//------------------------------//
// Greetings From Canterlot 
// Story: Melodious Desideratum 
// by Desideratium 
//------------------------------//

	Royal Riff and Vinyl Scratch had abandoned you soon after checking into your hotel room. 

With a quick goodbye and a shoulder punch, Vinyl exited to make her appearance for the Wonderbolts, whereas Royal Riff quickly jotted down directions to the concert hall for rehearsal and then sped off without another word. 

Leaving you standing in the middle of a massively gold-plated lobby, full of upper-class ponies who are starting to give you strange looks. Your luggage hovers about your hooves, slowly revolving around you because of your lack of attention. You look down at the room key in your hoof: a plastic card with a magnetic strip running down one side. Under the hotel’s name, your room number is emblazoned on the card: 313.

Based on Vinyl’s incredulous reaction when you were handed the card, this is a very good room. 

Trying to ignore the stares on the back of your neck, you hike your saddlebag higher on your back and make your way across the giant room to the elevators. Your hooves clop noisily against the marble floors, and you immediately try to quiet your stride. Unfortunately, your diversion in attention throws off your walk cycle rhythm and you stumble a bit. A white stallion nearby gives you a disdainful look. Turning scarlet, you slip into the closest elevator. 

The sliding doors mercifully close, hiding you from the lobby. Letting out a deep breath you didn’t realize you were holding, you drop relinquish your luggage from your magic field and it settles down at your hooves. You nudge the crystal button for the tenth floor. With a jolt, the elevator starts to move. 

You look to your right, then immediately to your left. On either side of you are full-length mirrors, displaying hundreds of images of yourself, going on into infinity. You grin, and your army of clones mimics you. You stick out your tongue, watching the gesture spread out until it’s a near-invisible speck in the distance. 

Foalish giddiness works its way out of the back of your mind, taking control of your bodily functions. You bring your hooves to your face and contort it into a ridiculous shape. Your tongue lolls out, undulating wildly. You widen your eyes, trying to form the most grotesque expression possible. 

The image reflected back to you is truly horrifying, and it distorts as you grin to yourself.

The elevator dings. The doors begin to slide open, and you hurriedly compose your facial expression. Outside, a pair of highly-dressed mares are chatting contentedly, too distracted to notice you molding your face back into its original position. Even so, your muzzle reddens in embarrassment. They barely even acknowledge you as you slip by them, dragging your bag behind you. 

The practical half of your mind focuses on the room numbers on your right and left, searching for number 313. Whereas, the other, more prominent section of your consciousness is back to worrying.

You don’t belong here. You’re happy with your cheap, out of the way apartment and average-paying job. The excess extravagance and high living is frightening.

You suddenly resent Vinyl Scratch and Royal Riff. How did you let them talk you into this madness? 

Room 313 appears on your left. Still distracted, you magic the key card into its designated slot. A beep, a green light, and the door pops open. 

For the umpteenth time today, your jaw drops to the ground. 

Your “room” appears to take up half of the entire floor. A short hallway leads to the main room, which is massive, and cluttered with high-end furniture that probably adds up to millions of bits in cost. Couches, chairs, ottomans, and coffee tables. A crystal chandelier dangles from the unusually high ceiling, ropes of glass refracting the room’s soft glow, painting light spots across the walls. 

The kitchen is separated by a low wall, the thick carpet abruptly changing to sparkling white tile. All of the appliances are metallic silver, polished so brightly so you can see your face clearly in each of them. A granite-topped island takes up much of the floor space. Perched on top of the countertop is a large wicker basket, filled to the brim with fresh fruit, some of which you’ve never even seen before. 

Several doors lead off the hallway. Through one, you see a massively gold-plated bathroom, and through another, a master bedroom with a giant four-poster bed. 

You absentmindedly relinquish your magical hold on your bags, dropping them to the floor. Your saddlebag’s flap comes loose, causing the few books you packed to spill out. You barely even notice. 

You shoulder open the bedroom door and enter. A hardwood dresser sits across from the bed, an exotic potted plant perched on top of it. The bed itself has a thick, brown down comforter and a mountain of throw pillows, somehow balanced perfectly as to not topple onto the floor. One wall is entirely glass, obscured by a set of heavy drapes. 

You sit down on the bed, sinking a few inches into the bedspread. Your headache from magical overuse is returning, pounding behind your eyes. You knead your face with both hooves, begging the discomfort to vanish. You’re not Twilight Sparkle; you can’t simply magic your way through your day without a care in the world. Less talented unicorns like yourself have a period of cooldown after a bout of strong magical exertion, and you haven’t given yourself a chance to recover. Terrible migraines come on if one fails to recognize their limits. 

Your eyes inadvertently close and you slump down, consciousness slipping from your body. Your focus starts to escape, and you attempt in vain to recover it. 

Luckily, a sharp rap at the door tears you out of your stupor.

You push yourself off the unbelievably soft bed and force your legs to drag you into the hallway. Too fried to use magic, you hoof the gilded doorknob, twisting it downward. The door pops open, revealing a smart-looking unicorn with neat black hair and mustache, and a light grey suit jacket. Hovering at his side, wreathed in bluish light, is a long-necked, tinted bottle. 

“Yes?” you say, trying to keep your voice level. 

“Good afternoon, sir,” says the stallion, a clipped Canterlot accent affecting his voice. “A gift for you, compliments from the Royal Canterlot Orchestra . . .” He offers the bottle. 

You reach out with magic to take it, momentarily forgetting about your splitting headache. You’re immediately reminded, though, when white-hot pain stabs your temples. You wince. “Who’s this from, again?”

“I’m afraid, I do not know—I’ve never seen her before. It was a grey mare, with a treble clef cutie mark.” 

The description doesn’t ring any bells. You shake your head. “Doesn’t sound familiar. Did she say anything else?”

“No, sir. She looked somewhat disgruntled, though.” 

“I see,” you mutter.  “Thank you.”

The stallion bows his head respectfully and turns to go back down the hall. You watch him retreat, the bottle hovering around your head. As soon as he disappears into the elevator, you shut your door. 

You examine the bottle as you make your way back into the kitchen. It’s sparkling apple cider, and quite expensive by the looks of it. Tied around the neck is a red ribbon, and attached to it is a strip of paper. 

Ignoring the pain behind your eyes, you pull the note off, your magic field expanding to accommodate it. You propel the cider into the kitchen and set it on the island, then turn your attention to the paper.

The writing is in elegant calligraphy, drawn by a skilled hoof:


Dear Applicant, 

The Royal Canterlot Orchestra welcomes you to their ranks, in hopes that you can be an adequate replacement to the late Frederic Horseshoepin. Enjoy your beverage.

-	Octavia