//------------------------------// // Advanced Music Theory // Story: Tinker, Tanner, Hunter, Spy // by Shamus_Aran //------------------------------// “...So, that’s my story. Happy?” The faces around the table were a rather steady gradient between the two definitions of “nonplussed” - On one side were Inkwell-Arrowhead and Rainbow Dash, who really seemed to be taking the whole “previously not-a-pony” thing better than they should have been. Then there were Pinkie and Normal Arrowhead, who looked a little concerned. Just a little. And then there was Archer, who appeared to be on the verge of fleeing and hiding in a basement somewhere until everyone involved was safely sectioned away in the nearest mental asylum. Or maybe that was severe internal conflict. Or perhaps he was just suffering more acutely from the awkward silence than anyone else. “Okay,” he said, trying to inject some sound into the oppressive bubble of silence. “But there’s one thing I don’t get. Why the memory thing?” “I’m sorry?” “There’s no reason anything I heard would have caused you to lose your memory.” This gave Inkwell pause. “That’s a good point.” “Well, it’s not like that’s something she’d want to remember, right?” Archer glanced back at Pinkie. “I’m sorry?” “Well, if something’s really, really scary or sad, why would anypony want to remember it?” “...Because they have no other choice?” “No, silly! Inkwell just up and forgot so she’d be happier here! Mystery solved.” Archer spared the rest of the table a perturbed glance. “And this is normal?” “Sure! I can’t even remember what year my mother’s thirty-first birthday was. It must have been awful.” Archer turned back to Inkwell. “And you’re happy, not knowing who you are? Being a criminal, essentially?” “Hey, don’t knock the Equestrian life until you’ve tried it. I have a nice job, I live in a decent neighborhood, and best of all, no Higgs.” She leaned forward in her chair, resting her head on her hooves. “Compared to Baileyton, Ponyville is practically paradise.” “Is alliteration like a side effect or something? I’ve been seeing it crop up everywhere.” “No, it just happens. Soon enough, you’ll start doing it too, and on that day you will most likely lose your mind.” “So, you don’t mind the fact that you’ll be arrested on sight if you ever go home?” “You say that like I’d ever want to. I figure I am home, and I was having a wonderful time of it... until you showed up, that is.” Zap. Right in the guilt. He sighed, slouching in his seat. “Arrowhead? I need a second opinion on all this ‘transmogrification’ malarkey.” Said dreampony was not at the table presently. “Arrowhead?” “What!?” called two voices behind Sugarcube Corner’s counter. From the wood facade emerged He-Arrowhead and She-Arrowhead. Their manes were disheveled in equal amounts. Had they just been...? “Were you two just-?” “Attempting to merge back into one consciousness and consolidate our power? Why yes. Now if you would be so kind as to curb your voyeuristic impulses, we would like to get back to that.” “Right,” said Archer, burying his face in his hands. “By all means.” The two vanished again. “Hey!” called Rainbow, much more chipper than usual. “The rain’s stopped!” “Oh thank the Father,” Archer sighed. “Any excuse to get out of this... I mean, uh, that’s neat.” The metal-gray cloud cover had broken up outside, letting the infuriatingly bright spring sun in. Equestria was once again cheerful and pastel, if a little soggier than it had been that morning. Without much ado, or very much warning at all, Pinkie sped out the sweet-shop’s front doors and vanished around a corner. “Okay. I should probably be worried that I’m getting used to her doing that.” “She’s Pinkie. Eventually...” “Yeah, I know.” With just as much preamble as she made leaving, Pinkie zipped back in, grabbed Archer by the arm, and zipped back out. The Corner was silent save for the sound of a two-way door flapping in and out with the breeze the peppy pink pony left in her wake. A single Arrowhead peeked his head over the counter. “Okay, we’re done! Now I can- Hey, where’d he go?” “No clue. Does this mean I’m stuck with you until he gets back?” “Afraid so.” “Curses.” *** When the world ceased to be an indistinct blur and Archer could breathe again, Pinkie had dumped him face-down on the dirt and was chatting excitedly with someone out of sight. He made sure he was alive first, then decided to listen. “....Vinyl, are you serious!?” she shrieked. “How can Diamond Pick catch Feather Flu twice in two weeks?” “Well, he always loved those storms of his so much,” offered a smooth, deep, but still female voice. “I guess he got soaked once too often.” “And really, it’s no problem,” offered another new voice, this one reserved and with an odd accent. Northern? Mid-eastern? He could swear he’d heard something like it before. “We can always play with the three of us-” “No, it was supposed to be the string trio plus drums! We can’t have a string duo plus drums, that just wouldn’t make sense!” He decided that this was a good time to pull his head out of the ditch it had formed - when Pinkie lets go of you and momentum holds on, that sort of thing tended to happen. He had been deposited on the outskirts of Ponyville, somewhere between Sweet Apple Acres and the road to Canterlot. Pinkie was gesticulating wildly in front of a pair of unfamiliar Equestrians - both much more reasonably colored than she. Mostly. The accented one was a steel gray earth pony, hoisting a very large viol case over her side, probably containing a double bass. Nothing else he could think of in that shape was that large. The other was a white unicorn - scratch that, a very light cream-colored unicorn. Instead of a normal mane, like her counterpart, she had a shock of electric blue hair, which went nicely with her completely ridiculous and completely unnecessary pair of goggles. She was carting a drum set behind her in a trailer. “...The devil are you all on about?” They all turned to face him. “Music,” Pinkie said. “What else would we be talking about?” “I honestly have no idea.” “Oh! Silly filly, where are my manners?” Pinkie gestured with a sweeping hoof to the other two ponies. “Archer, I’d like you to meet Vinyl and Octavia! Me and these two are three-fourths of the musical entertainment tomorrow night!” “Who’s the last one?” “A pegasus named Diamond Pick was supposed to be on the guitar. But he’s out sick.” “Well,” he muttered, picking himself up and glancing disdainfully at the massive dust stains his clothes had accumulated, “So much for that. I guess the music can wait until next week, or-” “NO! No, you said human parties had to have live music! So here it is!” “But you just said the band was understaffed.” What followed was the most intense bout of hoof-to-chin contemplative thought Pinkie had ever undertaken. In short order, an incandescent light bulb appeared and disappeared above her head. “I’ve got it!” “Oh no,” muttered Archer, Octavia, and Vinyl in unison. “Archer, do humans play music?” “...Yeah.” “How?” “With our hands, obviously.” Her grin stretched to ominous proportions. She disappeared. An awkward silence ensued. “So, you two...” he began. “We’re old friends.” “Does she ever slow down? Like, ever?” “Not if she can help it,” Vinyl said, shrugging. “And if she can’t help it, that means something very bad is happening.” Pinkie reappeared with another stringed instrument in her hands. “Here!” “What is it?” “Diamond Pick’s guitar!” She handed it to him. He did not immediately take it. “What’s wrong?” “I, uh... I don’t know how to play the guitar.” This innocuous statement somehow elicited from the three present Equestrians the most flabbergasted looks of incomprehension Archer had ever seen on a living being. “...Archer, that doesn’t make any sense.” “Why not? I’ve never been taught how to play any musical instrument in my life.” Vinyl chuckled nervously. “What do you mean, ‘taught’?” “I mean, my education has not extended to include the production or theory behind music. How do you expect me to play this?” “You just... play it. I don’t see what the problem is.” “So I randomly start hacking at the strings and you expect beautiful music to come out?” “That’s not how it works,” Octavia insisted. “Then how does it? Because obviously you and I have different opinions on how something as simple as a guitar functions.” “Stop being a wet blanket and just play the thing, sheesh!” “Fine,” he said reluctantly, seating himself on a nearby rock. “But don’t expect a symphony.” He put his fingers to a random set of frets and plucked a few notes. Wait a minute, that actually sounded pretty good. *** He continued playing, mildly taken aback at the fact that it did not, as he had previously assumed, sound like crap. The tune sounded folksy, like a hike through the forest or perhaps like a late night at the tavern. It was Vorlanian music. It sounded like home. We’d like to take this opportunity to remind everyone that Archer did not, in fact, know how to play the guitar. His wrist jerked as he unconsciously switched notes, then a few more times as the tune went down, then back, then up, then sideways a bit before coming back. He heard a steady bassline come in under him. At some point, Octavia had unloaded her instrument - it was a double bass, as it turns out - and had started playing a competent accompaniment. But she’d been playing all her life. He had no excuse. The double bass’s mellow tone made the song feel sleepy, almost like a lullaby. For a moment, the music stopped. He stopped plucking at the strings for a brief second, and the bass kept the tune for another, as if playing the echo to something very quiet, but very forceful. Then he began playing, just as involuntarily as before. This time, another set of strings and drums were backing him and Octavia. He turned to find Pinkie on her violin and Vinyl set up with her kit, both with their own spotlights like Octavia had- Wait. He was under a spotlight. They all were. Surrounding them was an indistinct veil of darkness, through which only the three musicians plus one could be seen. What in blazes was going on? The hi-hat and ragamuffin drums gave the piece yet another feel - one of jazziness, of activity. The music was describing something happening, something starting, rather than ending. What exactly that was was anyone’s guess. The ominous shadow cast by the string section did nothing to ease his misgivings. He tried once more to fathom what exactly was going on, and why it was happening. Then the song ended. And just like that, it was over. *** The spotlights went out, the scenery of Outer Ponyville returned to replace the darkness, and Archer’s continued attempts at making a joyful noise petered out under his renewed inexperience at all things harmonious. “Well, that was quite the experience. What was that?” “It’s called a ‘musical number’,” Pinkie replied, bouncing enthusiastically (as if there were any other way to bounce). “They happen a lot around here.” “So, is this a rare thing, or am I going to find myself dragged into more of these?” “They come and go at random,” Vinyl offered, re-hitching her mysteriously not-unpacked drum trailer and making for Ponyville. “My advice? Just roll with it. Who knows, you might end up having fun if you don’t spend the whole time trying to figure out how it works.” “Yeah, man, you get way too suspicious sometimes,” interjected Pinkie. “Half the time, you looked like that guitar was about to jump up and bite you!” “Well, considering it had commandeered the motor functions of my arms, I think that was a valid fear.” “Come on,” Pinkie sighed. “You’d like it here if you didn’t keep checking for monsters under every bed you came across.” “And believe me, I’m trying to work on th-” He paused. “Ohhh.” “What?” “Hand muscles,” he said, clutching his right arm. “On fire. Inside out. With broken glass. And hornets.” He hissed. “Angry, angry hornets.” “Oh dear,” muttered Octavia. “Sounds like first-timers’ cramps. You tell me you’ve never played a musical instrument before?” “Nooooo.” “That’s it, then. Your hands weren’t used to playing the instrument, and after the number was over, nature took its course.” “Ow. Ow, ow, ow. Ow. Ow.” “Pinkie, can you get him to a doctor?” “I’m on it.” “OWWWW. And again, I say! Ow! Freaking ow! My hand!” “Oh, suck it up, you big baby.” *** There was a rumbling in the Everfree forest. Something very large moved, and with it moved several thousand pounds of soil, flora, and fauna unlucky enough to be caught in its wake. The bear shook itself from slumber and pushed its way out of its half-buried hibernation spot, bleary-eyed and irritable. It had been awoken prematurely by a voice that it did not particularly like, and now it was hungry. Also, it was aware of someone on two legs that was really in its best interest to kill if it ever saw him. The Ursa Minor let out a yawn that could rock buildings to their foundation, and went hunting. The forest had just gotten that much more dangerous.