//------------------------------// // April 15 // Story: Octavia Takes The Bus // by TheDorkside99 //------------------------------// April 15, 2012 8:00am Southwest corner of N 43rd Ave. and W Bell Rd. Octavia put her pen down and stared out into the gray, hazy sky. The bus stop dripped from the early morning rain that the cellist arose to, and a biting chill brought her hooves across her chest. A slight gust of wind touched her face as she swung her scarf around her neck. “Such an odd time for cold, wet weather,” she muttered to herself. The cellist grabbed her pen and redirected her attention to her diary. “Let’s see. What to write. What to write.” An exasperated writer let out a white puffy sigh into the foggy air. She opened her cello case and placed her diary snuggly into its own place. “Perhaps I should wait until the bus arrives,” she said to herself. The cellist pressed her hooves onto her lap and looked all around her. Several cars zoomed across the puddle-ridden streets, casting small bursts of rain water onto the sidewalks. Across the street, there was an old mare hobbling along, carrying a paper bag filled with groceries. At her side was a small filly wearing one of those pinwheel hats they give off at the fair. Octavia couldn’t help but smile at the heartwarming scene against the dimly lit sidewalks of a wet Canterlotan morning. The bus rumbled across the intersection and stopped further from its original stopping point, which had accumulated a large body of rain droplets creating a puddle paper boats could comfortably sail across. Octavia grabbed her instrument and walked to the door. While waiting for the door to open, the cellist looked down at her hooves and noticed several scuff marks lining the bottom parts of her normally refined hoofwear. “I suppose that’s what I get for riding the bus so much,” she said, grinning. “Battle wounds, if ya ask me,” called out the conductor, winking at the mare in a scarf. Octavia smiled at the bus driver’s cheery comment. He had replaced the overweight driver ever since the incident with Pinkie Pie. Though she never found out why, she guessed that perhaps other passengers that day shared her thoughts about the bloated bully and called to complain about his unruly antics. Nevertheless, she was happy to have a much more delightful conductor at the helm. The musical pony found a seat in the middle of the bus and shuffled in place, sitting her cello next to her. She took out her diary and set it on her lap. With a pen in hoof, she began to write within the crisp, white pages: April 15, 2012 8:00am Southwest corner of N 43rd Ave. and W Bell Rd. “Oh wait,” she said. “I had already written down the heading.” The cellist scribbled out the extra words and continued: Well, it is certainly a rainy day today. The sky is gray and misty, and the cold nips at my hooftips, and has brought out my favorite scarf from its hiding place. Octavia looked up and scanned the seats around her. Oddly enough, there are no passengers to write about. It seems they all have slept in this Friday morning, and I would not blame them. Such a crisp morning would send anypony back to bed, perhaps with a hot tea and a good book. Heaven knows that’s what I would want. The journaling pony stopped her musings over the weather and looked out the large front window of the bus. She closed her diary, allowing it to sit on her lap bouncing to the rhythm of the cracked streets. “Maybe something will happen later. Then I will have something noteworthy to write about.” She remained quiet and waited. Two minutes. Five minutes. Ten minutes. The bus slowed to a grinding halt and its doors opened to the sound of pressurized air. Octavia stepped down onto the moist concrete and walked away from the door that slid shut behind her and rode away to the next stop, leaving smoky fumes in its wake. The cellist walked the familiar half mile west of Northern Ave. until she reached the brick-by-brick steps leading to the music studio. She started on the first step when a sudden realization paralyzed her next move. This is the last practice session until the concert this Sunday. Only two days away. The cellist felt her breathing quicken, her heart beats following suit. She stood still for a minute, letting this fact sink in like the agony of a quick sand death. Tears collected under her eyes. It’s okay, Octavia. Get ahold of yourself, girl. There’s nothing to be afraid of. The cellist shook her head and continued up the steps in a slow, steady pace. She reached for the door and opened to a blast of chilly air. Blasted air conditioning! Don’t they know it’s freezing out here? Octavia tightened her scarf and stepped inside the studio. Before she let the door close on its own, she heard a high pitched voice calling from outside. “Yoohoo! Excuse me, could you be a dear and please help a lost and distressed soul for one minute?” The musician poked her head out and saw the cloaked and hooded figure who called out to her. Lost and distressed soul? That’s quite the dramatic way to put it. Octavia set her cello on the ground inside the studio and made her way down the steps towards the pony. “What seems to be the problem?” she asked. “Well,” the mysterious figure began. “I can’t for the life of me locate the world renowned Canterlot Medical Center. I’ve been all over town and I’m getting quite restless of ending up in the wrong spot every time.” “Well, if you go down this street you’ll hit 43rd Ave. Make a right and drive for about ten minutes, and you should arrive at the medical center on your right hoof side.” “Oh thank you, darling.” “My pleasure. Have a nice day.” The music pony trotted back up the steps and let herself inside. As she bent down to retrieve her cello, she saw the cloaked pony still standing outside not having budged from her spot. The cellist went back outside with concern written on her face. “Excuse me, but are you alright?” “What?” The cloaked pony rattled in surprise. “Did you forget my instructions, perchance?” “Oh no, that’s not it at all, my good lady. You see, I’ve been traveling all morning and I am absolutely exhausted beyond belief! I just sort of dazed here for a moment. Kind of embarrassing if you ask me.” Octavia smirked. “Well, didn’t you arrive by car?” “Oh no, I don’t own a car.” “Where did you come from?” “Ponyville, of course.” The cellist jerked back. “You didn’t walk here from Ponyville, did you?” My word, another crazy pony from Ponyville who thinks they’re invincible! “Heavens, no! I teleported here from Ponyville, my dear.” The mystery pony removed her hoodie and lashed her magnificent purple mane back and forth, revealing a shiny white horn protruding from her forehead. “You see, I am a unicorn.” “I do see.” My, she’s very beautiful. “I have depleted nearly all of my magical energy wandering aimlessly around town and I’m afraid it may be awhile until I can teleport to the correct location. You wouldn’t mind helping out a weary mare such as moi, would you?” Octavia smiled at the unicorn’s batting eyelashes. “Unfortunately, I do not own a working car. Although, if you walk down to the intersection here, you can rest at the bus stop and allow the bus to take you there. It should only take you about fifteen minutes to arrive pending normal passenger numbers. And you may being luck this particular morning since there was hardly anypony on board when I rode this morning.” “The bus?” the pretty unicorn asked. “As in, public transportation?” “Um, yes. Is there any other?” “So, you ride the bus?” “Indeed. Although, I’m in actual need of taking public transportation since my car’s transmission gave out on me.” “Why don’t you just get it fixed?” “Too expensive. I drive a rare breed.” “Expensive? For you!?” The cellist was beginning to get a little annoyed by the mare’s over the top reactions. “Yes, there are some things a Canterlotan cannot afford. And honestly, the bus isn’t that bad.” “Speak for yourself, bus rider. I’ve heard all the horror stories. The seats. The walls. The smells. And worse, the ponies on board!” The unicorn’s face crumpled into a disgusted scowl. “Believe me when I tell you that it’s not all grime and slime when it comes to the bus. I mean, I’ve been riding it for two weeks and I’ve grown accustomed to its…uniqueness.” “Well of course, after two whole weeks of weathering, you would become a mangy bus rider.” Did she just call me mangy? The pretty pony donned her hoodie and walked prissily away from the cellist. “No no no no no. For somepony of my standards, I would rather walk than be caught dead using public transportation.” Octavia scratched her head. My word, what a prude pony. I wouldn’t be caught dead standing next to her! “Octavia,” called Frederic. “I would not have expected you to arrive late.” “Yes, well I am.” The cellist made her way past the studio door and walked to the front of the sound booth and set her cello on the ground. She looked up to find Frederic and Strings sitting inside the booth with microphones facing their instruments. “Would you care to explain to me what is going on?” she asked with a hoof on a button and the other on her hip. A bothered cellist rolled her eyes as she saw the harpist’s useless attempt to answer her question through the sound proof glass. “Speak through the microphone, you dunce bucket!” Feedback assaulted her ears. “Oh yeah, right? Sorry ‘bout that Octavia,” said Strings. “Very well. Now then, what were you trying to tell me?” “I was sayin’ that we’re recording today.” “Obviously. Care to explain why?” “Well,” interceded Frederic. “As per the contract we signed, today marks the first day of our recording session for our first CD. Fancy Pants is dropping by later this morning to pick yours up.” “What do you mean contracts? I didn’t sign a contract.” “Well, my good mare, that is because I have not given it to you yet.” Frederic stood from his playing bench and walked out of the studio, holding a pair of thick packets of white paper. He hoofed one to Octavia, who snatched it from the air and began bowling over the fine print. “I’ll never agree to this!” she exclaimed, throwing the contract down on a table. The pianist grabbed the contract and pushed it in the cellist’s face. “Well, if you want to continue to be a part of the group and participate in Sunday’s concert, you will have to sign and record today before Fancy Pants arrives.” “What a bunch of bunk! I thought I made it very clear that I was not going to record my music for a bunch of money grubbing business ponies,” she replied, pushing the contract out of her face. “Then why, pray tell, did you to return to us?” Octavia glared at the pianist. “I didn’t have a choice.” “Well,” he said, hoofing the contract back to a suspicious cellist. “You don’t have much choice now either. If you want to play your ‘special song’ then you must sign.” The pianist hoofed Octavia a pen along with the contract and stepped back into the booth with Strings. The music mare placed the contract on the table and hunched over it, peering into the dizzying number of words it presented and getting dizzy herself. She hovered the pen next to a printed “X” and dabbed a dot next to it. I don’t have to stay in the quartet forever. I can leave when the contract expires. Renewals would be out of the question. She started on the top half of the letter “O”. She lifted the pen and started on completing the letter when she stopped midway. I never write my O’s like this. What on earth is wrong with me? She completed the letter, and started on the following: C T A V She paused. What the hell am I doing!? “Have you signed the contract yet, Octavia?” The pianist peeked over the cellist’s shoulder. “Or should I say, Octav!” He stifled a giggle. “I-I can’t. At least not now.” “But you must! Fancy Pants could arrive any minute now, and he does not like to wait.” “I just noticed,” began Octavia, placing the tip of the pen on her teeth. “Susie isn’t here.” “What does her absence have anything to do with this?” “Well, Mr. Horsehoepin. If it is so vital that Fancy Pants get these ‘golden’ contracts today, then why pray tell is she mysteriously absent from this all-important first day of recording?” Octavia closed her eyes midway and flashed a devious grin to the pianist pony. “Uh..uh.” That was all he could say. He turned around and pushed the studio button on the panel. “Hey Strings, you know what happened to Susie?” The harpist was moving his lips, but nopony could hear him through the thick glass. “Into the microphone, you twat,” screamed Frederic. Octavia looked on, not amused. Strings recovered from the loudness of Frederic’s annoyed voice and gingerly reared his face to the microphone. “Well, I was just sayin’ that ol’ Bruisey Tubes ain’t here no more ‘cause she got fire-“ Frederic slammed the button on the panel. “What was that, Strings? Something about her being sick today?” He shot a nervous glance at Octavia. “Huh? I coulda swore she was...” “Actually Strings, if you could step away from the microphone, then we can hear you better.” The dim witted harpist obeyed, and as expected Frederic managed to keep the truth away from hearing. He breathed a sigh of relief but turned to find an irked cellist right in his face. He chuckled. “Um, lovely scarf your wearing today. It really brings out your…eyes?” She brought her eye lids even lower, until they pierced his own which were wide open. “Yes sir really brings out those beautiful peepers of yours.” “Where is she?” she asked in a low voice. “Who?” Her breathing began to become more noticeable, her chest falling as quickly as it rose. The pianist swallowed. “Oh, I presume you mean Susie?” Octavia charged at him, checking him into the shatter proof glass. She gripped the sides of his collar and held him against his will. The pianist froze, staring into the eyes of his oppressor with the tiniest pupils. “Where is she?” she asked again, louder and with more ferocity. “Well, last I heard she became very ill, and so…” “Don’t give me that lie, you idiot. Tell me the truth. What happened to Susie Tuba?” “Now Octavia, let’s not become hasty. This is no matter over which to engage in roughhousing.” “Then I suggest you tell me what’s going on, or Celestia help me I crush you!” Frederic held his breath for a moment before exhaling in defeat. “Alright. She’s not sick. She was dismissed from her part as sousaphone player for the group since she refused to sign the contract on Wednesday, the day you were on your break.” Her muscles tensed in her forelegs and neck. Octavia tightened her grip on Frederic’s collar and rattled her hooves. The pianist couldn’t help but give a quick, faint cry at the furious mare standing before him. “How could you?” she whispered. “How could I what?” he whispered back. “I had nothing to do with this.” “Your incessant ridicule of Susie’s playing is what drove her out of this group, and you know it!” “What? You’re insane! Did you not hear me? She was fired for not signing the contract.” “And what do you think motivated her to do so, you bastard!?” Octavia rammed Frederic back against the glass with more force. At this, Strings rushed out of the booth and over to the two ponies. He grabbed Octavia across the chest and pulled her off of the assaulted pianist, grateful for his friend’s intervention. “Octy, calm down will ya?” “Let go of me, you brute! This doesn’t concern you!” Strings tightened his grip while Octavia tried to pry his forelegs with her own. The cellist was successful in escaping from the harpist’s grasp, but her intentions for Frederic were halted by the sound of the door opening. It was Fancy Pants. “What on earth is going on here?” he asked calmly. “Ask her!” said Frederic, leaning against the wall massaging his neck. Octavia shrugged off the comment and turned her glaring eyes to the business pony. “What happened to Susie?” “Is that what all this is about?” “Where is she?” “That is none of your concern.” “Why did you fire her?” she pressed. “As I said, that is none of your business. And need I remind you that this is a music group, not a fight club?” Octavia brushed off the question with a huff. Fancy Pants cleared his throat. “Now, I’m sure you have already signed the contract that Frederic showed you, hmm?” “She sure did!” piped Strings, pointing to the table. Fancy Pants looked over the table where Octavia placed her packet of fine print. His lips formed a slow grin as he walked towards the contract. “I see that you have,” he said. As he reached out to take it, Octavia swiped her hoof across the table, taking the contract just as Fancy Pants was going to grab it himself. The business stallion shook his head and looked at the cellist with annoyance. “I need that.” “Not until you answer my question,” she replied. “What happened to Susie?” “I will reiterate. It is none of your concern. Now kindly hoof over your contract which you signed.” “Tell me what happened to her,” she said, holding the contract up pinching the top. “Or you can say farewell to your deal.” A smile broke out on Fancy Pants’ face, then he began to chuckle. It grew into a laugh so loud, even the two other music stallions joined in. Octavia was not pleased with how her threat was being taken humorously. Fancy Pants regained his composure and sighed. “Really Ms. Octavia? I would not have expected you of all ponies to resort to a brash tactic such as this! Surely you have more class than this!” The business pony broke into a laugh again, this time with a hoof against his head. Octavia’s face softened, and her hooves fell slowly to her sides along with her face. “Oh my, thank you for the laugh my dear! Now, will you please do me the favor of hoofing me your contract?” Octavia looked up, a stern grimace reappearing on her face. “No.” “Please my dear. I think we’ve had enough laughs for one day. Give me the contract now.” Octavia didn't flinch. “I said no.” Fancy Pants’s smile vanished and was replaced with a serious expression. “Do not test my patience, young lady. I would advise that you do as you’re told.” “I am not a filly. Tell me the truth. I want to know.” “I am a very powerful pony and I can ensure that your life becomes a true living hell if you do not cooperate.” “What are you, the devil?” “I can be.” The grin he was wearing returned to his face, more menacing than before. The musician gritted her teeth and tensed her right hoof until it visibly shook. Then, she felt the contract in her left hoof zip out from her grip as if somepony snatched it. Sure enough when she recovered from the shock, Strings was placing the contract in the hooves of a very pleased business pony. “Thank you, Strings.” “Welcome, boss!” The harpist made his way back to the booth, grinning at Octavia. The cellist scrunched her nose at him, making his grin even wider. “Pest,” she mumbled. “I didn’t know you changed your name, Octav!” “I haven’t. But I did change my mind.” “That’s what I thought.” He shut his eyes and brought a hoof up to the bridge of his muzzle. “Don’t make this any harder for you, my dear. You have no idea of what I’m capable of.” The cellist grabbed her instrument and slowly walked towards the exit. She paused right next to Fancy Pants without looking up. “Then I guess I’ll find out, won’t I Fancy Pants?” she said coolly. Octavia broke into a brisk pace and was out the studio heading straight for the outside exits. “What a putz,” exclaimed Strings. She didn’t pay attention. “Hardly a musician if you ask me,” sneered Frederic. She didn’t react. “You will regret this, Ms. Octavia!” Fancy Pants called out. She didn’t turn. She kept walking. “He really said that as you were leavin’?” asked the doctor. Octavia nodded. She rested a leg out of the passenger side window of the doctor’s car and watched the streetlamps slowly run past at a predictable rate. The rain finally stopped, but not without leaving behind a chilly reminder that numbed the cellist’s face, but she couldn’t pull away from it no matter how teary her eyes became from the stinging cold. “Enjoying the air, Octavia?” “Perhaps a little…too much.” She closed the window. “Aw, ya’ll didn’t have to do that. I was just askin’. ‘Sides, I know why you’re enjoying it so much.” Octavia chuckled. “I’m sure you do!” The car stopped at a red light and several pedestrians walked out in front of the mare and her doctor. The driver took the opportunity to reach into his pocket and pull out a cigarette and a lighter. Within seconds, the stallion puffed a gray cloud out of his own window and drove off at the green light. “I never knew you were a smoker, doctor.” “When you’ve been in the royal guard for as long as I have,” he said. “There’s some things you just can’t quit. But it’s not like I tried to, either.” “Why not? I mean, no offense to you.” “I understand.” The doctor placed the cigarette in his mouth one last time before putting it out in his ash tray. “Thing is, even when you know something’s bad for ya, if it feels natural then the body does whatever it takes to maintain that harmony, or homeostasis if you’re into big words. That’s why coffee addicts get headaches and moody if they skip one day without it. It’s a mental thing just as much a physical issue.” “So, which is it for you, doctor?” The doctor sighed. “Even psychiatrists like me have hidden demons we struggle to get rid of. But like I said, it ain’t like I’m tryin’.” Octavia paused to look out the window. “So, how does it feel to help other ponies out of their problems while struggling with your own?” The doctor didn’t answer. “I-I’m sorry if I offended you, doctor. I was just…” “Curious?” The cellist rubbed her knee while avoiding eye contact with the doctor. Another moment of silence passed before he gave another sigh. “You know Octavia? You’ve changed a lot the past couple a weeks.” “Really? Good or bad?” “Good of course!” the doctor chuckled. Octavia exhaled in relief. “Everypony’s got somethin’ they ain’t proud of. Bad decisions. Poor judgments. Sometimes, someponies had badness just thrown on ‘em for no damn good reason. But regardless of how it got there, it’s there. You just gotta deal with it. Make it as small as possible so it don’t get in the way.” “You mean there’s absolutely nothing that can be done for ponies like me?” “What I’m sayin’, Octavia,” he continued. “Is that it takes time. Workin’ through emotional problems is nothin’ like surgery. We can’t just reach into the brain and mush it all up until it turns into somethin’ pretty. We gotta work from the outside, without any special tools. And you know what they say about doctors…” “They make the worst patients,” she said. “Exactly.” The doctor pulled into Octavia’s complex and parked alongside the fire lane. The cellist reached for the knob, but hesitated half way from pulling the handle. “You know something doctor?” “Yes?” Octavia faced the doctor. “I just realized. Not once did you offer to put me on any medication.” “Yup, that’s right.” “Any reason why?” The doctor put the gear into park. “Drugs only subside symptoms of emotional distress. They don’t help the problem much. And the ones that do have terrible side effects. If I get a patient that insists on me prescribing them their dosages, I ask them to leave. They can accuse me of anything they want, but just as much as I reserve the right to prescribe medication, I have the right to refuse it.” “So, you’ve never prescribed before. Is that fair to say?” “No, I have. Just to the extreme nut cases that set their houses on fire.” “You’d never think me to do it?” The doctor stared at her for a few moments then broke into a smile. “Not in a million years.” “Oh.” The cellist opened the door to the car and closed it with both hooves. Before she turned to leave, the doctor lowered the passenger side window. “You know Octavia? I think you’re ready.” “Ready for what?” she asked, turning her head to the sound of a door being unlocked. “Ya’ll know when it happens.” “Okay!” A rather odd statement. “And how do you know that I’m ready for said event?” “It was all in today’s journal entry.” “Today’s journal entry? What could you possibly have gleaned from that? It was the saddest excuse for an entry thus far!” “It was what you didn’t say that tells me.” Octavia scrunched her face into a confused smirk. “I don’t follow, but okay.” “Have a good night, Octavia!” The doctor put his car into gear, and drove out of the parking lot. The cellist looked up into the dark night and took in a deep breath of cool air. “Oh yeah,” she said, exhaling. She walked up the cold stairs to her front door. She reached into her cello case and pulled out her keys. “What am I going to do with you?” she asked herself, staring at the key to her father’s car. “I could get rid of you, but that would only leave me with one key. What pony in the world only carries around one key at all times?” Octavia took her apartment key and stuck it in the door knob. She gave it a twist. It didn’t turn. That’s strange. She tried it again, adding more force to her twist. Nothing. She tried jiggling the key. Then she tried shaking the whole knob. It still wouldn’t turn. “What the hell?” She pulled out the key and examined it against the light. There were no chips, no crookedness, no alterations. She took a look at the brand name of the key. Schlage. She turned and looked at the name engraved on the door knob. Kurzweil. “Oh no.” Octavia reinserted the key and tried to turn it again. It wouldn’t budge. She grabbed the knob with both hooves and tried forcing it to turn, but it was fruitless. She walked to the window and noticed that the blinds were opened. “I n-never leave those open,” she stammered. She pressed her face against the window and cupped her hooves over her eyes. She gasped. “Everything is gone!” The living room was empty and the kitchen was completely bare. She ran over to the bedroom window and sure enough the blinds were open and the room was completely cleaned out. “But…who…” Just then, a janitor stepped out of Octavia’s door and locked it with a key. She sprinted over to him, giving him the jumps. “Celestia, lady, you’ll give me a heart attack!” “I’m terribly sorry sir, but you must let me inside.” “Why? You thinkin’ of robbin’ the place?” “What? No! I live here!” “So where’s your key?” “It’s right here.” Octavia pulled out her key and stuck it in the knob. She demonstrated to the old stallion the trouble of opening it. “As you can see, it doesn’t open anymore.” “Yeah, I can see that alright.” The janitor turned away from Octavia and headed towards the stairs. “Wait! Aren’t you going to let me in?” “And how do you expect me to let some stranger just walk into any apartment she says is hers, eh? You’re nuts.” “No you don’t understand, I live here. My father, Oliver, owns the complex and this is the suite that they gave me to live.” The janitor turned. “Oh really? Is that so?” “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Oh my, I am so sorry ma’am. You’ll have to forgive me for not believing in fairy tales!” The old janitor turned back and ignored the frightened cellist. “No, you’ve got me all wrong. I do live here, I can prove it.” “Oh yeah, how?” “Well, if you let me into the office to use the telephone, I can prove to you I am the daughter of the owner of this complex and that is my apartment.” “Dontcha have a cell phone or somethin’?” Octavia looked down. “Well, no I don’t.” “Geez, even I have a cell phone.” The disgruntled stallion reached into his back pocket and threw the cell phone at Octavia. “Hurry up and give him a call. I ain’t got all night.” “Oh thank you, kind sir!” Octavia quickly dialed the number to her mother’s house. The old stallion tapped his hoof impatiently. “You done yet?” “It’s ringing, just give it a moment.” Octavia bit her lower lip as the ring tone continued its monotonic routine. Finally, it picked up. Hello? “Mother, it’s me, Octavia?” What do you want. “Listen. There’s a janitor who needs confirmation from you that I am the daughter of the owner of this apartment complex.” And why would he need to know that? “Because my key isn’t working and he thinks I’m here to rob my own apartment. He doesn’t trust me so I need you to speak to him. Please?” A moment of silence passed. “Mother?” Pass the phone to him. “Of course! Thank you so much, mother!” Octavia passed the cell phone back to the old stallion. “Here you are. She’ll tell you!” Octavia said, with a slight elegance in her tone. “Sure.” He ripped the phone from her hoof. “Hello?” I do not know her. She’s crazy. “Alright. Sorry for troublin’ ya.” He hung up the phone and continued his way to the stairs. Octavia gasped. “H-Hey, where are you going? Aren’t you going to let me in?” “She said she doesn’t know ya. So you better scram or I’ll call the police on you!” Octavia walked frantically towards him. “B-But that’s nonsense! What do you mean she said she didn’t know me? I’m her daughter! Perhaps you heard wrong and…” “I know what I heard, lady,” he replied, turning and pointing a hoof in her face. “Now I’mma tell ya one last time. Get offa this property or the cops will take your ass to jail, ya hear me!?” “But…but.” That’s all she could say. The old stallion put a hoof on the first step when he felt a pair of hooves fall on his shoulders and grip tightly. “What in the name of Celestia? Get offa me!” “No! You don’t understand! She’s lying!” “Get offa me, you crazy bitch!” “I need to get into my apartment! Please, for the love of Luna, let me in!” “Let go of me or I’m callin’ the cops!” The old stallion pushed away from Octavia whose grip gave way. His back hoof landed on the corner of the second step, which threw off his balance completely. He tumbled all the way down the stairs, hitting his head hard on the ground. All that was heard was a low moan and a piercing shriek. “Oh my god! Are you alright, sir!” The frantic cellist rushed down the stairs and knelt next to the injured janitor. He didn’t move a single muscle. “Oh god, please say something. Anything!” Octavia rolled the stallion on his back. His short gasps for air sent her into a panic. “Back…pocket,” he managed to say. “What?” “Back…pocket.” Octavia reached into one of his back pockets and found a bottle of prescription medicine. “How many?” she asked. “O-Open…it.” “Okay.” Octavia twisted the top, but it wouldn’t budge. She tried again, but it proved to be too hard for the mare. She tried scanning the bottle for instruction, but there was no sign of writing on the bottle. She tried opening it a third time. “I can’t open it,” she screamed. “I can’t open it!” “Push…down.” “What?” The janitor made a pushing motion with his hooves. Octavia took the bottle and pushed the top down before turning it. It opened. “Oh, thank Celestia!” she said. The janitor motioned a hoof to his mouth, his movements significantly weaker than before. “Here, take one of th-“ She tipped the bottle to one side into her hoof. Nothing came out. It was empty. “Oh. Oh no. No. Why is this…no!” She turned to the janitor whose eyes were as wide as her mouth. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll call an ambulance with your phone and we’ll get you to a hospital.” She reached into the other pockets of the janitor’s clothes, but found no cell phone in either of them. “What? Where’s the cell phone!?” She jumped to her hooves and looked all around her. She went up the steps and looked on the second floor. She raced back down and went under the steps and searched through the decorative bushes. There lying in a pile of brown leaves was the phone. “I found it! I’m calling the ambulance right now!” Octavia dialed the number and put the phone to her ear. Hello? What's your emergency? "Yes, I'm calling to report an old stallion suffering a heart attack, I think. I'm not sure but, please get here. He needs help fast." Okay, sweetie. We're sending help right away. Can you please tell me your location? "Yes. Canterlot Square Apartments." Okay. A crew is being sent out as we speak. "Oh, thank you so much!" Can you tell me how he's doing right now? Any signs of breathlessness or broken bones or anything else we should be concerned about? "Um, I'm not sure. Let me go check." She walked back to the old janitor to check on him. He didn’t move. “Sir?” He didn’t pay attention. “Sir, can you hear me?” He didn’t react. “Sir! Sir! Can you hear me!?” He didn’t turn. “Oh my god! I-I killed him!” Ma'am, is he alright? Octavia dropped the cell phone and sprinted away from the scene, leaving the old janitor lying motionless on the cold ground. Hello? Hello? Ma’am are you still there?