Bridges

Bridges

The Third Bridge

Octavia straightened her bow tie, humming a tune, trying to suppress and restrain the sinking feeling in her gut, the kind of feeling that was threatening to leave her empty. Spent. Withdrawn.

No, the date would be perfect. The date? Since when was she thinking of it as a date? But then again, she didn't know much what to expect, if anything at all. The fear of the unknown. The fury of Caliban sans mirror, hitting the wall in despair at the given knowledge, longing to remain in the oblivious bliss. Knoweldge should be ultimate: there should be none, or there should be all. Otherwise...

"My little Tavi is having a date~" Beaty cooed, brushing her mane. "They grow so fast!"

"Shut up," Octavia dropped, checking her mane. It was perfect. "It's not a date. You, though-"

"Well, I am having a date tonight." Beauty turned round, her face shining with happiness. She lowered her voice to a conspirational whisper, even though there was nopony in the flat but the two mares. "Harpo asked me out - can you imagine?!"

Octavia smiled. "Finally. Where are you two going?" Vinyl will be here any minute now. Any minute now.

"I don't know yet." Beauty glanced at her reflection. "How do I look?"

Octavia sneaked up to the tuba player, purring into her ear, "Sexy."

"Oh, come off it!" Beauty blushed, a look of delight and satisfaction present on her face, though. "I hope Harpo takes me somewhere nice, or else..." She winked. "He won't get a kiss from me."

Octavia chuckled. "Really, Beauty? A kiss? What are you, five?"

The blue mare humphed with a dignified frown. "For some of us, Octavia, a kiss is a statement. It's a pact, a devotion that is not given easily and- Mmmfm!"

Octavia planted a big, sloppy smooch straight on her friend's lips with an exaggerated sound. "'Tis a pact, my dear Beauty. Now, get yourself together and seize that stallion by the balls!" Beauty flushed, her eyes widening. Octavia chuckled sheepishly. "Um, well, figuratively, of course. Still..." The grin made its way back to Octavia's face. "If you want to, and he's into that kind of stuff..."

The doorbell rang, prompting the tuba player to hurry towards it. "You're crazy, Octavia," she mumbled as she opened the door. "Top-tier."

Before her, stood a fine-looking, neatly groomed, well-dressed unicorn mare, in whom Beauty barely recognised the mare from the bar. The mare from Saturday. "Um, I'm Vinyl. Octavia gave me this address. I'm here to pick her up for a... meeting." Great, Vinyl. Speaking real smooth here. The DJ wanted to facehoof at her tongue's sudden betrayal. Why was she so nervous, after all?

"Octavia, your escort is here!" Beauty called out, observing the white mare with interest. She lowered her voice so that only Vinyl could hear her. "Be careful: she's very frisky. But a damn good kisser nonetheless."

Vinyl forced her jaw to stay in place. What am I getting into? Playful nudging. Not a ranking match. No need to get worried over a piece of hay. Just play the game and collect the fee, if any. "Octavia, are you ready to go?"

The cellist seemed to have materialised right before the DJ, with a smile. "I am. Let's go, Vinyl."

The stunning, mesmerising appearance made Vinyl stare for a moment. The genderless beauty. The unsure attractiveness of uncertain attraction. What to do? Timeo danaos, especially when their gifts are wrapped so neatly. Construct the self-defence, the sound-defence, whatever. Stay close, stay open, stay closed. Vinyl nodded.

With that, the two mares took their leave.

***

Manehattan.

The hitbridge of awe and inspiration. The crossroads of streets and shops, tums and bums, rich and preach, and the lights, the trees, the wet after-rain asphalt, the neon, the skyscrapers, the rusty bridges and rustic houses standing side-by-side with the new blocks of flats, like the one Vinyl and Octavia had just left.

The ponies of Manehattan. Fast, trotting, dispassionate, silent, yelling, left-turning, right-turning, U-turning, crawling, running, walking, strolling, smiling, frowning, happy, sad, exhausted, despearate, vivid, lively, young, old, middle-aged, middle-stuck, middle-unstuck, swishing through the streets and lingering there, Is it the place? Is it the place? How can it be, with its grime and pain? The rage of Caliban looking into a broken looking-glass of a servant. The rage of Caliban!

"So, Vinyl." Octavia chewed on her lip, unsure what to begin the talk with. The white mare was so... eerie. So dispassionate. So dark, walking along the busy evening street, by her side. It couldn't be an act. Or it was a very elaborate act. She couldn't risk hurting her: she was probably more fragile than a fine china vase. She had to choose her words carefully. "How is it going?" Fantastic, Octavia. Just fantastic.

"It g-" Vinyl began, but was swiftly interrupted by the cellist.

"Don't. If you reply with your usual 'it goes', I'll kick you. In the butt." Octavia huffed, still trying to be as light-hearted and comedic as possible. The truth, concealed beneath comedy, was her way. Her way of dealing with things. Her defence. "And not in the kinky way." She winked at Vinyl, whose face broke into a blush.

She... She winked at me. The joke. The cruel mistress of fun. Just relax, wind down, take it like a mare. Be easy, easier than ever. This mare, here... She was not acting solemn. She was acting friendly, and light-hearted. Maybe she was the necessary distraction? The serious thoughts needed to be tucked away, sometimes. Vinyl grinned. For a while. Forget the troubles and smile with the stranger. Make it genuine. Automatic. For a while. "Aw. So long for my expectations from you."

Octavia laughed. "Yet. You don't know what to expect from me, Miss Scratch." Ah, doing well, Octavia. Keep it up.

Vinyl winced. The name. The special name. It's always the third page: the kind of print they do. The double-tender name: add some water, and it melts, but add it right, and it blossoms. Octavia was doing it wrong. "Don't. My name's Vinyl. Use it."

"Um... Okay, no need to be hostile." The cellist chuckled in a desperate attempt to keep up the conversation.

"I'm not hostile." Vinyl carried on with her silent walking, not looking at Octavia. Name-caller. Usurper. Prim, proud, ignorant possesser. Like the sea. Urban jungle.

The two mares walked in silence. Congrats, Octavia. You've blown it. The grey mare sighed. She needed to fix it. But how could she fix something that had been broken long before she entered Vinyl's life? No, not entered - she was barely knocking at the door. Of the entrace. To the outer gates. "You are a musician, aren't you?" Small talk, Octavia. Small talk.

Vinyl didn't turn round. 'Miss Scratch'. Damn you to hell, Octavia. "What gave you the impression?"

"Your cutie mark. Two notes."

"Huh?" Vinyl did turn round this time, stopping for a moment to eye the grey mare. "You were staring at my flank?" The hurt was gone, gradually, in the wake of Octavia turning out to be different than she'd imagined. For one, she was sure that, with such an offensive form of addressing, Octavia would be way too serious and uptight. Uptight. She'll put me all around her, eventually. Vinyl knew it. She knew her mind.

Don't jinx it, Octavia, don't blow it. Don't. "Just a little." She smiled with a wink that, to her delight, left a very slight, momentary blush on Vinyl's face. Don't press it. "So, where are we going?" Good. Change the subject.

Vinyl shrugged. "Somewhere where they serve booze, I guess."

Octavia nodded. Alcohol would definitely help the discussion. Vinyl would get a little drunk, while she, Octavia, would retain her pure state of mind and hear the mare out. Maybe the booze would get her to open up?

"Let's go."

***

"He's stuffing her."

Octavia hiccuped, giggling, her cheeks a fine tint of red, as she downed her fifth - sixth? seventh? - glass. "He's just ploughing her with his dick right now, you know? I bet." The cellist laughed, while Vinyl just looked around, chuckling sheepishly for the public face. "Oh, but you know that, right, Vinyl? Harpo's your friend~" the grey mare cooed, fluttering her eyelashes. "Does he have a long dick?" she whispered in a pseudoconspirational manner, the kind of manner drunken ponies think to be tone-concealing.

Vinyl shook her head with a chuckle. She's wasted. Totally wasted. Apparently - obviously - Octavia wasn't used to her manner of drinking in silence. She'd dodged the grey mare's questions successfully, and avoided her own ones, instead resolving for consuming her drinks. She'd learnt a little about the cellist, though: her orchestra, her dream of becoming a soloist, Beauty Brass... "I'm not really interested in dicks." She won't remember it anyway.

Octavia's mouth formed a perfect 'O'. "I... I understand. Hehe..." Her cheeks flushed a fine pink. Pig-like. Walking on two legs and falling down. "I... I admit that's an interesting way of looking at things... You're into mares, tehee..." Octavia inched closer to the white mare. "I've always wanted to try that, too~"

Vinyl stood up, calling wordlessly for a waiter. "That's it. We're getting you home, Octavia." She tossed the bits onto the table. The master's gesture of a servant. Servi res sunt, but res vocalis. Sometimes.

"Call me, my little Taaaaviii~" Octavia said in a sing-song voice as she was practically dragged out of the establishment by Vinyl. "Or, anything you want while you're licking me with that cute sexy tongue of yours... Why isn't it pierced? Is it? Is it? Come on, Vinyl, kiss me till I can't-"

Vinyl sighed, walking Octavia back home. The fresh, deeply night-ish wind of the late evening wasn't really making it better for the cellist, who kept on with her drunken talk. She had to see Octavia home. And then... Never see her again? Now, she was weak. Vulnerable. Rape her, Vinyl. Like that filly. Why don't you?

The neon light flickered madly, grinning, everlasting, like the gift of the Goddess. Lovelessness. The pcikup. Reverse-pocketing. The judges are waiting on the above. The Ju - the Deja Vu, neon blackened, flickering. J U - Serving drinks you will remember like it was yesterday. Mainly because it was yesterday.

Vinyl closed her eyes for a moment, taking a sharp turn. Time to get you home, Octavia. Time to get you home.

***

"Won't it. Just. Fit!"

Vinyl groaned as she tried to open the door. The keys she had taken from Octavia (in exchange for a promise of a kiss) just weren't right. She wasn't doing it right.

Octavia giggled, a drunken mess. "That's what she said!"

Har har. The joys of stand-up. Stand up, Octavia. Stand up and hold, on your own.

Finally, the key fit, and the two mares practically stormed into the room, Vinyl throwing Octavia on the couch. The room itself was nice, she observed through Octavia's groans. A typial shared living room: a wardrobe, no witches or lions; a set of bookshelves, packed with a few harcovers and tons of cheap paperbacks - the only literature we can have, now; the couch, more o fa sofa, really; a table with the remains of early breakfast - chips'n'chips, side order of chips, fizzy topping.

The sounds from behind the door leading to one of the rooms: moans, strangled breathing, hissing and grunting, grinding, shrieking, muffled yelling. Octavia giggled. "Told you Harpo's nailing Beauty!" She lowered her eyelids in a poor, drunken, pathetic, sensual manner. "We should, too. Come on, Vinyl, take me."

Vinyl sighed and closed the window telekinetically, lest the ill, chilly wind reach the grey mare. "Good-bye, Octavia. Thanks for the evening." She won't even remember it.

"Am I no good for you, Miss Scraaaatch?"

Vinyl's eye twitched. The knife, the sharp, pointed teeth of a shark-like assassin. Stab her mercilessly until she can't offend you. Or... The judges are waiting. Damn you to hell.

The tantrum of sound and emotion. Love and lovelessness. Such a long, long way to the King of Siam. But what if the kings and queens relinquish their crown? Wouldn't it be the loss of all hope of safety, an involuntary escape from safety? Who cares if she wants it or not? And who cares about what Octavia wants? The little usurper, the seapony, shoo-be-doo, getting all the toys, not getting the gem, the rusty, bleak, darkishly white gem. What? Boo-hoo! Not getting what you want? Yes, baby, I'm doing it deliberately because I disdain you. Scream me some more.

The white mare turned, and walked away.

***

The hangover was brutal.

Never prone to this problem before, Octavia winced in pain upon opening her eyes. Her head was heavy, her eyesight was a round well of piercing, painful light, her ears were ringing, failing to perceive. And the worst thing about it?

She remembered everything.

How she met up with Vinyl. How they talked, she pressing issues and Vinyl avoiding them. How they got to the bar, the ju, corner of Strawberry and the Seventh. How they got drunk... No, how she, Octavia, got drunk. How she made a drunken move on Vinyl. How she offended her again. She shouldn't have called her that. She shouldn't have... She talked to her, she talked to her. She talked to her!

Octavia wanted to bang her head against the wall. Take a long run. From the chair - up and away!

"See you later today, my sexy sexy stud~" Beauty's voice reached Octavia's ears as her roommate closed the door behind - obviously - Harpo. The blue mare entered the room. "Oh! You're awake!" She smiled at the groaning Octavia. "I thought you'd be spending the night at Vinyl's place."

Octavia scrunched her face. Hello, traitorless Nestor. The anger of the depression. Ah, but there's no Great Depression, just as there's no Great Society. Still, the existential pain-inflicting instinct prevails. "I'm sick."

Beauty chuckled indulgently. The realless mockery of the Wild Dean. "Well, naturally, with such a hangover-"

"I'm sick of you," Octavia hissed painfully. "You rutted your Harpo all night long. You are so damn sweet with him!" She was just venting her anger. Just directing it at the first pony she saw. Like a little duckling.

Still, Beauty only sat down next to her friend and placed her gentle, comforting, cold hoof on Octavia's forehead. "What happened, Octavia? Did Vinyl... hurt you?"

The anger in her eyes. The defender. Chop-chopping the offenders. Care and caress. The overprotectiveness of a sister, not of a mother. "I hurt her." I didn't say 'no'. "I don't really want to talk about it. It seems to be personal."

"Seems to be?"

Octavia practically cried. She could tell her, and she'd ask Harpo, and maybe... She needed to do it herself. The Nordic way. "Beauty, please."

Beauty waved her hooves in the air. "All I'm saying is, you should at least apologise." The blue mare got up. "At least." Octavia closed her eyes. "I'll get you some fresh orange juice."

As soon as Beauty had left, Octavia grabbed her phone. No calls, no new messages. She should probably call... No. Compose text message. How could she apologise? Maybe... Maybe reminding Vinyl was not the best course of action? Starting out slow. Turtle-pace.

Hello, Vinyl! How are you? Thank you for the wonderful night.

Octavia hit, Send. She replies, and then I can apologise. Yes, step by step. One step at a time. Eastern wisdom stolen by the great thieves of Equestria.

Beauty came in silently, with a glass of juice in hoof. Octavia accepted it with a grateful nod and took a sip. Now, it was time to wait. Play the waiting game. What if Vinyl had received the message already and was waiting deliberately? Or maybe she didn't want to reply at all? Deleted the number? Out of sight, out of mind? Waiting, waiting! The terrible plight of he who waits! He who's waiting, sitting, staring at the wall. The bland, pure, clean wall. Hoping. The wall. Hoping. The wall. Hear the drums and the marching tools?

The phone beeped. Octavia grabbed it, quickly, fiercely, not caring whether Beauty was still in the room. She opened up the message. From Vinyl. She was ready for anger. She was ready for hurt. She was ready for long, pained monologue. She was ready to call Vinyl and hear out many more monologues. She was ready for a "leave me alone" and she was ready to prove it wrong, run to her, claim the magnetic mare back. Why was she drawing her like a rope, a loop, a circle of life? She was ready. But she was not ready for this short, simple message.

Fuck you, Octavia.