//------------------------------//
// Brides 
// Story: Stroll 
// by re- Yamsmos 
//------------------------------//

What was in a name?

Or, better yet: what was in a title? 

She didn't mean something like, oh what-have-her, something like Princess... no, Third Princess... Third Royal Princess of Fromage du Chatte, Heir To The Platinum Throne. Not something formal like that, like an awfully blended smoothie of words that drizzled like prison slop out the appliance into your glass, and then went down like sewage where you tried not to vomit but hey at least you were being healthy by drinking complete, absolute, genuine, honest-to-Gods Minotaur shit... mixed with leaves of course. Tea leaves, to be exact.

...

Oh! No, not anything formal like that. Like a tongue twister or anything. Something... less formal, in the form of a full-fledged fallacy with the finesse of a fiery friendship fury. Perhaps just informal was the better, infinitely more-fitting word for it. Unofficial. Not real.

She'd had titles, oh did she ever.

Her favorite was "Bitch", mainly because she'd done a lot to deserve it, and most of those things she'd done to deserve it were out of spite, annoyance, vengeance, and simple curiosity. Pulling at manes, tackling in the halls, debate club... Gods high school was... so, so awful. For a rapid few seconds of her time, flashes of Sea Star's new bald spot shot across her mind like a shitty cinema film reel, with all the artifacting and sudden jumpcuts to boot, and a soft grin fell across her face. Yes, she'd very much deserved the title of "Bitch", which was usually delivered to her with very hard emphasis on the "B" to the point where she'd had to start carrying a hoofkerchief around with her at every waking school hour to wipe the spittle from—usually—her face and—more times than she would've liked—anywhere else on her body. "Bitch" was a great title, but, then again, it seemed that it was shared with practically everypony around her back then. Mostly just the mares though, teachers and staff included. The stallions just kinda fought each other all the time. 

Speaking of staff, "Teacher's Pet" was another one she was fond of. Not... not the idea of being somepony's pet, no, she never really understood that fetish. She was actually fairly masochistic when it came to being insulted and such; she did it to herself practically every second of her life—what exciting thing could somepony else say to her that she hadn't already thought? Anyway, her bond with her Orchestra teacher, who doubled as the Band teacher (the badass stallion he was), led to ponies grinding their teeth at his supposed "special treatment" of her, like, oh, giving her a big locker, or not giving too much of a fuss and letting her be First Chair so soon, or sneaking in a few of her own composition experiments as exercises to gauge audience reactions. All it was was simple kindness. Most ponies in Mr. Piercing Eye's class were kind of... assholes. Stuck-up. Stubborn. Not studious. 

Not like her. She was just poisonous. There was a difference, see.

"Sis" was up there, as well. That one was a bit more obvious, though, and certainly a lot more normal. Both her siblings tended to just use "Sis" instead of "Octavia", or "Tavi", or "Best Sister In The World", the latter of which nopony used unfortunately. "Hey Sis, would you mind unloading the dishwasher while I go jerk off in the farthest room in the house so you guys can't hear even though you totally can?" Or, "Sis, you think I could bring a boy ever and hide him in my closet for the next few days? He's totally hot, trust me. And he definitely won't make an aside comment about you being fat or anything and make you cry and then I won't have him apologize and then I'll lock you in your room and also it was your birthday." Even when talking to her like-gendered sibling, it was never "Sis". Maybe they were just making fun of her. "Sis" as in short for "sissy", not "sister".

...

Oh those little dickheads!

Rrrrr... she was going to have a word with them next time she saw them. Little... bastards in the past. Actually, she hadn't really seen Forte too much in the past few years. He was always busy doing something else whenever she called, and for some odd reason couldn't make a simple train ride or carriage when she was in town. And if the Philharmonica lineage ran even a single atom of blood through his unexpectedly strong body, that probably meant he was out drinking with his mates, doing something stupid (like out drinking with his mates), or staying cooped up in his apartment or house or whatever drinking with his mates. Come to think of it, maybe she was adopted. She had no mates to drink with.

"Now Sis, all you have to do is go out and socialize. Go to a bar or something. Trivia night! No, don't pull the blanket back over your head and turn away. Did you just hiss at me?"

Ugh. With all the missed signs, Forte almost sounded like one of her old bosses. Not like Dan, their conductor for the past, what, something years?

She'd, uh... well, first off, bosses only really gave her a title or two or three or fifteen because she was in trouble, and it was never anything remotely close to her given name whatsoever. That was a given, for sure, but... oh whatever.

Her first job wasn't one she thoroughly enjoyed sharing. Or really thinking about at all. 

She'd worked at a diner. And not like a big box of a diner with dim lights and cool atmosphere and TV's hanging from corners. No. Her Hellscape was shaped like those pills she never downed, with bright colours and a black-and-white-checker aesthetic and red stools and chairs and booths and an L-shaped counter in the far corner where old folks sat down and talked about the old days alongside police officers enjoying a morning brew, reading newspapers and laughing at stupid jokes she had to constantly hear over and over and over again all while patting down her itchy pink uniform and adjusting her much-too-big apron and desperately trying not to "accidentally somehow oh no" CLUNK her head against a tabletop and fall into an irreversible coma.

She was kind of on the fence about taking up a first job, both literally and figuratively, mainly because she argued with her father about the deed while feverishly attempting to escape the lawn. On one hoof, she could make money and get out of the house more. On the other hoof, literally everything that came with the real world she'd tried to create a warding spell on lay in her dailies. Things like cleaning up spills, enduring loud and rambunctious children, shooing away douchebag teenagers ffffffffffscrewing around with the poor old decrepit jukebox, classmates coming in and making fun of her and then leaving without even buying anything, et cetera et cetera. Shit was scary. Retail was very quickly off her list; her parents were adamant that a mare of their family would still be able to be seen in public if they entered the extensive food industry rather than stocked assorted cheeses and eggs, even if the food she served might've come straight from said cheeses and eggs stocked in said retail store.

Sure enough, an old-timey diner in town was looking for summer positions (i.e. hungry for students willing to do anything to make a bit), and so she'd went there as quick as possible, breezed through the novice interview supplied to her by a near-dead old mare who seemed to be unable to move from her chair and probably lived in the room, and got to work on a beautiful, sunshiney Tuesday morning! To be honest, she had actually been kind of looking forward to it! Though it was a tad scratchy, the uniform they gave her was cute, and the whole job sure beat sitting in the overbearing sun all day expecting death and being upset at its missed flight. Hell, it also meant that she could finally stand up tall, strike a cool-mare pose, and proudly proclaim, "I, Octavia Philharmonica, have landed a career!" She was getting paid, and every day she could have a free meal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner! Win-win!

The very first customer she served sent her food back seven times. Her bacon was too crispy once, and then the next time her toast wasn't toasted enough, and then the following serving they messed up her eggs! Needless to say, Octavia, at about age fifteen or so, broke down in tears and was sent home for the day, where her father rolled his eyes at her and her mother only came to talk to her to tell her that dinner was ready. She continued to work there for awhile, but she was... really fragile and easy to scare. This continued until school started—a whole three or so months later—and by then she didn't have a lot of time to work when she had papers to work on and music to study.

Her boss' title for her her whole three months of working there?

"Scaredy Mare". With a laugh at the end of it, too, like it was a joke and he'd multiplied himself and all twenty of him were the only people in on it.

Cheers was a much better boss. Nopony compared to Cheers, and he wasn't even a pony at all.

"Pass th' eggs, will ya?"

"Suck my dick, Cheers."

"Guess i' 'll wait then."

"What, can't bend over that low?"

"Rathuh not tay kout th' microscope act-ually."

"Ouch."

"Shuh tup an' cook the damn bacon Octavia. Fer Sputnik's sake."

The right side of her mouth lifted up as she hummed. Turning at the hip and waving her spatula in the air, she tilted her head. 

"Actually, Cheers, it's The Bassist, remember?"

Cheers didn't look up at her on the other side of the kitchen, but he still rolled his eyes and glared at the frying pan shimmying in his grasp. "Ugh, yoh still on about that soopid nickname?" oh yeah she very much enjoyed that one too "No one," he finally looked at her, bending an elbow and leaning against the counter with his own spatula pointing offendingly her way, "is gonna take that seriously, mate. You oughta stop hangin' 'round Gibbs."

She snorted. "Oh please, Gibbs is more a riot than you'll ever be, Cheers."

"Prob'ly been in a few, mind–"

"At least she knows what composition is."

Cheers returned to his pan. His words were quick, as if he was trying hard to deliver them before the nopony else around them beat him to it. "Look love nobody gives a shit 'bout music here but you two." He slowed. "You're practically minorities, and Gibbs is a griffon just like us."

Octavia took the silent sign and pushed a few pieces of bacon around, cringing slightly as they sizzled in their scalding oil and almost splashed in her face. "No need to fear...! I'm used to being a minority. We picked up Sesame in Tall Tale, after all."

TSS TSS! Cheers must've been tossing his hashbrowns. "Recall you talkin' 'bout that here recently. Only been there a few times meself, mostly just t' see a few colleagues. What's it like?"

Octavia's attention went to her next pan, which was carrying the scrambled eggs she'd forgotten to drizzle cheese on.

"Ah shhhhit."

"What's it now?" went Cheers now to her rear and right. "Forget ol' Gertram's cheddar again, didja?!"

"No." She hurriedly grabbed the bag of cheddar and promptly dumped its contents into the pan. Bringing up her spatula, she moved the concoction around, realized it was too hot, and adjusted the heat accordingly. Feeling that her work was at a good pace, she settled her utensil atop a blue and white dishrag, turned left, and headed for the sink at the far side of the wall in the kitchen. "How many eggs did you finish cleaning?"

"Oh I didn't do them. That way, you can! Cheers!"

She suppressed the urge to roll her purple eyes, but the motion won over as she bent over, felt her apron rest against the floorboards, and began to sort through the various egg cartons before her. She turned her head quickly to her right, then looked back. "What do you griffons call that thing you do again? 'Flipping each other the bird'?"

"Yeah that's right."

"What I wouldn't wish for a pair of talons at this moment, you hot dog water of a bird."

"Oh, you scream, you scratch, you bite, you prey on my heart, love."

She groaned, but felt a bit bad upon seeing how relatively clean the eggs looked anyhow. She closed the light gray—the colour of which meant that the carton was the cleanest, least-touched of the bunch—box and rose to her hooves, remembering Gertram's scrambled eggs. Swiftly trotting over, she reached for her spatula and practically dug a hole into her pan, scraping up the fringe of the eggs and stirring it around. She involuntarily sniffled—a consequence of being inside an admittedly dusty ship—and reveled in the serenity of the food cooking in front of, next to, and all around her. She leaned her head back and let loose a long, wistful sigh.

"Please don't have sex wit' th' food, Octavia."

She shot the right side of Cheers' head with a dirty look. "Don't make dirty with the skim milk, then."

"I will ferociously fornicate with th' skim milk as much as I damn well please."

"You just love that Lost Filly on the side, don't you?"

"The braids do somethin' to me, love."

She snorted uncomfortably loudly. "That poor filly is in grade school and has a family, dear Cheers."

"Oh, th' mo-uh the merri-uh, I think."

Though she wasn't one to shy away at such awful conversation, she had a rehearsed tic and made it renowned as she scooped up the scrambled eggs and slid them onto a nearby plate, "Eggs done."

"Good mare. I think I have some dog treats around here I could give ya."

Octavia scrunched up her nose. "Hey!"

"Anyway, go get th' rest o' th' eggs. Only a few batches left fuh me, and then yoh-uh bacon, and we'll be done foh the moh-ning."

Eggs, in the sink. "All right then," she started, turning, "just give me a..."

She stopped.

The carton of eggs was sitting on the counter right next to her.

She blinked. She hadn't taken it with her. She was sure of it. She'd hurried over to tend to Gertram's eggs and had left them in... the... sink.

She blinked again. The eggs were still there, despite everything being completely against that fact.

"What's the fookin' hold-up, sweetheart?"

Octavia shook her head. "Nothing." She scooped up the carton and cantered over to Cheers' side. "Here." Scurrying away before Cheers' suddenly sour-looking expression fell on his face, she returned to her station and clucked her tongue. "Bacon's ready."

"Put it on a plate; I'll get these last eggs. Might as well relax a bit 'fore the moh-ning rush."

Octavia fell to her haunches, coiling her forelegs around to work her apron's strings undone. "Feel a right bit bad that you're still working, though," she admitted.

"Eh, don't worry 'bout me, mate. Been cookin' fuh yee-uhs now. On an' off boats. And from what I've seen this past week, you can do a lot bett-uh than I first thought after yoh sah-deens." He brought out an egg, studied it for a few seconds, then with one deft motion, cracked the shell open, dropped the whites and yolk overboard, and tossed the shell in the rubbish bin between them. Octavia, hanging her apron up on the peg above her head, grabbed the bin and placed it next to Cheers with a resounding thunk. "Thank you."

"Of course."

"One o' these days, I'll have t' let you figure out breakfast." Octavia's neck shot back. "Wouldn't mind seein' what yoh 'ead cooks up for a moh-nin' meal."

"What have you done with Cheers?"

"Hahaha! Fay-uh point." He stole a quick glance her way. "Do mean it though." Another discarded egg shell. "We don't have too long left 'til Fahthuhland, so I guess a helping of career suicide isn't too big an iceberg to hit."

"Was that an RMS Elephantine joke?"

"Hey. They hi' tit."

"That's genuinely unkind."

"Well, feel free t' make some Bremerhaven jokes then."

As Cheers began sprinkling cheese over the pan with a spider-like reflex of his talons, Octavia was left to lean against the counter and crack a small grin. Cooking breakfast for the crew had become a bit of a thing for her, sharing the much-bigger-than-she'd-thought kitchen with the questionably criminal Cheers and his profound, surplus knowledge of food, and cooks, and all things Crumphill, where he'd lived for much of his life after the oh-so-shocking realization that the restaurant/eatery scene in Griffonia was both very inactive and not too well-looked-after to the point that most of his brethren scoffed with upturned beaks at the idea of walking down the street, getting escorted to a table, and ordering food from a menu with too-small font and then she'd have to take out her glasses which she didn't like wearing and then her friends would make fun of her for being old and wrinkled and then they'd all call her fat because it was a running joke which she kind of hated but kind of went with because it was just one of those things you did with your friends where you couldn't really get upset or even slightly perturbed with them because then they'd probably roll their eyes and wonder why she's being so serious and then dinner would be ruined and nopony would talk to each other for two weeks.

"Hmm?"

Octavia blinked, her nose feeling a tad itchy. "What was that, Cheers?"

Cheers stirred the eggs around. "I said, 'You best watch yohself, you'll start turning into one of the guys.'"

One of her ears twitched involuntarily.

"Soon it won't be 'Octavia', or yoh stoopid 'The Bassist'. They'll start callin' you... 'Brotavia' or somethin'."

She snorted like a pig caught in a too-narrow fence. N-not like she... knew what that was like. At all.

"Brotavia," she repeated.

The name seemed to finally humour Cheers. He shut his eyes tightly and giggled as he held the pan up with a talon, almost causing its contents to spill out onto the floor where the bugs could crawl out and gnaw at it. "Brota-a-a-vi-i-i-a." He reached up and wiped a tear from his eye, flinging it elsewhere. "Aaaahh, that's some funny shit there, mate."

"Are you really complimenting yourself on your own joke?"

"Not many c'n rouse a chuckle outta me, 'ctavia, thin' kit only makes sense I can do it."

"A bit narcissistic, are we?"

Cheers turned on her in an instant, stabbing the spatula into her chest fur. "A bit lonely, are we?"

"Why are you like this?"

The griffon swished about, his apron whipping audibly at his sides with his speed. "I'm Crumpish, love. Griffon blood and Crumphill tea make for one helluvan awful individual. Plus I went to school at Manechester. Everyone there is a vapid, irredeemable cunt." He laughed again, then tossed his head her way. "Where'd you say you were from again?"

Octavia smacked her lips. "Luton. My father was in the Queen's Guard, and my mother was a bank teller."

"Ah. Where'd ya go t' school, then? Mare like you with a family like that, I wouldn't doubt Oxf'rd."

She shook her head. "No, I moved to Equestria to attend uni. Most of my mates in school wanted to study music in college, and with our shared likes, I... didn't really want to see them that much."

Cheers' stirring seemed to be more aggressive for whatever reason. "How's that Canterlot uni anyhow? Was lookin' at it meself awhile 'til I realized there weren't any griffons 'round. I'm not going to be the only zebra in Japaneigh, if ya know what I mean."

"Hey Wallflower, what's it like crying in the stalls during practice?"

"You're so horrible, Octavia. Why don't you go step in front of a moving cart outside?"

"You'll never make it, idiot."

"Oh it was all right."

Cheers lifted the pan from the stove, flicked the heat off with a turn of his wrist, and plopped the batch of eggs onto a plate. Realizing that the two were done with the making of the food, Octavia kicked her own rear into gear for the following serving of the food, grabbing the trolley out from the corner and placing a hoofful of plates on top of it. They rattled and clunked against each other deafeningly, but the noise had long become ordinary for her, and so all she did was wince and wish she could hide in the dumpster next to her for the rest of her life.

"'All right' ain't good 'nough fer me, mate. I wan' a nice place where I c'n grab some chips and down a nice kegger after a long day o' list'nin' t' old profs bein' borin'."

Cheers grabbed a few talonfuls of plates himself, dropping them tenderly onto the cart before pulling a serving tray out of nowhere, bending his elbow, and setting the rest in a circle on its soot-covered metal surface. 

Octavia snatched up the salt and pepper vials, plucked their corks out, and gingerly sprinkled their contents atop a few select dishes. "Oh, most of the places there are prissy five-star single-bite plates, unfortunately. You'd be ass-up trying to find a good dive bar."

"Eff Tee Gee Ee, mate. All I want is a nice plate and a cold bev'rage. Such a lih'ol request, and never ans-uhd."

Octavia squeezed a bit of a lemon on, what was his name, George's rice. "Any place like that in Griffonia?"

"Jus' one that I remember. Hope she's still open. Been awhile."

Thinking quickly, Octavia reached into the closer sink with all the dirty dishes the two hadn't cleaned yet, coiled her hoof around a mug's handle, and raised it into the air between her and Cheers. "Well. Here's hoping." Cheers' eyes darted to look down past his beak almost judgingly. "Wouldn't mind me a bit of that myself."

The frown became a smirk on his face, praise the Gods. He fished for and held out a flagon of his own.

CLING!

"Here's hopin' this food tastes good."

Octavia guffawed. "Oh Gods, here's hoping."

Cheers flashed his teeth. A burst of lightning in a bleak, dark cave. Mainly because it scared the Hell out of her.

"Cheers."

"Cheers."

They 'downed' their mugs, sighed together, and moved to head toward the cafeteria. Octavia pushed the cart, while Cheers held two serving trays in either claw. He took the lead, as per usual, but stopped before kicking the swinging door open. 

"Getting cold feet, Cheers?"

"Was about t' ask you the same, Octavia."

He knitted his brow.

"Are you ready?"

She sucked in a quick breath. Her heart was beginning to pump harder.

She was excited.

"Of course."

Without even a second of recognition of her words, Cheers leaned back and gave the door a mighty kick!

He entered first, allowing enough room for Octavia push the cart in next to him.

An entire hall of hungry faces stared their way expectantly.

"Baconnnnnnn up, bitches!"