It is a warm evening in early July. A very anxious Octavia is currently pacing around behind a thick velvet curtain currently draped over the entire backstage she was standing in. She took some pauses every now and then from her frantic pacing to peek through the curtains on the other side. The bright spotlights shining down on the stage make it challenging to peer pass through the already abysmal darkness of the Auditorium, but she could hear all the murmuring… all the whispers, the idle chatter. Octavia imagined a roaring wave crashing against a shoreline, endlessly.
She had every right to be anxious. It wasn’t the number of spectators that scared her though. She was a professional, and she played in front of admittedly larger crowds than this. There was a full turnout in the Royal Arts Center she was playing in. And it was also mostly filled with Canterlot Aristocrats.
There were also individuals from every military branch attending this concert. Both Princess Celestia and Princess Luna themselves were even attending, occupying the royal gallery in their special thrones sitting tall and regal. Many different broadcast stations send their technicians to record the special concert played tonight.
The significance of this event was inspired by the aggressive actions of Queen Chrysalis, who had issued a former declaration of war to all of Equestria and to all the United Pony Alliance. This war had been ongoing on the northern borders for 2 months now, and it has gone all but smoothly. This isn’t common knowledge however, as press-censorship made it difficult to get a proper idea of what was going on. All that the public knew was that they were at war. And for the duration of two months, all they knew was that it could’ve been much worse for them.
Ponies were craving for a reprise from the dread that had encompassed them from the war. What they needed was a distraction from the conflict. Octavia volunteered to play, in memoriam of those who are fighting for them at this current moment. Yet despite the fact that she volunteered, there was no escaping the nerve-wracking, nausea-inducing reality of the situation; something she is only now coming to terms with.
So many have already died on the front line, some 1000 Kilometers from here. They had passed through the border city of Acornage and were surrounding Vanhoover. The bay leading into the port city had been blockaded by sea and air, preventing any form of escape and simultaneously disrupting any form of relief force to enter. The city was left to its own fate by the military forces, not risking losing any more of their army in a seemingly hopeless endeavor.
Essentially; there was nothing but failure for the Equestrians. Failure after failure after failure. The Ponies were wanting something to happen, and for things to change for the better. And Octavia was the only small piece of good news for the Ponies. A reminder that it is always darkest before dawn, and that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.
What scared her more than anything was that her playing would be enough to please them.
Focus, she thought to herself. You wanted to do this, now you’re doing it.
A Backstage technician tapped Octavia gently on her back and showed two wing remiges, hinting two more minutes until showtime. Octavia nodded solemnly and ceased her pacing. A deep breath held in and a long exhale huffed out. Looking further backstage, she found her Contrabass carefully leaned against the wall. It was already tuned and the strings were tightened. Her bow was in good condition as well, not a single strand of stray hair. Her Instrument was just sitting there, almost calling to her to play it now.
Her attire was formal, a small tux with her signature purple bow-tie fixed underneath her collar. The tux covered her front hooves and extended down to her chest and stomach. Only her hind legs and tail were still bare, her Bass Clef Cutie Mark clearly standing out among her clothing. Her Mane and tail were conditioned and clean, brushed to smooth silky drapes that accompanied her curled bangs.
Octavia picked up her Contrabass. She grabbed onto its neck with her left hoof, gently plucking the strings. A couple of twists on the pegs, and a few more plucks here and there and she was ready. She then grabbed her bow carefully with her mouth to properly grab in with her right hoof tendon. Squeezing it in her hoof, she carefully slid the bow along the strings. A hollow note played, but it had just the right amount of tenacity and tone she needed.
Shifting her hind legs, she stood shoulder-width apart. Soon she found her desired position, making a mental footnote of her joint locks and muscle positions. Carefully, she set the Contrabass and Bow back down against the wall.
“Octavia, you’re on in 30!” A pony murmured to her passing by. The Cellist steeled herself with another resigned sigh before giving her bow-tie one gentle tug for comfort. She stood behind the curtain and waited. An amplified Stallion’s voice boomed through the auditorium, it’s volume echoing back toward the speaker to cause a painful reverb. A few groans and a sigh from Octavia later, the voice spoke clearly.
“Lady-Mares and Gentlecolts; hailing from the bustling town of Ponyville and a known associate of Vinyl Scratch, playing for us tonight will be Octavia from Ponyville!”
Upon her announcement, the thick heavenly drapes that had thus far concealed her from the outside were separated. Octavia could not see beyond the blinding hue of the stage lights that were shining down on her. It wasn’t so much what she couldn’t see that caught her off guard, it was instead it was what she could hear. There was thunderous applause that accompanied her grand entrance, as she would expect. It was most enthusiastically followed by whistles cheering and hollering, almost every single time.
This applause felt different to her, and Octavia could feel it. What she noticed more distinctly about the noise was that there was no cheering or chatter of any kind accompanying the clapping of hooves. It felt mighty and yet hollow, shifting from a gentle wave beating along the beach to a tempest wreaking havoc to her auditory senses; mighty yet temporary, the storm to die down as a gentle drizzle came back.
The theater was almost completely silent, save for a couple of very faint conversations being discussed and quickly finished. Octavia took a bow and waited as her Contrabass and Bow were levitated to her with the assistance of a backstage Unicorn. An accompanying Cellist Unicorn was trotting slowly up to her right side, her coat silver and her mane charcoal. She gently passed the Contrabass to Octavia and stood upright for her Cello. They exchanged a silent nod to one another as they straddled into position.
Octavia recalled the mental footnote of her positioning -- shoulder-width apart, shoulders locked, back straight. Her right hoof held the bow delicately in her tendon, as she fixed her left hoof along the fingerboard.
There, she waited… an unbelievably awkward silence for her, but one that was intentional. She paused for a small effect of elegance, then played the first note.
Double Bass tranquility sang throughout the hall of the auditorium as Octavia played the line of notes. With expert hoof-eye coordination and fine motor skills, she struck and plucked her mensur flawlessly. The left hoof was already straining itself just by how fast she was shifting along the fingerboard. When Octavia began to pluck her strings while still holding on to the bow, the accompaniment cellist continued her melody. The melody then shifted into harmony as the grey Earth Pony continued to stroke the strings.
This harmony was only temporary as Octavia took control of the melody once more, her high notes overshadowing the cellist next to her. Ponies in the auditorium were well silent now, trapped in awe of the level of hoofwork an Earth Pony is able to achieve with her instrument. Even the Princesses themselves ever so subtly leaned forward from their seats. They had seen her perform before, and each and every single time before she always played from the heart with the skills of a master.
But this was somehow different. Octavia’s Visage was always one of Elegance; this time it was one of a radiance forlorn.
As both players carried along with their piece, Octavia began to accelerate her movements of the bow. The piece climaxed with Octavia taking control, shattering whatever Harmony was left. Though this was intentional… a solemn metaphor in her eyes. And in reparation of this act, she humbly controlled the melody with ease. Some ponies in the crowd were slack jawed.
Forte now, the piece approached its second bridge as Octavia accelerated once again and returned to Harmony once more. The accompaniment cellist was struggling to keep up with Octavia’s pace but was so far able to stay in tune and tone alongside her. Not that she wasn’t skilled, but Octavia was just… Substantially better than her. She silently envied her.
As the second bridge came to its close, Octavia once again took control of the melody but without disrupting harmony. And with the grace of an Alicorn, she played the last of the piece almost entirely on her own. The accompaniment was of course not expecting this and improvised, playing the previous series of notes to dare not disrupt her momentum.
Octavia was not one to Improv, but when she did so it was intentional. She no longer played from the heart at that point; she played from the soul.
And finally, the whole-note was played with a decrescendo. Silence filled the Auditorium once more as both players were now silent, stiller than the marble architecture that surrounded Canterlot. They waited in silence.
Celestia was the first to make a movement. She slowly stood and floated up, carefully to not bump her head, and made a standing ovation… well, a floating ovation. Luna did the same.
And just like that, the entire auditorium joined the thunderous applause.
Rubber tires drove upon gravel and dirt as fast as it could, the wheels stuck in perpetual motion. Dust and dirt billow up as they rush along the path without end. A convoy of trucks, accelerating along a crude road not at all paved for a vehicle. Around them were fields that bore no flora, just rolling plains of endless grass. Winter had not been kind to it, as it had shriveled up along with tinting its color to tan. It felt stiff to the touch, and it disintegrated into flakes almost effortlessly upon a simple step.
There was a forest not too far off into the distance. Its leaves were sickly and overgrown, giving the impression that it was ancient and not inviting visitors. Much of the bark itself is knotted and twisted, like ached muscles in one's neck. It stretched on for miles, it’s canopy so thick that it’s a miracle that the plants down there are able to conduct photosynthesis at all.
The Everfree Forest; It had a mind of its own, seemingly. It was not something that one can gaze upon to not feel a sense of bewilderment and fear mixed into one bizarre emotion.
The Truck quickly made its way past several different tile-roofed cottages, the road becoming more and more cleaner as the truck zoomed closer towards its destination. By this point, the Drivers could hear distant booming echoes reverberating towards them.
The passengers in the back of the large trailer attached to the back of the truck. Sitting inside were the newly trained recruits that were being deployed to the front. Each of them had their uniform along with their kit, and each of them knew which Squad Leader to report to upon departing.
They were going to war.
It was not a silent ride, a couple of conversations were being held somewhere near the rear end of the vehicle. The Ponies were doing voice impersonations of their trainers back in boot camp, insulting the lisp that he, unfortunately for him, was birthed with.
A jovial laugh was shared among a few of them, then silence returned again. It was hard to remain optimistic about what was coming. Many of them were shivering, attempting to huddle close to each other for warmth. The painful sting of the cold was starting to chill the bones of some ponies.
Their uniforms helped, said to have been manufactured by Rarity herself before they entered mass production. And if they were feeling cold even with the assistance of their uniforms, then they couldn’t imagine what their enemies were feeling.
“We’re almost there.” The co-driver called out to the passengers through a window bridging between them. A couple of them leaned up toward the window to get a view of their destination. Sure enough, they could see them--even from this far away.
They were about 300 yards out, but even from there, they could see the tall concrete walls that had surrounded ponyville. They had to be at least 50 meters in height. The distant booming that could be heard was now even louder as the artillery within the walls continued to fire away with rhythm.
The giant concrete wall stretched and disappeared behind itself as it continued all along the outskirts of Ponyville. Such an effort took weeks to complete, and even with all three races assisting one another it was no easy feat. within the center of the road that ended at the wall bore a pair of giant metallic doors that swing inward. Before the convoy was even close, the doors began to open. Ponies on the inside were aware that the convoy was coming, and they had arrived right on schedule.
The gates opened up, revealing a much different ponyville than one would remember had they been born centuries ago. Many of the buildings were plywood with tile roofing, with cemented concrete solidifying their foundation. They were much sturdier, and much livelier on the inside than ever before.
This was the same for every single structure--no matter what kind--that existed within Ponyville, except for the Golden Oak Library… or what’s left of it. They were spaced out evenly and symmetrically from one another. Neatly paved asphalt streets separated block by block of buildings from another, inevitably intersecting one another.
A pony greeted the convoy far behind the entrance--a Pegasi. They were floating and were pointing their hooves repeatedly towards their left towards a straightaway. The convoy silently obliged as the lead truck turned and the rest followed. Afterward, they were left to their own devices to find their own destination amidst the labyrinth of structures and streets. The wall outside was not meant as an act of keeping them out, it was designed to keep the Changelings in when they wished to engage close-quarters combat. No land Vehicles could get in either, leaving it entirely to the infantry to fight for Ponyville.
Like rats in a maze, killing each other for either an escape or a reward to keep them fighting.
It took several minutes, but the convoy was able to reach the center of Ponyville where the difference between old-town and new-town became substantial. Significantly aged looking houses with straw roofs could be seen spaced loosely and disorganized, surrounded by a small river with a wooden bridge.
The convoy stopped at the said bridge just at the foot of the river. The river flowed to the south, leading towards the lake near Sweet Apple Acres off to the Convoy’s left. Beyond the River was another Refined Concrete Wall, this one somewhat smaller than the perimeter wall. It had a more sophisticated design, however, much more efficient at repelling an assault. Murder Holes, Machine Gun nests, Barbed Wire on some sections. With Martial Law being instituted just a month before, many ponies suddenly found their tones and cities garrisoned by militarized police.
The Changeling advance was grueling for Equestria. After two months of back and forth skirmishes on the northern borders, a portion of the Equestria Army found itself encircled and cut off. They were all taken prisoners, rumors have it the numbers range in the hundred-thousands. But they are just rumors, as the Princesses have enlisted extreme measures of Censorship within their society. Ponies began to view the Princesses as somewhat tyrannical, but mostly they argued that the princesses were far better than Chrysalis by every means.
The Months that followed afterward saw defeat, after defeat, after defeat for the Equestrians. The country has changed dramatically in response to the war; Extensive Conscription amongst the Adult Population was widespread across all the major urban areas; many Factories that were designed for toasters, furniture, consumer goods--they are now building tanks, rifles, aircraft, mines, ships, and so on.
And yet even with all of these measures in place, the Changeling army is found outside of Ponyville, with their next destination being Canterlot itself.
“Everypony, dismount!” a gruff voice ordered the many that were sitting timidly in their transports. One by one the soldiers hopped out, many of them to their certain doom in the future.
“Line up, present ARMS!” the same officer behested belligerently to hasten the regiment of troops to get into formation as fast as they could. As they finally got into position, they were greeted by a Yellow coated Earth Pony in a very highly decorated uniform-- wearing a decorated flight officer’s cap. His mane was a blend of amber and black, like creamer mixed with coffee. His face was grim and tired, with bags forming under his eyes. But in those sad eyes sparked a look of fierce willpower and determination.
His name was Thunderbolt Sentinel. He was the head General of whatever massive army this lowly battalion happened to be a part of. Why someone as important as him was so close to the frontlines when he was supposed to be commanding his troops in his bunker is somewhat uncertain to the newly recruited ponies from the trucks. Perhaps as a final gesture of goodwill and braveheart for the meatshields?
“Are these the new deployments?” he turned his head to the left, finding his subordinate.
“Yessir!”
Sentinel nodded and turned to face the troops in front of him. Many of them looked scared and were shaking; one of them, a mare, seemed to be on the verge of tears.
‘These poor creatures… Celestia must be desperate’, Sentinel thought to himself.
“Everypony… The enemy is upon us. As we speak, they are approaching our city with rigorous contempt! It falls upon you, and to everypony in this beloved city--our city of Friendship--that we defend it! No longer will the Changelings try to push forward and seize our lands! No longer will Chrysalis tear this great nation apart! Here, we hold the line!
“I know many of you are scared, and are uncertain of the future. For months we have battled against genocidal monsters to no avail of victory. Today, we stop them dead in their tracks!” Sentinel growled his last sentence. It ached him, but he knew it was the way to be.
“No more unnecessary retreats! No more ground is to be given without any form of retaliation or consequence! For every inch of land they take, pay for it in blood! No changeling is to cross through here without a wound or without death! Make them suffer for coming here!
“Find your Officers; Do your Jobs; Treat your weapons well, and watch each other’s flanks! May Celestia guide you to victory!” Sentinel finished, somewhat hollowed although his tone didn’t hint at his weakness in the slightest.
Some of the new recruits had a look of newly invigorated resolve in their features. Others remained as anxious as before. In the end, though, no cheering was heard, nor was there any protest. Instead, the ponies simply marched in line toward their doom.
And as Sentinel stood there watching the recruits one by one trot across the bridge leading towards the inner citadel, he could only sigh.
‘They won’t last longer than a week.’
A half an hour has passed since the recruits have arrived. The evening sky illuminated the underlayer of the overcast sky, tinting the very air around them with a pink-violet hue. Sentinel was walking by his lonesome along with two Unicorn Royal Guards. The guards had limestone SMGs in their holsters, locked and loaded but with their safeties off.
Sentinel walked a stone path leading towards a small cottage in the rural outskirts outside the inner citadel. Just a few hundred meters away sat the cottage that Sentinel was tasked to walk towards. It had a weird layout towards it; split between the structure was a white border separating two pigments of the entire exterior--pink and blue. There was a small door located near the center of the structure.
Thunderbolt Sentinel was tasked to check on a certain VIP who still resides in Ponyville, and urge them to evacuate if at all possible. He knew it would take convincing, and a lot of objectivity in his speech without falter. A difficult debate awaited him, one he wasn’t keen on looking forward to.
The trio stopped at the foot of the entrance. Inside they could hear a faint but ever so familiar melody of a Contrabass being played inside. Sentinel stopped for a moment to hear and enjoy the sound. Though he could still the distant thumping of artillery repeatedly firing away at their targets, he could still interpret the separate notes and shifts in tone that was being played.
Truly, it was beautiful music that did not deserve to be heard in a desolate place such as this.
“Guards, hold position. I won’t be long.” Sentinel ordered. They gave a winged salute and took position beside the door, stiff in posture and absolute in resolve.
Sentinel steeled himself with one deep breath before he lifted his hoof.
Knock Knock Knock!
In an instant, the Contrabass stopped playing. Sentinel took off his cap with a hoof, and waited patiently. For about a minute, there was no reply. Sentinel was tempted to knock again, but he irrevocably knew from the moment he arrived at the door that whoever was inside was already aware of his existence before he knocked.
Finally, a twist of a door knob forced the locks to open and reveal the interior. It was neatly decorated, with sofas stretching on both sides of the house. The pigments that paint the exterior were also matched exactly by every detail on the interior. Standing in the doorway was a grey coated Earth Pony with a Charcoal Mane.
“Miss Octavia.” Sentinel greeted the pony standing in the doorway, and she looked the worse for wear. Her mane and tail was not washed or brushed in at least a day, though he had no idea how long precisely. There were bags forming under her red puffy eyes, hinting a recent crying episode. There was no attire on her, revealing her matted and dried out fur.
And yet given her bedraggled appearance, the insides of the house looked as clean and polished as if it was recently cleaned and refurbished from top to bottom. No sense of untidiness was hinted in the structure.
“Hello.” Octavia replied quietly.
“My name is Thunderbolt Sentinel. Who I am is irrelevant though, what matters is why I’m here.”
“And why is that?” Octavia sneered. Her hostile nature was to be expected but it still threw Sentinel off. He maintained his composure.
“Well first of all, would you mind if I alone would come in?” Sentinel politely requested, hinting that his guards would remain outside.
Octavia contemplated for a moment before nodding her head and stepping aside. As Sentinel trotted in, his eyes began to wander in the large living room around him. There was a kitchen that panned off in the center of the cottage leading near the backyard. The sofas and tables were neatly symmetrical from one another, in a form of precision that boasted geometric harmony.
Octavia closed the door behind her, and quietly trotted towards the Pink side of the cottage. Sentinel could only follow along in silence. The sounds of war outside were quietened to some degree. The Artillery was a constant reminder of their precarious situation, however, as it was almost impossible to ignore the distant “thoom thoom thoom”.
Octavia sat down on a pink sofa on the end, gesturing at Sentinel to sit in the other one just across from her that was tinted blue instead. As both ponies sat and gazed at each other, Sentinel found himself at a loss for words. No tea, no pleasantries, no music.
Her Acrid stare pierced his soul.
He knew why that stare existed. He knew what he was responsible for. Even though he felt it was not his fault entirely, he couldn’t let that prejudice hold him back. He came into this cottage with the intention of convincing her to leave, which was no easy task. Why they chose to send him of all ponies is still lost to Sentinel. Maybe as an act of redemption for himself.
Sentinel as the first to break the silence. “Your home is the cleanest I’ve ever seen.”
“You’ve never been here before, but thank you.” She dully replied.
“Forgive me for my… innocuous persona. I was not the most socially interactive pony in my youth… I still am not.”
“That makes two of us.”
More silence. A vestige of consensus between the two ponies briefly accompanied them, before it was shattered immediately. No hint of remorse was felt from her. Only cold contemplation.
“You have never left, I see.”
“Where would I go?”
“I don’t know.” He answered honestly.
“Is that why you’re here?”
Sentinel waited for a moment before relenting, “Yes.”
“I am not leaving.” She spoke without bitterness or resentment. Only a quiet finality.
“It is very dangerous to stay. There will be combat occurring in the city limits within the week. If you stay, you will be trapped. I cannot guarantee your safety if you choose that.”
“Oh.” Octavia spoke capriciously. “Now you care? Did you decide now was the best time to save face? Where was that sentiment in Tall Tale?”
Sentinel bit his tongue. “Whatever anger and resentment you have towards me.” He looked down, staring at the floor. He barely had the stomach to finish his next sentence. But he knew it had to be said.
“... However warranted, I did what I did to preserve whatever was left. Chrysalis left no room for error in our decisions.”
“Sounds like excuses.”
“More lives were on the line.”
As much as Octavia wanted to argue, she knew it was selfish. All she could do was avert her gaze towards the windows leading outside. The sky began to tint more cerise as the evening drew to a close.
Sentinel cleared his throat softly. “... I’m sor-”
“I don’t want your apology.” Octavia curtly interrupted, her gaze still locked outside.
Sentinel could feel himself cringe inside uncomfortably. Octavia on the other hoof remained stoic. The two made a bellicose exchange of stares. Octavia made a physical effort to stay upright in her posture.
“Do you want to know what exactly she was doing there?” she locked her stare on his eyes. “Did you ever care enough to stop and wonder? Or had it never crossed your mind?”
“I don’t really have the luxury of thinking like that when I’m busy conducting strategy that may very well decide the fate of our survival.” Sentinel answered, his tone indignant of Octavia’s grief. Although, it was impossible to say he didn’t blame her.
“She was there to see if her family was okay.”
Sentinel didn’t speak. He didn’t move a muscle at that reply. All he did was stare at the rug that sat comfortably atop the floorboards.
“That was the last time I heard her speak. ‘I’m going to check my family. I promise I’ll be careful.’”
Sentinel sighed softly.
“Never saw Vinyl again.”
Sentinel remarked at how incredibly composed Octavia had been behaving thus far. Her tone was bordering delusion, but there was acceptance in her voice as well. Yet he knew, that what was ulterior was her pain and suffering--of which had been carefully hidden behind a facade of indifference.
“I don’t care how selfish it is. I have hope she may come back.”
Sentinel’s eyes slightly widened. With that hope, he knew immediately why all the furniture was still here, neatly oriented. She had been waiting… for her.
And she was going to keep waiting, by the looks of it.
“You think she is still alive?”
“As I said, I have hope.”
“It is a fool’s errand.”
“That makes one of us.”
Silence once more. Sentinel knew he was losing ground.
“I would be willing to compensate you. I would give you a new home, with new furniture for you and-”
“No.” Octavia interrupted with temerity. “You have done enough. I just want to be left alone.”
Sentinel’s bargaining power was being stretched to its limits, like a taut cable.
“You will die.”
Octavia only stared ahead, her features unwavering.
“Either that or you will be enslaved. Or Harvested for Love. Or worse. You will die.”
“Fine then.” She answered. “At least I didn’t run away as you did.”
Sentinel visibly recoiled at that. He never thought words would actually hurt him at all in his life, and they didn’t then. But he certainly wasn’t keen enough to expect such an inflammatory response from her, of all ponies.
“I think you should leave. You have ponies to order, Changelings to fight.” She idly behested.
It was over. She was definitive in her decision. Sentinel could do nothing but what he had been doing for the past year; concede defeat.
With a heavy sigh, he stood up on all fours and made his way towards the door without speaking. Only when his wingtip grasped the doorknob did he turn back towards her.
“May Celestia have mercy upon you.”
And with a swift tug and pull, he was gone.
