• Published 26th Jul 2015
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The Things Tavi Says - shortskirtsandexplosions

Let me tell you a few things about my roommate, Octavia. After all, she saved my life.

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Familial Things

Author's Note:

"You sure you don't want us to go back to the apartment and grab your wheelchair for you, Vine?" Bon Bon asks.

I shake my head. Nevertheless, I wince slightly with each step I take across town. It's not so much that I'm in pain. I'm just... achy in a million tiny places. It all amounts to a big fluffy ball of ouch. If nothing else, it simply reminds me that I'm alive.

"It's okay, Bon Bon," Lyra says, levitating a case full of personal effects—Tavi's things. "You don't have to coddle her so much." She giggle-snorts. "That's Octavia's job."

I roll my shaded eyes with a smirk.

"Hardy har har, Lyra," Bon Bon muses. "Although, something tells me—once Octavia comes out of this, it'll be Vinyl who will do the coddling. At least for a few weeks."

"What do you say to that, Vine?" Lyra chirps. "A month of waiting on hoof and knee for Octavia as she recovers from her injuries?"

"I can't think of anypony better equipped for the job."

"Heehee! We should get her a little bell so she can summon Vinyl for the littlest of things."

"'Oh Vine, darling, would you kindly fetch me more red wine?'"

"Ooooh... I'm pretty sure Redheart's gonna tell her to go easy on the wine for a while."

"Ouch. Sorry if you'll have to deal with that, Vinyl."

I'm listening to them, and yet I'm not. As we approach the gates to Ponyville Central, I notice two... three... four ornate stagecoaches parked back to back, occupying much of the front lawn.

I'm not the only one.

"Yowsers... check out the wheels!" Lyra exclaims.

"Is Princess Celestia visiting?"

"Don't be silly, B-Squared. Those things are built out of dark mahogany. Celestia almost always rides in an open coach of polished gold and silver."

"Well, excuse me, Miss Vehicle Expert," Bon Bon mutters. "Still looks like royalty to me."

"Maybe one of the dignitaries from the Gala came to pay Octavia a visit."

"Heh. Wouldn't that be snazzy?"

I ponder on this as we enter the Hospital... as we take the elevator to Octavia's floor... as we approach the front counter of the ICU.

"Hey, uh... we're back," Lyra says, panting slightly as she heaves the bag onto the counter of the nurse's station. "And don't worry." She pats the satchel. "We've had this bad boy checked through security. Nothing but books, velvets, and bath products. Eheheh..."

The nurse behind the counter nods. "Indeed." Her eyes narrow. "And you are here to visit... who?"

"Huh?" Lyra blinks.

"Psssst..." Bon Bon leans in. "Lyra, she just started her shift."

"Oh! Right... guess we gotta do this officially." Lyra clears her throat. "We're here to... uh... visit Room 504?" She points at me. "This snazzy missy checked out of Room 501 just this morning."

"Mmmm... Room 504... Room 504..." The nurse scans down the list. "Oh!" She looks up, blinking brightly. "Are you here with the Melody party?"

"Hah! I guess you could say that—" Lyra blinks. "Wait... who's the Melody party?"

She's right to be confused. I'm blinking too.

And that's when I hear it...

"Would somepony kindly adjust the air conditioning as I requested twenty minutes ago? She's likely to freeze to death at this rate. Honestly..."

I grimace inside and out. There's something... putrid about it. Like day-old vomit. But what's worse is that there's a familiar color to the voice... despite its booming quality. It resembles indigo, only it's sprinkled with something else... something glittery, yet fake. Like fool's gold.

I turn in time to spot several well-dressed servants trotting back and forth with blankets and supplies. Down the hall—absorbing the glare of several nurses—is a tall, neatly dressed stallion with a gray coat and wearing an even grayer suit of fine silks. There's something golden on his lapel, and it brings out the amber in his cold, glazed eyes. He turns about, the light being absorbed into his slicked-back dark mane.

"I swear, if it wasn't for the Royal Princess' insistence, I'd take her to a far classier institution entirely." He strolls down the hallway, not caring how many patients' rooms rattle from the intensity of his dull, bass tones. I detect the unmistakable tilt of a Trottingham accent. "Then again, what more can you expect from government funding."

At last, his amber eyes fall on me. He freezes—as do his scrambling servants. For a split second, a layer of brown cycles through his voice.

"Oh... it's you." A sharp inhale. "I suppose I would run into you at some point or another. What was the name again? Vile Itch?" He shakes his head. "Not that it bloody matters. Miss Melody is being well-taken care of. You have my word. So you can kindly go home now."

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