As a filly, you couldn't step a single, small hoof outside your door without hearing others your age worrying about it. Her fantasy books told of countless young ponies, quaking and shivering in the safety of their own houses and under the comfort of their own fuzzy blankets, their wide eyes staring hundreds of yards away at their shut closets. Her classmates at school talked it up like it was the second coming of Nightmare Moon, sharing with each other a like-minded, full-on fear of anything that barely moved, slowly turned, or even blinked during it. Her own parents had warned her of walking around while it was doing its business in the sky, citing infinite dangers and shocking police reports as reason enough for their child—who was known to be adventurous, and stubborn, and stuck-up, and dumb—to simply lie in her bed and pretend she wasn't awake.
The night time.
Some ponies were terribly scared of it—which she couldn't blame, seeing as how the worst kinds of things always happened during then—staying cooped up inside their respective houses around dusk and turning on the highest number of bright yellow lights they could to keep even the smallest shadow from touching their beloved four walls. They would throw their drapes closed with mighty huffs of disapproval at the clock's reading, shaking their heads and growling obscenities as the hours ticked and tocked steadily by. The night held danger, they reasoned, and was nothing to either enjoy or even look forward to. So, wasting hundreds in their infinitely rising electric bills, they sat all cozy and warm in their couch and read twenty-page magazines about other pony's lives.
Octavia had always held half a mind to do the exact same. Staying inside, away from the cold, and reading a nice book in her big bed always looked more appealing to her fatigue-ridden, note-plagued mind, and many times did she blink her dreary eyes and find herself walking over to her bookshelf to look for the night's reading material, which—courtesy of the... admittedly high number of occasions—usually dwindled on fresh supply. Then, as if she were turning off her lights to try and get her body to rest, she'd flatten her lips, roll her eyes, mind her now aching stomach, and trot out the door to go and get a hayburger or something. Tacos on Wednesdays, though. She had routines.
The streets of Canterlot, though patrolled by Royal Guards twenty-four-seven, were still rather risky to traverse at night. There was the infrequent thief here and there that, while later apprehended, left quite the injured victim in their wake. It felt incredibly rude and horrible to say so, but, from her point of view, she could very well see why the nobles brave enough to go outside their houses seemed like such great targets. When you were staring at the darkened sky with each and every single step you took, nary an ounce of common sense biting at you, you could only realize you were being robbed when the clothes hugging your body began being torn off.
Octavia didn't really like wearing clothes. She had a sweater or two hanging in her closet, and she wore the occasional dress to fancy events at the request of the hosts, but her trademark pink bowtie and white collar were, well, trademark for a reason. While she hadn't had any prior experiences in being tackled to the cold pavement by an unseen force and robbed of all her personal items—thankfully—she couldn't stand on the sidelines, raise a hoof, and laugh at the misfortune of those less fortunate. With her mane style, posture, and seemingly well-maintained appearance, she was probably a target just waiting to happen. She'd always really liked the way she did her mane—it hadn't changed since grade school—but if she could get out of a bad situation, she'd be more than glad about putting it up with a scrunchie or two.
This whole thing sounded like some kind of spy movie, now that she was focusing and talking about it. Being a target, changing her mane to not be suspected, stalking around at night. Some would call her uncouth; others would just say she was dumb, but she knew which places to go and which places to avoid.
There lived a homeless Pegasus on the corner of Solace Street, his hooves wielding empty beer bottles in place of the usual switchblade and the accent on his lips one of someone who'd fit in more in the south than up north. Word passed around Canterlot like a wildfire, and the word was that he wasn't homeless. In fact, he didn't even live in Canterlot at all. He swooped down every now and then when he was bored and just sort of... mulled about, for lack of a better word. Term. Mulled about was two words, so it wouldn't be singular like that. Mulled about is a term. It's something you do. You can mull, but she hadn't said mull so–
"Shit!"
Octavia backpedaled a few steps, gritting her teeth and rubbing at her forehead with a free gray hoof. Sucking on her bottom lip, she looked up at what had stopped her and felt her inner frown only deepen when she saw the red stop sign telling her exactly what she should've been doing.
"Bloody..." She cursed, shaking her head and turning around to see if anypony had seen the astronomical stupidity she'd just showcased. In the glow of Luna's Moon and Sky, the hundreds of streetlamps stretching down the street, and her own hazed mind, there didn't appear to be a single scrutinizing eye as far she could see. Clearing her throat like she'd just fumbled with a word and not like she'd just smacked literally head-first into a stop sign pole, Octavia adjusted her bowtie and glared at her street bouncer as she passed it by. What was next? If she wasn't careful, she'd probably trot straight onto a busy street, or fall off a bridge or something. These mental musings, these... monologs were, very genuinely, going to become the epitome of death for her.
At the very least, and on the smallest bright side she'd ever encountered in her life thus far, she'd be with her own thoughts and not just by herself when she died. There was a comfort there, faint and almost absent, but it was drowned out by her stunning realization that what she'd just thought was incredibly mental. She was turning into Aunt Mezzo. This was a problem.
She growled, more at herself than to the sign still definitely chortling at her to her rear. She needed to focus. This was a bit of a last chance situation. Home called to her clearer than a telephone, and if her walking up the street at the start of the twilight was all that was needed to return there, it was definitely worth it to kick her head out of its ramblings and work on getting it to the train station. She blinked. Apparently, if she was remembering where she was right, she'd done a pretty good job of the whole thing.
Though the streets were bare empty, Octavia still tapped the button next to her, turned to her left, to her right, and then to her left again before proceeding across the road, trotting—or, well, admittedly more like hopping—up the wooden steps, and taking a left to find the vendor still hard at work yawning into his hoof and smacking his lips together like he'd just woken up. Considering the time of day, he probably had. Straightening her posture, lifting her legs up just the slightest, and took up a quick canter to purchase another ticket.
The stallion, clearly recognizing her despite her greatest—albeit obviously futile—attempts, sat up in his little chair, leaned forward, craned his neck, stared to the rear and right of his kiosk, then sat back down. Octavia, having stopped at his second movement, turned her head a little and gave him a little look out the corners of her eyes. He narrowed his own, seemingly to repeat the odd gesture, but rolled them instead and pointed a hoof back where he'd been staring.
"You two plan that or somethin'?"
Octavia bent her left legs a tad and followed where his gaze trailed off to. Not finding anything, save for a few pieces of trash somepony ought to have cleaned up by now, she returned to a normal standing position and walked over to the counter with a frown on her lips. Adjusting the back of her ballcap, she sucked in a breath and asked, "Pardon?"
The stallion opened his mouth to reply, closed it, then shook his head. "Nothin'. Whaddyou want?"
Calm. "A ticket to Ponyville, if you wouldn't particularly mind."
"Ahp," he responded almost immediately after her, "no can do, mare." He bent at the elbow and motioned toward their previous point of no-interest. "Already sold the last one to the guy before ya."
"Before me? Excuse me, but I didn't see a single living soul on this whole street until meeting your ungodsly gaze." The vendor's eyebrows went up at that. Octavia's as well, but only two seconds afterward. Oh. Whoops. She flashed him a grin and dipped her chin. He glared at her and let out a low growl.
He fixed his posture on his chair with an infinitely more aggressive attitude, then curled his lip and explained, "That's what I was saying when you rolled up. He stepped off the instant you got on. Thought you two had planned it or somethin'."
Her hoof came a bare centimeter close to stamping on the ground like that of a prepubescent mare who'd been told she couldn't go to a rock concert. Trust her. She knew. Maybe not the rock part, but still–
"How hard would it be to simply just... print out another one, you think?" She fluttered her long eyelashes at him, mostly because she legitimately felt bad about her earlier insult and thought she could try to be nice.
This had no effect on the stallion. He simply chuckled a very unearthly chuckle, shook his head, and asked, "Do you know how trains work, mare?"
Her retort came out a lot snippier and saltier than she'd liked, "Well, I believe they go on rails with the assistance of coal fires."
"What makes up a train?"
"Bits of loud metal and horrible people."
"People. Yeah. How many you think?"
"Usually twenty-five to thirty or so. I don't... usually count, mind, but–"
The stallion slammed his hoof on the counter, causing her to eep and jump back. "Well, sorry to disappoint, Miss Thirty-One."
She worked her jaw around and began to walk forward again, "No need to be a cock Mister–" Octavia shrank back yet again as the gate of the kiosk banged shut, easily waking up any sleeping ponies for blocks around. Pouting out her lower lip and staring at the closed station, she shot her head forward and issued the only foreign curse she liked to admit, "Chatte." Satisfied with the deathly quiet that met her fondly excused Prench, she spat out a small harrumph and turned tail to begin trotting back to the hotel.
Octavia's hoof barely grazed the ground before an idea sprouted within the depths of her mind. Deciding that this one such occurrence was a keeper, she narrowed her eyes and scanned the streets to look for her target. Not to the left, no... no, that's a cart over there... there!
Down the street directly ahead of her was a lone figure, his magic placing something into the almost unnoticeable saddlebags draped over his sides.
There he is.
Looks like she was heading back toward the hotel in the end anyway! Everything would go according to plan. She'd bargain for the ticket, head back to the Baron, grab a pint like she'd promised herself, and tuck it away before heading off to bed for some well-deserved shut-eye! Perfect!
Octavia minded both her sides and trotted down the side of the road again. Craning her neck forward as she began descending the street, she glared hard at the stallion trotting ahead of her and realized that he was much further away than she'd previously assumed him to be. If that vendor hadn't taken up her time, she could very well already be enjoying a nice glass of wine right now within the comfort of her own reflection.
Humming to herself the beginnings of a short tune, Octavia quickened her pace to catch up with the pony.
She increased it even more. Was he... running from her? She was making a bit of a racket, stomping toward him at her new jogging pace. Maybe he was just in a hurry. She was. It wasn't too farfetched an idea.
Quieting her hoofsteps and cringing at the running posture she was now engaged in, Octavia galloped as stealthily and as quickly as she could. If she could liken her maneuvers to something that happened to exist in the world to somepony watching her right now, she'd have to say she might look like a stray dog with only three legs and a group of females to chase after. Running wasn't her strong suit, if she was going to be honest.
Another series of musings, another case with a street sign, though this one was successfully avoided and given a stern curse by the mare who continued to speed down the sidewalk. Almost there. She could make out the horn on his head and the short mane that didn't try at all to hide it.
She perked up her chin and wet her lips to call, "Excuse me!" but found only a hoof and a grouping of whispers that suddenly jolted her out of her body and dragged her into an alleyway to her right. Her Earth Pony instincts kicking in—ignoring the heart that was currently seizing with fright—she raised a hindleg up and jabbed at the body she was sure was directly behind her. Finding only pain in the form of the brick wall of the building, she sputtered at the hoof still clutching at her mouth and bared her teeth to begin gnawing at it.
"Godsdammit, calm the hell down!"
The hoof let go, and Octavia took the time to, instead of scream, whip about and try punching at her opponent with a shaky, "I'll break your bloody fetlocks you–"
Her foreleg raised, Octavia looked up and blinked.
The other mare adjusted her blue cap and tutted at her, "What the hell are you doing out here?"
Spitting out a short gasp, lifting her chin, and brushing herself off as she stepped back, Octavia replied, "I could very well ask you the same thing, officer."
Purple stared into brown.
Razor Hail tipped her hat. The badge on the front of it glimmered in the dark.
Shaking her head, Octavia rolled her eyes and felt for her heart. Gods, she about lost it. Where was her pulse– what was her pulse? Okay okay okay, where is it first, actually? Neck, below the jaw, don't press too hard...
"Saw what you were doing. You want that ticket, don't you?"
"You were spying, were you?" Octavia questioned, clenching her jaw.
"Well, not on you," Hail chuckled, stretching her forelegs out and not even flinching at the deafening pops she was met with. "You want it though–" CRACK "–don't you?"
"It's the way home," Octavia answered, brushing a few locks of her mane out of her eyes.
"I'll get it for you then," Hail promised, leaning forward and kicking out her hindlegs. Watching her left one jut out and shake, she smiled at it and looked back at Octavia, adding, "But only if you help me bust his operation by the docks."
Octavia's response was very normal. Simple. Casual, even.
She turned around and began walking out of the alley.
She heard a trio of clip-clops along the cobblestone, then craned her neck back when Hail appeared from her right and got in her way.
"Oh no no no, you're not just leaving–"
"I don't think my only way home is worth my life. At least, not in this kind of way..." Octavia shot, lifting a hoof to sidestep the officer.
"It's not life or death," Hail insisted, frowning, "you really think I'd just ask a civilian to help me break jaws and a few limbs in a shady dockside warehouse? We may be police officers but we're not assholes."
"Still," Octavia reminded, "just because you don't want things to turn ugly doesn't mean they won't."
"What kinda logic is that?" Hail giggled.
"...normal...?" Octavia asked with a sideways glance.
"Look, it's not even that hard, alright? I wouldn't ask if I had even a thought it'd get bad."
Octavia sucked in a breath that seemed a lot larger than she'd anticipated.
"What would you have me do?"
"I need you t' go there and buy a fish."
"..."
Hail clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes.
"They've got drugs in them."
"Well, figures–"
"Just ask them if you could, possibly, purchase a Largemouth Bass. Ponies only want that kind of thing if they're sick or dying or something."
Octavia hummed, "Who says I'm neither of those?"
Hail laughed. "Cute." She coughed into a hoof and adjusted her cap's bill. "You in or not? I can't just go and buy something when I'm dressed as a cop."
Octavia pressed her frown against her cheeks. "You're not going to arrest me for purchasing drugs, are you? I've never had any ample reason to even look up how to do such a thing in my life."
At this, Hail tapped her side with a foreleg and winked at her. "Got the fuzzy cuffs just for later, Octavia."
Octavia shut her eyes and held them tightly. Stop stop stop get that out stop stoooooop.
Hail patted her on the back, effectively flinging her eyelids open and eliciting a small yelp.
"Come on then. Let's go bust some baddies."
She trotted off without another word, but with a lot of happy notes.
Stepping out of the alleyway after her, Octavia looked to her left and saw the bright sign of the Red Baron glaring hotly at her. For a second, she debated heading back and burying herself under a pile of coats and blankets, but barely realized she was walking after Hail until she had turned her head away from it.
...if she thought things weren't going to go poorly, it wouldn't hurt to try and help the local law enforcement. How hard could it be?
She nipped loudly. Hail didn't seem to notice.
Octavia was desperately gonna need that pint after this. This was turning out to be a pretty disgustingly horrible series of events.