//------------------------------// // The Filler // Story: Syncopation // by Terrasora //------------------------------// Savagery has found its way into our fair Canterlot! Two nights ago, during a ball held at the home of the highly respected Marcato and Legato Philharmonica, two highly esteemed guests were viciously struck down. High and Mighty Scratch, an originally Canterlotian family that has recently fallen on hard times, were having a slight disagreement with their estranged daughter, Vinyl Scratch, one of the members of Fancy Pants’s newest project: Syncopated Records. The conversation grew heated but remained restrained until Octavia Philharmonica, daughter of the illustrious hosts and another member of Syncopated Records, leapt to her hooves, striking High Scratch with such force that the poor mare was sent sprawling to the floor before Miss Philharmonica advanced on Mighty Scratch. Prince Blueblood, who had graciously extended an invitation to the Scratches, has called the event an “abomination within the otherwise gleaming city of Canterlot,” and adds, with tears in his eyes, his lamentations towards “the breakdown of the wonderful relationship that exists between parents and their children.” The Prince is offering aid to Mr. and Mrs. Scratch should they choose to press charges. Mr. Scratch asserts that the cellist would have beaten him to a pulp if her parents had not come to his aid. Mrs. Scratch bemoans the damage to her newest dress and the perversion of an otherwise wonderful evening. Hoity Toity threw the tabloid onto a desk. A photograph of Octavia, rage in her eyes and her hoof outstretched, towering over Mrs. Scratch, adorned the cover. Mr. Scratch cowered off to the side, hardly even in the shot. “Impressive. You actually won a round.” Prince Blueblood snorted. “What do you want, Hoity Toity?” “To talk,” replied the other with a smile. There was a pause. Blueblood stared incredulously. “Really? You expect to negotiate after our last meeting?” He broke down into guffaws. “How much of an idiot are you?” “Not negotiating. Talking.” Hoity Toity’s smile hadn’t slipped in the slightest. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Blueblood got to his hooves. “You, plebian, are lucky to even be in my presence! Suggesting this meeting after such an affront to myself, you’re lucky I didn’t have the guards take you in!” He turned sharply, marching towards the door. The door swung open. Trans Script trotted in, pushing a cart topped with a rather simple tea set. “Good morning, Prince,” she greeted amiably. “This is my assistant,” explained Hoity Toity from his seat, “bringing along what is sure to be a wonderfully brewed tea.” “Flattering,” said Trans Script. She poured the tea and set it in front of her employer.  Hoity Toity sipped at his drink. “Care to join me for a cup, Blueblood?” “Prince Blueblood,” hissed the other stallion. Hoity Toity gestured towards the chair across from him, his infuriating smile not dampening in the slightest. Blueblood scowled. He turned sharply, huffing out his disdain for the world in general, and resumed his march towards the door. “Then not a talk,” said Hoity Toity quickly. “Merely a few words.” The prince kept walking, swinging the door open with his magic. “Fancy Pants is not one to take things lying down. He has an answer for every question and a question for every answer.” Blueblood hesitated slightly, his ears turning towards the other stallion’s voice. “He’s better than you,” continued Hoity Toity. “More experienced, more talented, more connected, more appreciated by the public. It will be a miracle if you’re able to strike another blow against him. You will lose to him.” Prince Blueblood turned a shade of red. He turned his neck slightly, taking a deep breath, grasping for the proper words to shout out. Nothing came. He quickly cantered through the door. Hoity Toity allowed a few seconds to pass. He brought his teacup to his lips with a chuckle. “Was that the best course of action, Mr. Toity?” asked Trans Script. “It’s not your place to question what I’m doing.” Hoity Toity smirked. “Not that that could prevent you from doing so.” There was a slight pause. “Honestly, my dear, it’s a rather simple premise. Blueblood is still a colt, hot-tempered, blind in his anger, but not ineffective in his methods. He’s out to prove a point.” Hoity Toity smiled and took another drink of his tea, leaving a thin layer of liquid over the remaining tea leaves. “How do you do this again, Trans Script?” “Swirl the tea three times, dump the remains into a saucer. Wait for some moments, then turn the cup over again.” Hoity Toity swirled his tea three teams. He glanced at the nearby saucer before drinking the last dregs of his tea. “Bah. I don’t leave things to leaves.” *** “Tass-what-now?” “Tasseography, Vinyl.” Fleur de Lis swirled her teacup three times. “Fortune telling from tea dregs. Hardly accurate, but an interesting thing to know.” She turned over the cup, holding it over the saucer for a few moments before turning it back over. “And there are times that make you wonder.” They were back in the recording studio. Fancy Pants had insisted that their first order of business was to record more music and nopony was particularly inclined towards challenging Fancy Pants. The recording had gone off without a hitch. Of course, they were nowhere near completing their next album but they had certainly made some headway. Octavia stared into her own cup, the dregs still hidden behind a layer of the steaming drink. “It’s a matter of finding symbols within the tea, isn’t it?” “Among other things,” replied Fleur, twirling her cup in a circle.. “There’s a certain procedure you have to follow. The teacup must be held with your off-hoof and steeped with an empty mind.” She held the teacup towards Vinyl. “Does this look like a smiley face to you? Or a rainbow, perhaps?” “... Yeah? I guess?” Fleur rolled her eyes. “Thank you for that. Very informative.” “It looks like a bunch of wet leaves!” protested Vinyl. “Except for that. That looks like a speaker. And look, a smiley face!” She took the cup, turning it back and forth. “And that looks like a dog.” Fleur de Lis’s face fell. “A-are you sure?” “Wait, no. That’s a robot. Definitely a robot. That has to be a good thing.” “Debatable point.” A door shut. Two stallions, one brown and one purple, trotted in. Harpo greeted everyone with a weary nod and flopped into a seat. The Doctor grinned widely. “It rather depends on the type of robot.” He peeked into the cup. “Does that look like a robot hell-bent on taking control of all ponykind to you?” “Yup!” said Vinyl happily. “I think I’ll name him Squishy. And he will be Sporky’s life-long friend.” Fleur turned towards Octavia, an eyebrow raised. “Sometimes it’s better not to ask.” Fleur de Lis smiled. She turned towards the Doctor, interrupting a conversation over the benefits of various robotic forms. “Have you and Harpo finished editing?” A purple hoof waved dismissively. “It’s not fun. These two play what I write which, of course, makes their music absolutely incredible. All we had to do was clean up the audio a bit and sync everything together. Boring.” “He says that,” snickered the Doctor, “but he spent the better part of the last few hours meticulously finetuning their songs. Went crosseyed for a few minutes.” “You have no proof of that!” cut in the composer resolutely. His face tinged with the slightest bit of green and his head thumped onto the back of his seat. “Urgh. Everything’s gone all fuzzy.” Fleur smiled. “Not exactly the best state of mind to be in right now, is it?” “What are you talking about? I love the feeling of bile rising in my throat.” Harpo kept his eyes closed, his head leaning fully against the headrest. “Reminds me of my eighteenth birthday.” “How old are you, Harpo?” asked Vinyl. “Three hundred and fourteen, give or take. Why do you ask?” “You’re still a youngster,” interrupted the Doctor. “You have a whole lifetime ahead of you.” “Just wondering,” said the DJ. “Seriously though, how old?” Harpo took a moment to think, his eyes still firmly closed. “Twenty three, I think. At least physically.” Octavia smirked. “Divide that by three to get his mental age.” “Laugh it up, female. I’ll have you know that I am a very mentally sound teenager and I will be referred to as such.” That got a smile out of everypony. Fleur de Lis glanced up towards the clock. “She’ll be arriving any moment. I hope that you’ll be able to keep your mind under control.” “Who’s arriving where now?” asked Vinyl. “Miss Lyra Heartstrings.” Fleur de Lis was met with largely blank stares. “You remember. Green unicorn, spoke to Fancy Pants after our dinner meeting with Hoity Toity. She’s coming in for the interview today.” “She was one of our classmates at the Conservatory, Fleur,” said Octavia. “Harpo is rather… acquainted with Lyra and her marefriend.” The composer held his head in his hooves. “She’s going to snap my spine if I get anywhere near Bon Bon again.” “Well that’s rather harsh of you to say!” said Fleur. “Merely repeating what she told me. Or at least what I think she told me. It is kinda hard to make it out as I was being repeatedly bucked into the air.” “And you were plastered,” added Vinyl. “And I was plastered,” agreed the composer. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go back into the editing room, curl up, and cower in fear until Miss Heartstrings leaves the building. Sounds like a plan!” Harpo struggled to his hooves. A sharp tug on his tail forced him back down. The barest hint of pink dissipated into the air. Fleur de Lis smiled kindly. “Forgive me Harpo.” “You’re going to make me give the interview, aren’t you?” “Yup.” Harpo rubbed at his eyelids. “It’s shaping up to be a beautiful day.” *** “What did you agree to, you bumbling, absolutely asinine, braindead, pair of idiots?” Blueblood sat behind his desk. High and Mighty Scratch were standing on the other side, looking decidedly uncomfortable. And terrified. Completely terrified. “Speak now!” Mighty Scratch let out a squeak. “Er, well, you see, we were supposed to have a--” “Shut up!” interrupted the Prince. “I know what you were doing, you buffoon! How dare you agree to it without consulting me?!” “Y-you told us to avoid being seen with you whenev--” “Shut up! I know what I said! But what part of that told you to agree to anything that Fancy Pants suggested?!” High Scratch spoke this time. “W-we didn’t know! We t-thought that Quick Quill and Snap Shot were--” “Of course they didn’t! It was Fancy Pants’s idea! It’s always Fancy Pants’s idea!” Blueblood took a moment to compose himself, dragging a hoof through his mane in an effort to get it back into place. “You’re going to go back to Quick Quill and Snap Shot. You’re going to reject their interview. Say something about it being too terrible to see your attacker so soon after the event.” "But--" “DON’T YOU DARE!” Blueblood leaned forward, over his desk. “Don’t you dare. Cut off your interview before you ruin everything.” *** “Just who the hell does he think he is?!” Mrs. Scratch kicked at a trashbin, sending it halfway across the rather ritzy hotel room. “Trying to tell me what to do! What gives him the authority to take away my chance at exposure?!” “Money?” suggested her husband, tugging at his mane with a hoof. “Status? The fact that he’s already paid us for attending that dreadful gathering?” High Scratch winced. “And a fair lot that did for me. I was left with a bruise the size of Fillydelphia and a tear in my brand new dress!” “Yes. Quite the shame.” The wife threw a dirty glare at the husband. Mighty Scratch, meanwhile, had moved from grooming his mane to filing his hooves. “Allow me to repeat myself. The fact that he’s already paid us.” He looked up at his wife with a sly look. “What more can we expect to receive from the Prince?” High Scratch gaped slightly. Mighty smirked. “Nothing, my dear. The answer is absolutely nothing.”