned orange one, with a messy black mane, who didn't deserve wasting his time.

"You're pretty ready to go home, aren't you?" It asked her, a small white object burning by its head.

She drew in four whole seconds of air into her nostrils, and dispelled them for twice as long. Close it up. Somepony else is here.

Then she turned her head, and gave Sesame an answer after hearing one herself.

It's mainly to save you from trouble.

"It's m... yes. I am."

Sesame plopped his rear down on the deck and puffed on his cigarette. "Don't blame ya," he said as she too fell to her haunches and rested her spine against the wall, "Ponyville sounds like a blast."

She blinked a tear away from her eyes and attempted to pass it off as a yawn. "It's not just going back to Ponyville." It's about devolving back into an insufferable, troglodytic husk. "It's about... going back to... things."

Sesame flashed a grin and moved his forelegs erratically. "Well. What. Kinds. Of. Things. Beep."

Drinking herself, hopefully, into a coma.

"Patience, and tea, and time with my music. We have a concert this week, and I need to be prepared."

Tea? You brainless moron. He doesn't even care. He was just making a joke because you could barely talk to him without choking up like some crybaby kindergartner.

"What, you guys aren't practicing any dance numbers this month?"

For the longest time since she'd first met him, Octavia had found Sesame more than just a tad odd. That he was weak-minded and crazy to be smoking cigarettes and giggling about and cracking jokes after losing his only supply of wages and source of relative safety, something she assumed a more sane person would be shaking and losing years of sleep over. And now, maybe, she was the one who needed a check-up. Sesame wasn't working at his terrible job anymore, and was going on an adventure. And she was sticking by her career with nary a third or fourth thought, even with her constant claims of horror and regret.

And, just as selfish as she was, and would forever remain, she opened her mouth and had the audacity to ask:

"Why don't you get off at the mole with me?"

Sesame sniggered like a child, not realizing the weight that the question—not even directed at her—had on her. But it only made sense, didn't it? Two ponies weren't meant to go trodding through the thick woods and snowy mountains and wet mud and wartorn borders of Griffonia. He may have wanted an exciting, hair-raising adventure but... they could have one heading back to Ponyville. Or wherever he wanted to get off at. They could get some actual food in them and talk to their own kind for once. Back to Equestria prop

"...er."

Octavia shut her mouth, having finished her piece.

Sesame scratched his head.

"I... I think I'd rather stay onboard."

Octavia set her jaw and ground her teeth together.

You're being unbelievably selfish, you twat. Let him do what he wants, and stop getting in his way. You're nothing but a burden. Some kind of border gate dangling its key from much too high over his head. Get over yourself.

He continued, daringly, "Tomorrow, Lavi said she wanted to try and beat me in a fishing competition in the afternoon, and I told her that I was a fishing champion, and then people started placing bets, sooooo... I need to stay and collect the pot." He took a drag. "Hoo..." He clucked his tongue and looked at her, smoke swirling from his mouth. "Besides, I... we've got different destinations back inland."

Octavia raised a hoof. Was he... he wasn't saying he'd head back to Tall Tale, was he?

"Speaking of pot..." He trailed off, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out his cigarette box, which he opened up with a flick of his hoof and presented Octavia, "I never had the idea to ask you. You want one?"

Octavia only glared.

Sesame's jaw fell slack, and he clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I didn't... not like pot, I meant like, as in like something you smoke. It's... it's just a cigarette. It's... bad joke."

Octavia's frown deepened, the assuredly unattractive look resembling the inside.

"I don't smoke," she told him matter-of-factly. The idea of even doing such a thing was enough to make her sputter and become bedridden.

Sesame rolled his eyes and groaned at the sky as he craned his neck around, clearly irritated.

"Come ooooon."

"I also have two siblings and have never succumbed to peer pressure." What an exciting bit of information nopony cared about. Do you think you're some kind of wonder to be able to say that? You're not an exception.

The box of fags returned close to its home, but remained just at the threshold. He must've been holding out on a plethora of distant hope. Hats off to that. Hers was more distant than Andromeda was to Earth.

"Fine. Be a child, then."

"Yes, not like you grown-ups and your inoperable lung diseases." Much better than the rope hidden in the back of the top shelf in the linen closet, though.

Sesame looked up at her at once with a grin gracing his lips.

"Afraid?" He asked, waggling his eyebrows like he had just made some kind of actual comedic monologue.

"Afraid of what? The diseases? I'm not sure just one will–"

Sesame shook his head, shutting her up immediately.

"No, afraid of anypony seeing?"

Octavia positively screwed up her face and, bringing up a foreleg, looked to her right across the barren front deck of the Scuttlebug, then back behind her to the main floor of ringed barrels, tightly-constricted crates, coiled and knotted ropes, simple-looking fishing rods, and rusty iron hatches. And the bandana-brandishing griffon that had apparently fallen asleep next to the central mast, nestled in a fuzzy blanket and sucking on his big claw as peacefully as an infant. Eaglet? That's what they called them, right?

"Anypony?" She asked first the empty ship and then, turning around, the brow-raising Sesame himself. "Unless I'm blind, there isn't another pony at ALL onboard."

Sesame shook his head dismissively, but still smiled despite the usual implications of the gesture. The sight of it caused her to, unbeknownst to herself at first, do the same.

"You know what I meant."

Actually...

"How is it that you use both 'body' and 'pony'?" More clarity, idiot. "In Tall Tale, I mean," she practically choked out, "I noticed that you used 'body' first."

Sesame looked... genuinely confused.

"Like, what?"

"You know. Somepony, somebody."

"Oh," he replied, puffing, "'body' for everyone, 'pony' for the blue moons. You rarely get the latter, so... 'body' is just kind of the norm."

Octavia nodded, letting out a sigh and leaning over to rest her head on the railing next to her. "One has to wonder how somepony gets such a job like you had."

Sesame hummed, "Is that one you?"

Another nod. She hoped it didn't look stupid.

Another hum. He really liked his low notes, but she guessed that there was a bit of a hesitance in a falsetto thanks to his restrictive voice box. Or maybe he just didn't want to. Or maybe he wasn't even consciously attempting to make music. Did you ever think of that, idiot?

Sesame licked his lips, bracing himself for a long explanation. "Didn't have a job. Then I got one."

Octavia cocked an eyebrow. "That was very anti-climatic," she noted quickly.

Sesame chuckled. "But seriously, I, uh... yeah, I didn't have a job. Not many places were hiring 'cause Tall Tale's got some..." he looked up at her and sucked in his lips, "...some really suspect segregation going on. Not like full-fledged 'No Ponies Allowed' signs, but you'd be hard-pressed to actually find some work if you had four hooves and an Equestrian muzzle."

Octavia turned her head. "So what, they're... racist?" The term is speciesist, you bafoon.

"About on the borderline. Breezie's was close to my apartment, the manager seemed nice at first, and I got a free meal every now and then. It wasn't too bad."

"Well, it sure was bad enough for you to trust a complete stranger in distracting said 'nice manager' so you could burn him alive with scalding grease."

Sesame tapped the ground to the unmistakable tune of Shave And A Haircut. "Honestly, if it didn't turn out to be me, someone else would have done much much worse."

"To what extent?"

Sesame looked up.

"I think our last employee meeting, someone mentioned bringing in a gun that shot spears. And then they talked about a spitroast, which I'm pretty sure gets you five years." He practically launched upward with a wild grin, unaware of his Zecora-like rhyming. "Speaking of years, what about you?"

She was twenty-five. Hadn't they gone over that already? Shut up. It wasn't like age was something everyone kept track of. It wasn't like you two depended on knowing each other's birthdays. You're so stupid–

"I don't fully understand the question," she shut herself off swiftly.

He leaned over like a cool guy and placed his elbow on the rail. "How'd you get hired? In the Symphony or whatever?"

By way of hysterical prayer and very terrifying, red-patterned envelopes. It also helped your case if you were a Gods-fearing prune of a mare. Not like her. The Gods were just like she and everypony else.

"You don't necessarily get hired. It's invitational."

"Like golf?"

Heh.

"But not as much an eyesore."

Sesame brought up his hooves, almost brushing up against the cigarette box still hovering in front of his chest as he made a large square shape by his head.

"They don't have big 'Bassists Needed' signs out front in the window?"

Imagine that. They probably had the right clef, though. Not like her.

"If they did, I'm sure I wouldn't be where I am." Actually, you might be better off. You might be a master chef at some kind of fancy restaurant and have goofy stories to laugh about at your own private venues. Pfft. No, you're in a terrible place no matter where you are, because wherever you are, you're still you.

"Lonely and an alcoholic too scared to try new things?"

Octavia furrowed her brow. Back to this again? He seemed to constantly think it was a joke, and... you know, it honestly kind of was, regrettably thinking about it. What kind of adult felt sorry for herself and cried like a little bitch because she felt quote-unqoute "lonely"? Could she even consider herself an adult? Maybe it was a joke. Certainly not something she'd actually wholeheartedly believe if it wasn't herself acting as the subject matter. She minded the box again and snarled like an animal, "Fine. Give one to me, Gods damn you."

A smile fell upon Sesame's lips again, and he magicked the box out from under his chin and pulled out a fag, lightly tossing it to her. She caught it in an upward-facing hoof and, as if the concept of holding something was new to her, slowly brought the other hoof over to the first and wobbled it unsteadily. Maybe... no, not like that. Lower your hoof idiot. You think you're lifting weights? There you go. Maybe... this way? She cocked her head.

"How the hell am I supposed to hold this?"

She looked over at Sesame for an answer he might be holding up his rolled-up sleeves.

Sesame blinked. "I... actually don't know," he said after a stillborn pause.

Octavia scrunched up her nose, looked down at the very offending roll of nicotine, and promptly smooshed it with both her hooves like an arthritic grandmother trying to clutch a crayon. Raising it up to her mouth and ignoring every wailing warning alarm going bonkers in her head, she stuck it between her lips and watched as Sesame fished a lighter out of his flannel shirt's pocket, which he brought over to her face and flicked open.

SKRIT. SKRIT. SKRIT. PHOOM.

The end of the cigarette began to burn.

And Octavia immediately spat it out and began hacking out her two lungs onto the creaky floorboards that amplified in her bloated wake. Oh Gods what in the hell?! It was like a micro, Octavia-sized vacuum had stormed down her throat like it were the gates of Poland, punctured crude holes in her tubes with fifteen pairs of rusty foal scissors, and sucked out every precious breath of air out of her lungs with one second of hellish suction. Oh Gods she couldn't breathe, oh Gods she couldn't breathe, find some air, find some air Octavia, oh Gods just... air, air air air... air...

In the corner of her eyes, Sesame took a magic hold of Octavia's cigarette and lifted it from the floor, thereafter discarding it into the water over the bow with a gentle flick and reaching over to pull her up from her unintended fetal position.

He also had the audacity to ask, "How was it?" with a carefree, shit-eating smile plastered on his face like her mother's terrible popcorn walls in her nursing home's living room.

"You damn bell-end. I hate every inch of you. I hope you die from those things."

Sesame retracted his outstretched hoof, stared up at the stars, and let out a long, almost wistful sigh.

"Such sweet music."

Octavia in the terrible, gut-wrenching meanwhile was on the verge of spilling each and every breaded sardine she'd eaten earlier in the morning, but she shakily rose to her hooves and threw herself onto the edge of the ship to find some semblance of stabilization. Her head was swimming and her stomach was bubbling and troubling her, helped by the suddenly violent feeling of the waves and not helping her in the slightest sense of the definition.

They sat in a relative, unfixable silence, one coughing and the other making sure to face the other way whenever he took another life-threatening drag.

His next question came up suddenly.

"What kinda music do you listen to?"

Octavia stopped herself from saying the obvious, and said the other kind of obvious. "Mozart. Neighthoven. Silent Signs."

"I mean when you're NOT supposed to be listening to music."

Was... was there a problem with her listening to classical music in her spare time? Oh. Wait. Yes there was. She was continuing her trend of being boring as all hell, like those candies an old mare gave you on Nightmare Night that she'd claimed she'd gotten from the war. Which was fifty or so years ago.

Octavia flexed her chin, stared down at the floor, and admitted, "Cigare Brûlé."

Sesame seemed to get lost in his thoughts for a while. A loooong while. "Think I've heard of them. Is she the one who made uh, what's it called... Big Speech?"

"That would be Of Monsters And Mares."

Sesame's ears fell flat.

"Oh, whoops."

"Plus, it's a stallion, not a mare."

Sesame pursed his lips and turned his head.

"Ooh, is he hot?"

"Oh dreadfully so," she said without even thinking or... even blinking. Gods, his beard, his mane, his voice, his eyes, his songs, his words, his lyrics, his... oh Gods his everything. What a blessing.

Sesame snorted.

"What's his story?"

"Lost his mare. Hated where he lived. Quit his job. Got sick. Went up north in a cabin to uh– and just wrote music." You fumbled talking. How stupid do you have to be to do that?

"Badass."

"He's... incredibly attractive," she wistfully sighed, resting her chin on the rail. "It hurts."

"That he'll never know a nobody like you?" Octavia glared. Again? Wasn't the truth the kind of thing you kept from people so they wouldn't end up being hurt? "Is that it?"

"I'll have you know I'm fairly popular around Equestria." Yes, being a background instrument in a band of cover artists.

"How's that going?"

"I drink heavily." And cry, and mope, and whine, and wonder the weight of four individual wheels combined with their pony-filled cabin.

"Nice." Long pause. He looked up at her seemingly... cautiously, with a noticeable hesitance and almost scared tutting as he asked, "You got anypony waiting at home?"

Octavia's heart stopped. This... wasn't something she liked discussing. Her ears lost all solidity.

"This isn't going to turn into some kind of romance, is it?" She asked, hopeful that she could move the conversation elsewhere to literally... anywhere else.

"No no no, not my type," said Sesame, vigorously shaking a hoof.

Octavia craned her neck backward, actually feeling kind of... offended at that.

"I'm actually just legitimately curious."

Octavia blew a raspberry. Avoid it. "Just a roommate."

"Hot."

Octavia bunched up her cheeks. "I'm straight." And where has that shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP.

"Wouldn't even consider it?" Really?

"I don't even know what they do to... erm, for that."

"Yeahhhh, I get you on that."

Octavia looked over.

Sesame's voice wavered. "Not theeeee... pegging thing, the- the no one at home thing. My last marefriend dumped me for a minotaur. Last I heard they're out getting arrested and doing long sentences."

Octavia pursed her lips and looked at him.

"She could've dodged a bullet."

Sesame didn't take the very clear compliment. "Nah. Don't make, 'scuse me, didn't make a good amount of bits for both of us. She was priority but... I have to eat too."

"That's sweet of you."

"Well, thanks."

Sound like somebody you know?

...

Does it sound like somebody you knew?

She returned to the rail, but somehow, some way, found the power to ignore the waters and, instead, focus on the navy blue horizon. The stars glistening high above, a practical field of bright white dots dancing across the landscape like shadows in a fire-lit cave, twinkled quietly. The ship rocked.

"There is... someone, actually," she finally admitted, the separation between the two parts almost marking them as separate sentences. Oh here you go.

Sesame joined her, and flicked his head her way.

"Oh yeah?"

"Mmhm." Her heart was feeling heavier and heavier as the seconds ticked by, and a particular heat swelled up in her gut and began a boil.

"Well... what's the deal with him?" Octavia sighed and turned away in a huff. "You don't have to say."

She clenched her eyes shut. "No, it's fine. I just... feel like the villain about him. Pretty much ignored him through school." You did loads more than that.

"Have you seen him recently?"

"He still comes to my concerts," she said with a giggle in her tone, "sitting in the same spot every time." Sesame was quiet. "After each of them I've... I've always seen him in the hall, and we usually spot each other through the crowd." She turned around, scooting on her haunches, and raised her forelegs in an exaggerated W. "I'd much rather avoid bumping into ponies with my bass, and it's much too close to yell across to each other, so I sprint away to try and put my stuff down for a second. And every time I've come back, he was... just gone. Blends in with the rest of the lot."

"He sounds like a good guy."

"He is, he is!" She brought up one of her two hooves and waved it around frantically. "He once stuck up for me in our middle school against... against some bully, risking life and limb for Gods' sake. He even had the whole band play Happy Birthday for me that winter! I was so shocked I froze up." And you didn't even thank him. You ignored him and didn't even mention it to him directly. You just gave some half-hearted, quarter-assed acknowledgement.

Sesame chuckled as she felt herself wind down. "What was his name?"

Octavia looked across the ocean. Her lips hadn't crossed paths with the name in years. Only her own mind had been its friend for the longest time, constantly bringing him up and talking up a storm more ferocious than the one it usually wracked upon herself. It's because you wronged him. You ruined his life. You wrecked and then you ran you stupid whore slut asshole leading him on...

And she spoke it, lingering on the final letter with a soft smile.

"Noteworthy."

Sesame took a drag. "You should talk to him."

"I don't even know if he'd want to after that," she claimed, turning Sesame's way and shaking her head. Her smoky mane didn't seem to agree with the motion, almost blinding her with a whip-like projection. "He probably wants nothing to do with me." She faced the water once again, and sank into her crossed forelegs. "That and... I don't know if he even lives in Ponyville anymore."

"He have any friends there?"

"A mare named Roseluck." A good, good friend. A good, good friend she was absolutely thankful he'd had and, presumably, still had.

"Well, why don't you ask her where he is?"

Octavia sighed. "She might not want to tell me either."

"They close?"

"Very much so."

Sesame sucked on his teeth. "Ooh. Yeah, I can see that being big." Octavia flattened her ears. "I'm sure if you tell her you're serious about talking to him, she'll let you know."

Octavia brightened up in an instant.

"You think so?"

"Said I was sure of it, didn't I?"

Octavia smirked. "I guess you did." With Sesame's nod being his only answer, both he and her adjusted their postures, leaned into the railing, and watched the stars. A thought spilled from her brain. "I just hope he's okay."

"Sure he is." Sesame let his words sink in before hopping away from the railing with a little thump and a click of his cheek. "I'm gonna turn in. I'll see you tomorrow, I guess. Or, later. It's like midnight right now."

"We kind of have to," she told him because, honestly, it was kind of true.

"Yeah yeah yeah," he repeated as he walked off, waving a hoof. "Good night, Octavia."

"Good night, Sesame." His hooves clipped and clopped along as he retreated, and the door to the stairway shut with a rather imposing crash.

She was alone again.

But it was... quiet.

She waited for a second. And then two. And then three. And four, then five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Forty. Two minutes.

And it was quiet.

Octavia peered upward, back to the shimmering blue horizon and the full, bright white moon hanging in a mess of purples and silvers amongst it all.

She was heading home in the morning. She would take any method of transportation she could find, Gods be damned, and get back to Ponyville.

But her first stop wouldn't be her home, or her oven, or her music, or her bass.

It would be Noteworthy's front door.

She had a mission now. One more important than the one she'd constantly been cracking since leaving it all behind.

She had a goal.

And a particular wave of warmth burned pleasantly across her body.

Octavia beamed. For real.

Author's Note

F-Bombs: 1/3.

Holes
View Online

Stroll

Holes