At Your Service

by Deyeaz

I - Pilot

*Tick-tock-tick-tock*

*BONG... BONG... BONG...*

The large grandfather clock in the corner of Canterlot's incredulously gargantuan library chimed eight times in gradual succession. Rivers of sunlight streamed through the massive glass windows, blessing the area with light for one's vision. Both the sun's position during its sojourn across the sky littered with grey clouds and the clock's reverberating pealing announced that it was eight o'clock in the morning.

Midnight Oil yawned loudly, his sleep schedule completely gone awry from early morning book-reading and number-crunching. In about four hours more, when the sun would peak in its celestial journey, he would have to resume his typical routine of writing down and recording every last words that the Royal Sisters had to iterate at every meeting, every speech, every little get-together. Regardless of whether or not it's a war debacle, or a simplistic tea party, Midnight had to be there to take note of it all.

"Good grief," the Sarosian grumbled, closing the huge tome he had been reading: 'Starswirl the Bearded's Advanced Spellbook For The Training Unicorn - Level 7'. After putting all of his quill and big stack of parchment into his saddlebags, he stood up, cracked his sore back with great gusto, and made his way out of the library. Midnight winced as he stepped into the golden shower of sunlight. Sarosians, while able to trek casually about during the day, were more accustomed to the dark, as their eyes were sensitive to bright and harsh light. "I need shut-eye—at least some of it."

Midnight let off a huge yawn again before pushing his thick glasses up his nose and ambled off to the highest tower of the castle, where he had taken up residence. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black slacks, fingers curling around the keys to his room. Once inside the castle, the smell of food wafting from the kitchen infiltrated his nostrils, ensnaring his attention and taunting his barren belly. Hopefully, he can sneak into the mess hall, snag something to munch, and escape without trouble.

*RRRRRRRRR*

His stomach growled loudly, drawing the attention of a few guards passing by. The duo of guards raised an eyebrow in unison. Embarrassed as he was that his belly betrayed his location, Midnight chuckled embarrassingly, and made his way to the mess hall, the questioning glares of the guards never leaving Midnight as he pushed through the doors.

The mess hall was an impressively massive room, crammed with tables to seat eight guards each. Midnight walked over to the lunchmare's counter, the soles of his dress horseshoes clacking upon the salt-and-pepper-coloured laminate floor. The guards sprinkled here and there were already wolfing down their breakfast with vigour, the camaraderie transferring to and fro like a contagious ailment.

Midnight reached the counter and cleared his throat, getting the lunchmare's attention. "The usual, please," Midnight requested.

The aquamarine lunchmare with the manenet and the mole on her left cheek simply shook her head and said, "Sorry, pal. We're all out of salmon... and chicken... and every other meat."

"What do you mean? That's ridiculous. How can you run out of salmon so fast?" Midnight, sharp teeth bared in agitation, could not believe that the lunchmare was withholding his breakfast on him. "I'm literally the first pony to order it!"

"Not since the Night Guard all raided the kitchens of the meat last night after their shift." Midnight clicked his tongue. The Night Guard, also comprised of winged Sarosians, knew that lack of any meat is what would always get the scribe's goat. After all, Midnight was the only Sarosian who was a unicorn and knew not about the strenuous duties and training that the Royal Guard attended—he was at the bottom of the food chain. "If you want your precious salmon, you'll have to wait about a few more hours before another shipment arrives."

*RRRRRRRR* Unfortunately, Midnight didn't really have "a few more hours". "You have to be kidding me...." he hissed under his breath.

With a grumble of agitation, he asked for a salad with extra croutons and tomatoes, as well as some bread. As his backup meal was being prepared, a sharp whistle directed to him made him turn around. A large tomato, wrinkly with age, sailed at him at a ridiculous speed, slapping him squarely in the face. Tomato juice cascaded down his muzzle, staining his black vest and white button-up shirt. Thankfully, none of it had slipped through his black cap and tainted his hair.

"Bon appetit, nightcrawler!" jeered the Royal Guard who had thrown the offending scarlet fruit. The mess hall was filled with insulting laughter, all of it directed to Midnight, who wiped his face clean with his magic.

'Cirrus Storm...' Midnight thought angrily. Cirrus Storm had been all but a nuisance. Athletic, muscular, smooth talker, brave: he was what one would coin a ladies' stallion. To Midnight, and everyone else with logic and reason, Cirrus was nothing more than a stupid pretty boy without enough brains to fill an eggcup.

Not giving Cirrus a chance to get away with what he had done, Midnight's horn glowed again, encasing the guard's head in an acid-green aura before slamming it down into his bowl of cereal. The palpable silence erected by the commotion left a smirk on Midnight's lips as he walked out of the mess hall with his salad and dinner rolls.

Cirrus, who had just been publicly humiliated in retaliation, started to get up from his seat, intent on beating the tar out of the dark-grey scribe and putting him in his place; only the placating remarks from his colleagues about how Midnight wasn't worth it manage to cool down Cirrus's temper. "You'd better watch yourself next time, nightcrawler!"

Midnight hated that word. A lot. This was another reason as to why he hated Cirrus: that word alone had spilled oceans of blood across the pages of history for generations—since the beginning of the Sarosians.

The scribe walked off at the briskest of paces, seething and grumbling in anger and exhaustion.

Meanwhile, in a lovely, cozy little apartment, one mare had taken the time out of her morning to awake her sleepy companion.

"Vinyl. Vinyl, wake up!" wailed Octavia, nudging the sleeping Vinyl Scratch with her hoof. Alas, it was in vain, for even though Octavia had practically launched her off the bed, Vinyl continued to snore on as though nothing happened.

"Mmmmmzmznzm... Donkeh hazzz mah money... zzzzzzzzz...." sleepily droned Vinyl, a bit of spittle trickling down her chin. Octavia, out of impatience, began rummaging through her roommate's clothes drawers, until she had fished out an air horn from the sock drawer. Octavia shook the horn vigorously before aiming it at Vinyl's ear and pressed down on the button.

"GAH!" Vinyl squealed as her eardrums were assaulted by the loud obnoxious blaring of the air horn. She jumped up about six inches into the air, totally surprised out of her wits. Only when she saw Octavia snickering away into her hand did Vinyl's look of shock evaporate and become one of annoyance.

"'Taviiiii!" she whined, grouchy that her peaceful slumber was rudely interrupted. "Why did you do that? I was sleeping...."

"Sleeping IN, Vinyl." Octavia pulled back the window curtains, the sudden sunlight forcing Vinyl Scratch to wince, eyes offended by the illumination. "Come on! It's a rather nice day out."

"Oh sure, a beautiful day... for SNOOZING." And so, underwear and all, Vinyl scrambled lethargically into her bed, and used her magic to weakly close the blinds. "Besides, I've been up all night last night...." Within seconds, she was fast asleep once again, snoring lightly into her pillow.

Octavia groaned. "Goddess, you're so bloody lazy...." With a sigh, the cellist left her roommate's quarters, and proceeded to exit their third-floor apartment room, locking the door on her way out. "I'm going to get groceries, we're running low on milk and vegetables...." she mumbled under her breath as she descended the stairs.

"Stupid Cirrus, with his gorillaesque muscles… and his lack of rational thought...."

Midnight was seething as he stomped up the stairs to his dormitory, both mortified by Cirrus's actions and angry that the incompetent lunchmare and her crew failed to keep the meat stored and secure from the more rampant members of the Night Guard.

'Twas no use to cry over spilled milk, but Midnight still felt like he had been slapped in the face with a rotting trout. Nevertheless, Midnight's overhanging rain cloud dissipated and cleared when he reached his comfortable dormitory, thankful that he had gotten there without a hitch. He opened the door to his room with his magic, and closed it behind him. Two floors of humble abode—living room and kitchen/dining room on one floor, bedroom and bathroom on the other—and it was all his.

The living room, slightly messy from a few empty chip bags and juice cans loitering on the floor, felt like a fortress of solitude for the exhausted Sarosian. One of two BrayStation 3 controllers sat cozily on a rug in front of a large white couch, the other resting on a black coffee table in the rug's center. A large television was hung up on the wall opposite the couch, flanked by two shelves that contained an alphabetized army of films, stand-up comedies, TV shows, and video games.

Levitating the trash into the wastebasket in the corner, Midnight walked to his little white kitchen, complete with necessary utilities, and sat in one of the two mahogany chairs of his small square dining table. After spending his ten minutes of eating his salad and rolls, he washed the dishes and stalked off to his bedroom, changing into his sleepwear while he was at it.

"OOH-OOH-AAAAAH!" screamed an all-too-familiar voice. Regardless, Midnight was taken by surprise when a large and furry brown mass collided into his chest as he was stripping down.

"Agh!" barked the Sarosian, still stunned by the fuzzy animal that was clinging to his bare chest, looking up at him expectantly. "Oh, top of the morning to you, Jericho."

"Eep!" squeaked the little monkey, baring his teeth and rubbing his fuzzy tummy. Taking it as an obvious sign that his pet and best friend was hungry, Midnight appeased his hunger with a ripe banana and a cold granola bar from the fridge.

With a grunt of appreciation, Jericho ambled away to the living room, munching his banana with neither question nor hesitation. Once in his bedroom, Midnight removed his cap after several hours of having it jammed onto his head. Long, pristine white hair billowed out from the cap, avalanching down his back and ending by his waist, shining in the sunlight. After tossing his dirty clothes into a basket and taking a profuse and thorough shower, Midnight traipsed to his bed in his pajamas. "G'night, Jericho!" he called.

"Ach!"

Seconds became minutes, yet Midnight was incapable of getting the rest he needed. He stared at the ceiling in the vain hopes that his eyes would get tired, but no such thing occurred. His eyelids refused to burn and grow heavy. He counted sheep jumping over a fence, but that just made his cravings for meat intensify. He slowly counted backwards from a hundred, but he had finished long before he would get tired, if at all.

Having to have his sleep schedule adjusted so that he was awake from sunup until sundown like a regular pony, Midnight growled in anger after thirty wasted minutes of trying to sink into the ocean of blissful slumber. He checked the clock on his bedside table. It read eight fifty-seven in the morning. He needed something to keep him awake today at work.

"Aw, screw it... Gonna see if there're any energy drinks at the supermarket." Midnight put his glasses back on and replaced his silver earring into the cusp of his furry right ear with a wince. Rain began to pitter-patter against the balcony window. He got dressed in a hurry, stuffing his hair in his black cap and throwing on whatever he thought looked acceptable for public.

Concentrating hard on the supermarket he wished to visit, Midnight charged his horn. A vivid green aura swam around it again, and it grew in intensity as he focused on the store's front more and more. With a call of farewell to Jericho, Midnight mustered the energy and mana to teleport to the store in search of his elusive carbonated taurine fuel.

Unbeknownst to him, however, the contents of this one day would effect his entire future in an absolutely different way.

Octavia was the talk of the town.

Everywhere the cellist went, there followed many words of praise and envy from onlookers and passersby, spawned from her lustrous soft grey coat of fur, her sleek and long jet-black mane and tail, her brilliant orchid eyes, her incredible talent of playing the cello, her posh accent and behavior, and her slim, hourglass physique. Mares wanted to be like her, stallions wanted to be with her. 'Twas as simple as that.

Even more prestigious than all of those things was her ranking in Canterlot's society. Revered for her incredibly well-known upbringing in the Philharmonica family, Octavia had catapulted into the heavens of the upper class just for her surname. Her eloquent actions, tastes, and behavior had kept her there.

Well-endowed, well-known, and well-respected: Octavia Philharmonica was a very important pony indeed. And she knew it, too.

Entering the supermarket down the street from her abode, a stone's throw away, Octavia can hear the hushed whispers of compliments and jealousy being exchanged by the mares that were standing by the refrigerators of milk and cheese. Stallions risked ephemeral glances at her, compromising thoughts flitting through their minds as they mentally envisioned her body. Octavia, brimming with pride, grinned at all the attention everypony was giving her.

She browsed the shelves, picking out the correct food items. She then brought her acquired items to the counter and purchased them for the requested price. "Have a nice day," she said to the nerdy male clerk, who waved and reciprocated her farewell with a snort, as she passed through the supermarket doors to her home.

*POP!* *THUMP!*

"Ah!" squeaked Octavia, as something suddenly appeared front of her, colliding into her with great force, knocking the groceries out of her hands and spilling most of them onto the rain-slick floor. The unexpected mass was groaning in pain, mumbling in some odd, exotic language. "Watch where you're landing!" she dictated.

"I'm sorry. Never meant for that to happen," apologized the speaker, a male voice that sounded forcibly nasally. The vegetables that were strewn about the floor were suddenly surrounded in a bright green magical field, shook of any dirt and unwanted wetness, and stowed away securely in Octavia's plastic shopping bags.

"Very well, but just be care–" She stopped when she saw who she was speaking with. He was a male unicorn of an ash-grey color, dressed in jeans, a hoodie, a leisure jacket, and a black cap. He had a silver earring in one of his ears, which had rounded tufts of fur by the tips. A snow-white goatee, well-trimmed, clung to his chin, and thick, black-rimmed, rectangular corrective lenses adorned his face. What stunned Octavia the most were the eyes behind the glasses. Daggerlike pupils were gouged into his two radiant pools of shamrock-colored irises, scanning Octavia, studying and analyzing each and every centimeter of her.

She knew the breed of filth that those eyes belonged to. It was because of those serpentine eyes, eyes that should only belong to a monster, that Octavia never despised anypony more than the one in front of her.