Five Old Stories

Chapters

Death Of A Cellist
The Theatre
Crime Time In Manehattan
The Asylum
Scribble Script

Death Of A Cellist

Octavia grit her teeth, tears streaming from her eyes as another shock lit up her body. She pressed a hoof to the damnable device around her neck. Pain wracked her body, bringing her down to the floor. “No...No. You...You don’t get to do this to me any longer!”

She trembled as she arose, her legs twitching with each electrical shock through her body. Even in spite of the pain traveling through her body, she couldn’t help but grin. “Looks...looks like some pony does not like what they are seeing!”

It was a forced laugh, as she thrust the pain into the furthest recesses of her mind. One hoof in front of the other, she told herself. Then this would all be over. As she took the stairs one hoof at a time, she thought of Vinyl.

Her closest friend, her roommate...the one they had captured to keep her in line. The whole reason she had put on this damnable choker. Octavia had wanted to protect her, had wanted to keep her safe.

“You can stop with the pain any time you wish…” She muttered to the air. “It will not make any difference.”

Octavia hated keeping their secrets. They didn’t deserve it. They hadn’t earned her loyalty. They had taken it, forcefully. Vinyl was their leverage. She did what they say...or she never saw her again.

As much as it pained Octavia to think about it, she hoped that Vinyl would discover the hidden option before it was too late. Before her free will was stolen, and every avenue of escape cut away one by one, leaving no option but to become a toy. A prize. A mere plaything.

“Tell her I’m sorry.” The choker around her neck vibrated and hummed, and Octavia was down on the floor again, her hooves kicking at the air, her head leaning back as she heard an ear-piercing scream. Distantly, her mind recognized that it was herself.

She rolled over onto her hooves as she pressed her forehead to the ground. Sweat dripped from her once neat mane; it had been so perfect before she had began the concert. Her final concert. The one where they had slipped up. Octavia saw her chance, and she took it. She had to take it, before it was too late. As she climbed to her hooves, Octavia saw something that made her heart leap. Written on the door, in blocky, black letters.

Roof Access

With a growl, she forced herself to rear up on her hind legs, planting both forehooves on the bar and shoving the door open as violently as she could manage. It felt good, to vent her frustration on the door, and allow herself a breath of fresh, cold Canterlot air.

“Freedom.” She spoke softly. Freedom had been such an alien concept for so long. She rolled her head in the wind, feeling it play through her mane. A cold shiver ran down her spine as the breeze played over her sweaty coat. Not even the consistent pain from her choker would take this from her. A laugh built up in her throat. “Freedom!”

She lowered her head and forced herself into a gallop; she heard shouting behind her, but that was all it was. Meaningless words. This was her choice. The only choice she had made of her own free will since this had all began.

She would end this. Rather than live with what had been done to her...to Vinyl.

Octavia hadn’t been strong enough. She knew that. Hope dies in a pony’s heart when those they are close to are held away. She had cast enough blame on herself. The long nights, crying herself to sleep as her mind thought of what they were doing to her. Turning the wild, carefree party pony she had grown close to into an animalistic, obedient thing.

Octavia planted her hooves on the edge of the rooftop. The pain was excruciating; it shot through her very core, her heart beating with each shock it gave. But this would not stop her. She was free. Her legs bent, and she pushed herself off, her eyes closed as she felt the Canterlot air rush across her body. Lavender eyes fluttered open, looking three stories down at the busy Canterlot street below.

If only she could remain there forever. Suspended in time and space, looking down at such a remarkable, beautiful view. The ponies below, who never once thought of the darkness in their midst. Who never knew there were such extremes a pony could be driven to. Before they made their own choice. Before they ended it all, and buck the consequences.

All the panicked shouting behind her turned into meaningless wind as it rushed past her ears. She stretched out her forehooves. The ground rushed closer to her, and she welcomed it. She wanted it more than anything she had ever wanted in her life. This would be over. She would worry and cry no longer. No tears fell from her eyes.

Finally, at long last, she was free.

Author's Note

I sincerely apologize for this story.

This was the prologue to a story that was written as a response to another story on FIMFiction, building off of a situation that I felt was a rather depressing ending. I'd rather not name the story, especially since this idea has since been scrapped.

The idea itself would have been a murder mystery style, with a cast of characters investigating the strange events of a strange suicide. This chapter was written very quickly, and while I had plenty of ways to take the story, I could never decide on which one. Eventually, I contacted the author of the original story, and learned their take on the situation. While they have seen this story and actually enjoyed it, I decided that this idea could be considered 'petty' at best, which aided in my decision to scrap the story as a whole.

But, you got to admit, it has one hell of an impact.

The Theatre

Vinyl had never fully approved of Canterlot. As the center of the royal government of Equestria, the vast majority of the city’s population was made up of Vinyl often referred to in a snide voice as ‘the elite’; old money families who still lived in the manors their ancestors had built, businesses and banks that had gotten their start back in the days when Nightmare Moon being sealed away was still fresh on everyone’s minds. Yet because of that fact, the music scene had always boomed there, filled with studios that were far more wide reaching than any Manehatten studio and much better funded.

So Vinyl had grudgingly moved. From self-published records, to a small record label out of Manehatten, and now, a massive contract with the biggest record label in Equestria. Vinyl had never dreamed of a Canterlot studio expressing interest in her music, but at the end of the day, an entire generation of ponies had bags full of bits, and Vinyl’s music had the selling power.

Vinyl remembered when she had gotten her first check. She didn’t think numbers went that high. Now, she had bank accounts on top of her bank accounts. Piles of bits, and no clue what to do with them all. She had always lived very frugal; back in her Manehatten days, saving a few bits here and there was the difference between making rent or crashing on someone’s couch for a few weeks. Vinyl supposed she had gotten used to living far under her means.

She didn’t have a mansion, she had a small house. She didn’t have a private carriage, she walked or took a public one. She had, however, purchased a studio for herself; while the label had provided her space to record, it was always on their time. Vinyl had gotten tired of watching her agent fight to get her on the schedule, and she had the bits to spare.

Today however, was a completely different kind of purchase.

The aptly known Talent District in Canterlot was home to far more that just her record companies. The Canterlot School of the Arts, the Royal Canterlot Symphony, Countless stage musical groups, and talent agencies by the boatload. And, the Canterlot Musical Theatre.

It was this last building that had gotten Vinyl out of bed at eight in the morning. The pegasi had scheduled a clear day today, so Vinyl had decided to walk across town. As expected of the musical district, there were plenty of ponies on the streets; some with instruments, others performing various acts.

Vinyl reached her destination, coming to a stop before the imposing structure. She had to admit; it had probably seen better days. Three stories tall, and painted an unobtrusive white color, The Canterlot Musical Theatre had once been a rather popular destination in Canterlot. It had been the original home for the symphony, and held various shows of all kinds in the off-season. Then the symphony had moved, and all its patrons had followed. The acts died off, and the theatre was passed back and forth through a number owners over the years, always winding up back in the hooves of the bank.

It seemed that they had put only the bare minimum of upkeep into it. The archaic lighting was missing quite a few of the original bulbs, one of the spotlights was missing, and the paint was peeling above the first story. The glass cases that had once held posters to display the upcoming acts were either cracked or missing their glass altogether. Well, not all of them. Vinyl was certain that the various glass shards that littered the sidewalk amounted to at least a pane and a half.

As Vinyl looked closer, she saw that whoever had painted the first story had done so without removing the old paint first. It gave the wood a mottled look; bumps and bubbles had formed underneath the most recent layer. Vinyl gave a sigh, before climbing up the marble steps. She noticed with some comfort that the steps were quite solid under her hooves. She halted on the steps, giving a jump.

“Well, these have held up.” Vinyl turned and looked towards the doors. “Those...not so much.”

The grand doors, a span of six double doors that could be held open on popular nights, were in desperate need of new finish. As she gripped the door and gave it a pull, its hinges released a shriek that caused her teeth to rattle. She stepped into the foyer.

Her eyes trailed over the faded carpet. There was a musty smell in the air, but thankfully she didn’t smell any mold. It smelled more ancient than anything else. She saw the missing spotlight had been relocated to the top of the ticket counter. She leaned in, looking at the shattered lens and dented side.

“You would be Vinyl?”

Vinyl turned her gaze from the spotlight, looking at the mare talking from the auditorium doors. “Yep. That’s me. And you are...?”

“Swift Justice. I’m here on behalf of the bank.”

Swift Justice was a rather smart looking earth pony. She wore a suit over her light green coat, and her orange hair swept back in a professional type of poof. She set her briefcase down on the ticket counter, a puff of dust rising up in the still air..

“Would you like a tour before we get down to business?”

“That’d be cool.” Vinyl swept her hoof towards the auditorium. “Lead the way, Swifty.”

==========

Swift certainly lived up to her name. She had guided Vinyl through the theater with ease, pointing out all the features and leaving Vinyl to take in all the flaws that needed no elaboration. The main elevator was locked at the second floor. It seemed solid, but nothing could get it to move up or down. The service elevator rested in the basement, looking slightly squashed.

Everywhere they went, the wallpaper hung in depressed strips, large patches of plain brown wall showing behind faded gold.

“How the buck do you get around this place so easily?” Vinyl growled, as she jumped several steps that had bowed in the middle.

“Third time selling it.” Swift said as she pressed against the wall. “Mind the floor.”

Vinyl noticed with a sigh that the carpet was sagging in the middle. She followed Swift’s path very carefully after that, especially down the stairs. She was certain she heard them cracking under their hooves.

At least the auditorium itself was reasonably maintained.

“Mostly it gets rented out to students at the academy, maybe a stage group who needs rehearsal space.” Swift watched as Vinyl walked up on the stage. “Hey, be careful!”

Vinyl had been giving the stage a few experimental stomps when the floor had simply opened up beneath her. Her hooves scrambled in the air to find placement before she fell into the darkness under the stage, landing with a grunt on a smooth wooden floor before she was suddenly enveloped in a cloud of dust.

There was a stomp and a click from above her, and light shone down as Swift Justice looked at her, leaning down and extending a hoof. “I did try and warn you.”

Vinyl took her hoof, using her other hoof to cover her coughs as she let Swift pull her up. Once she was back on the stage, the trap door swung back up, clicking and locking in place.

“Really?” Vinyl looked at Swift. “That is so cool!”

“The stage has a few of them. Usually used for special effects, the occasional magical act, and so forth.” Swift indicated the spots on the stage, marked with masking tape to form an X. She stomped on one of them, and a few inches from her hoof, the stage floor clicked and fell open before springing back into place.

“The stage has seven of them in total, with a passage that leads through the wall to the higher levels.” She pointed to the third stage balcony. “Some kind of magic act where the pony vanishes and appears behind everypony else.”

“They solid?” Vinyl said, as she reached a hoof over to give a few careful stomps on the trapdoor itself.

“...Most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

Swift heaved a sigh. She reached a hoof up to her suit, straightening the collar before she turned back towards Vinyl. “I will not try and sugar coat this. This building could use some improvement. Quite a bit of it, in fact. Remodeling has always proven a challenge.That spotlight in there fell from the balcony and destroyed an entire cart of lumber. Through three separate owners, no one has had the patience to remodel it. Something gets fixed, something else goes wrong.”

Vinyl turned and took in the auditorium. From here on the stage, it looked quite grand. She didn’t bother to count the seats, but between the floor seating, the two balconies, and the rows of private boxes along each wall, Vinyl figured it could hold a few hundred ponies at least. Sure, it had more than it’s fair share of problems, but underneath the dust and rotted wood....she tried to imagine what it must have felt like to be on this stage when the theatre was in it’s prime.

“I’ll take it anyway.” Vinyl turned back towards Swift with a wide smile. “I like it.”

Author's Note

This is one of my favorites, and a story that never quite got off the ground. Out of all of the stories posted here, this is the one that is most likely to be turned into its own story at some point.

The premise of the story, in a nutshell, was that Vinyl Scratch buys an old, rundown theatre (as you can see) and finds a shy, quiet, and mostly mute Octavia living inside of it. I always considered the premise to be a rather cute and adorable one, but I never went further than this with it. I already had two OctaScratch fics in progress, and I didn't want to flood my page with them. So this got placed on the back-burner, which was later moved to the "Old Ideas" bin.

Crime Time In Manehattan

Shining Armor didn’t know what to make of the redhaired woman at the interrogation table. He’d interviewed his share of suspects for everything from disorderly conduct to murder, and there had always been a bit of nervousness as he walked in the room in full uniform. Yet, this woman was calm and expressionless.

As he closed the door, Roseluck tilted her head towards him. Her eyes flicked over his uniform, and the polished badge attached to his chest. She gave a sigh as she tilted her head up to the ceiling, leaning back as far as her hands, cuffed to the metal bar in the center of the table, would allow.

It was difficult to believe that she was the same suspect from the incident report. She would have looked like an average, everyday woman; an athletic physique that leaned more towards tone than curves, and a plain outfit of a button up shirt and blue jeans. An illusion that was easily dispelled by the signs of chaos that clung to her; the dark splash of blood across the front of her shirt, the smell of burning rubber that filled the cramped interrogation room, and the obvious fact that the left side of her hair had been burned far shorter than the right.

She didn’t look like a criminal; she looked like a soldier fresh out of combat.

Shining had to admit to himself that he felt just a bit unnerved. He’d never seen anyone look so calm when faced with the Captain of the Guard. He watched her as she looked at him, head tilted to the side almost as if she was considering him, then gave a small sigh as she leaned back as far as her handcuffs would allow.

He focused on his training. It wouldn’t serve the Princess to look thrown in front of a criminal. He kept his face calm and composed.

“So, Miss Roseluck-”

“I want a lawyer. I’m not saying shit otherwise.”

Shining allowed himself a hint of a smile as he looked at her. “Yes. The detective told me that you wanted your lawyer present. However, we are denying that request.”

That got her attention, he noticed. Her head whipped down, eyes locking onto his. If looks could kill, Shining would need a coroner; he had no idea that golden eyes like hers could look so cold. “I have my rights. You can’t deny those.”

“The Police can’t deny those rights. The Royal Guard can. When the decision is made to prosecute for Crimes Against The Crown.”

Shining had expected her to sag, a look of distress, a shocked and angry outburst perhaps. It wasn’t every day that someone was told that they had been stripped of all rights and labeled a traitor.

Instead, Roseluck pursed her lips, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes, but her face retained it’s calm, expressionless gaze. “Figures.”

“As such,” Shining continued, flipping the file open to look at the report, “Any crime connected to the initial crime can be tried under the same set of legal circumstances.”

“Really? What else are you charging me with, aside from grand theft royal?”

Shining ignored the sarcasm in her tone as he flipped through the pages of the report. “It’d be easier to list what you’re not being charged with. Unregistered weapons, mass destruction, maybe even a terrorism charge if we feel like we can make it fit. Which, I think we can. Murder, attempted murder-”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” Roseluck snapped.

“We know. However, we can charge every member of a team with one crime, under-”

“Some other bullshit law that’ll put me in the dungeon for a very long time,” Roseluck muttered, waving her hand in a looping motion. “I get it. I’m fucked.”

“Rose, I’m not here to tell you you’re fucked. I’m here to get to the bottom of this.” Roseluck kept up her silent staring, so Shining continued. “Your...associates are known to be unstable.”

Shining Armor laced his fingers together, setting his arms down on the table as he forced himself to give Roseluck his most determined look. “I want to know what could have possibly lead you to wind up in the company of one of Equestria’s Most Wanted surrounded by death and destruction.”

Roseluck leaned back in her chair and stared at him, the chains on her handcuffs rattling as she threw her hands into her lap.

“You have nothing to lose from telling me. Even if we don’t prosecute on every other count, the initial crime is enough to put you away for treason. The rest of the guards know this. I’m the only one who wants to find out exactly what went on.”

“Have you spoken to Vinyl?”

“I did.”

“And what did she say?”

Shining couldn’t help but chuckle, despite the circumstances. “She told me to ‘get fucked’ in as many creative ways as she could manage.”

“Nonono.” Roseluck leaned forward, elbows on the table as she looked at him. “What exactly did she say to you?”

“Like I said, she told me to get fucked. Then she promised to hunt me down and make me eat my own liver.”

Roseluck considered that for several seconds, her eyes closed. Finally, she nodded. “Fine. You want to know. I’ll tell you.”

That threw him off for a few seconds. “...Because Vinyl threatened to kill me?”

Shining couldn’t resist the chill that ran up his spine, as Roseluck looked him dead in the eyes, her mouth twisting into a toothy grin.

“Oh no. It’s because she promised to kill you. And I know from experience that that is a promise she’ll keep.”

== One Week Earlier==

“You got out of the game, with a lot of reluctance if I remember correctly, and now you’re diving back in head first? Why?”

“Why does anyone do something stupid? Money.”

Doc whistled through his teeth as he looked at the paper. “That’s a reason.”

“A few million reasons, I’d say.”

“So, what precisely are you stealing?”

“No clue.” Roseluck tapped the paper with two fingers. “With this printout, you know everything I know.”

“And you’re being paid not to ask questions.”

“Yeah.”

Doc rested his chin on interlaced fingers, looking at Roseluck over the top of his glasses. “It’s dangerous. You know it is. Any job where you don’t know exactly what it is that you’re going after...”
“Of course I know. But this seems pretty cut and dry. They just want what is in some deposit box.”

“Deposit boxes are for banks.”

“And what exactly is this place?”

“They’re a private contracting firm.” Doc said, as he rummaged through his messenger bag. “I printed out what I could find here…”

He withdrew a manilla folder, tossing it on the table with a light slap. “They’re defined as a holding company, but mostly a matching service.”

“Dating?”

“Haha, you’re funny. They take people who need services and match them to those who provide services. They’re old.” Doc drew out the word as he turned pages in the file. “Just over five hundred years. One of the oldest companies in Equestria. They’ve been used by the royal family for centuries, as well as just about every bank in the world, and quite a few unsavory figures.”

Roseluck sipped her coffee, her eyes closed as she contemplated the situation. “Holding company...matching service. So they must have their own in-house companies...people come to them wanting something and they either provide those services in house, or direct them to an outside company?”

“All built on the good reputation that they have provided for years. They have their fingers in a lot of pies. Contracts with the military, security firms, overseas corporations…here.” Doc handed Roseluck a stack of papers. “Brand listing.”

Roseluck flipped through the pages as she leaned on her other hand. “So the end result is, I have no idea what I’m stealing.”

“Could be anything from gold to potatoes.” Doc said cheerfully.

Roseluck stayed silent as she gave the folder a blank stare.

“Any idea how you want to play this?”

With a breath that ruffled her bangs, Roseluck turned her eyes towards Doc. “I think I’d better prepare for anything and everything. I can’t solo it. Company this old and well established, and wiith the clients that they’re bound to have, security’s gonna be top notch.”

“I can certainly help with that.”

Roseluck leaned back in her chair, balancing it precariously on two legs. “We’ll have to do a smash and grab. In and out, quick as possible.”

“What about an exit strategy?”

Roseluck tilted her head. “Aerial or streets?”

“Know anyone who can do both?”

“Nope…” Roseluck sighed. “But I’ve worked with Berry Punch in the past. I can’t think of a better driver than her.”

“What’s her going rate?”

Roseluck considered that. “Surprisingly affordable.”

“Well, I might be able to call in a favor for some aerial support.”

“Drug runner?”

“Ex military. Ditzy Doo. Honorably discharged from the Equestrian Air Force after an accident with a test plane. If it flies, she can fly it.”

“CIA Black ops?”

“How do you think I met her?”

“Right. Fair enough.” Roseluck rocked her chair back and forth. “I wonder if I can reach out to Octavia?”

“Octavia? As in, two dozen paintings, eight sculptures, and a crate of gold bars?”

“Ingots. And yes, that’s her.”

“Didn’t she do the Stradivarius job last year?”

“Yep. And The Baltimare Job.”

“I remember that one. I still can’t figure out how she did it, and I’m in the government for fuck’s sake.”

“So that’s a yes for Octavia. We need a hitter. Know any ex-military thugs?”

“None willing to jeopardize their government funded retirement. What about Amethyst Star?”

“Isn’t she dead?”

“...In some jurisdictions. Pinkie Pie?”

Roseluck slammed her chair to the floor as she locked eyes with the Doctor. “How about someone who isn’t a fucking psychopath?”

“Hey, if you want the best…” The Doctor gave a shrug.

“I want someone whose plan for witnesses doesn’t involve leveling a square block.”

“Did she actually do that?”

“Stalliongrad.”

“Oooh right, that was her, wasn’t it...Vinyl Scratch?”

“Doc, that wasn’t a challenge to come up with someone worse.”

“She’s the best I can think of.”

Author's Note

This story is the most unfinished out of the lot, and in my opinion, the most fun. The premise of this story is pretty easy to explain; A group of criminals take on a heist, only for things to go terribly, terribly wrong. While I don't want to give too much away on the off-chance that I continue this some day, the prologue (Anything before the "One Week Earlier" Break is technically the middle of the story. It starts there, goes over the events, and then comes full circle where the story continues for the next half.

At the time I came up with this idea, I was playing quite a bit of Saints Row: The Third. I thought it'd be funny to make the boss look like Vinyl, and that's what wound up inspiring a lot of the ideas here. I switched the main character to Roseluck because Vinyl had become such a dominant force in this story; She's loud, confrontational, and a borderline psychopath that only Roseluck can control. To put this into perspective, there was a planned scene where Vinyl has sex with a gun (In non-explicit terminology) for the express purpose of pissing Octavia off and shocking every other member of their team. This would have resulted in Octavia shooting Vinyl in the shoulder, and Vinyl laughing at her for it.

It was an insane story.

The Asylum

If Vinyl thought hard enough, she could almost imagine that she was at a bar. She closed her eyes and pictured the scene; lasers and strobe lights lighting up the room, a bounding baseline thumping through her chest, the scratch of records in the distance as a DJ worked the turntables. She let a smile crawl across her lips as she imagined the bartender pouring her a shot. She grabbed it and lifted it up.

The rattling inside the cup cut through her daydream. With a sigh, Vinyl looked down at her shooter. Seven pills of various colors looked up at her. She gave a sigh, throwing her head back and tossing the pills in her mouth. She ignored the cup of water; she’d taken enough pills during her stay to learn the finer tricks of getting them down.

The metal hatch on the door slid closed, cutting off her view of the hallway. The nurse was the only one she saw on a regular basis. She’d been stuck here, in Room 1952, for a long time and never spoken to any doctors. Always the nurse. Not that the nurse ever spoke back. She could ask questions all she wanted, but the nurse would simply stare at her through the door slot until she took her pills.

The mattress gave a squeak as she sat down, pressing her hooves to her head and trying to remember how long she had been here. She had a life outside of this room, she knew that much. She had a job, and hobbies, and a mare that she loved more than anything else. She could picture her now; the wonderful charcoal mane and the gray fur, the purple...thing on her flank.

Cutie mark. Treble Clef. Octavia.

Vinyl slammed her hoof down into the pillow with a growl, her other hoof pressing to her muzzle to stifle a sniff. She blinked away the tears that threatened to burst forth. Vinyl would have loved to have a pen or a pencil, something to draw and write with. Some way to guarantee that the medicine would never dull her thoughts of Octy. She tried to summon her magic to burn reminders of her life on the wall, but as usual, nothing came.

With a sigh, Vinyl stood up on the bed, peeking out one of the pair of windows that were set up high on the wall. They were too small for her to squeeze through even if they didn’t have the metal grating over them, but they let in natural light and allowed her a limited view of outside.

Hooves resting on the small ledge, she took in the sight of the trees blowing in the wind and the green grass. On clear days, she even thought she could see mountains in the distance. A long, brown dirt road stretched along left to right as far as Vinyl could see in either direction.

And there, in the shade of one of the trees that lined the road, was Octavia.

She was sitting like she always did at home, staring at the building in front of her. Vinyl wished she was closer, wished that she could make out the expression on her face. Vinyl slammed her hooves against the metal grating with a loud rattle.

“Octy! I’m here! Right here!”

Vinyl leapt off the bed and slammed her shoulder against the metal door with as much force as she could muster.

“Hey!” Vinyl’s hooves slammed against the door, sending a loud metallic echo into the hallway. “My marefriend is out there! Let her in, I wanna see her! I want a visitor!”

Vinyl’s horn pressed against the metal shutter, trying to wedge it open, to scream and shout until someone heard her. With a growl of frustration, she ran back to the bed, jumping up to look out the window, a dull ache running through her body as her heart pounded in her chest.

“C’mon Octy! Come inside!”The words came out in the form of a sob, her throat catching as tears began to flow freely down her muzzle. “Please...Don’t go Octy. Don’t go again...”

Vinyl kept her eyes locked on the grey form under the tree, watching as she eventually stood up and began walking left down the road.

“No! Nonononono!” Vinyl slammed her hooves down harder against the grating. The metal gave a sudden squeal as it bent, spiderweb cracks darting along the window. “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me here!”

The door gave a high pitched squeak as it slid open, the nurse running into the room. She grabbed Vinyl’s legs and pulled her away from the window, where she landed with a bounce on the bed.

“Just let her in, I just wanna see her again!” Vinyl kicked her legs in all directions, feeling the pressure of the nurse holding her down, pressing her against the bed. There came the sharp sting of pain in her leg, followed by a burning in her veins as something began to flow through her blood.

“Please!” Vinyl screamed the word as loud as she could, even as a sudden lethargy ran through her. Her legs grew weak, dropping to the mattress as the nurse stepped back. A light buzz filled her ears and the ceiling above her dropped in and out of focus.

The nurse looked down into her face. Vinyl could feel herself falling down into unconsciousness, even as a wave of terror and nausea ran through her. The blurry pony above her grew dark, sinister, warping into a multitude stretched shadows that towered over her. She opened her mouth to scream, but only a small gasping groan escaped her throat. Glowing green eyes stared back at her.

They were laughing now, the three of them clustered around her bed, moving her limp body as the shadows liquified, wrapping around her form and pulling tight. Vinyl couldn’t breathe. She choked and gasped for air, but the drug had taken hold of her system. She had no strength left to fight them. The buzz in her ears turned into an endless, eternal screech as the darkness engulfed her.

Vinyl was unsure how long she had been staring out the window for. She had switched to the left window; the cracked glass of the other made it difficult to see. Red eyes locked on the tree, desperate to see her Octy. With a sigh, she lowered herself away from the window, sitting on the edge of her bed.

“Please, Celestia...get me out of here.” Vinyl wrapped her legs around herself, trying to imagine that it was the embrace of anypony who wasn’t a nurse. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry...”

The familiar metal scraping sound of the door hatch echoed in the room, followed by the familiar rattle of pills in a plastic cup. Vinyl turned to look at the door, seeing her medicine waiting for her on the little shelf. The eyes of the nurse watched patiently beyond it.

“Why am I here? Why are you doing this to me?” Vinyl approached the door, picking up the cup of pills. There were more of them this time. Or had there always been seven? She looked back at the nurse who predictably, didn’t say anything. Simply watched her with those cold blue eyes.

“Can...Can I have a visitor? She...she comes outside. She waits out there...can...can I just see her for a little bit?”

The nurse simply blinked in response. Vinyl took her pills and tossed the cup out the hatch. It closed without a word. Vinyl shut her eyes, squeezing them tight. That was how it worked here, she told herself. She’d take her medicine, and get better, and then she could have visitors. They’d go outside and bring Tavi inside, and they could see each other.

She turned her head, looking up at the window. She tried not to hope too much as she stepped up onto the bed again, hooves gripping the edge of the window as she pulled herself up and looked outside. There she was! Vinyl’s heart picked up as she saw her grey mare walking along the road, stopping to sit under that tree again, looking towards the building, towards her!

Vinyl switched windows, looking at the bent grating she had caused, and the cracked glass. She threw a look at the door, before she drew her hoof back. She didn’t care what the nurse would do to her, she needed to let Octavia know she was in here!

Vinyl felt the impact through her hoof, the metal grating squeaking and rattling in it’s frame, the crunch of cracked glass. Pain lanced through her hoof as she drove it against the window once more, then again and again. Behind her, the door began to creak.

With a growl, she put all the force she could behind the next punch, and she watched the glass shatter. Did Octavia notice? She couldn’t tell. Vinyl wanted to shout to her, but she had taken too long; she was pulled away from the window by the damned nurse again.

“No, no please! I gotta call her! Just let me...”

The burning in her veins returned, the empty syringe dropping to the floor. The world around her lost cohesion, and the shadows were back, grinning at her, pressing over her and shoving her down into the darkness again. They were keeping her here, keeping her in and Octavia out!

“Just wanna...” Vinyl looked up into the grinning shadow with pleading eyes. “Wanna...see. Tavi. Octavi....”

The shadows wrapped around her. They grew tight, making her gasp as her vision exploded in bright light which vanished as quickly as it had appeared, until she was lost in the inescapable blackness once more.

Octavia watched over the form of the pony she loved, looking for anything; a twitch of the hooves, an attempt to talk, a flicker of recognition. She planted her hoof under Vinyl’s chin, tilting it up towards her to look into those brilliant red eyes, once so full of life and happiness that now stared off into nothingness.

No matter how many times Octavia came here, she never got over the look of the room. Being Vinyl’s lover had gotten her accustomed to a certain degree of messiness. Yet, Room 1952 was devoid of her personality; only clinical coldness remained in a white linoleum floor, plain white walls and a bed that had been bolted to the floor. No window to let in natural light, just bright lights that made Vinyl’s coat glow a sickly yellow color.

Octavia wrapped her hooves around Vinyl’s unresponsive form, lifting her with just the hint of a groan. As gently as she could, she settled the mare into bed, pulling the covers and tucking them around her. Her hooves tapped gently on the floor as she moved back to see Vinyl’s wide, staring eyes.

They gave a blink. Such a motion used to get Octavia’s hopes up. Yet it was just a reflex. Octavia realized that the small jump in her heart she used to feel when Vinyl blinked had faded. Octavia wondered how long it’d been gone.

Heya Tavi!
Hey Octy! What’s up?
C’mon Treble Clef, don’t be like that!
Octavia heard the words in her head and could even remember the vocal inflections Vinyl added, but the words were empty and hollow. Not real. The sadness didn’t even phase her anymore. It had simply become a fact of life.

Octavia had come into the room. She had told Vinyl about her day, tucked her into bed. The usual ritual she had performed countless times. Octavia gave a resigned sigh, pressing her lips to Vinyl’s forehead. No response. Ritual fulfilled. Completed. Done with. Octavia had no idea how many more times she’d complete the cycle.

Octavia offered no goodbye, stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind her. The hallway stretched on and on with who knew how many rooms on each side, each one meticulously numbered.

With a resigned sigh, Octavia pushed open the door to Room 1953. A plain room greeted her, along with the all too familiar sight of Vinyl’s wide staring eyes. Octavia walked in and sat down before her, looking over her. The exact same. Every room, a new Vinyl to take care of.

“It’s very nice of you to come!” Nurse Redheart pushed the logbook over the counter, pushing away the feeling of sadness she always got when she looked at Bon Bon. The ponies that she visited rarely ever gave any sign that they noticed her. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you!”

Bon Bon signed her name, setting the quill down on the counter. “You know they won’t be. It’s like they don’t even see me. They’re off in their own little world.”

Author's Note

Nope. You really didn't see this. Next chapter please.

This was a story I had written for a Halloween colab contest that someone was putting on. I don't remember the author behind the contest, but I know that I was impressed that I had actually managed to finish this on time. But, I never submitted it to the contest.

When all was said and done, and I went back to re-read this, I came to one solid, firm conclusion; I cannot write horror. All that being said, I actually had a friend who encouraged me to submit this to the contest anyway, and I had finally relented, only to find out that the contest had closed a day or so previous. I wasn't confidant enough to post it as a stand-alone on my own page, so into the "Old Ideas" file it went.

To be honest, this is the only story that actually deserves to be here; It is the only one that was completely self-contained, with absolutely no plans for continuation.

Scribble Script

Pointed Quill knew that it was going to be one of those mornings. She reached up to push her hair back over her ears in a self-comforting motion. She had worked here long enough to know what the editor-in-chief’s silhouette looked like through the frosted glass of the door.

Especially when she didn’t even knock.

“You need to have a talk with him.” Pen Feather didn’t bother with pleasantries, walking into Pointed Quill’s office to stand in front of her desk. “I’m tired of this.”

You’re not the only one.
“Hi, how can I help you today?” She crossed her hooves and gave Pen Feather her most winning smile.

“You can get Scribble to stop acting like an asshole.”

“I apologize.” Pointed Quill’s cheeks felt like they were going to buckle under the strain of her smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She reached over to pick up her clipboard, adjusting her glasses as she studied the sheet. “Mr. Script’s column was submitted-”

“I’m not talking about our column! I’m talking about this!” Pen Feather growled, as he raised his hoof and threw a paper down onto her desk. “This shit! I get that his contract allows him to freelance, but for bucks sake, check his stories before he submits them!”

Pointed Quill felt her coat bristle as he shouted at her. She didn’t bother smiling any longer as she stood up, planting her hooves with a firm thump on the desk. “I can assure you, that I read every story he submits to every paper. Nothing gets to any editor’s desk without my express approval. But if you have a problem with his stories, perhaps we can work out the termination of his contract?”

“You approve another story like that, and I’ll be more than happy to discuss it,” Pen Feather snapped. “He may have freelance opportunities, but he is employed by the Gazette. And this shit is being reflected right back on us.”

Pointed Quill blinked; she hadn’t expected that. She had only intended it as an empty threat. A chill ran down her spine as she wondered what Scribble could have done to get the editor of the biggest newspaper in the city this mad.

“If you don’t get Scribble to behave, he’ll be freelancing for a living.” Pen Feather gave a sigh, before turning back towards the door. “We’d lose sales. I get that. But this might turn out to be damage control.”

Pointed Quill watched the editor leave without another word, wincing as he slammed the door behind him. With a sigh,she let her eyes drift down to the paper that had been thrown on her desk. It was a tabloid magazine, one of the gossip rags that ponies gazed over in the supermarket checkout lines. The word “Starlite” was branded across the top in bright letters.

“Scribble, what did you do this time?” She lifted the paper up. She didn’t even have to open it; the answer was staring right back at her on the front page.

“Open the door. Scribble! Open the door!”

Pointed Quill raised her hoof again, bringing it down to pound on the heavy wooden door, sending frame-rattling slams through the wall. She had once prided herself on her cool and calm demeanor, able to negotiate her way through a contract in half-an-hour or less.

That had ended about two months after she had started representing Scribble Script.

She had never met a pony like him, and she was quite glad for that; the knowledge that there were two of him out there would have been enough to send her into a nervous fit.
She had once slept soundly; now she had to take sleeping pills.

Pointed Quill had read the article on the ride over. It had spanned four pages on the inside of the tabloid, and ended promising a continuation in the next issue. Scribble had certainly written it; she could recognize the contempt in every word. She tapped a hoof on the floor as she turned around, slamming her hind hoof into the door.

“Open the bucking door!” she shouted into the wood. “I know you’re home, it’s not like you go anywhere else!”

Finally, she heard the sound of a chain unlocking. She smoothed back her hair over her ears and reached down to pick up her briefcase. The door swung open, revealing a white unicorn stallion, a red and black striped scarf wrapped around his neck. He rubbed at his eye with a hoof as he shook unkempt strands of brown mane out of his eyes.

“G’morning, Point,” Scribble muttered, not even bothering to cover his yawn. “Whaddya want?”

“We need to talk.” Pointed Quill pushed him aside to walk inside the apartment, looking around the room. It could have been cozy, if Scribble owned anything that could have been used for decoration. The floor was covered in soft blue carpet, and the bay windows had been covered in black out curtains. The pile of blankets on the couch showed that Scribble had been less than ten feet away from the door when Pointed Quill had started pounding on it.

“This couldn’t wait?” Scribble said as he latched the door, trotting back to lay on the couch, pulling a blanket up over his form as he rested his cheek on the legrest. “I would have gotten to your office eventually…”

Pointed Quill stepped around the couch, noting the pile of hornwritten notes scattered both on, and in the general vicinity of, the coffee table. She nudged some of them aside to lay her briefcase down on the surface.

“I had an interesting talk with Pen Feather today,” Pointed Quill said as she sat on the floor. Scribble didn’t reply, so she continued. “He expressed some...concerns with some of your freelance projects.”

“Didja tell him to read my contract?” Scribble didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “I’m allowed to freelance.”

Pointed Quill flicked an ear as she opened her briefcase, lifting the copy of “Starlite” out, and laying it on the floor in front of her. “Scribble. What were you thinking?”

Scribble opened an eye at the sound of the rustling newsprint. He let out a slow sigh as he saw what she was holding; the latest copy of “Starlite”, with a bright picture of a female pegasus pony on the cover.

With a grunt, he righted himself, letting the blanket fall to the side. “It’s gonna be one of these conversations, isn’t it?” His horn flared with magic as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from underneath a stack of papers.

Pointed Quill opened the paper, clearing her throat as she reached the article in question. “The Expose Of A Winning Pony,” she read aloud.

As Scribble Script stuck a cigarette in his mouth and tossed the pack aside, Pointed Quill looked back down to the article. “Cloud Kicker may not be the most important pony in Equestria, but she is a staggering example of the dual nature of Equestrian Ineptitude; she lives her life constantly trying to better herself while her sheer existence is one long trail of mistakes, punctuated by shattered hearts and assault charges. One could make the most dangerous of all drinking games out of her life, by taking a single shot every time a pony is beaten.’”

“Gotta lighter? I can’t find mine.” Pointed Quill looked up to see him digging in between the couch cushions. “Gah. Buck it. Light this for me.” With a deft flick of his hoof, he tossed the cigarette onto the paper, inclining his head as a small flame snapped onto the tip of his horn.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Nope. Light the damn cigarette.”

Pointed Quill let out a sigh, lifting the cigarette to her lips as she leaned over. She pressed the end of the cigarette into the horn flame, taking a puff to pull the fire into the cigarette. No sooner than she had taken a single puff had his magic pulled the cigarette away.

“Thanks,” he said, leaning back and taking a drag.

“Scribble, you can’t write this shit about ponies!” Pointed Quill shouted, slamming the paper down onto the table with a hoof as she stared at him over her glasses.

“How are the sales?” Pointed Quill didn’t like the look on Scribble’s face as he said that; the casual, easygoing smirk with a cigarette clenched in his teeth.

“If it has your name on it, of course it’s going to sell well!”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is.” Scribble leaned over to tap his cigarette ash on top her briefcase.

“The problem is that everyone is going to see this as you just being a bastard!” she growled as she rose to all four hooves.

Scribble snorted, his eyes giving a roll as he looked up at her. “Yeah, because that’s a real stretch.”

“Ponies like you, Scribble! But if you keep this shit up, how long do you think that’s going to last?” Pointed Quill slammed her hoof down onto the carpet. “This isn’t journalism, this is you being an asshole. What the buck did she do to you?”

“I thought she was interesting.” Scribble shrugged, pausing to take a drag on his cigarette, holding it in before breathing it out in her direction. “Turns out, I was right. Really right. Amazingly right, actually.”
“So you drag her through the mud?”

“Mud that she made.” He stuck a fresh cigarette into his mouth, lighting the new one off of the end of the other, before stubbing it out on the table. “It was your suggestion that I go to Ponyville to find a story, and I found a bucking story. What else do you want?”

“You to find some equinity, for Faust’s sake!” She smoothed her hair back over her ears again, resisting the urge to grab it and yank it from the sides of her head. “This is your reputation, and if she decides to press charges…”

“Which she won’t do, because what could she say?” He reached out to tap Cloud Kicker’s face on the paper. “On-the-bucking-record sources, interviews with her many friends and family, and even a three-part interview with Cloud Kicker herself! It took me a month to piece her life together!”

“But why even bother?” Pointed Quill asked, staring at him with a confused stare. “She’s far from a celebrity, hardly front page news…”

“Because she’s interesting!” Scribble shouted, leaping off of the couch to look her in the eyes, inches away from her muzzle. “I don’t give a buck about the latest fashion line, or the gossip about Prince Blueblood! It’s boring to me! Boring! You think I wanna write up a political scandal? It’s politics! There is your scandal!”

Scribble threw his hooves up in the air as he began pacing back and forth in front of the couch, kicking up papers as he walked. He lifted the cigarette out of his mouth and turned, slamming a hoof on the paper again. “She’s a real pony doing real things and living a real Faust-damned life! And she’s more interesting that half the bucking ponies everypony wants me to cover!”

Pointed Quill sat down and blinked as Scribble turned and trotted over to a large wooden cabinet against the far wall, throwing the doors open to reveal his liquor collection; rows of bottles of all kinds of alcohol. He took another drag of smoke as he magically lifted a glass and a bottle of dark liquid down from the shelf, pouring a glass.

“That is a real pony,” he said again, softer this time as he filled his glass with generous measure of what Pointed Quill noticed was rum. “A life more interesting than anyone in the royal court, and it’s better because she’s never tried to put on a mask. This is her life. Read the bucking interview, she’s never tried to hide it. All I did was spell it out and print it. It makes her real.”

Glass magically bobbing along side him, he trotted to a nearby recliner, staring at the wall, away from Pointed Quill. “And I’m not gonna put up a front, either. I don’t give a damn about image, or reputation. Freedom of the bucking press.” Scribble threw himself into the chair, hind legs lifting up to rest on the hoofstool as he raised his glass, his eyes meeting hers. “Cheers.”

As Scribble took a sip of his drink, Pointed Quill tapped her hoof against her chin. Dealing with Scribble Script led to a passionate discussion more often than not. Even so, there was something Pointed Quill just couldn’t seem to put her hoof on.

Still deep in thought, she grabbed his cigarettes from the couch and pulled one from his pack. As she trotted over to him, Scribble silently leaned forward, the flame appearing at the tip of his horn with a light pop. She lit her cigarette, then sat down next to the chair, turning the article over in her mind, combining it with everything she knew about Scribble.

Finally, it hit her. “You admire her.”

“Hrmm?” He looked at her over the top of his glass. She grinned at him.

“That’s what that article is. You admire her life. She’s a ‘real pony’,” she said, adding hoof quotes for emphasis. “You like how she lives her life. You even told me you found her interesting, and you’ve never said that about any pony before. That’s what this is. This is your… twisted way of respect.”

“Right. I’m always writing articles about ponies I respect,” Scribble muttered as he drained his drink.

“You researched everything about her for a month. You won’t even do that for a member of the royal family.” Pointed Quill felt a bit lightheaded from the cigarette; she didn’t smoke often, but dealing with Scribble Script often required it. “You wanted to...acknowledge her life. So you wrote an article. To honor her in print, or something twisted like that.”

Scribble waved his hoof at her in a shooing motion, but didn’t reply. Pointed Quill let the subject drop.

“I know you’re barely listening to a word I say, but please, at least try to be careful. If you’re turning into a liability for the ponies who sign your paychecks…” She set her cigarette down in a nearby ashtray that Scribble had ignored completely; he simply tapped his ashes onto the floor.

“I’ll have to start paying for my own legal defense?” Scribble said, the bottle of rum levitating over towards the chair.

“Just because we got Vinyl Scratch’s lawsuit dismissed…”

“Freedom of the press, Point.” Scribble raised his glass in a hoof, pouring another glass of rum. “As long as what I say is true, they don’t have a damned thing they can use against me in court.”

Pointed Quill ran her hooves over her hair again as she let out a sigh, closing her eyes. Scribble would never listen to her, that she knew. But it was important to go through the motions. It still didn’t make him any easier to deal with.

“For the moment, please just try to keep the nasty stories directed at ponies in the public eye?”

Scribble gave a sigh as he raised his glass to his muzzle, but he didn’t say anything, just gave a noncommittal shrug of his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Pointed Quill said, a wave of relief washing over her; that was as close to an agreement as she’d get from him. She picked up her cigarette for a puff, but noticed that it had gone out. She set it back in the ashtray.

“I also have some more business for you…” Pointed Quill stood up and wandered over to her briefcase, popping it open to pull out a manilla folder. “Pony Sports Weekly has something they’d like you to cover. The terms are good.”

“A sports magazine? You’re serious? Buck that.” Scribble gave a dismissive snort.

Pointed Quill couldn’t help but grin. She knew he’d cover the story. “You started out as a reporter, Scribble. All they need is some interviews and pictures. It’s a two day trip.”

“Not worth my time. They can send a pony from the mail room. They’re always willing to suck a little dick for a shot.”

“Scribble.” She trotted over and tossed the manilla folder into his hooves, then stared at him until he opened it. “Trust me. You’re covering this event.”

“The Equestrian Games Tryouts. You’re sending me to cover the tryouts?” Scribble looked up from the open folder to give her a blank stare. “I’m honestly offended.”

“Keep reading.” She grabbed her half-smoked cigarette and wagged it pointedly. Scribble leaned down to read the papers, letting the flame appear on his horn once more. She lit her cigarette, then sat back and waited.

Scribble’s head snapped up, eyes wide, a grin spreading over his face. “You’re serious. After all that talk about keeping my head down and watching what I write, and you’re sending me to do this?”

Pointed Quill took a drag on her cigarette as she walked over to her briefcase, closing it as she picked it up. “I’ve had to manage your writing career for two years. I know what gets you off. At least this time you’ll be going after someone with a PR department.”

Scribble was furiously going through the papers in the folder. Pointed Quill watched as he downed the remainder of his rum and tossed the glass aside to bounce across the carpet. “Point. Cigarettes. Get me cigarettes.”

He hopped off of the chair, the papers flying up before him, held in his magic as he walked back and forth. Pointed Quill tossed him the pack of cigarettes, as she stubbed her own cigarette out on the tabletop. “I told you that you would do the story.”

“Yes. Story. Maybe two. Maybe more. Leave.”

Pointed Quill turned towards the door. As she pushed it open and stepped out of the apartment, she could hear his laughter behind her, echoing into the hallway.

“The Wonderbolts and The Elements Of Harmony? Oh, it’s bucking Hearths Warming…”

Author's Note

This...is my bastard of an OC; Scribble Script.

You may have noticed that he had a cameo appearance in the second chapter of Don't Look For Me, but he was never actually intended to ever actually be a character for any story. I needed a name to write pony fics under, I came up with the name Scribble Script, and I got my friend to draw a basic picture I could use as an avatar. That should have been the end of it.

Over the course of my writing (and not writing, admittedly) on this site, I've made a few friends, and a select few asked what Scribble was actually like, as a character. At the time, I had no idea. He was never intended to ever be a pony I wrote about, since I considered any attempt to do so to be akin to vanity.

But, now the idea was in my head; What WOULD he be like?

So this is what I came up with. I set out to make the character as different from me as I could manage, and as unlikable as possible. He's an utter bastard who sees nothing wrong with destroying someone's life as long as it means getting the 'truth' out there. An extremely popular investigative journalist/columnist who resented his fame because none of his fans acted on the lessons he tried to teach. He was very heavily influenced by one of my favorite comic characters of all time; Spider Jerusalem, from the comic Transmetropolitan.

As far as the official canon goes, this story would have taken place after the fourth season episode "Rainbow Falls." The general idea is that Scribble gets sent to cover the games for a sports magazine, but ends up writing something completely different in addition to what he was sent to write. The article turned the entire episode into a PR disaster for the Wonderbolts, which resulted in Fleetfoot getting suspended from the team while they investigated the incident. Later. Fleetfoot would have become a main character. From there, there was an overarching plot about an old story that Scribble wrote, but never published, involving underground slave trading and the royal family.

Yeah. It was pretty strange.

If you can't tell, I was also reading The Life And Times Of A Winning Pony at the time. I needed some story for Pointed Quill to get angry at, and that's what popped into my head.

At the end of the day, I'm very sad that I never continued this story.