Not According to Plan
Sorry for breaking the fourth wall here, but during the second song, skip to 0:28 in order to get directly into the music.
“Get up! Get out of bed and get your flank to the auditorium!”
You shoot bolt upright in bed. Symphony is at your shoulder, shaking you violently and screaming in your ear.
“What’s going on?” you ask blearily. “How did you get in here?”
“Door’s unlocked. Lucky for me—do you remember what today is?”
You rack your still half-asleep brain. Rehearsal had gone late last night, and Lyrica’s uber-rehearsed speeches tend to blend together and lose all meaning. You draw even less out of them when you’re falling asleep over your piano.
“Uh?” you prompt Symphony.
“The performance! You were supposed to be there five minutes ago!”
You’re out of bed in an instant. “Say no more, let’s go.” You dash out of the room and outside, accidentally knocking over and end table near the door. You right it with magic and step aside to let Symphony exit. You slam the door behind you, nearly smacking the violinist on the behind.
You can barely see the domed concert hall over the skyline of Canterlot. “It’s too far. We’ll never make it,” says Symphony. “It takes at least ten minutes if we run. They’ll have started by then!”
“Do you trust me?”
“What?” Your sudden question catches Symphony off guard.
“Do you trust me?” you repeat, no time for explanation.
“Yes, I suppose.”
“This might be slightly uncomfortable. Bear with me.”
“Wait, what?”
You close your eyes in concentration and force Octavia into your mind. Good memories. Your horn illuminates and everything fades to white. Gravity suddenly has no meaning; your innards float freely, one of the more uncomfortable side effects of teleportation. You faintly here the surprised yelp from Symphony before being sucked into the void.
The magic deposits you and Symphony at the back entrance to the auditorium, the doors that the musicians take on performance days. Next to you, the violinist loses her balance and collapses on top of you. You steady her, holding her leg around your shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Symphony wheezes breathlessly. “Let’s get in there. Just . . . warn me next time.”
“I did, I told you it’d be uncomfortable.”
“Specificity would have been nice.”
“C’mon, you big baby. We’re late enough as it is.”
You push open the door, still supporting the violinist, to find that backstage is an anarchic mess.
Musicians mill about, checking their instruments or getting into arguments with each other, only slightly obscuring the sound of the multiheaded entity behind the curtains that is the audience.
“Royal Riff, we cannot delay any further!”
You locate Lyrica in the middle of a mass of ponies, including Royal Riff and Octavia. “It’s unfortunate, I agree, but we will have to simply carry on without him.”
“Lyrica!” Octavia snaps. “Go back to your list of requirements and add ‘a pianist’ to it. No matter how long we need to wait, he is essential to the orchestra. This performance will fall apart at the seams without a piano.”
“Thanks, Octavia, I didn’t know you cared so much.” You push you way into the circle. You had left Symphony behind to catch her breath. “I’m here, so we can all calm down now.”
“Where in the name of Celestia have you been?” demands Royal Riff.
“Slept in. Thanks for sending Symphony.”
Lyrica looks strangely angry at your appearance. Any excuse to fire you, she would have taken it, and not showing up to your opening performance would have been a viable reason. Well, I’m here, you force the thoughts at the conductor maliciously.
“Places,” Lyrica says simply.
Her voice carries over the din the musicians are creating, finding its way into every ear. Any argument that had just been in full swing is now over.
Violinists enter at the front, followed by the rest of the strings. Then brass and woodwind. You and the percussionist, a heavyset pony with an overwhelming desire to hit things, enter at the very back, emerging to tumultuous applause.
Your long-since buried nerves threaten to make a reappearance, but you lock away that part of your mind, focusing only on the task at hand. The percussionist gives you a reassuring pat on the back that almost knocks you to the floor, and goes to attend to his drums.
You take you place at the piano. As always, grey light envelopes the instrument. Any fine tuning of the strings is immediately done by your probe, tightening or loosening the entire board at once. You have no chance to warm up, but the adrenaline permeating your bloodstream is giving you confidence.
Up at the conductor’s podium, Lyrica is muttering something to Octavia, who does not look happy. After a series of head shakings and clenched teeth from Lyrica, Octavia turns and marches back to her position.
“What did Lyrica want?” you whisper, allowing your voice to reach the cellist.
“I’m doing a solo. Unrehearsed.” Her voice is calm, but cold fury causes it to shake slightly.
“She can’t do that.”
“She just did. She claims that we need something to ‘liven up the performance’. Suggesting that what we’ve been working for is insufficient, and that she needs to make a last-minute decision.”
“Can you manage it?”
“I hope so.”
****
Lyrica takes a wide bow, earning herself a polite smattering of applause. She then turns to face the musicians, and to give credit to your fellows, every single one is staring at the conductor with an undivided look of sheer animosity on their faces.
Lyrica raises the baton, casting her eyes across the symphony.
When the baton falls, you begin to play.
Despite Lyrica’s reservations, your music is more beautiful than ever, better than anything you’ve produced in rehearsal, a slow-starting piece that focuses on the keyboard. You piano perfectly complements the empowering, layered melodies from the orchestra, fading in and out when needed.
Lyrica’s conduction feels forced, unnecessary. The musicians all know what to do better than the conductor, and therefore turn a blind eye to her attempts at controlling them. Lyrica seems to realize what is going on, and is not happy about it.
You have to smile at the conductor’s discomfort. A few meters away, Octavia is laughing softly to herself. She meets your eye, and you somehow pass a nonverbal message to the cellist, and you’re sure she interprets it correctly.
A change in tactics is in order.
Octavia’s melody changes, slowly at first, but eventually blends into a whole new song. The musicians near her catch the gist, and also alter their music. The phenomenon spreads like wildfire, reaching the farthest corners of the stage. Soon enough, every violinist, bassist, flutist, and pianist is playing to the tune of a single mare near the back of the room.
Some of the more avid music-lovers in the audience notice the shift, and wonder why the movement has strayed so far from the program, but the vast majority of the patrons notice nothing. The transition is perfect.
Lyrica is furious. Her eyes show murderous fire, but she plays along, trying to keep up with the rapid, unexpected change in tune. Her conduction is off by at least a few beats at all times, but nopony in the audience seems to notice; every eye is surveying the musicians, not the conductor.
The orchestra has the advantage: they’ve played the composition before. Lyrica has never even heard it, and is having a hard time keeping up with the rapid shifts of melody. To be fair, you haven’t studied this either, but it’s simple enough to pick up and play along with, at least for somepony of your ability.
Unplanned, several of the musicians improvise, forming a makeshift choir to beautifully accompany their own instrumental. But then again, this entire ordeal is unplanned. Unplanned, but stunning.
The music reaches a crescendo, the musicians empowered by the sense of rebellion against their tyrannical, self-proclaimed leader.
Eventually, it all has to come to an end.
The audience is instantly standing, stomping furiously. Lyrica, still hoping to retain a shred of dignity from this disaster, smiles winningly and bows.
You look over at Octavia, who bears a mischievous smile.
You’re not done yet.
Octavia folds her bow under her forelegs and begins to pluck. Your piano accompaniment follows shortly after. The audience immediately quiets—the performance not yet completed. Lyrica stares at the pair of you, utter bewilderment and fury on her face.
You ignore all else. Your eyes close, but Octavia’s smiling face is still visible, driving you to greater heights. The keyboard is no longer a device for producing music; it is a channel for your innermost emotions to travel, emerging in the form of sweet, sweet melodies.
Octavia laughs openly. The audience can’t hear it over the sound of your duet, but it’s a special laugh, designed for only you to hear it. The small, seemingly insignificant sound tears the barrier between your heart and the outside world, and you begin to laugh yourself.
Somewhere near the middle, the music suddenly shifts to another piece, like you and Octavia had instigated with the orchestra. But as in-sync and impressive as the group effort was, it pales to the sheer beauty of the pianist and the cellist, alone in a rhapsody of happiness.
With a final, long, faded note, the music ends.
After a moment of stunned silence, the auditorium erupts.
A noise so loud had never been heard in your life. Anypony who had bothered sitting down is no longer in that position. On the front row, you can make out several ponies with tears in their eyes, giving you the indication that what you did was the right thing.
****
You walk home alone in the semidarkness, your spirits high enough to practically allow you to fly all the way back to your apartment.
That performance was amazing. Even before your duet with Octavia, the orchestra had really pulled together and made it count. After all was said and done—all the musicians were congratulating each other, Lyrica was nowhere to be found. Nopony was overly disappointed by her absence, but it made you uneasy.
The gap in between street lamps seems to grow, plunging you into darkness for longer and longer periods of time. Despite the outward welcoming appearance of Canterlot, with its clean streets and impressive architecture, being alone at night is unnerving.
You sense a presence behind you, but don’t turn. You keep walking, ignoring as the being is joined by another, and shortly afterward, a third.
“Excuse me?” says a clipped, familiar voice.
Lyrica.
“Yes, Lyrica?” You stop in your tracks, but still don’t turn.
“I would like to have a word with you about that performance. Really something, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Please, look at me when I’m talking to you.”
You don’t want to, but a rough hoof grabs your shoulder and spins you around to face your adversaries.
Lyrica looks disheveled, her elaborately curled mane coming loose and tumbling out of its bonds. She is accompanied by two of the scariest-looking stallions you have ever seen; one is a dark brown pegasus with half a wing missing, and the other is a massive grey earth pony with an eye patch. Both are almost double your size.
“I can’t fire you for this,” Lyrica continues. “The general public would be in an outrage if I fired the pony responsible for such excellent music. So, I decided to go with something a little more permanent than expulsion from the orchestra.”
The two stallions advance on you. “Hold on . . .” you start, before one wraps a foreleg around your neck in a strong headlock. Dragging you effortlessly, he turns and takes you into a secluded alley, a dismal, dark place covered in trash that nopony could expect anything good to come out of.
Your back is slammed against a wall. You’re held in the air by the stallion’s hoof on your throat, while the other leers unpleasantly at you. Even if you had the breath, you can think of nothing to say. The stallion who isn’t holding you lands a sharp punch on your ribs, then another, and another.
With a sickening crack, something breaks.
The onslaught continues, the two of them barraging any and every inch of your body. From a swollen eye, you can make out Lyrica, standing a distance away with a smug smile in her face.
Finally, mercifully, your focus fades and you slip into unconsciousness.
Filmusik Instrumental, Nintendo, and The Piano Guys provided this chapter's music.
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Lyrica is going to be fired as hell...I hope so
1129510
Damn straight.
I don't know, guys. This chapter really didn't flow how I wanted it to. Everything's too fast-moving, it's all a little unrealistic, and I just rushed myself too much.
“Do you trust me?”
“What?” Your sudden question catches Symphony off guard.
“Do you trust me?” you repeat, no time for explanation.
“Yes, I suppose.”
“This might be slightly uncomfortable. Bear with me.”
“Wait, what?”
Is this an Aladdin reference?
that bitch needs to burn!
1134012
Ding Ding Ding! We have a winner!
Edit: This isn't the actual scene, but it's the best I could find.
Oh god the Ocorina of time nostalgia also... Symphony...thebounce.co.za/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/axe-murderer.jpg
I'm sorry, but concerning Lyrica's more permernant alternative to expulsion? That was a remarkably dark turn, I think you may have overdone it a little. To me, it felt rather far fetched - having hired help beating the crap out of the main char' simply because he's been a naughty boy is more than a little... Spartan. Please don't go hatin' on me for sayin' that
... Brilliant read so far!
1148004
Yeah, fair enough. Attempted murder is on the extreme side, but at this point, Lyrica is absolutely furious. She cannot be expected to make reasonable decisions now. Sorry if the mugging rustles your jimmies, though. dl.dropbox.com/u/31471793/FiMFiction/emoticons/shrug_Twilight_Sparkle.png
1148004
What? That's what I did whenever someone took my #2 pencil...
I'd hire a gang of thugs to go and savage the kid until he gave it back. Perfectly justified!
1131576
the musical pieces were a little hard to listen to when you have to keep changing it to keep up with the story's pace, so I'd suggest maybe going into more detail on the music, like the audience's reaction, as well as that of Lyrica and the Orchestra, maybe try to describe the music that we're all listening to whilst reading . . . of course, what do I know? I can hardly write a single chapter.
1256427
With all due respect, that's easier said than done.
True, I should have extended it a bit, but it's quite hard to organize everything and make it flow just right when the music is almost guaranteed to last longer than the text in between track changes.
Thanks for the advice though. In any later orchestral chapters (if there will be another) I'll try to make it work a little better.
Cheers!
i don't know why but if i was Guyver i would slice the two brutes then beat the Shit out of lyrica the when she begs for mercy, death
rubs hands together with a evil grin*iphonehdwallpaper.com/wp-content/uploads/10273-joker-iphone-hd-wallpaper_340x510.jpg
i have a excuse now to go ape on that conductor.
This has to be the most disproportionate retribution ever. He doesn't do it your way but the crowd loved it, Attempt to murder him. No offense to your story, but god damn.
1337243
Yeah, I've gotten that kind of feedback a lot, and I'm starting to seriously regret going all extreme like that. What was going through my head at the time, I wonder?
The things I could do to that conductor using chemicals, a lighter and my best friend.
She totally deserves whatever is coming at her!
Just an FYI, to link straight to a certain time period in a Youtube video, this is all you have to do.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AKYn4ACAd7s --> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AKYn4ACAd7s&t=28s
Oh Lyrica, it is time:
Oh that bitch!
D=
Shit.
I won't let this keep me down, I'll keep on playing just to spite the bitch. Can't stop the D-Train baby!