Tales from the Background

by Don Quixote

Part 1 - The Tale of Octavia

I assure you, Ms. Sparkle, that I am just as perplexed as you concerning yesterday’s events. These were not limited to the tragic blaze at town hall. Between brutal break-ins and miraculous gifts, it was a most peculiar day.

I awoke yesterday feeling exhausted. Vinyl Scratch, with whom I share my home, had been up late washing dishes the night before. As much as I appreciated her help in the kitchen, it prevented me from getting an adequate night’s rest. (Her dishwasher is very loud.) Suffice it to say I felt tired yesterday morning, and my day was about to take an abrupt turn for the worse.

I had heard of magic that breaks locks, but I had never seen its effects. At least, not until yesterday morning.

My instruments are kept in a locked cabinet in the living room. I take no chances, Ms. Sparkle. As a musician, my instruments are everything to me. Imagine my shock when I found the cabinet doors thrown open, swinging gently in the breeze from a smashed window. Slivers of bright steel covered the carpet around the cabinet. They were what was left of the lock. It was broken—not broken, shattered. I froze, but only for an instant. Then I rummaged through the cabinet as quickly as I dared, searching for the instrument that mattered most.

It was ruined. My string bass, my most precious instrument, was ruined. Its bow was snapped in two and its strings were cut.

There is something you must understand, Ms. Sparkle. My bass is the tool of my trade and my most valuable possession. Nothing else compares. Imagine somepony scrawling vulgar words in every book in your library. That may give you just an inkling of the desolation that crept over me as I regarded the wreck that had been my greatest treasure.

“Chill out, Octy,” said Vinyl, trying vainly to be encouraging. “We’ll get it fixed before the concert tonight.”

“Did you do this?” I snapped.

“No way I’d do that to you.” Vinyl raised her shades and peered reproachfully at me. “Magic’s not my thing, anyway. I may be a unicorn, but I couldn’t bust that lock if my life depended on it. Whatever unicorn killed your bass messed up my console, too.”

Vinyl waved at her console, a beastly machine that she uses to make the noise she calls music. A panel had been torn away. Several wires dangled sadly from the opening.

“It’ll take all day to fix, and all my bits,” she said. “So much for my savings. We’ll fix your bass too, Octy. We’re gonna rock tonight, and a couple of busted instruments won’t stop us.”

“Vinyl, I have no money,” I said, repressing tears.

Vinyl’s shades came off. She polished them thoughtfully, staring at me. “No money? But you’re like, the richest pony in town.”

“Not anymore,” I whispered. “I took the plunge and bought this house. I was going to tell you after the concert.”

I must pause for a moment, Ms. Sparkle. There is something you need to know.

Two years ago, I left Canterlot in order to pursue an honest living as a musician in Ponyville. (I will spare you the details of my career in Canterlot; it is probably best that you not know.) Vinyl, whom I met on the train, was also settling in this town. We decided to rent a house together. I fell in love with the place almost immediately. The ivy clinging to the walls, the roses blooming in the garden, the antique furniture standing gracefully in every room—everything was perfect.

The decision to buy my house was easy to make, but it came at a price. I was left without two bits to rub together. With not a coin to spare, repairing my beloved bass was impossible.

Vinyl had been stunned to silence by my news. After sitting frozen for a moment, she whistled and said, with a return of her usual jauntiness, “I’ll be moving out then, Octy. I’m no freeloader. The Scratches earn their living fair and square.”

“You shall stay,” I said. I could no longer hold back tears. “You are a dear friend, Vinyl, despite your… unusual habits.”

Vinyl put on her shades, and then opened and closed her mouth several times. She was evidently searching for something to say.

“I’m not good at saying thanks, but, um, thanks, Octy,” she mumbled at last. “You the best. Go get some rest. I’ll think of something.”

I felt too tired to protest. Retreating upstairs to my bedroom, I threw myself upon my bed and wept.

When I came downstairs, Vinyl and my bass were gone. So were the broken glass and scattered fragments of the lock. A garish blue Wonderbolts poster had been taped over the broken window. Vinyl, bless her, had apparently made some effort to tidy up the scene.

I brewed a pot of Earl Hay tea, sat down at the kitchen table and stared desolately at the glitter-encrusted records Vinyl had, in a fit of artistic fervor some days previously, suspended from the ceiling.

The doorbell rang.

Swallowing a lump in my throat, I called, “Please enter.”

My visitor was a brown pony whom I recognized. I was in no mood to entertain guests, but the first duty of a lady is to be gracious.

“Good afternoon, Time Turner,” I said, blinking back tears. “Have some tea.”

“You’ve confused me with another pony,” said my visitor in an odd accent. “You may call me the Doctor. I’d love some tea, if the offer still stands.”

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“I suppose that’s a ‘No’ for the tea,” sighed the Doctor. “Pity. To answer your question, Ms. Octavia, I was asked to deliver something.” He smiled and held out an enormous bag. “Open it.”

What was in the bag, you ask?

That bag, Ms. Sparkle, held a miracle.

It was my bass. Fully restored.

After a few moments of incoherent stammering, I gasped out, “How… I mean… Doctor, where did you get this?”

“That’s a charming poster,” he replied vaguely. “The one in the living room, I mean. I couldn’t help but notice it on my way in. It’s quite bold, though I can’t say I like that electric blue color.”

I said nothing, gazing at my bass. It was as good as new. It had even been polished, and it gleamed in the light.

“Never mind the poster,” said the Doctor. “Let’s get down to business. It’s important that you perform tonight at the concert. Very important. The fate of Equestria—well, three-quarters of it—depends upon your performance.”

This bizarre pronouncement pulled me out of my trance. “I beg your pardon?” I said, frowning at the Doctor.

“Never mind the details,” he replied impatiently. “Listen to me, Ms. Octavia. You must perform tonight, and it’s important for your friend Scratch to perform with you. A duet, you understand. That is all I ask. Well, there is one more thing.”

“What more can I do for you, Doctor?”

“A cup of tea, if you wouldn’t mind.”

As I poured out some tea for the Doctor, he strolled into the living room and examined Vinyl’s console. “Interesting machine,” he said, tapping it with what looked like the metal handle of a screwdriver. “Fascinating. Ah yes, thank you for the tea. It smells like Earl Grey—pardon me, Earl Hay. This ruddy country and its ruddy horse talk take some getting used to.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just the ramblings of a very old pony, Ms. Octavia.” My guest drank his tea. “Good afternoon. Thank you for the tea. And remember,” he added, lifting a hoof and gesturing for emphasis, “you and Vinyl must perform a duet tonight. Everything depends upon it.”

“But Vinyl’s console is broken,” I said.

“Is it?” he asked, and winked. With that he was gone.

Vinyl entered moments later. “Dude, you fixed your bass!” she exclaimed. “Tell me you didn’t sell the house to pay for it.”

I explained.

“That’s sweet,” she replied. “Totally sweet! Now you can perform tonight at the concert.”

“Vinyl, try out your console. The Doctor hinted it might be working again.”

Vinyl’s face fell. Without a word, she crossed the room and began fiddling listlessly with the knobs on her machine. The house was suddenly shaken to its foundation by an almighty wub wub wub.

“Turn it off!” I bellowed, and the din subsided.

Vinyl beamed. Though my ears were ringing, I heard her speak one word: “Working.”

“Kindly refrain from turning it on again,” I said, shaking my head. “I just bought this house, and I do not want you wubbing it down.”

You were present at the concert, Ms. Sparkle, so I will not describe the tragic events that transpired last night at town hall. How was the fire started? That is for you to discover, I am afraid.

Good luck in your investigation!

Comments

[Tigro Spottystripes]

Nice EWT references!

[really pathetic]

om whats EWT?

[SpellingRoman]

(Her dishwasher is very loud.)

I see what you did there.

[DarklordKyo]

2235874

Epic Wub Time, it's where the loud dishwasher thing came from.