What the Future Holds

by OmniscientTurtle

Soul of the Musician

“Octavia, could you please bring me that box?”

The young musician complied with her mother’s demand, trudging over to the box she was pointing at without speaking a word. She had been having a high old time just sitting on the sofa, taking in the light from the skylight of the ceiling, not doing any physical labor. Besides, wasn’t that what the burly stallions walking in the front door every second were for?

She gently nudged the box once to get a feel for its weight, which didn’t turn out to be much. She set the top of her head on the side of the mystery box and slowly pushed it over to her mother.

“Thank you dear,” she said looking down from the tall kitchen table. Octavia could see she had been writing something, most likely a check to the workers she’d paid so she wouldn’t have to get her hooves dirty. She’d always been like that, always prim and proper.

Her mother set her quill down before reaching down to get the box. As she bent over, her long blood red mane cascaded over her face, obscuring her vision. She let out a soft swear before flipping it back to its rightful place before proceeding to pick up the box and set it gently on the table.

Being the curious filly she was, Octavia strained her neck upward so she could see what it was her mother needed the box for. Under the illumination of the dim chandelier, her mother reached into the box with one of her hooves and returned with an ink bottle. She continued intently on her writing spree, completely forgetting about her daughter.

Octavia didn’t say a word. She wasn’t about to go and interrupt her mother while she was focused. Many past experiences had proven that doing so was not to anypony’s best interest. While her thanks had sounded nice enough, there was no doubt she had a headache stemming from the amount of paperwork she was going through. Octavia didn’t blame her. She was also feeling the aftereffects of such a life-changing matter. These were stressful times, for her and her family.

“There you are! How’s my little Beethooven doing?”

And no matter how joyful her father sounded, she knew that it was merely a mask he was using to conceal his true emotions.

“I’m doing fine, father. How is the inspection coming along?” she replied.

He looked around the room, scratching his dark stubble. “Eh, it could be going better. I haven’t found anything wrong with the house yet, per se, but the heat is on high and I’m still getting chills.”

“You’ve been here a week and you hadn’t noticed the heating was broken?” her mother retorted from the other room.

“The heating’s fine, it’s just taking a while to warm up is all. And I was staying in a hotel most of the time.” He paused. “Also, just to let you know, the official tour will be underway in an hour or two.”

Both Octavia and her mother groaned, making sure he heard it.

“Oh come one now, I’m not asking for much. You’ll love it, I’m sure!”

She wasn’t so sure about that. The house wasn’t exactly small and she knew he would make it a point to make sure his wife and filly knew everything about every last detail of the house.

Octavia trotted over to the sofa, not sure of anything else to do until the dreaded time of the tour. Like the kitchen chairs, the sofa was slightly out of her reach at her current height. With a short jump she heaved herself onto the couch, stumbling when the cushion sank from the new weight. She adjusted herself before promptly shoving her back into the backboard, slouching her shoulders and letting her legs dangle over the edge like this one mint-green unicorn filly she saw one time in her homeland.

Letting her head fall back on the pillowy backboard, she stared into the skylight of the living room. All other sounds soon fell silent, her parents talking, the workers grunting, everything. It was a technique she had picked up through her short music career. At such a young age, music had taken up almost half her life; acquiring one’s cutie mark so early was almost unheard of. Her parents had been praised, they’d been reprimanded; some ponies thought they had drilled music into her, when in reality she had merely picked up her talent from passively listening to her father.

This technique had proven useful for when she felt like relaxing and contemplating the intricacies of everything around her. With a long breath, she began to think about something to think about, something that would give her something to think about in her spare time.

Time. That was an interesting concept. What could she measure in time? The move! That would work. How long had it been since the move? A week? A week seemed about right. She could care less about figuring out the exact amount of time that had passed; she wasn’t that bored. Time was going to keep moving forward, despite any efforts at slowing it. Why bother keeping track of the past? To Octavia, the only thing that mattered was the present. And now, that meant settling in to her new house. Nothing was going to bring her home country back.

At that moment she glanced towards the front door. The skylight she’d been staring at was starting to hurt her eyes. Looking outside, she caught a glimmer of black among the gray light. A large stallion was carrying the mystery item, a case of some sort. It wasn’t quite his height, but he had no trouble in lifting it. Out of boredom, she decided to follow this worker with her eyes. Everything that these workers were bringing in was theirs, but this item seemed particularly familiar to her.

He entered through the doorway and Octavia’s apathetic eyes lit up with enthusiasm. Dodging one of his compadres he located a vacant spot that wasn’t covered in luggage. Almost like a test to show how rude and callous he could be, he released the handle, letting gravity drag the case to the floor with a thud.

Octavia winced. Couldn’t they treat her cello, as well as their other belongings, with a little more respect? She didn’t care how buff they were, there was still a small amount of respect that anypony should possess, no matter how much of a simpleminded brute they were.

He returned to his mundane task, grudgingly walking back to the truck for another load. Manehattan certainly wasn’t making a good first impression. The combination of gray skies and unsociable citizens made her long for her home country. She scowled at his back as he left, too apathetic to reprimand him to his face. He didn’t seem to notice her; or rather, he was probably just ignoring her. The owners of the house weren’t paying attention either. Her father had ignored the taboo of starting an argument with her mother while she had a headache.

Her gaze quickly returned to what the rude worker had carried in. Her cello case laid flat on the floor, in the midst of a multitude of cardboard boxes. Despite her reluctance in scolding the worker, she had more than enough energy to walk over to see if her instrument was all right. Flipping the safety latches on the case up, she lifted the case open.

To her relief, nothing had been damaged, at least nothing on the exterior. The bow still rested in its velvet bed aside the massive instrument, while the instrument itself looked as grandiose as it always had, though it might’ve needed a quick dusting. Her violet eyes rested upon the polished wood, and for the first time that day, a smile returned to her face.

Her cello had and always would be her one true friend, the one that would never leave her no matter what happened. Others thought it alien, thought it unnatural that a young filly would spend more time with a piece of wood then with other ponies. It wasn’t somepony she could play with, and it wasn’t somepony she could talk to.

Nopony could understand: why?

The answer to that was quite simple.

-------

Octavia wrapped her foreleg around the neck of her instrument, lifting it at a sideways angle. Leaning it against herself, she grabbed her bow before taking both back to the couch. While she preferred harder surfaces to sit on while playing her instrument, she didn’t feel like going back to the kitchen, even though it was only a few meters away.

She jumped back up onto the sofa. Feeling the weight of the instrument once more, she was glad to again be holding it in her hooves; that past week, she’d felt like a part of her had been missing. She extended the long spike that would hold up the cello before sinking it half an inch into the carpet. The instrument had been set: now all that was needed was the fine-tuning.

Snapping herself out of her trance had made her apparent of the noises the outside world. The movers dropped the family’s belongings on the rug without a single word of apology. They weren’t necessarily doing it on purpose; rather they had zero motivation to do any work that was beyond what was necessary, and dropping didn’t take nearly as much effort as setting everything down gently. Get the stuff in, get paid, and get out.

But perhaps even more disheartening were the two yelling at each other in the kitchen, not quite out of the earshot of their daughter or the movers. She’d caught them in the middle of their latest argument. Their voices were much too loud; she couldn’t help but overhear everything they were saying.

“What I’m saying is why the hay am I filling out all this damn paperwork right now? We were all fine in Germaney. Just because you were out of a job doesn’t mean that I was!” her mother yelled.

Like many times before, she ignored them. Participating in or even thinking about their argument would cloud both her judgment and playing skills. After a minute of debating, she’d chosen her piece for that dreary afternoon: Symphonie concertante in E♭ major by Flankz Danzi. She’d always been partial to his works; he had been a cellist, just like her.

“Look, we all decided that moving was necessary, so I don’t see why you’re complaining!”

She scrutinized over the length of the bow, making sure none of the fine hairs had frayed.

“Oh don’t give me that, this entire move was your idea! You didn’t even tell us until two weeks ago!”

Adjusted the tuning knobs to their usual positions.

“What the buck else was I supposed to do? You know full well there wasn’t a single musical job nearby! We couldn’t have gotten too far on just your salary.”

Positioned her left foreleg around the neck of the cello, only a few hooves worth away from the pegbox.

“Well then you should have gone with one of those travelling orchestras! Certainly would’ve been easier than moving here.”

Did a quick mental run-through of the hoof positions.

“How could you say that? Would you really prefer that I’m never able to see you?”

Closed her eyes once more.

“I never said that! My god, you are such a-“

And with elegant motion, pulled the bow along the face of the cello.

---

From that motion, a wondrous new creation found itself brought to life by the hooves of a master craftspony. Everything, even time itself, stood still before the beauty. Deep, rich sounds resounded through the walls of the gray home, echoing and crescendoing while she brought the symphonic masterpiece into existence. The reverberations had originally caught everypony off guard, but it was this same sound that found its way into their ears and into their hearts. Her parent’s acrimonious voices quieted; the workers had ceased in their duties merely to immerse themselves in the splendor.

Shortly after she began, the effects began to materialize further. Her parents sat calmly in the kitchen, too deeply engrossed in the music to continue their pointless argument. Not a single worker who walked in returned to the cart to get another box; they all sat their flanks down around the couch, forming a semicircle of city stallion around the musician. And all the while, Octavia never knew an audience had formed.

For three glorious minutes, only peace existed.

---

“Thank you all so much. We really appreciate it all.”

Octavia’s mother smiled at the head worker as the last of the movers made their way out the front door. After the concert they’d kicked into overdrive, unloading the remainder of the cart in record time. Octavia was greatly impressed; not only had they picked up the speed, but also the amount of care they used in handling their belongings. She knew that it must’ve been hard for them to do that – after all, they were paid by the hour. At the same time she had a feeling the enormous tip her mother had given them would make up for it.

“It’s no problem ma’am. Sorry if we were a bit rough with some of your stuff.”

“Oh don’t worry about that. I’m sure you didn’t damage anything.”

“Alrighty then ma’am. Have a nice day.” He tipped his hat to the mare, before turning towards the door.

Octavia, now in a much better mood, had decided to stand by the door and say goodbye to the workers through simply her smile as they left. Her adorable expression softened their hearts, possibly more than the music had. But it was the music that earned her the pleasant remarks and praises as they vacated the household one by one.

The boss slowed his trot as he approached the filly. She had just received adulation from the last worker and was now staring up at the head honcho. He was the biggest out of all of them by far, with shoulders wider than Octavia’s entire length. His entire demeanor screamed ‘don’t mess with me’, which made the smile on his face seem that much more out of place. As he towered over Octavia, he lifted his hoof into the air and brought it down softly onto Octavia’s head, patting her a few times.

“Ya did good, kid.”

Without another word, he continued out the door to the cart. Octavia watched the large vehicle go off down the empty street, pulled by two of the workers. She almost wished they’d stayed longer; they hadn’t turned out to be as rude as she originally expected.

So there they were, a family standing amongst a sea of opened cardboard boxes. The last traces of the mover’s presence had dissipated; all that remained were three Germane ponies in a new city.

Octavia was still looking out the doorframe when she felt a warm presence wrap itself around her. Turning her head to the side, her father looking at her with his large green content-filled eyes, his foreleg wrapped around her like a shawl over her shoulders. She lightly nuzzled his cheek and returned the embrace with both forelegs.

“So how is my little Beethooven doing now?” he asked.

“Wonderful.”

---

“I think that’s everything. Any questions?”

Neither Octavia nor her mother dared ask any questions. Contrary to their enjoyment, they know both knew everything one could possibly know about the inner workings of a house and then some. The young filly wasn’t sure if her mind could remember anything that he’d said; she still didn’t know what a hydronic heating system was. She had been too late to stop the new Equestrian homeowner mindset from taking over her father.

Back in the living room, Octavia threw herself into the sofa, bouncing a bit from the elasticity of the cushions. That darn skylight, why did it have to be above the sofa? Her bed was upstairs, but that was much too far for the tired filly to trek.

Her mother trotted back over to the kitchen, copying her daughter’s example and slouching back in one of the chairs. “No dear, we got everything, thanks.” She grabbed the coffee she’d made earlier and took a swig, wincing when it turned out to no longer be warm.

He let out a chuckle. “Well alright then,” he said as he walked through the multitude of cardboard boxes.

In an instant his head and ears perked up, his eyes widening as a certain memory came to his mind. “That’s right!” His sudden change had attracted the attention of his family, who stared at him in confusion with their languor filled eyes.

“What is it father?” his daughter asked.

Instead of answering, he instead scanned the room, turning his head from side to side. Octavia was just as confused as she had been during the tour. He did occasionally ignore her, but not when they’d just been talking. What was it that had piqued his interest so?

He finally found the item he was looking for, a box that wasn’t any different from its companions. Picking it up in his foreleg, he transported the box over to the sofa where his daughter lay. He set it down before pulling the flaps of the box open. Inside, multicolored slabs laid neatly next to each other, each covered in what was obviously writing of some sort.

“What are these?”

“Take a closer look,” he said with a grin.

Upon closer inspection, she realized the writing had been done in Equestrian, which was still slightly alien to her. She wasn’t anywhere near as proficient at reading and writing in Equestrian as she was speaking it, but it still made pretty decent sense.

“Equestrian? Science? Mathematik?” She quickly caught herself as realized she’d used the Germane word, not what was written on the book. It happened on occasion when she tried to read Equestrian words that were cognates for Germane ones; after all, Equestrian had originated from her home language.

But then it clicked as to what these books were. Schoolbooks; one for every conceivable subject.

“W-what? Why are these-“

“SURPRISE!” her father yelled, enough to give Octavia a small heart attack and make her to sit straight up in the sofa. A ridiculously cheesy smile plastered itself on his face, like he was trying way too hard to get across the fact that he was happy. “These are your new schoolbooks!”

“Schoolboo… father, what do you mean schoolbooks? I don’t need these books for a musician’s school!”

Her father’s grin disappeared for a moment, soon being replaced by an innocent grin when he realized what she meant. He looked at his wife sitting in the kitchen. She’d been listening in and was now wearing a grin of her own.

“I’m sorry Octavia,” she spoke up, not willing to relinquish her spot. Despite the fact that she was apologizing, she seemed awfully cheerful about it. “We completely forgot to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“That the rules have changed a bit,” her father continued. “The school system in Equestria is different from the one in Germaney.”

“What? What do you mean by ‘different’?” she squeaked.

“You’re not going to be happy about it, but we had to tell you sooner or later.” He took a quick breath before continuing. “Here in Equestria, you don’t get the choice of going to a school based on your talent. It doesn’t matter if you have your cutie mark or not. All foals here get the same kind and level of education.”

Octavia’s heart sank into the depths of sadness, letting out a soft gasp at this sudden change in events. Nothing could’ve shocked her more, even if the Princess herself had walked in.

“But… but I…I-wha, n-no, but… but…” she stammered.

“I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

"But I..."

"Octavia," her mother said with increased emphasis.

“… alright.” Her eyes dropped to fix themselves on the floor.

Her father sat down beside his daughter, who was still staring in disbelief at the books, and put her foreleg around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, your school has an orchestra you can join.”

These words of relief alleviated Octavia’s agitation, but failed to completely erase it. She had already made plans for what she’d assumed was going to be a musician’s only school, which mostly revolved around practicing her heart out and learning new techniques to help improve her playing. She had no interest in learning algebra or Equestrian history, just like how her mother really had no interest in learning about the new airflow unit. Besides, why should she have to take these classes again if she already had? The only difference would be that they would be taught in a different language, one that she spoke perfectly. And it wasn’t like she didn’t understand the material; heck, she was probably 20 times smarter than any of the foals already there. The whole thing seemed so unfair.

“So when do I begin attending this school?” she asked solemnly, still trying to just accept the fact there was no way to convince her parents otherwise.

“You begin in a week, next Monday to be exact.” Her father spoke into her ear. “There’s no work before-hoof, so you can get acquainted with the house in that time and help with unpacking. You’ll be fine dear, no reason to worry.”

She certainly hoped so.

“And I’m sure you’ll make some new friends too.”

Yep, nothing to worry about.