Largo
The morning had … ugh … Celestia … the mid-to-late afternoon had dragged.
She had dragged back the covers as she fell out of bed. She had dragged herself through a painful shower, dragging a comb through her mane when she was done. She had dragged herself into the kitchen to drag both a spoon through her morning cornflakes and her eyes across the morning paper.
She had dragged her jaw mechanically up and down, swallowing from time to time, tasting nothing but dry cardboard. Each breath dragged through her throat like she’d swallowed a motorbike engine as the minute hand slowly dragged its way round the face of her treble clef kitchen clock. After all but throwing the dishes into the sink, she had dragged herself back to her bedroom and dragged her cello onto her back, preparing to drag herself up the hill to morning practice.
She wondered how Lyra was doing. She hoped it was worse.
She had half a mind to put a brick through Lyra’s window on the way past. Maybe get a specially commissioned brick with ‘Dear Lyra. You have the worst ideas of anypony I have ever met. Yours sincerely, Octavia” engraved on it.
Well, maybe not ‘sincerely’, that was rather too formal for a brick. Urgh, thinking hurt. Hmm. ‘Yours, uurrgh’? Maybe ‘yours, my mouth tastes like death’ or ‘Yours, I hate how easily you can shrug off hangovers’. ‘Yours, I can’t feel my extremities’. Blast it all. She felt abysmal.
A low, ghostly groan echoed through her ceiling, the sound of something dying or at least in mortal agony. For a moment she felt a grudging sympathy, it seeming that she and the pony above her were apparently not so different. It was strange, actually. It was a kind of kinship in a way; an unspoken connection through shared, awful experience as, despite their disparate tastes, they both found themselves in a hell of their own design. She felt almost-
The groaning, moaning death rattle - which Octavia had been thinking had been going on for a while - dropped forty octaves and picked up a dull thumping crunch every second along with a seismic, offbeat thud.
She couldn’t scream; just mechanically her throat would barely let her get beyond a gravelly, primal growl, but boy did she think a scream.
She slammed the door behind her and staggered up the stairs, slotting a passive-aggressive note - Your music is bad and you should feel bad, or words to that general effect - under the door. Then she staggered her way down again and lurched, blinking, into the sun.
It still bore a grudge.
She squinted painfully as she trudged through the suburbs and up the hill towards the city centre. It was a lovely day. The sky was clear, the air was clear and warm, and the streets and gardens shone in the late afternoon light. Just for once she sort of wished it wasn’t.
Her mood struggled to break-even as she plodded into town, sweat slowly gluing the cello case to her back. She was walking slowly, being overtaken by groups of teenagers off into town to presumably throw away their educations in an orgy of hedonism or whatever it was that teenagers did on a Saturday afternoon. Every single time it was the same thing. She could put up with how they barged past her, mumbling something that could be generously interpreted as an apology. She could even put up with the preponderance of hoodies and the wave of that awful bodyspray they all seemed to use. What set her teeth on edge was the faint whispering just at the edge of her hearing; Tck tss tck tss tck tss tcktck tss, with some high-pitched whining noise barely audible in the background.
Every. Time. She didn’t even want to think how loud that must actually be, but must it always be the same? She just wanted to grab of them by the shoulders and shake some taste into them. Out of all the genres that one could possibly like, the one sweeping the blasted country was the one that had maybe three different songs that were just endlessly iterated through a computer. Where was the soul? Where was the love and effort?
She was nearly at the city centre. She could tell from all the billboards that were starting to sprout up; giant pictures of some unicorn’s grinning face with a dangerous amount of lasers reflected in her oversized shades. She turned a corner, another board of a different- oh, wait, different image for the same ad campaign; a single shattered glowstick and the same pair of sunglasses, images half visible in the spilled fluorescent liquid. As she read the poster something niggled at the back of her head but she couldn’t quite put her hoof on what it was. Something familiar in the text. Oh well. Not like she cared anyway.
She’d just have to try and be the better mare; ‘love and tolerate’ as Lyra would put it. She still had her beloved art and, no matter how much mass produced trash the public mindlessly consumed, nothing was going to take that away from her.
~~~
“What do you mean, cancelled!”
She was aware that she was standing up when everypony else was sitting down - except for Lyra. She was aware that she was shouting when everypony else was staring at her in mute confusion - except for Lyra. She was aware that she was behaving in an utterly undignified manner when everypony else was staying calm - except for Lyra. She didn’t care.
The conductor did.
And the other cellists, whose music stands had clattered, like dominos, to the floor when she had leapt to her feet, probably cared too.
“Well, I said our booking has been re-evaluated. Ms Scratch’s tour only has one block of available dates.”
“Well why don’t we go to the Canterlot Gallery, tear out all the canvas, and spend the next month sewing a carpet so she doesn’t have to get her hooves dirty when she descends from her gooolden chariot to grace us with her butchering of the oldest and most noble art by debasing both it and our ears with-” she would have kept going had she not run out of air.
Also Lyra’s applause had made her lose her train of thought.
Lute-butt was - well, the best was to describe it was probably ‘lounging’ - over at the other side of the orchestra, behind the violas, resting an elbow on the top of her golden pedal harp. She had the gentle smile of somepony who was enjoying a good movie or stage show and, for the last few seconds, had begun softly shouting ‘encore’ and clapping.
Octavia looked around the stage as she got her breath back. They’d been practising in an old theatre for the past few weeks - and, more specifically, the last hour and half - while their normal rehearsal venue was being refurbished. The air had the tang of that musty theatre smell and the lighting was rather harsh, but it was a good size stage with good acoustics. Octavia rather liked the faded charm of the place. At least, when she wasn't busy being royally ticked off.
“I know you may not like it, but the fact is that the Arena barely breaks even on our performances as it is. It’s just a postponement. It’s not the end of the world, now please sit down.”
“Yeah, sit down Tavi, the bass players are sick of staring at your butt. Well, almost all of them, eh Top Fret? I see ya checkin’.”
Lyra made a rather inappropriate clicking sound with her tongue that carried quite clearly across the orchestra.
“Miss Heartstrings, you aren’t helping.”
“This is ridiculous. We’ve been preparing for this for months. We’ve had the booking for months.”
“Miss Clef, the manager of Canterlot Arena is a personal friend of mine and he asked me a personal favour-”
“So if it had been the ... the … the Canterlot Under 6’s Recorder Club in their world debut then you’d have been fine with it too?”
“Some of those kids are pretty talented, Tavi. If they started doing proper auditions rather than letting anypony join then they’d be hitting the big times. I mean, there’s this one filly who always stands at the front and she just … can’t ... what? Yeah, the CUSRC are a thing and I went to see them by accident this one time. You wanna make somethin’ of it?”
The echoes faded into the dusty seats and faded backdrops as Lyra shadow-boxed in Octavia’s general direction
“Ahem, I … er, what was, oh right. I don’t see how that’s a fair comparison Ms Clef. Ms Scratch is a world famous artist who is coming to Canterlot as part of her tour.”
“They have about the same amount of musical talent-”
“Well, if they’d just ditch that one filly...”
“-and I simply cannot abide that we are moving aside our program of beautiful art-”
“The Sibelius is just boring as sin, if you ask-”
“-in favour of some audiovisual apocalypse from Vinyl Scratch?”
“You got that off the posters, Tavi.”
“Shut up, Lyra!”
“Aye aye, ma’am.”
“Ms Clef?”
“Yes, Mr Baton?”
“Sit.”
She picked up her music stand, disentangling all the metal pointy bits from her neighbours, and sat back down on the cheap plastic chair, pouting as she did so.
“I know we’ve been working very hard for this concert but it’s only a couple of weeks. As we are clearly all a little stressed right now-”
Octavia deliberately avoided eye-contact.
“-we can come back next session and try some new pieces, but for now I think we should call it a day.”
There was a collective sigh and a rustling of sheet music. There was also a loud woop, the sound of somepony yelling “School’s out for summer, baby! Woooo!”, and the thumpity-thump of hooves galloping up the aisle, into the darkness, and out of the door.
Octavia had completed the metal origami puzzle of closing up her music stand and was hefting her cello back into its case when the door creaked open and a familiar voice echoed distantly from above the dim rows of seats.
“So, yeah, I’m gonna need somepony to give me a hand with the harp.”
~~~
She hadn’t been able to face dragging her cello back already, instead choosing to relax at a corner cafe she was rather fond of. Green tea, scones and a slice of carrot cake had done wonders for her, ‘revitalising herbal energy (tm)’ flooding her body as she watched the sun slowly set.
By the time she had finished her meal and the odd conversation with some fellow musicians who came past, it was starting to get dark, and her mood had swung from unfocused, grumbling anger, to very targeted, grumbling anger. There was a problem in Canterlot and she was going to fix it. The more she thought about it, the more obvious it seemed. These were ponies who just, lit-er-al-ly, did not know what they were missing. They couldn’t have heard anything better than that manufactured nonsense and so they simply didn’t know any better. Well, tonight, Octavia was gonna change their tune, literally. Heh, she’d spent most of a pot of tea working on that one.
And so it was that she walked the darkened streets of the Bits Of Town That Lyra Likes, cello on her back, looking for somewhere to spread her own personal gospel. Octavia was not ashamed to admit - in fact she was rather proud to admit - that she didn’t really know her way around Canterlot’s … less laudable areas. Still, she was a grown mare, she knew a bar when she saw one. Speaking of...
The Pink Apple Club - Entendres now on buy one get one free! - New acts always welcome on amateur night! (Yeah, that’s tonight.)
She sighed, staring at the pink neon sign and various, crude cardboard supplements beneath. This looked like the best she was going to get at short notice. Yes, it didn’t exactly have the air of a place that she actually wanted to go to … but that was sort of the point. It briefly crossed her mind to call Lyra to get some support but, as the drunken slew of last night’s half-memories glugged past her eyes, that idea rapidly lost its appeal.
The cello case drew a few glances as she walked inside and eased her way through to the bar, resting it against counter and cricking her shoulders.The club was dimly lit; what light there was was dirty pink and diffuse. A small stage sat front and centre, backed by a grotty red curtain and flanked by a basic DJ booth. It turned out that an Entendre was a kind of drink; bourbon, some kind of fruit brandy, and so much sugar that she could feel her teeth rotting. She eyed the remaining one, and the barcolt, warily.
“So, um, sir, I couldn’t help but notice the sign outside your establishment.”
He gave her a quizzical look, his eyes flicking between her face and her cello like an indecisive bee caught between an unexpectedly upper-class gray lily and a wooden, four-stringed daffodil.
“I would like to try my hoof as it were,” she tapped the cello case almost apologetically, there was never any harm in being a little submissive with such an unusual request.
“If that wouldn’t be a problem?”
The barcolt shrugged, “Not my cup o’ tea, miss, a little unorthodox. But eh, it’s why we have amateur night. Spices things up a little.”
He nodded over at a door at the back of the bar.
“S’just through there. Whenever y’ready. Been a quiet night so far.”
She eyed up the door, procrastinating over her free drink. It looked dark, and mysterious; almost threatening in the dim pink light but she wasn’t going to back out now. The door gave her the creeps as well. She downed the second drink, trying not to taste it, and lugged herself and the cello through the door.
The scent of tacky rose perfume hit her like half a brick in a sock as she stepped into the dim pink … well, she wasn’t quite sure there was word in Equestrian that quite captured the bizarre blend of dressing room, cellar, and alcove-under-the-stairs that the tiny room possessed. Two young mares, slouching by the grimy vanity stand, broke off from their conversation as the door clicked shut behind her. As she choked on the cloying air and wiped her burning eyes, they swept her up, flanking her and gently guiding her towards the scruffy chair by the mirror.
“Hi there, luv. I’m Candy and this is Bunny. You done this before, darlin’?”
They were obviously professionals, she thought. They were already going to work on giving her basic makeup like it was taking no conscious thought whatsoever. She tried to speak without moving her face too much as they went to work with a liner pencil.
“Um, yes, I’m actually pretty good. Not much of a professional though.”
She didn’t want to be too intimidating, best to go in low and surprise them.
“Well, if we expected you to be a pro then it wouldn’t be amateur night, would it, silly!”
Candy … or possibly Bunny, she’d already forgotten, gave her a big, easy smile.
“You have a costume?”
“Um … no, I don’t have one.”
“No costume. Well, that’s alright luv, I’m sure we can find you something. We don’t have much though at the moment as our box hasn’t arrived yet. We usually only get ponies doin’ it spur-of-the-moment, like, a little later of a night. Ah, here we go.”
Whichever pony wasn’t that one - their cutie marks were surprisingly unhelpful for telling them apart - had just finished digging around in a box in the corner, and was coming back with...
The next minute or so was a complete blank; her mind had spat out its metaphorical coffee all over the metaphorical kitchen table and by the time it had gotten a tea towel, cleaned everything off, and come back to see what it had missed, she was standing in front of a mirror in a black tutu, stockings, elbow gloves, and sporting a perfectly ridiculous tiara. Something was being said about it being an ironic goth look. They were quite possibly correct. Who knew. Upon hearing something about corsets, her mind hit enough panic buttons to get her to do something.
“It’s lovely. This will be great.”
In retrospect, not quite the opinion she had been aiming to express, but still it probably wouldn’t get any worse and if her dignity must be the martyr to light the way for the musical masses then so be it. They were talking at her again as she picked up her cello.
“What music do you usually work to? We don’t have an amazin’ selection but we probably got some backing that will work for you.”
Well, this was it; it was time to test the water.
“Well, I thought I’d try some classical, shake things up a bit. I won’t need any accompaniment so you don’t have to worry about that.”
She watched as Bun- … one of the mares’ eyes narrowed in temporary confusion, the mental dots being quite visibly joined as they took in the cello case.
“O- Oh … okay. Wow, that’s .. .exotic. I don’t think we’ve ever had that before.”
Octavia quietly congratulated herself; she was one step ahead of the game. The two mares were gently ushering her through another battered door and towards the back of the curtain.
“No, I didn’t think so. That was why I decided to try it out.”
Octavia could feel the bald velvet of the curtain on her back.
“Well, just keep it interesting and emphasise the exotic stuff and you’ll be fine. Best of luck!”
“Well, Khachaturian’s concerto in E minor is pretty … exotic...”
She had been pushed through the curtains. The stage was hers.
The lights were warm and there was a general muttering and a few indistinct catcalls and heckles from one particularly rowdy corner of the room. The tutu was more annoying than anything she could possibly have dreamt of and the stupid gloves were making it hard to hold the bow properly. Still, apart from that, really it wasn’t so different from any other concert.
The first notes of Khachaturian’s E minor were already singing around the establishment as looked at out around the crowd. They were confused, of course they were. She’d expected as much, taking the heckles well in stride. It should only take a moment or two and then they would see what they had been missing all these years. Some of the heckles were a little confusing though. She had plenty of time to try and work out what some of the less obvious hoof gestures meant; she could play this piece in her sleep.
A sharp psst came from over her shoulder and she twisted slightly as a pink hoof emerged from behind the curtain, tapped her on the shoulder, and proceeded to make small circles in the air. She blinked, continuing to play. Spin? Turn? She should turn round? What? Well … okay. The cello spike provided a natural pivot point and she could just about manage to play while slowly moving. Slowly, sedately, as if in some bizarre waltz or romantic slow dance, she began to turn, a look of confusion plastered over her face as the audience tittered and whistled. As faced the curtain - she could have sworn she heard laughter from behind it - the mental gears began to turn along with her and the cello. As she faced front again, she stopped playing and held up a hoof as the last note died.
The bar fell utterly silent. The air was electric, charged with the potential of twenty odd ponies all holding a collective breath of anticipation. The piercing gazes burned her more than the spotlight as she slowly inched a free hoof along her back, tracing the contour of her spine. She could she the eyes that worshipped the progress of that dawdling hoof until it teased onto its destination, see the grinning faces hungrily waiting for the inevitable. There was a gasp from around the room as she moved only minutely, a tiny flick of a hooftip to release a simple clasp, and she felt the warm air caress her.
Her familiar bowtie fluttered to the ground at her hooves. She looked down at it, then back up at the audience as somepony blasted a piercingly shrill wolf-whistle at her. She sighed.
“This is a strip club, isn’t it?”
~~~
“It was a strip club, Lyra. A strip club! Why do we even have those?”
The sky was black,the wooden bench was cold, and the grass beneath was damp. The park lights were faint and washed the colour out of everything. She was curled up on one side, gesturing angrily a hoof, Lyra was sitting upright at the other - as was her way - making sympathetic noises. The cello case and cello were propped up to one side. Lyra had been nice enough to go and pick the case up to save Octavia further embarrassment after the latter had fled the club.
“I mean, seriously Lyra. You’re naked right now!”
Lyra threw her hooves across herself and tucked her knees up,.
“Ah! It’s true. Don’t look at me, don’t look at me!”
“And then they come try and hoist me off stage like a sack of potatoes, and immediately start blaring out some of that utter trash. Fine, I missed the point a little, but it’s like they didn’t even hear what I was playing!”
She smacked a hoof against the wooden planks of the bench. Lyra was leaning back, her back of her head resting unnaturally against the backrest so that she was looking up at the sky.
“Some ponies just don’t like it. It’s just the way things are.”
“I’m going to have to do something about this. Some ponies don’t like classical. Okay. If they won’t learn to love art, I’ll just have to show them how horrible their beloved electronica is.”
An idea began to take shape. A terrible, glorious idea that built itself up before her eyes as she rubbed her hooves together.
“We have an extra month of time that Ms. Scratch has kindly given us. That will be her last mistake. I will use this month wisely and by the time I’m finished nopony in Canterlot will be able to listen to that racket ever again. Yes. That’s it! It’s easy to make that useless noise so I’ll just learn how! I’ll make music so awful and catchy that everypony will lap it up, and that’s when I strike. I’ll get them hooked on music so cheesy and tasteless that they won’t be able to live with themselves! It’s perfect. I’ll destroy it all with it’s own success!”
“Tavi, can I just check something?”
Lyra rolled her head against the back of the bench until she was looking at Octavia.
“On a scale of ‘oh Celestia, I’m going to remember all of this in perfect clarity’ to ‘hey … hey … hey … Ryra … I have … the besht … besft … idea, wight’, how off your hooves are you right now?”
“I’m perfectly sober.”
Lyra sucked the cold night air in sharply between her teeth, grimacing.
“Yep.”
“Wow. So, hang on … the club…?”
“Yep.”
“Wow.”
A lonely moth fluttered and bumbled around the light by the bench. A cold breeze dashed through the park. Octavia shivered.
“It’s a terrible idea, isn’t it?”
“Atrocious.”
“Will you help me?”
“What are friends for if not this?”
She lifted her head up, turning to face Lyra properly. It was the strangest thing. She spent a good fifty to sixty percent of her time wanting to punch the mare in the mouth, but when it really mattered…
“Thank you, Lyra. Really.”
Lyra threw her a high-beam smile and held out a hoof, waiting politely for Octavia to figure out that she was meant to bump it.
“No worries ‘Tavi. Right!”
She slammed her hooves by her sides and threw herself onto her hooves.
“This momentous occasion calls for a celebration, whaddaya say? The night is yet young and I know this great little place just down the way. Kinda small but I think you’ll like it.”
Octavia found herself smiling; a real, genuine grin that wrapped her head up in a big warm hug. She demurely got to her hooves and slotted into position by Lyra’s side.
“Oh, go on then. Lead on!”
And they were lost in the lights of the town.
~~~
Her head hurt and her mouth was full of pillow. A bowtie was hooked jauntily on the radiator a few hooves from her face. She stretched an exploratory back hoof out to the other side of the bed. There was a dull wooden thonk as it hit hollow wood. She buried her face even further into the pillow.
“I’m gonna kill her.”
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I think Octavia needs less tea when thinking. Bad things come from her thinking. At least bad for her.
Heh, I was wondering what type of club she was entering. Even Canterlot can't keep a Red Light District from springing up.
Lyra's a hoot! Seriously, she got a one liner for everything. I love that mare.
I can only imagine that glorious hijinx will ensure now that Octavia has decided on her path to bring down the dregs of music. I wish her comedic luck.
Good entry! Things have really gotten interesting now!
Lyra, you make everything better you raving nutter you. Octavia, are you sure you aren't Pinkie's sister since that leap of logic sounds utterly insane?
Write. Faster.
1029745
The Pink Apple: a name that sounds like it really should be a euphemism for something, but nothing quite seems to fit.
Freaking love writing Lyra. I'm trying fairly hard to keep her from being annoying though as I realise that could very easily happen.
Glad you liked it!
1029763
It's a stretch even with Octy's warped view on things musical. Cut her a little slack 
It makes perfect sense ... kind of. Well ... yeah ...
1029810
Trying. Colt. Dammit.
Shouldn't it be 'give me a hoof with-' Oh wait, Lyra. Never mind.
1033803
Lawl.
Also amazing fic, totally unappreciated.
I am loving this fic more and more.
Well done!!
Is this how every chapter's gonna end, with Octavia nursing a hangover that could incapacitate the Princesses?
1033803 Teehee.
1034845 Thank you so much! And hey, it's not unappreciated; you guys all appreciate it and that's what counts!
1042009 Thank you!
1130280 I can neither confirm nor deny the existence, or non-existence, of a running joke.
1219189
There are as few authors doing a nod to under-appreciated fics. I submitted this to one of them about a week ago. He was very interested and you may see a bump in viewers soon.
1219217 Oh wow! Genuinely, thank you. That's very kind and very generous of you to do that for me
I hope I can continue to justify that kind of lovely support. 
This was great, hope you continue!
1219217
Oi, that's me! Not much of a bump really, averages out to about 20-30 more views?
1219371
hahaha, better than nothing. I am thinking about starting a group for high rated under-viewed fics.
1219793
Under the Raven's Eye... hehe, I started one already!
1219367 Thank you! I really appreciate you taking the time to give me a little signal boost and I'm flattered you think I'm worth the time. I'm definitely continuing the fic, I'm just a fairly slow writer and I only just got back from holiday. Getting chapter 3 out is top of my priorities!
1223025
I found myself in an advantageous position within the bronydom. I have quite a few watchers, and those watchers and I are rather close.
All I ask is that your return the favour to others who deserve it, those that worked hard, wrote their heart out, and who got little in return. I tink we both know how a few favourites and a half dozen views can boost one's moral.