It was a rather ordinary autumn day in Canterlot's central shopping district and in the opinion of the stallion who was trying to capture every last aspect of its sonic drabness from the eighth-floor rooftop, it wasn't ordinary enough.
His name was Foley Artist, and his four-member audio recording team were among the many ponies who had seen the new medium of film as colts and fillies, quickly discovering that the magic generated by a flickering screen resonated with something deep in their souls -- to the point where it ultimately led to a dual hip-centered flash of much brighter illumination. There was a new generation of marks making itself known to Equestria, and every fresh talent related to the young art.
Foley had spent a major portion of his colthood within the local cinema. But he'd gotten into the medium a little later than most, and he hadn't really been staring at the screen. As the major pony senses went, it was a good day when Foley brought 'sight' all the way up to a secondary tier. It certainly had its uses. He readily acknowledged that it was rather hard to read a studio contract via tongue impression alone. But there was a much more important source of input calling for his attention, and that calling was literal.
He was part of the new generation, because he had only truly begun to attend the cinema after the advent of the talkies. He'd listened, and it had made him into one of the world's first sound designers.
The majority of ponies attempting to form a vision-based first impression of Foley tended to find themselves at something of a loss for words -- unless they had some familiarity with the wildlife native to the zebra homelands, which made the matter rather simple.
He was a fennec with hooves.
(On the whole, Equestria didn't really have the concept of 'antenna' just yet and so couldn't really describe how the oversized ears almost continually moved in an attempt to pick up more sound. However, the nation's collective investigations into mechanical flight had come up with 'rotary pedal blade', which left most of the population wondering when he was going to take off.)
Foley listened. He always listened. It could be argued that he usually listened a little too closely, because the fascinating harmonics created by the dipthongs and digraphs lurking within syllables were often regarded as being more important than any formed words. But he also understood something vital about film: namely, that it was meant to cast an illusion at two senses. And some directors would replicate a forest upon a stage, because that would provide a degree of control over light, shadow, and blocking out the majority of native monster attacks -- but it wouldn't sound like a forest. The birds would have been locked outside, natural winds were blocked off by walls, and insects who found their way onto a set were chased out before they could gain enough screen time to ask for a billing credit.
It didn't take the pony mind very long to spot the vacuum pressing against the eardrums. And when the audience realized the illusion was incomplete, any previously-suspended disbelief tended to crash down into the base of the tail. The resulting jolt had been known to remove portions of the audience from the cinema entirely -- after a quick stop at the ticket office, because the money they now wanted back clearly had to be kept somewhere.
In order to make them complete, the spells cast by films required sound: Foley knew that on the level of his mark. He felt (with some arguable accuracy) that he had literally been born for it. And so he was one of the founding members for a new industry: those who went out into the world so they could bring its sounds into the studios.
Dozens of slightly-concave bronze discs had been carefully hung above the central street of the Heart. Their diameter ranged from less than a third of a hoof to nearly the size of a pony's barrel, they were all connected to the temporary rooftop operating station's multiple enchanted devices by carefully-calibrated silver wires, and six pegasi had already been clotheslined. This had led to a number of rather natural complaints: Foley had dutifully recorded all of them, while planning on responding to none. The complaints weren't particularly important, especially since the pegasi could have just paid more attention to where they were going. But the acoustics produced by annoyance... there were things which could be done with that. And besides, there were multiple mystery and horror films in production at any given moment. Somewhere, there was a studio which needed a truly accurate sample for just what it sounded like when a wire-trapped pony was effectively coming close to strangling herself.
It was an ordinary day in the Heart -- but it wasn't ordinary enough. Foley also knew just how many films used some recreated portion of the shopping district as the backdrop for multiple scenes, and didn't feel as if the autumn crowd was producing noises which were generic enough to fit all of them. And when it came to both future needs and scripts which were rather more specific... well, he already knew that the team would have to come back for weather adjustments, seasonal variations, and to capture a low-level buzz of Hearth's Warming carols: just enough music to provide the mood, while being sufficiently indistinct to avoid any rather specific copyright claims.
But he would come back. He would get all of it.
Sound belonged to the people. To the world.
He checked a few discs. Adjusted for precedence effect, which was always a problem in this part of town: the repetitive impacts of hooves didn't exactly help. A certain amount of natural bass was put through rolloff, and then --
-- his ears were almost always on the move, trying to hear more. And he instinctively recognized the unusual, that which didn't belong...
Foley carefully moved his right ear close to a reproducing disc. Listened.
"That's odd," he said. "I'm getting a lot of brassy clicks. Tumblers. There's also some deadbolts shifting. And crackle discharges."
And it was more than that. There was a sort of gap in the ground traffic, or rather, a shifting window. It sounded very much like five sets of hooves moving across cobblestone -- with an increasing amount of space around them. As if some portion of the crowd was pulling back.
"That's just doors locking," the lone mare observed. "And security spells starting up." She shrugged. "Some of the stores are closing. We got that when we stayed too late for the night session."
Foley thought about it, and then assembled a sentence.
"It's eleven in the morning."
He reluctantly moved to the edge of the roof and looked down. (He didn't like doing that. The looking part. Foley was fine with heights, but sight frequently struck him as being somewhat unreliable.) And after a moment, he spotted --
-- six mares. Coming into the Heart from the west, and he'd only gotten five sets of hoofbeats because the prismatic was accompanying the trotters in a sort of mobile hover. And there was a bubble of partial space around them, something so rare to see in the crowded streets...
Foley shrugged.
"Probably a tax miniherd," the stallion decided. (He heard the other three team members shiver.) "Trying for access to the sales ledgers." He understood taxes to exist, although his accountant had never quite managed a satisfactory explanation for why Foley was supposed to pay them. Sound belonged to the people. But he was still some part of the movie industry, and when it came to bits...
The mares were approaching one of the older, larger stores. (More clicks and crackles went off, doing so in the name of Previous Experience and Preemptive Self-Defense.) They were getting close to the display windows. Foley shrugged, began to turn back towards the core of the equipment --
-- and then ears which almost constantly moved in their eternal quest for the new -- found it.
Foley heard The Scream.
The Scream had a number of components, and he would spend weeks in trying to isolate them: something where the attempts required reworking several extant pieces of equipment, plus the invention of three new devices. It spoke of pain, agony, and torment. It also came pre-installed with Drama: the Drama had a number of fascinating reverberations all to itself, and tended to ground within the small hairs inside the ear. The Scream was an announcement made to the world, and what it told the global audience was that the mare at its center had just encountered The Worst Possible Thing.
For the majority of those within the shopping district, The Scream froze the heart -- and the Heart, because nearly everypony found themselves paralyzed by such an expression of raw anguish. A few compassionate (and exceptionally hardy) souls were the ones who started to move towards its center, trying to discover exactly what was that wrong so they could fix it and, as an incidental side benefit, make The Scream stop. The other exception came from five accompanying mares, who just looked vaguely annoyed.
Cobblestones vibrated. Birds flew into walls. It was quite possible that a number of building corner-adorning sculptures had just turned in an attempt to discover what was taking place. And Foley, who was some part of the film industry and thus tended to regard events more than six body lengths away as taking place on a rather more dimensional screen -- i.e. all happening to somepony else, who likely wasn't real -- did the important thing.
He nearly spun on a single hoof, raced towards his equipment while doing his best to steer around those portions which were now ruptured. A few were smoking. Two discs had imploded, and a third was attempting to vibrate itself into component atoms.
"DID WE GET THAT? TELL ME WE GOT --"
But the rest of his team was already on the move, because they all possessed their own personal version of his mark and thus had their priorities straight.
Waveforms were unpacked. Several of them had to be coaxed into opening, as the bias current had developed a solid bias towards curling up in trauma.
"We got it," the youngest whispered. "We got all of it..."
And just like that, the day changed. Foley's life changed, and the part where he began to consider regretting everything from that first cinema ticket on was still six moons away.
He'd wanted the ordinary. He'd gotten the extraordinary.
The extraordinary had a use.
Six moons passed, and did so in profit.
"Foley?" came from the open doorway, and did so with some reluctance. "There's a mare here to see you."
The stallion, who'd heard his colleague's approach from thirty body lengths away, reluctantly looked up from a quartet of devices. Two of them needed fresh charges of thaums, the third was in the final pre-patent stage, and the last had yet to finish making his coffee: he gave it a good forehoof thump of encouragement. Foley knew all about the power of encouraging sounds, and might have eventually been talked into believing the thump did something.
"A mare," he carefully intoned. "To see me?" It was something which didn't happen all that often.
"Yes."
"Does she have a sound mark?"
The colleague frowned. "I don't think so..."
Foley's ears tilted. "You don't think so?" Repetition was important in checking audio quality.
"Well, I've been using gems in some of the devices. For the way they transmit vibrations through their structure. So..." It was a rather helpless sort of shrug. "In theory...?"
"And she wants to see me."
"She was very insistent." The much smaller red ears were now almost flat against the skull. "Very."
Foley shrugged. "Send her in."
His colleague left. Foley put his attention back where it belonged: on the equipment. Listening. And after an appropriate amount of time, he heard somepony else coming back.
The new hoofsteps (not just measured in pace, but tightly controlled, with every impact just so) paused at the doorway.
"Er," the mare said. "Um. Exactly how is one meant to enter --"
"Just come in," he told her, and did so without looking because the deepest part of his soul was already trying to break down her accent. He'd never heard anything like it. There was a little bit of Manehattan there, slight traces of Trottingham, an odd amount of Western Saddlezania (any), and rather a lot of whole cloth. He was already planning on spending several happy hours in analysis, because it was unique.
...and yet, there was a sort of distant familiarity to it. Something about the center frequency was calling for his attention.
"But there really isn't a path --"
Technically speaking, Foley didn't have an office. He had a workspace, and just about any portion which didn't have devices or sound graphs was filled with assorted pieces of detritus. The detritus was vital. He liked to kick portions of it into flotsam, just to see what kind of sound it made. Just for starters, it was how he'd discovered that it was possible to replicate the sound produced by pony hooves through using coconut husks.
The hardest part of that had been getting the trained delivery swallows to bring the things into his workspace, but it wasn't as if he'd had any other choice. Coconuts were famous for not migrating.
"Don't mind if you go into most of it," Foley told her. "In fact, try to hit a few things. And I'll record it."
"...oh," the accent said, and he heard the mare slowly advance.
It wasn't slowly enough.
"Ow!"
"That's fine," Foley calmly decided as a hoof-mounted wrench adjusted a bolt. "I can always use pain. But stay away from the Kimber Kable."
"The..." the mare tried.
"The silver wire." Which emerged with some disappointment, because the failure to recognize the obvious meant the mare possessed no version of his talent.
"There's wire everywhere! I just went into wire! How am I supposed to --"
"It's the wire," Foley wearily educated (and did so without looking up), "that's two-tenths of a tail hair thicker than the others. Which makes it ideal for bass."
"Um..."
He sighed. "And it's mostly near the back wall."
The mare stumbled in. Several pieces of jetsam rebounded, and Foley finally looked up because ponies usually had this odd expectation that he would look at them eventually.
Sight uselessly verified that his visitor was a mare. A white coat was briefly noted. The horn wasn't close to anything crucial. Purple curls were mostly half-tangled in wire, but none of it was the Kimber and so he had very little to worry about.
With a more normal situation, he would have retained the most exacting details of her voice forever -- and forgotten most of her appearance by the next morning. But there were exceptions for every circumstance, and Foley would ultimately remember everything about the mare. No matter how much he wished to forget.
"So you are Foley?" she carefully checked.
He nodded, for that was both polite and the limits of what he usually managed with such social acts.
"I..." She stopped, and he carefully counted off the exact measure of the pause. "...actually, my part of the introduction should likely wait for a time. As, in a way, we've already met."
"We haven't," and he found himself smiling. (When it came to this mare, it would be for the last time.) "I'd remember hearing you speak, even if it was only once. I have a very good memory for sound." Which was absolutely true: it was just that 'sound' still didn't have to be defined as 'words'. "Yours isn't a voice which could ever be forgotten."
...a center frequency which almost seemed to exist as its own diegetic, as if the mare was speaking upon the stage of her own story...
Multiple aspects of her tense expression seemed to freeze.
"Speak," the mare tightly said, and the half-trapped tail failed to lash. "Yes. You have never heard me speak. And yet, when it comes to my person, I know you already possess some degree of familiarity."
He was beginning to feel oddly... concerned. "I told you, we've never met --"
"-- allow me to offer," the mare furiously interjected, "solely for the purpose of establishing identity -- my calling card."
Her head went back.
Her mouth opened.
Two bronze discs broke in half. Three wires, in a valiant attempt to make it stop, severed themselves: all of the deaths were in vain. One of the devices used the last of its charge to set itself on fire. And hooves galloped through the hallways of the sound studio, desperately trying to reach him --
"-- Foley!" came the first gasp from the doorway. "You know what happens when you set it off at full strength from the original capture, and we're still figuring on moons of near-constant exposure before listening fatigue sets in! You're supposed to use the weakened version unless you're in the safety --"
But he was staring at her. Secondary sense focused on nothing more than the mare, while oversized ears twitched in wonder.
"We're fine," he told his fast-arriving colleagues. "We're... fine."
"But --"
The mare's head had come down again, and a blue gaze was fixed on his face. Foley, who didn't have a lot of experience with social cues, briefly wondered whether that represented flirting.
"We're fine," he repeated. "I'm just talking to her. Give us some space."
Slowly, they left. (He always knew when they were out of their limited hearing range.) He made a recording for what the sound of an overheated device housing having its edges pull apart was like, then put the fire out.
It was the final obligation which had to be taken care of before he could just listen to her again.
"You," he half-whispered with wonder, and found himself looking at her throat. (For most stallions, it would have been the face -- but he had his priorities straight. Exactly what was going on in the larynx, to work such wonders?) "That day in the Heart. That was you..."
The left forehoof stomped.
(She was four body lengths away. He told himself it was a safe distance. In any case, there were a lot of things to jump over before reaching him.)
"The problem," the mare tersely stated, "lies in the plural."
There was an interesting sort of constructive interference on the second half of 'plural,' and he paid attention to that because the word itself made no sense.
"...what?"
Another stomp. "It was me. It is now everypony. Or rather, it appears to be virtually every distressed mare to occupy a film reel. Something which has been taking place for quite some time and, thanks to a certain degree of, shall we say, schedule overcommitment, something which I only learned about yesterday. Because due to all of the duties calling upon my hours, it was only then that I finally found my way into my local cinema for the first time in nearly half a year." This stomp had more force. "Imagine my surprise, sirrah! In hearing myself! And when I spoke with Bayleaf -- our projectionist, who by necessity is in attendance at every show -- she told me that she had been hearing it for moons! Four of them!"
It hadn't just been film production time. They'd needed two moons to render the original recording into something which had kept nearly all of the qualities. Because they could reproduce it, the team's equipment had just barely been able to record the original, and if they tried to force spells into some level of analysis, the coronas generally broke down with a sound which was very much like weeping -- but they hadn't been able to offer it for sale as The Scream (V1.6) until it had been tamed into something which didn't make cinema speakers commit suicide.
"And she hadn't mentioned it," the furious mare went on, "because she was of the opinion that I'd offered my services to the studio as some sort of --" the inhale went a little too deep, and a nearby disc bowed inwards "-- voice actress -- !"
"Can you do that again?"
She blinked.
"...repeat that," the mare slowly said.
"Can you do that again?" Foley temporarily cooperated. "Any time you like? If you let me set up some reinforcements first, I can take another recording: it's always a good idea to have a backup for the master." Which was stored in a vault, and only occasionally tried to escape: the door had failed a few times, but it had never gotten past the hallway. "And how does your diaphragm feel during the middle sections?"
She inhaled. Much to Foley's disappointment, words emerged.
"I crafted that scream," she told him, and the tail finally twisted free: just enough for two lashes before getting caught again. "Hours spent working on each individual component, sirrah! Practiced in front of a mirror. Until the moment I was banished from the bedroom and sent to hone my creation within the forest, as my parents were under the mutual impression that any refinement both needed to take place some distance away and would clear any monsters from the area." With a note of reminiscence, "Also, the mirror was beginning to crack. Which was not what I had intended. One must be rather careful in that regard. Breaking the glassware at a party is a rather sure way of not being invited back." She sniffed. "Additionally, that would be more of a shriek. Hardly ladylike."
He was staring at her again.
"Why did you craft a scream?" For he would have -- but only for use in the film industry, he already knew that she didn't share his talent, and she'd just suggested that she wasn't an actress. Which actually felt like something of a loss, because there was all of that Drama and nothing to record it -- but he'd checked around the studios, trying to find out if anypony had been through an audition encounter with The Scream. Nopony had. And he knew they wouldn't have forgotten.
He'd treated a few studio heads to the master recording. Some of them were still trying to forget.
"Recognition," the mare simply said. "The creation of an identity. Something unique, mine alone --" her lips pulled back from her teeth "-- except that it would seem that is no longer the case --"
"-- what kind of work do you do," Foley cut her off, because sound could almost always be picked up again later, "that requires its own scream?"
The mare briefly seemed to brighten. Her features lost half of their tension. The rib cage did its best to puff out.
"Fashion!"
And, just for a moment, she smiled.
Foley briefly considered that the mare didn't look insane.
...well, mostly. There were some odd things happening around the corners of the eyes. But other than that, she didn't look insane. Which just further demonstrated why sound was so much more important than sight.
"Why did you scream?" He'd always wondered. Additionally, there was a chance that he only had a few more seconds before the madness fully set in.
Evenly, "I looked at Barneigh's central display window and saw their in-house winter line."
He blinked.
"And that made you scream." The Scream. Something which had felt as if portions of the world were being shaken to their foundations.
Her expression almost became wistful, while taking on hints of envy.
"Well," the mare passively observed, "clearly you've never shopped there. But --" and the smile collapsed "-- when one is a designer... trying to establish oneself within a herd, to become recognizable, unique... one cannot afford to allow any aspect of their person to be duplicated. My scream, sirrah. Mine, and mine alone -- until you. Bayleaf is at every showing. It provides her with ample opportunity to memorize the credits. The sound design facility has its own section within those listings, and every reel with my scream upon it possesses a line of text which designates your business. Mares scream in so many films, Mr. Foley. They scream in terror, in emotional distress and when they are at physical risk, when their hearts are broken and injustice is at the door. And when they do so, it is with my scream. One could argue that you have been diluting my brand --"
"-- sound," Foley told her, "is for the people."
Her head tilted slightly to the right. Two curls just barely managed to avoid capture.
"Try that again?" she too-calmly requested.
Her tones were beyond interesting. The emotional underlayers didn't feel particularly important. "You succeeded," he openly praised her. "It's unique. It should be shared with the world! You could even say that I'm extending your recognition --"
"-- Bayleaf," she cruelly cut him off, "gets to see all of the credits. Which makes it rather easy for her to note an absence. Although..." It was the briefest of sighs. "...she was of the opinion that I had worked under a pseudonym. How can I be recognized if I am not --"
Sound was his truest love, and it was that which drove Foley ever-forward. But he'd been in the movie industry for a little too long, and something rather closer to bank account than soul recognized what might be coming next.
"Sound emerges from the world," he told her. "I just capture it. And as you're part of the world --"
This time, she reared up enough to let both forehooves stomp. She wasn't a particularly large mare, and very few things jumped when she came down.
"It is my scream!" (There was an odd semi-buzz at the back of her throat. He wondered if that was what madness sounded like.) "I should have been the one to say whether it remained so!"
"Recognition!" Foley frantically argued. "You could always just scream for ponies and see who knows you!"
Another stomp.
The stallion, who had left certain open hints about body language to gather dust within ignored memories, belatedly realized that the capital possessed a population minority and got it wrong. "Scream for... people?" He wasn't a bigot. Everyone made sounds. A yak's vocal chords were an internal work of art. No other sapient could do as much with a grunt.
"I am trying to figure out," the accent voiced, "whether you just made one-and-a-half sides of an argument. Anonymity and credit -- but not credit granted by you."
She stared at him, and decibels dropped away.
"Will you cease use and sale of my scream?" the mare slowly asked. "Altering the soundtracks of those films which have already been completed? Substituting a different mare, or allowing the actress to scream for herself? Will you let it be unique once again, and mine alone?"
It had been a calm request. Measured, in its way. There had been a lovely rise and fall within. But for Foley, all of that had been more important than the words.
"I recorded ambient sound from the Heart," the sound designer stated. "With my own devices and equipment. That can be traced. The recording is mine. I decide what's done with it. And when it comes to sources... does the Weather Bureau need a credit for every gust of wind? You can't pull back your words from the ears of others and say that speech is for you alone! Sound is for the world!"
She was silent. He found it oddly disappointing. Foley had very nearly isolated her phons. Her base voice had a certain signal strength...
He just needed to inspire her into speaking again. "And since just about every studio has found a use for that recording -- can't you hear what that means? I've given you immortality!" And when he thought about it that way... "You should be thanking me! Just stop complaining --"
"-- would you prefer," the mare placidly inquired, "that I switch to whining?"
"Whining --" Foley errored.
She took a breath.
Sound came out.
Multiple discs shattered. A few of the smaller pieces of detritus vibrated apart: two of the weakest simply melted. One device tried to tuck inside itself for protection and in doing so, discovered a fourth dimension of spacial relations in the last second before it ruptured. Foley's ears initially tried to turn inside out, then attempted to get inside his skull and discovered there just wasn't enough room --
"-- wait!" the sound designer almost begged. "Let me set up, find something which can take a master! The world --"
The mare slowly shook her head. Turned, which took three tries to get enough clear space. Began to trot away. And, just before she left, offered him the dubious favor of four temporarily-last words.
"See you in court."
It was The Scream.
It had been so much of their sales over the last several moons, because the business was paid for each use. There was almost always a place for it in just about every production.
It couldn't be duplicated. Not by the pony throat, or that of any other species. Foley, in the last days before the arbitration hearing, almost considered holding a contest in an attempt to find out if anyone else could grant a gift to the sonic world -- and, before risking that, had the initial trials among those who understood sound best: his colleagues. Fortunately, the resulting medical bills produced by temporary loss of vocal capabilities weren't going to lead into more court cases.
He needed The Scream. To retain the master recording, under increasingly-heavy restraints.
And so he went to the hearing. Trying to win.
It could be accurately said that he paid close attention to every sound personally produced within the courthouse, because sounds were the most important thing. Foley just didn't have a particularly good grasp on what could happen when you turned them into words.
And when those words were heard by others...
The judge watched the final expert witness depart from the arbitration room, and her tiny sigh sounded oddly... tired. (She looked exhausted, but... that wasn't what Foley checked first.)
"Would either party," she asked the ponies on the left and right sides of the table, "care to contradict his testimony after the fact?"
Foley shook his head. So did the white mare.
Another sigh. "Then I accept what Mr. Stiff Neck has presented," she declared. "As a recognized enthusiast --" paused, perhaps in consideration of the way the witness had actually spoken regarding films "-- or rather, anti-enthusiast of cinema. One so dedicated to disliking what it produces that he must establish a personal collection for home viewing, so he may dislike it privately and at leisure. He has testified that those who follow the medium closely can recognize the scream every time it appears." (The stallion was briefly offended by the lack of intoned capitals.) "That some of them have been tracking it, apparently as a secondary hobby. It is... identifiable."
"As identifiable as Sun," Foley smiled, because he liked the sound of that. "Something else which is for the world..."
The mare stiffened. The judge's snout wrinkled, and the vision aids shifted upon her snout.
"You have both written down what you desire in the event of victory," that arbitrator said. "I have those sheets in front of me." There was a brief glance through the lenses, with the face-down papers given momentary attention. "Just as you have mutually agreed to go through arbitration in this matter, rather than to go through a civil lawsuit. And, through that decision, each of you has also agreed to accept my judgment. Without appeal. Is this still true?"
Both parties nodded.
"Mr. Artist," the judge slowly began, looking at him from her place at the far north of the long table. (He considered what the sessile oak of the walls was doing to the sound absorption, and wondered when to recommend a change of material.) "I want to ask you a few questions. Something for which I hope to gain truly honest answers, as they involve your craft."
Foley readily nodded to that. He'd spent a lot of his time within the arbitration room in educating and, while he suspected it all would have sounded better with mahogany, was willing to continue.
"You went to the Heart on that day in order to record ambient sounds," the older beige mare began. "Did anypony know you were there?"
"The hiring studio," he readily said. They'd gone out on contract for that one. The seasonal and weather followups had been his idea, as those recordings would be needed eventually.
"Anypony within the Heart?" the judge followed up.
Foley shook his head -- then paused. "A few pegasi went into the wires. So they knew we were there. After the fact."
"But nopony else."
"We were there for ambient sound," he told the government official. "Natural sound. That which occurs without prompting. Telling ponies that we were recording... it could have changed the mix..."
The white mare pulled back most of the soft snort. Foley's ever-moving ears readily drank in the remnants.
"When you listen to ambient sound," the judge asked, "can you pick out individual voices? Conversations?"
"Yes," Foley stated into the record -- then considered the nature of his talent. "Well, I can. My colleagues can do it. But for nearly everypony else... I have to use the equipment. Enhance it, or fade out the background to make those aspects more distinctive."
The judge nodded, and shifted slightly upon her bench.
"What would you do," she evenly inquired, "if, in listening to the recording, you found -- a confession? Ponies speaking of love, perhaps. Or indiscretions. Mistakes. Something deeply personal."
He didn't even have to think about it. The very nature of the question made the answer obvious.
"Make sure it could be heard within the soundtrack," he immediately announced, and did so while completely missing the sight of both mares going pale beneath their fur. "Not at a level which overrides any music or dialogue, of course! But enough to guarantee that anypony who listened would be able to pick it out. It would add so much to the realism! And --" this had just occurred to him, and he didn't think not to share it "-- for the true enthusiast, or --" he had paid some small attention to Stiff Neck "-- with those who just listen to films often, it would be like The Scream! If that ambient track appeared in enough films, they could search for it. Make a note of every appearance! It would almost be a game --"
"-- thank you, Mr. Artist," the judge softly broke in. "That is sufficient."
The older mare was silent for a time. Foley generally liked silence. It was fun to try and find the secret sounds which lurked within.
"In my binding opinion," the judge finally said, "there is a single key issue in this case."
And Foley knew what that was. The inevitable recognition of a single fact. The ultimate truth: that sound was for the world --
But the next sounds were arguably for him alone.
"Consent."
He froze. Completely. Both ears came to a complete halt, and the brain tried to reconcile what the primary sense had just brought within.
"With the exception of some unfortunate flying parties," the judge continued, "nopony knew you were there. They had no idea that their words would join the ambient sound, let alone that anything they said might be isolated and used. In some potential examples, against them. I have a ruling in this case -- and after I provide it, I will be sending a copy to the palace. Asking for the following be rendered into law: that when you are recording, there will be warning signs posted around the area. All who enter will know their words can be captured. And if that changes the nature what they say, Mr. Artist -- then so be it. Because there is also a reasonable expectation of privacy, and you have already subverted it. I find for the pla --"
It was a strange position for Foley, and that was the first thing his desperation recognized. That he had found himself in a situation where a sound couldn't be allowed to finish.
"Everypony could hear her!" he protested, and did so with a tremble and trebele that rose from the soul. "Nopony would ever forget it! How could The Scream ever be private?"
"To be remembered," the judge said, "is also a reasonable expectation. Especially for those who choose to scream. To be remembered -- but she did not choose, or consent, to be recorded. I find for the plaintiff."
The beige head went down, and Foley listened in horror as the left-side sheet was flipped over.
"Two things have been requested," the judge announced (and he could barely listen now, didn't want to listen as the white mare's breath quickened with excitement. "They are --"
"It's been three minutes!" Rainbow groaned and, because that groaning was being technically done in an active cinema, considerately kept her volume at the usual ninety percent of normal. "Three minutes of just watching words scroll by! Can we just go?"
"...we already heard it," Fluttershy softly offered. "Twice." And sighed. "...which was actually nice."
"Nice," Twilight disbelievingly repeated from her place in the center of the bench row.
"...it's usually less often than we would hear it during ninety-six minutes outside. Rarity, we're the only ones left..."
Pinkie was beginning to twitch. "It's just words now," said the mare who'd had a little too much to drink during the film. "It's all words. Mostly names. Nothing helpful. Like, and I'm just saying this because it's not a name, 'There aren't going to be any bonus scenes and you can go find a restroom now.' How many more words --"
"A little more time," requested the mare who'd paid for all of their tickets. "Please. I am aware that we need to pick up Spike from the playground, but this was not a production where I was comfortable with his being in the audience. Even with so much adult company." She sniffed. "And especially with that costume department in play. Just watch the credits..."
They did.
"Ah like a good book," Applejack grumped. "An' a good film. This part ain't neither of 'em."
"We're getting close," Rarity encouraged. "Simply focus -- oh, there it is --!"
And there it was. Scrolling up the screen at speed, witnessed only by Bearers and, in the projectionist's booth, Bayleaf.
Additional Sound Contribution For The Scream Provided By R.B.
The house lights came up just in time for everypony to spot Rarity's little smile.
"And thus I am satisfied," she announced. "Shall we go?"
They all began to get up. Legs were stretched. Wings flared out.
"R.B," Twilight observed.
"Yes?" Rarity teasingly responded.
The small mare winced. "I mean -- that's it? You asked to be credited -- and you're willing to settle for 'R.B.'?"
"Yes," the white unicorn stated as she began to make her way towards the left aisle. "To be credited. The full name is on file somewhere. A touch of research performed by an enthusiast might uncover it. I thought it over, Twilight, and... I wish to be known for my creations. The ones composed not in decibels and dipthongs, but in fabric. And I would rather not have the average pony's first point of reference for me turn into 'that screaming mare'." She paused. "And at any rate, I will always know exactly who I am."
The group considered all of it. And then five mares followed her out.
"So you're gonna stop screamin'," Applejack too-hopefully checked. "Since it's out there now?"
With instant offense, "Sun and Moon, no! I put rather too much work into my creation for casual discard, Applejack!" Thoughtfully, "But I may alter the constructive interference somewhat. To prevent listening fatigue. Which seems to be rather prevalent among my friends."
Five trailing mares, facing the prospect of having to get used to it all over again, collectively repressed the urge to groan.
"So," Rarity brightly said as they exited the viewing area proper, "who fancies my treating us all to a showing next week? The Coming Soon posters are before us, darlings! Let us choose!"
"Treat," Rainbow's meal-mooching habits immediately pounced. "Yeah! But maybe more snacks next time --"
"-- treat," a rather more suspicious Twilight cut in.
"I am Generosity," Rarity brightly said. "Am I not?"
"You're Generosity," Applejack observed, "workin' with a budget. Ah didn't know your sales were that good this season."
Fluttershy silently nodded. Pinkie twitched in the general direction of the nearest toilet trench.
"They weren't," Rarity regretfully confessed. "But I'll have another payment voucher for recording residual usage next week."
Five mares shared a blink.
"What's --" Twilight began.
"-- he kept saying that sound belonged to the people," Rarity told them in a rather distant way: most of her attention was on the posters. She was a designer, and it made sight into the primary sense -- but she did listen. Now and again. When she decided the words were good ones. "Or, in his more grandiose moments, the world. And claiming that most of what he'll now do will be trying to recreate natural sounds with unusual materials, in the privacy of his studio, rather than risk going outside -- I would not argue that those results will be his, although others might try to duplicate the methods. He said that sound was for the people, and the world -- but I couldn't help but notice that the totality of the bits were going to him. So. Something for all ages?"
