Bridges

Bridges

The Second Bridge

"Rise and shine~"

Octavia groaned, Beauty's voice preventing her from seeing a very exciting dream, in which, she, Octavia, was using her cello to cross a mighty ocean. The cellist opened her eyes. What a silly dream.

"Come on, Octavia, time to get up and make a move ad altare Celestiae!" Beauty cooed, moving across the flat back and forth, making so much noise that the cellist just had to dive under the pillow. Still, her flatmate didn't cease her rushed, frantic movement, prompting Octavia to sit in place, shaking off sleep.

"In nomine Matris, Fillii et Spiritus Equini," Octavia joked, placing her head back on the pillow. "Now, do you want to say grace or can I go back to sleep?" Still, sleep wasn't about to come back to her, so the grey mare jerked up, jumped on her hooves, and danced a little dance to say her final goodbyes to the land of dreams, for the time being. Something good had happened yesterday, something positive, something that she hoped... Immediately, Octavia checked her phone. No calls. No text messages. Her ears fell back as she tried to reassure herself that it was a dumb idea. Vinyl had probably used up the napkin to wipe off vomit or something. And why the hell did she want to know this mare better? If anything, she was just a depressed, apathetic pony who liked to put on a mysterious face, covered by those ridiculous shades. But then... Why was that mysterious face attracting her so greatly?

"Oh, I would like to say grace..." Beauty purred into the grey ear suddenly, making Octavia yelp and jump aside. "For the wonderful night we spent together~"

Octavia's blood ran cold for a moment. After they'd got back home... They'd had a few more drinks... And a few more... And then blackness. "We didn't!" It's impossible. It wasn't the first time they'd got drunk. Why would it be otherwise this time?

The tuba player held a dramatic pause. "We didn't," she admitted, finally. "But sweet Celestia, did you make a move on me!" Octavia blushed, while Beauty imitated her voice, "If I can't have Vinyl, at least I have you, my sugarmare~"

"Stop it!" Octavia blushed, trying to reach the laughing mare with her hoof. "I didn't say that!" Beauty Brass gifted her with a blank stare. "Okay, maybe I did." Another blank stare. "All right, all right, I totally did! You know how I get when I've had a few."

"Quite a few, my dear Octavia, Bacchus's faithful servant," Beauty corrected. "Quite a few." She grinned. "And that sexy white mare did leave a mark on you, after all! Love at first sight and all that, am I right?"

"Shush." Octavia yawned, directing her hooves towards the bedroom. "I don't even know anything about her. That was a poor drunken attempting at learning a bit about her, that's all."

"Oh?" Beauty leant at the wooden plank in the doorway, watching Octavia apply toothpaste to the brush. "Then I won't tell you what Harpo told me about her: you'll find everything out on your own."

"Tell me!" Octavia blurted out, dropping the brush. Her inner desire to tease her flatmate about this Harpo was replaced by a strange urge for infomation.

Beaty chuckled. "No, I won't. I can give you Harpo's phone number, and he'll give you hers. You'll find out." Octavia glared daggers at the blue mare. "All right. I don't know. Really. Harpo never told me anything about her, and I never asked. Happy?" No, Octavia wasn't happy. "I can still give you Harpo's number."

"No." Octavia shook her head softly. I can't... Harpo would tell Vinyl that I wanted her number and... She didn't finish the 'and'. It was easier just to follow emotion, not analyse it. "Leave your coltfriend's number to yourself." She grinned, once again dressing up in her usual confident overalls.

"He's not my coltfriend!" Beauty protested while Octavia took up the brush again with a smile. And Vinyl... If Vinyl wanted to know her better, just like she wanted to, she would make the first call.

***

Vinyl opened her eyes.

The alarm was ringing off with a speaker-tinted blare of early rock'n'roll, the rock'n'roll before its pop corruption, before The Mares raped it with calm, acoustic melodies of love and still-standness, and way before MC/DC sold it to the devil for a trademark guitar shriek and five bits for booze.

Vinyl hit her phone, disarming the alarm, and rolled over. The images of her vivid, angry dream were fresh before her eyes: she, Vinyl, raping a little filly on a sunken ship, while a group of judges sternly watched the performance. Vinyl shook her head, shaking off sleep. Her hoof was between her thighs. She wanted to curl up and never leave the bed. Ever again. I'm no paedophile. I'm no rapist. That's just a stupid dream. To which I masturbated. "Stupid dream," she mumbled.

"Stupid dreams are a fair sign of approaching insanity."

Vinyl rolled over once more. "Har har, Neon. Your wit strikes me like a sword." She yawned, tucking the dream and the act and the thoughts and evrything connected to it and them away, safe among the folds of her mind. "Vomiting on the floor is a sign of approaching alcoholism."

"I'm 'kay." Neon did a little up-and-down, showing off his limp, veiny muscles, as if to prove that he truly was all right.

"No." Vinyl stood up. The red curtains were wide open, the meagre light of the silver morning trying to break through - and being successful at the attempt. Light danced across the grey-ish wallpaper of the edgy, plain wall, blinding Vinyl for a moment. "No, you are not 'okay'." The DJ sighed, looking at Neon painfully. "I am not 'okay'. Harpo is not 'okay'. None of us are 'okay'. But you," Vinyl pointed her hoof at Neon in an almost accusing manner, "are the least 'okay' of all of us."

Neon chuckled. "All ponies are equal, but some are more equal than the others?"

"Yes." Vinyl didn't smile at the quotation. "Neon, you do have a problem. You've a whole lot of problems and you drown them in boozy rivers." Vinyl couldn't even understand the reason behind her sudden chastisement. Was she doing that because she was truly concerned about her friend or, maybe, because that allowed her to forget her own problems? Or, maybe, it just eased the guilt, I talked to you, I did my share?

"You too." Neon hadn't dropped his smile yet, but Vinyl could see it was growing weak, artificial, strained.

"I do not vomit booze all over the floor." Vinyl raised her brow defiantly, standing her ground. "I do not make a poor, ridiculous, pathetic drunken mess of myself."

Neon's smile faded. "You're right. You don't." He turned round, heading out of the room, prompting Vinyl to follow weakly. Congratulations, Vinyl Scratch. You overdid it, you mess of a mare. "Thanks for letting me crash here." Vinyl winced at Neon's sour, dispassionate voice; still, she couldn't bring herself to apologise. They never apologised to each other. It wasn't in the style of things.

"Neon, come on," the DJ urged weakly.

"I need to go to uni." Neon took up his dirty, grime-ridden, stain-assaulted tuxedo.

Vinyl sighed, rubbing her right temple. A headache was slowly approaching her. "It's Sunday."

"I need to turn in a few assignments." Neon enveloped the door handle in his trembling telekinetic grip. "I'm about to be expelled already, and I don't want that."

"Neon, please, stay," Vinyl begged desperately. Dammit, dammit, dammit at the wall! I shouldn't've brought this up at all. They would have just had breakfast, and maybe go out, or just talk. As friends. And the day, and the life would proceed differently.

Neon turned his head with a mild glare. "I. Don't. Want. To be. Expelled. Which one of those words don't you understand, Scratch?" The attitude was hostile. It was plainly hostile. "Oh wait, maybe you don't. We talk across the pond. Twist diffrerent tongues. Because we're different. For one, I'm not a dropout."

Vinyl's heart skipped a beat. Her breath felt wet, sticky, slimy against the insides of her throat. A tear made its way to her eye. "You know why I did it."

Neon's look softened, if only a little. "I know, Vinyl." The plain, easy, homely name made Vinyl want to cry even more. "But I can't risk my place there. What would I do otherwise? Spin disks? Join the army? Set up a gang? Neon and the Gun Runners?" The stallion let out a dark chuckle. "I'll drop by after uni. Promise."

Watching her first, her best friend leave through the door, Vinyl could no longer suppress tears. They flowed freely, like the waters of life, like a current, like a freefall. The mare gulped down the salty drops, licking her lips automatically. "Neon, please... Please..." Vinyl whispered into the emptiness. She closed her eyes, knowing that the stallion had already gone away in the tiny, cramped lift. "Stay safe."

***

"Celestia, now that's how you don't use perfume."

Octavia rolled her eyes and half-snickered, half-groaned at Beauty's blunt remark. "Come on, Beauty," she whispered, leaning in to the left quietly, not to disturb the neighbouring ponies. "We're in a concert hall. Keep your voice down."

"First," Beauty whispered back, "the performance is yet to begin, and second..." She raised her voice a little. "That mare on the left just smells." Back to whispering, "She reeks of the odour of her ugly perfume. She drools it." Seeing Octavia avert her eyes with a blush, the tuba player chuckled. "You're no fun, Octavia."

"I am," the cellist retorted automatically, eyeing the instruments that rested regally on the stage, waiting for the orchestra to come and bring them to life, and the soloist... The wonderful cello, the divine, the only instrument in the world! She could only hope to become such a musician, to command the cello not in the mundanity of the orchestra, but in front of it, leading it, disregarding it indulgently. To become the Soloist. To be the One.

"Oh, is it so?" Octavia could feel the blue mare's smile. "Tell me, Octavia, what have we been doing today?"

Octavia frowned at Beauty's question, still eyeing the stage. The Music was about to begin. Tchaihoofsky. They'll be playing Tchaihoofsky, the young cellist reminded herself. "Playing chess."

"And why have we been playing chess, my dear Octavia?" Any minute now.

"Because it's fun." Octavia looked at the cellos that were lying against the hard, stately backs of the respective chairs. The soloist's cello would be different: she knew it. It could look the same, but it would sound differently. Not only because of the acoustics and the microphones that enhanced its sound. Because it was the soloist's cello.

"You think it's fun." Octavia turned her head to face the blue mare, only to see the fires of argument already dancing in her eyes. Here we go again... Beauty was a wonderful friend, but her tendency towards arguing...

"Maybe you could save the talk for home, young ladies?" rasped the rusty, chewed-up by life, dry old mare on Beauty's left; the one wearing that horrible smell, that mockery of a perfume whose odour had already reached Octavia's nose fully. In a way, she couldn't argue with her friend on this point. "The performance is about to begin."

"I'm sorry," Beauty Brass cooed in a low, slick voice. "It's just..." She grinned, staring right at the old mare. "All the time we spend at home, we either have hot, fervent, kinky sex, or eat. Or sleep. Not very much time for talking, don't you think?" If the rusty mare could find any words to reply, she was obviously at a loss as to how to use them, and whether to use them at all. Instead, she just huffed and looked away.

Octavia blushed fiercely. Beauty chuckled.

Finally, the announcer mare trotted onto the stage, approaching the microphone, met by the sound of hundreds of hooves stomping on the ground in an applause. "Fillies and gentlecolts!" the mare began, her perfectly-cut and perfectly-done brown mane tucked neatly beneath a maneslide. "Before the performance begins, we would like to ask you to turn off your mobile phones, lest their ringing should interrupt the performance. Thank you."

"Oh, but what if the Orchestra calls to tell me I've been made first tubist?!" Beauty snickered. "I'll miss the call and set the pretty announcer on fire because of my broken dreams." The tuba player glanced at the cellist, who diligently turned off the sound of her phone. "You're no fun, Octavia."

The musicians came onto the stage, the first cellist waving his hoof at the audience. Octavia felt her eyes wander about the young mares and stallions who would gift them with pure, beautiful music, as she tapped her hooves against the floor. But it was not they who would really gift them with music, she reminded herself, as the musicians took their seats, readying their instruments, a lonely A dragging in the air. It was the soloist, the pony who commanded the audience's attention, the pony who needed no conductor or sheet music, the pony who did not only feel music - the pony who was music. The pony who she so wanted to become.

The pony who took the stage.

The pony who took his seat in front of the audience, smiling and giving them all, and Octavia too, a wave. The pony who took up his cello and bow and, dutifully, emotionally, regally, began to play. The pony who made music and let himself be lost in music, obeying it, but controlling every note, making the classical work his own - if only during the performance.

Octavia closed her eyes.

***

Vinyl opened her eyes.

The sleep hadn't done her much good. However, she couldn't sleep well at night, if at all, so she slept during the day. It was simple as that.

The DJ mare got up and fetched her phone from the drawer: she'd put it down there, instead of the table, so that she could hear it through sleep and reply without getting up. Mobile phones were really changing ponies' lives, Vinyl mused as she checked the inbox. No new calls. One new message. Mobile phones were making connection fast and convenient. But don't we become dependent on mobiles, with all this convenience?

Vinyl read the message. It was from Neon. She frowned.

Hey, Scratch, can't drop by tonight. Bumming at Harpo's with the guys. Males only. Drop by when you've grown a dick. Hugs'n'kisses.

The mare sighed with a tiny smile. Neon was safe. Harpo wouldn't let him harm himself. Vinyl's gaze fell upon her prized pipe collection: classical mouthpieces stood primly at the wooden stand, while long, slender fishies lay scattered about the table. The mare snatched her favourite pipe, stuffing it with sturdy evening tobacco, rich both in flavour and smoke. Her second pipe. Her very first one had been long broken; but she kept it in a drawer, as a reminder of what made her pick up smoking seriously.

Her choice was cigarettes, though. Pipes were an after-the-show recreation, mostly. But now that she wasn't giving any shows... Vinyl watched the smoke curl up at the top fof the pipe, and took a deep, well-estimated drag, followed by a few short puffs that sent the grey-ish white smoke up to the ceiling. Vinyl opened the window telekinetically, letting the smoke outside, the fresh, chilly air mixing up with the rich, affluent flavour of the tobacco, creating a symphony of scent and freshness.

She realised she had been toying with her phone idly, all this time: opening up the menu tray, running through the icons, closing the menu tray again, and repeat. With a sigh, Vinyl closed her eyes, considering her next step. Spur-of-the-moment ideas were the best ones, she had come  to realise. And, besides, sudden ideas were dancing lessons from Celestia, weren't they?

The words, Compose text message lingered before her eyes. Chuckling darkly at her ludicrous position - a fragile young mare, sitting in a chair at the dawn of the night, grim, depressed and moody, drinking her sorrows away and searching for that fateful spot in life that she knew did not exist, and dammit, look at her, Sie raucht Pfeife! What a classy lady, what an etalon de beaute - she typed up the message.

Hi, Octavia. It's me, Vinyl Scratch. The DJ considered adding, 'the mare from the bar' but decided against it. It sounded too much like 'the mare from yesterday'. How are you?

Vinyl stared at the screen for a while before putting the phone down. She sat, holding the pipe in her mouth, smoking, looking at the spacious, narrow, beautiful, ugly, inspiring, damned, glorious, pathetic, bright, colourful, dark, bland city.

Waiting.

***

"Aquila non captat muscas, Octavia," Beauty chirped as the two mares left the spacious Chamber of Music. "That soloist really knew what he was doing. Only the best work. Only the best performance." The blue mare yawned. "Here, the God and His empty seat, Sal."

"Mmhm," Octavia replied, her eyes on the small buffet just outside the doors, to their right. Still, she cringed a little at such blasphemy, be it quoted. It was strange, in a way: she herself was very secular, viewing Celestia as mere Princess, while Beauty was raised in a fine Canterlot Celestian tradition; and still, she was scared of blasphemy - or, rather, scared of what consequences it could bring: an empty, superficial, superstitious feeling; while her church-attending friend paid no attention to such trifles.

"Oh, a shrine of food and drink!" Beauty trotted happily in the direction of the huge, long queue. "Come on, Octavia, let us sate our thirst with some ice cold water." She took a glance at the price tag attached to every wall. "Oh! It's only one bit per bottle!"

Octavia sighed and took her place next to the tuba player. While she did want a glass of water herself, she knew very well that, as soon as they turn came up, Beauty would stare in awe at their alcohol choice and order a brandy. A very expensive brandy that she, Octavia, would have to pay for. Because, apparently, taking money to a concert is 'bad manners'. I am allowed to have bad manners, though. Apparently.

She fished out her phone out of her saddlebags, turning the sound on. Huh. One new text message. The cellist opened up the inbox.

Hi, Octavia. It's me, Vinyl Scratch. How are you?

Octavia grinned. She wanted to do a little victory dance! She was right: Vinyl did write first. So... So, that meant that the mare from the bar, the mysterious, enigmatic pony that had commanded her attention, wanted to know a little more about her, Octavia. Maybe they could become friends. But it was not friendship that she seeked, was it? The feeling of curiosity - that's what it was. She felt attracted to the image the white unicorn had constructed around herself. Was it all a hoax? She had to find out.

"Ooooh, it's Vinyl!" Beauty grinned widely. "She's so into you. She's practically asking you out!"

"She's just asking how things are going by me." Octavia covered the screen with a hoof, marvelling at her own phrasing: things, indeed, were going by her - just passing by. But, maybe... Maybe Vinyl could change it.

"Oh, if I were you, I'd pounce her at once. That flank, those legs..." The queue advanced. "Too bad I'm into stallions. Unless she grows a dick, she's off my limits." Beauty winked.

"So am I," Octavia retorted needlessly. "And..." The grey mare grinned. "She has a horn." Beauty blushed a little - a momentary blush that Octavia scored as a little victory for herself. "I know, I know. Harpo won't let other ponies stuff things into you."

Beauty almost shrieked in evident disapproval. "He's not my coltfriend! He would never- I mean, that is- Maybe we- Argh." The blue mare turned away from her friend, who simply laughted - soft, jingling laughter.

"I'm sure he'll ask you out to dinner first." Octavia stared at the screen of the phone again, considering what to reply.

"Yeah, if he has the money..." The tuba player sighed, not caring about what Octavia would think about her and Harpo who she may or may not be interested in.

Octavia took a step forth. A jester in a crown. The grinning madpony of charm and tact. Oh yes, he would take Beauty, he would seize her, and take what he wants. Does he want her? Or does he want of her? Or maybe he's a bright, young stallion with all the prospects for a bright, young mare as Beauty? The lazy, moneyless drunkard evolving into a fine, successful, caring coltfriend and husband? Maybe.

But Vinyl? What is she? Hiding real worries beneath a concrete-stained mask of dispassion and depressed apathy, a mare of sour wit and sharp, pointed sarcasm - a dark Vonneighut of the back rows at Coronation? Or an elegant fake, a paying piper who knows no adversity but craves it, deeply, subconsciously, striking the dungeon chains with fervour and unspoken relish, showing off the face of more than mere make-up, but the make-believe and believe what you make? Finally, Octavia typed up the response.

It's very nice to hear from you, Vinyl. :)

I'm perfecty fine, thank you. ^_^

I have just been to a fantastic performance! :D

How are you, though?

"Ladies?"

Octavia raised her head after hitting, Send, and looked at the vendor. Sharp, dark eyes. Bold mane. Tanned skin underneath wet-asphalt-coloured fur. The words, losing their meaning beneath the stains of wet cement. "A bottle of water, please."

The cellist nudged her friend, who was already staring at the neatly-arranged bottles. Beauty exhaled loudly. "Prench. Cognac."

Octavia sighed under her breath. "Yes, one of those too."

***

Vinyl rushed to the phone immediately upon hearing the ding.

The Clement. The broadcast. All to the underground! Ah, but the bombs were due, and the train was packed.

Vinyl put the phone down on the table. Should she look straightaway? It was Octavia. It was definitely Octavia. Should she play hard to get? What the hell was that now? Octavia replied to her message. So what? Why not, that's what.

The DJ took a look. One new text message. Sender... Yes.

It's very nice to hear from you, Vinyl. :)

I'm perfecty fine, thank you. ^_^

I have just been to a fantastic performance! :D

How are you, though?

Vinyl scrunched her face. Her nose itched. Octavia used way too many smileys. Those smiley faces that came into being with the advance of text messages... Vinyl didn't like those. Still, she was strangely interested in what the mare was writing - or maybe in the mare herself? She typed up the response.

What kind of performance?

With that, she leant back in the chair, her sad pipe resting in the ashtray. A distraction? Barely. She had many distractions in her life, without Octavia. A breath of fresh air, a honest answer? Quite possibly. Something new. But where was the instruction? I can't speak tongues, dammit! When did she meet Neon and Harpo for the first time? Those were taken for granted. Those were free. Octavia was an achievement. She was a new face. Just remember how to make acquaintances. That wasn't the first time. But it'd been far too long. The phone beeped.

Tchaihoofsky. Solo cello with orchestra.

Almost immediately, another message followed:

What kind of music do you like, though? And you haven't replied to my previous question :P

Vinyl sighed. The smiley. The question. Why bother asking how she was? Because I asked her. Another sigh. She needed to elaborate on music. Octavia likes classical. Play the field.

If we're talking classical, I prefer chamber music, not orchestral. Chamber sets are homely, friendly performances. It's a few musicians playing together. In orchestral, the soloist is drowning out the orchestra, which acts as a single body, with no individuality.

That was it. The chemistry. The test. Free answer - multiple choice. See the brackets? Yes, Octavia will either take it or leave it. Opinion-in-a-jar. That was about it. Vinyl sighed and added:

And, in reply to your question, it goes.

Yes, it goes. Watching the world go round. Lemme get my stick. The walking cane of classy top hat wearers. Chop chop.

***

"Ooooh, she's smart too!"

Beaty hiccuped, making her observation loudly as the two mares stood by the little table in the corner. Most of the audience had left already, and so did the musicians, but Beauty was fixed on her brandy, while Octavia was waiting for Vinyl's messages, her heart fluttering involuntary at each ding of her phone.

Vinyl was knowledgeable in the field of music, Octavia came to realise. Or, at least, she did have an opinion. An opinion she, Octavia, may not agree with, but still... It would be interesting to talk to the strange mare about that. What was her cutie mark again? Ashamed, the grey mare realised that she hadn't noticed it when she was staring at Vinyl's flank back at the bar. Looking at Vinyl's flank. Looking. Not staring.

"You're thinking of her flank right now, amirite?" Beauty giggled at Octavia's thin blush. "You are! Ah, the naughty youth~" The tuba player gulped down the remains of her brandy. "Ask her out. Don't be a pussy."

Octavia's blush was fading gradually. "Go home, Beauty, you're drunk." She made a movement to ask about Vinyl's mood, press the issue, but decided against it, in fear of taking seven-mile leaps instead of easy steps.

Now that's an interesting outlook on music. :)

Maybe we should meet and discuss it? ;)

Of course she wasn't asking her out. It was a meeting. A discussion. No, not even that. A discussion implied a conflict. A conflict of interests. A conflict of opinions. A conflict of personalities, even. Maybe. The phone beeped.

Maybe we should.

Octavia felt her heart go faster. Why was she so excited about this? Curiosity. Killed the cat, saved the mare. Whatever. The cellist typed up:

Text me when you have free time.

She looked at the screen for a while. That meant never seeing her. She'd say, "sure", and never turn up. And, if she truly was in a state of mental and emotional turmoil... Oh, pride! Oh, prejudice! Helping out those in need and no need. The swordless smith. Octavia deleted the text, replacing it:

So, how about tomorrow at seven? I'll text you the address. You could pick me up and we could go to a restaurant or a bar. :)

Tomorrow at seven. Let her choose the place. Yes, that'd be fine. Today would be fine too. Any day would be fine. But maybe, just maybe, tomorrow would be a better day.

***

Vinyl looked at the screen. New message. Read. Easy, pure sweat broke upon her forehead. She collected herself. Why the excitement? Sarcasm. Equip the shield.

Are you asking me out? As in, a date?

Oh, but was it full sarcasm? And hope, the mistress? It's there. Oh, it's so much there, want it or not. It doesn't care. We all want a future. I want a future. Grasping at the possible futures. The peak of the mountain. Pray that your hooves hold firm and tight. Pray.

***

Are you asking me out? As in, a date?

Octavia stared at the screen as she waited for Beauty outside the concert hall bathroom. Maybe I am. Sheer unnecessary thought. Stupid sarcastic Vinyl. Or... not sarcastic?

I'm inviting you to dinner. So, it's settled, then? Tomorrow at seven, meet-up at my place?

Maybe it was the lack of smileys - imitating Vinyl's manner? Accents with the accent-holders? - but Octavia couldn't help taking the whole exchange seriously. The phone beeped. She looked at the screen. One new message. From Vinyl:

Settled. Send the address.