Bridges

by psp7master

Rating: mature
Tags: Slice of Life, Dark, Romance
Length: 25253

Building bridges, crossing bridges, burning bridges... It's all about the bridges we choose. But, sometimes, when there is no other way, we have to accept the bridges that life lays for us. Can Vinyl and Octavia do that?

18+ Building bridges, crossing bridges, burning bridges… It's all about the bridges we choose. But, sometimes, when there is no other way, we have to accept the bridges that life lays for us. Can Vinyl and Octavia do that?

/Cover art by the amazing King-Koder. Check out his work - it's simply cute, well-drawn and overall amazing. (He also does requests *wink*wink*nudge*nudge*)

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-03-07 19:42:43 UTC

The First Bridge

Bridges

The First Bridge

"Tonight, we will be drinking."

The usually cheerful, carefree phrase that Vinyl had always used to get hype before a performance turned out bleak and meagre, spoken in a soft, sorrowful voice. These weren't words of self-encouragement. The were sad, accepting words. These were words of admitting defeat to an enemy greater than the DJ, an enemy of her own device. Whether she wanted it or not, tonight, she would be drinking.

Vinyl looked at her wild, dishevelled blue mane that was hanging limply, falling onto her shoulders. The gel could never teach the rebellious hairs to fall in line - or, rather, in spikes. Her eyes were redder than usual, screaming lack of sleep at her worn-out, exhausted reflection. Her sourly-white fur was messy and tangled. Her shades sported cracks and grease. Her throat was sore, a desperate, invisible lump blocking it so much that it was hard to breathe - or was it her heavy heart that prevented her breath from gaining a normal pace?

It was just another Saturday, and, this Saturday, just like any Saturday, she would be drinking. A bottle a week kept her life sad and bleak. A bottle a day would keep the problems away - but she couldn't bring herself to drink on a daily basis. In the past years, she had been drinking either to drive into the vivid, sweaty mood of the crowd while she scratched her disks and pressed her buttons - or to savour the drink and have a nice talk with her friends. Now, for a few months already, she had been drinking to get drunk and forget how pitiful and miserable her life was. It was, wasn't it? She had all she wanted: fame, and fortune, and friends, and everything. The only thing she did not have was a future - any kind of future. And that was driving the mare straight into a depression, out of which she could see no escape.

Apart from consuming alcohol in large amounts. Her body, however - this sick, slender traitor - didn't want to cooperate: Vinyl knew how to hold her liquor, and she could never get wasted enough to feel happiness simply because of the alcohol, or just pass out because of the same reason. When she drank, she drank silently, even with her friends around her. She drank pointedly. Sombrely. Solemnly. She didn't drink: she just consumed her drinks in short, fervent gulps.

The doorbell rang in a sleek, round chime that reverberated across the wide hall. Vinyl glanced at the clock automatically, as she would often do before a performance, to check whether she was late or not (being a little late had always been encouraged in the industry), but quickly reminded herself that, this evening, it was just a get-together. No clubs, no performances, no reservations, no tickets. She trotted towards the door.

"Took you long enough, Scratch!"

Vinyl couldn't help a smile as a ridiculously dressed stallion rushed into the hall, crushing  her in a bone-shattering hug: a tuxedo with a clip-on tie and a top hat with a hole for his horn were certainly most bizarre.

"I'm usually the one who's waiting for you and Harpo, you know," Vinyl retorted with a playful nudge, happy for the momentary distraction from dark and sombre thoughts. In the company of her friends, she could truly feel carefree, if only for a short while. "And dammit, Neon, there's this thing called a 'mobile phone', you know?" the DJ reprimanded her friend, who was already looking in the mirror and checking his tie. "They invented those to give calls. You could, you know?, give me a call in advance."

"Are you going or not?" Neon wondered innocently, seemingly disregarding Vinyl's remarks, used to them only too well. "Harpo's waiting for us outside, and you know how cold of an autumn it is."

Yeah, more like a winter, Vinyl observed mentally and followed the stallion with a sigh.

"And no staring at my flank~" Neon cooed as Vinyl closed the door and followed him to the lift.

Vinyl chuckled. Sure thing, Neon. She loved him. She really did. Just as she loved Harpo. Just as, she knew, the two absolutely straight stallions loved each other. For ponies like them, those who were weird, differnt, by society's verdict; for those who were strange, liberal outcasts, friendship and friendly love was all that made life worth living. Because finding a romantic love is impossible for me.

Vinyl sighed as she left the lift, catching up with the stallion. Tonight, we will be drinking.

***

"Tonight, we will be drinking."

Octavia offered her friend a small smile as she checked her bow tie, looking in the mirror. Her mane was perfectly groomed. Her collar was perfectly set. Her pink bow tie was perfectly accurate. She looked perfect.

Octavia was living for nights like this. She did not always live for nights like this, the nights of jazz and drinking; but she did enjoy it immensely, more so than any evening concert or performance. "Come on, Beauty, the point of the evening is to listen to some smooth music and have a few, not get wasted." While the cellist needed to say that aloud, both she and her friend knew that, after a week of exhaustive practice, rehearsals, and keeping up face within the part of the society they involuntarily belonged to, they just needed to unwind. And ordinary, moderate drinking wasn't enough.

"Octavia, my dear Octavia..." Beauty Brass chuckled, doing her mane thoroughly. "Pay heed to thy elderly and keep it in mind - and you have a stray mind indeed, my dear Melpomene of cello and whisky - that the only purpose booze serves on this poor, scorched planet is getting its recipients wasted." She placed the comb onto the nighttable.

Octavia chuckled at the blue mare's antics. Beauty Brass was a fine tuba player, well-read, well-educated, and never hesitated to make a mockery out of the cultural grandiloquence she had been raised in. "Well, if it is your wish for us to get wasted..." Octavia bowed lightly. "Then I guess that I am in no position to disappoint." She dropped the pretense with a smile. "Come on, Beauty, your hair is perfect. We have a reservation for eight. It's half seven already."

"Well," Beauty Brass concluded aloud, not dropping the act, as she put on her saddlebags, "seeing as we have but half an hour to make our way to the noble tavern, let us hurry and may the gods of booze watch over us. Amen."

***

"And here I was, thinking that we would be drinking tonight."

Harpo breathed on his hooves apologetically, taking off his own top hat. Late evening was already in full bloom, and the near-empty street of North Manehattan assaulted the trio with lunges of ill, freezing wind. "You know, I think we overdid it. Sure, that was a classy place, but..."

"It's my fault, guys," Vinyl said with a sigh, watching the two comically dressed stallions tiptoe in the cold street. "I'm not decently dressed or groomed. That was a fancy place. They would've let you two in if I hadn't been with you."

"Rubbish," Neon protested, visibly not concerned about having just been denied access to the fancy club, along with the rest of the trio. "That was just one of Harpo's ridiculous spur-of-the-moment ideas. You couldn't know they had a dress-code or something like that."

Harpo cast a glare at the unicorn. "Well, Neon, this is why they invented mobile phones, you know? To be in touch." To prove that, he extracted his very own iPone from his saddlebags. Vinyl chuckled at that: Harpo, who didn't even use the word 'mainstream' because it was too mainstream, was now a proud owner of the latest piece of technology.

"Dammit, Harpo!" Neon cursed. "Stop showing your state-of-the-art tech in my face! I have a long dick, but I don't go showing it in your mouth, do I?" Once more, Vinyl couldn't help a chuckle at the poor, bawdy joke.

The purple stallion wiggled his eyebrow. "Why, Neon, honey, you need but ask~" he cooed, fluttering his eyelashes as he evaded an immediate punch from the unicorn.

Vinyl giggled, watching the two stallions exchange playful, friendly nudges. She let out a sigh, but this one was a sigh of ease and content. It was good to have friends. The world was dark and scary, ever-changing, oppressive and intense, and it was good to know that there was always a light in the darkness, for her. For all of us. "All right, guys, don't sweat it," she said finally. "We could do this another time." And I'll just go back home. Alone.

"Rubbish," Neon retorted, ceasing his beating of Harpo, giving his friend a chance to land the last punch. "Come on, Harpo, you know all the cool places in town. Think of something!"

Harpo didn't need to be asked twice. Rubbing his chin for a moment in a mocking build-up of suspense that neither of his friends were feeling, he finally said with his trademark "Harpo grin", the grin of a kind, generous, happy madpony, "Yes. I think I know a place."

***

"Come on, Beauty, hop, skip, and jump!"

Octavia giggled at her own cheers as she watched her silly friend scrunching her face in disgusted disapproval at the sight of a particularly large puddle that simply could not be avoided. Finally, Beauty Brass sighed with a headshake. "Let's take the long way round. If there's a way not to stomp into a puddle, I'd rather not stomp into a puddle."

"Come on, Beauty, you aren't a sugarmare, you can do it," Octavia teased, watching their destination, the jazz club that was clearly visible, in some twenty steps, with longing. "We're almost late. Come on! Chop chop!"

"Chop chop," the blue mare grumbled, taking a ridiculously graceful leap across the puddle, landing precisely on the other side, near Octavia, who just chuckled in amusement. Beauty frowned, noting that one of her hind hooves had indeed got into connection with the murky autumn water. "Confound those puddles, they drive me to wet," she cursed.

"Told you you are no sugarmare," the cellist reiterated with a smile as she climbed over a pipe blocking their way. One had to be careful in this district, lest they stumble upon something, or, Celestia forbid, receive a bottle on their head from one of the windows.

"Well, maybe I am," Beauty Brass retorted, out of habit, as she followed the grey mare. "You can't say for sure."

Octavia smiled at her best friend's attitude. Throughout the years she'd known Beauty Brass, she'd got used to the mare's grumpy, sour attitude, knowing very well that, deep inside, she was calmly, eerily compassionate - and could always hear her, Octavia, out, without taking sides. "Well... If you were a sugarmare, I'd love to taste that sugar." Octavia licked her lips with a small wink, delightfully watching the tuba player blush.

"Shut up, Octavia, you aren't lesbian," Beauty muttered. "And neither am I." Suddenly, the blue mare eeped due to a particular grey mare tossing her hot breath on her ear.

"Oh..." Octavia made sure that her breath was hot. "But that would never stop us, would it?~" she cooed into the quickly reddening blue ear, prompting Beauty to quicken her pace and swiftly move towards the old building that housed the club.

Octavia smirked, satisfied with her joke, as she watched the blue mare approach the rusty steel of the club door, and rubbed her hooves, balancing for a few seconds. Tonight, we will be drinking.

***

"What's a Knock-out? Ah, who gives a damn! Give us two!"

Vinyl laughed madly as Neon ordered yet another drink at the bar counter, his hoof wrapped around her neck, a grin on his drunken face. Vinyl herself didn't feel drunk; but she wanted to; and she played the part, if only to keep up with her friends. Or because somepony had once told her that make-believe could become real. Rarely.

"C'mon, Scratch! One, two-" Neon downed the shot while Vinyl yelled, "Three!" and gulped down her own Knock-out as well. She wasn't quite sure what was in it, never having been a fine connoisseur of alcohol, besides having consumed at least ten drinks already. Not that she cared. She waited for the alcohol to hit her head. The (already drunk) bartender had promised that a Knock-out was the hardest stuff they had - and Neon was visibly under the effect already, staggering slightly as he leant onto Vinyl's shoulder. The DJ herself felt no different. Her mood was fading, just as it had been rising for the last few hours, in the wake of her following her friends to this dirty, obscure place, and forgetting her worries to the crazy, insanity-provoking atmosphere of sour booze and angry music.

The mare practically dragged Neon through the bizarre establishment, with drunken bartenders and weed-smoking students, and the whole towers of beer, and a thousand menus that served as everything: tissues, coasters, dishes; and the wooden tables covered by knife cuts, and a very drunken Harpo talking on the phone. Vinyl let Neon slip off her shoulder and straight onto his seat.

"Yeah, sure! The more the merrier!" Harpo chirped, his tongue slurring as he downed his sixth Jager. "Glad you called, Beauty; I'll text you the address and meet'cha outside."

"You can't step on the ants, you see." Neon was gesticulating wildly, while Harpo, wincing, tried to hear out what he was being told on the phone. "You just don't step on the damn ants!" He slammed his hoof against the table and lowered his head onto his front hooves.

Vinyl sat next to the unicorn and brushed his mane aside, stroking his head with a sigh. Harpo rose from his seat. "Octavia who? Yeah, yeah! Sure, bring 'er in! Hold on a sec, I'm gonna go outside: better reception."

Vinyl placed her chin on the table, looking at a fly that was slowly crawling across the wooden surface. Her mood wasn't in the best condition. Now that Harpo had left and Neon was asleep, she didn't even have anypony to drink with. She closed her eyes, thinking of all the times these two wonderful ponies had pretty much saved her life, not to mention saving her flank. They had delivered her from apathy, if but for a short period of time. They had always been there for her. They, as cliche and film-ish as it sounded in her mind, were her only true friends.

One of whom had just rushed back into the bar, grinning madly, waving his iPone in the air. "A drink, buddy! Pour me a drink!" he yelled at the bartender, drowning the loud music.

"What's your poison, though?"

"Do I look like I give a damn?!" Harpo grabbed the gin with a cheer and downed it in one gulp, tossing a hoofful of bits on the counter. He flew towards Vinyl, needlessly manoeuvring in the empty space. "Guess what, Scratch? We're getting company! Beauty Brass and Somepony Octavia!"

Vinyl managed a weak, fake smile. "Who're they?"

"Well, Beauty is..." Harpo paused a little. "A friend. A good friend of mine. Very personal. And Octavia..." He snickered. "Hell if I know! Now." He took a swig of Vinyl's whisky leftovers, making the mare flinch a little: drinking whisky after gin was worse than drinking gin after rum. And Harpo had done both. Several times throughout the evening. "I need to meet 'em. Be back real soon. Don't get wasted without me, Scratch!"

Vinyl chuckled sadly as she watched the stallion trot away. She ruffled Neon's mane with a long, thoughtful smile.  "Tonight we will be drinking, eh?"

***

"And here I was, thinking we'd be drinking tonight."

Octavia pretty much buried her muzzle into the menu at her friend's remark. While not getting wasted seemed like a pleasant option, in contrast to what they usually did every Saturday, not drinking at all just didn't seem like an option. "I'd like a cup of Earl Grey," Octavia let out with a sigh, her hopes for a nice evening collapsing like Equestrian economy.

"I'd like a whisky," Beauty Brass said pointedly, glaring at the waiter. "Which you don't have."

The waiter offered a weak, apologetic smile. "I'm very sorry, ma'am, it's not our fault. Every once in a while, we have to renew our license." He shrugged meekly.

"Yes, we know that already." Beauty frowned, looking at the menu choices, which, without alcohol, seemed very meagre. "But you could've told us in advance, you know?" she hissed, drawing attention from several adjacent tables, which were occupied, while most tables stood lonely and empty, save for a sad vase sine flora for each. "When we called. Seems that every once in a while, we have to change our club of choice."

"Beauty, stop making a scene," Octavia said with a tired sigh. "At least the band will be there soon. Do you want tea?"

The waiter shifted from hoof to hoof uneasily. "Um... Ma'am? I'm sorry to break the news, but the band can't make it." Octavia's eye twitched. "However, we have a wonderful DJ performing tonight-"

"We're leaving." Octavia stood up. "Come on, Beauty." She didn't even cast a look at the waiter, facing the exit.

"Who's making a scene now?" Beauty whispered to her irritated friend, following her outside.

"It's one thing to lack alcohol." Octavia took a deep breath of chilly autumn air. "It's entirely another thing to substitute live music with a DJ."

"What's your deal with DJs, anyway," Beauty grumbled, feeling the early night frost assaulting her nostrils.

"Both you and I know how hard it is to actually perform, and not spin vinyl records." Octavia sighed, looking up, a thick grey cloud cover meeting her eyes. "The day I enjoy a DJ's performance, I'll kiss his flank," she concluded, scrunching her face.

"Or her flank," Beauty supplied eagerly.

"Or her," Octavia agreed with a chuckle.

"All right, I think you need a drink. I know I do." Beauty fished out her phone out of her saddlebags. Octavia nodded. Don't we all, though? The whole of Equestria needed a drink, as it seemed. "I'm calling Harpo."

"Who's Harpo?" the cellist wondered with a smile. "Your booze dealer?"

Beauty pressed the phone against her ear with a blush. "A friend." Before Octavia could tease her about their 'friendship', the tuba player seemed to get through. "Hello, Harpo! How are you tonight?" The blue mare smiled. "Oh, is it so? Well, how about we pay you a visit, me and my friend Octavia? Yes, sure! I'll write it down."

Beauty covered the phone speaker with her hoof, grinning at Octavia. "Tonight, we will be drinking."

***

"Come on, Neon, digest a little the wine, of which thou hast taken too much." Harpo moved the glass in the direction of the unicorn, who, by now, was already inebriated enough to pass out, and it was only the presence of two unfamiliar mares that kept him awake and smiling. And drinking.

"It's from the Book of Kings," Harpo explained to the blue mare sitting next to him, smiling warmly, a little blush on his cheeks as he inched closer to Beauty Brass, who in turn, leaned a little at him, whispering, "I know."

Octavia sighed, taking in the surroundings, for she had no desire to watch her friend failing at showing her affection towards a stallion she obviously admired and who, in return, obviously admired her. The dirty, mediocre bar with ugly, drunk ponies didn't appeal to her. The cellist didn't pride herself on being upper-class: she loved the sour smell of the suburbs and the rusty walls of downtown jazz clubs, but not the crowds that frequented such establishments.

"The flamethrowers, they're using damn flamethrowers," Neon kept repeating, lost in the drunken insanity of the night.

"I didn't quite catch your name," Octavia addressed a bored-looking white unicorn mare sitting next to her, staring at the wall.

"Vinyl Scratch," came the sour, lifeless reply, as Vinyl diverted her attention from a fly crawling the wall to look at the grey mare sitting next to her, Somepony Octavia, a cellist, as Harpo had introduced her.

"How are you liking the night, Vinyl?" Octavia wondered, resolving on a small talk, especially given that Beauty was very occupied with drinking with Harpo, and the other stallion - what was his name? - was, apparently, either insane or incredibly drunk. Maybe both.

"It goes," Vinyl replied vaguely. She didn't mean to offend the newcomer; if anything, the mare looked very nice and had a friendly disposition. However, she didn't want a friendly talk either. She wanted to get drunk. The DJ downed another glass of whatever was in it. Her tongue had long ceased to tell the difference.

Octavia groaned internally. The one sane pony in this hellish shrine of booze and loud, terrible music, and she wasn't up to conversation. "I have an impression that you don't like it here."

"I don't like it anywhere," Vinyl replied, mostly out of spite, just to shut both the grey mare and her brain up. If the alcohol was having an effect on her, it was negative: growing irritation swelling in her chest, an irritation born due to her stupid inability to drink her problems away.

Neon leaned aside and vomited.

"Shit!" Vinyl grabbed a napkin, trying to clean the mess as Harpo let go of Beauty, whom he was holding in an embrace, oblivious as to what to do. "Harpo, help me drag Neon outside." She tossed an indifferent, yet apologetic look to Octavia. "Seems it's time to go home." She tossed several bits on the table as she grabbed the drunken, mumbling unicorn and, with Harpo's help, began dragging him towards the exit.

"Vinyl, your saddlebags!"

The DJ looked back, watching Octavia run up to her and place her saddlebags on her back. "Thank you, Octavia," she said with a weak smile, and carried on with her task.

Octavia stood in place, her eyes fixed on the white mare. Stupid... That was stupid... She won't even see it. Why did I do that? She'll just use up that napkin and... Octavia shook her head, surprised with her sudden, ridiculous action, and walked back to the table.

The crowd returned to their drinks.

***

Vinyl looked at Neon, who was snoozing peacefully on the couch, and sighed, closing her eyes. Vague, obscure shapes appeared before her closed eyelids, dancing in the night. She opened her eyes again, staring at the ceiling. A certain part of her was concerned about Neon: it wasn't the first time he had vomited or passed out due to excessive drinking. Another part of her wanted to go to sleep. Yet another, strange, sudden, maybe unwanted, even, part of her thought about Octavia.

Vinyl got up and went to the kitchen. Her flat was big enough to hold both her and Neon. It was big enough to hold parties. It was big enough for her to feel terribly, horribly alone.

Vinyl took a mug and poured herself a tea. It was mildly warm and satisfactory enough for her. She reached for her saddlebags to take out her phone: it probably needed charging. Opening the sturdy leather bag, she fished out the phone and... napkins? Probably put them there to wipe off Neon's mouth, she concluded, putting them on the table. However, one of the napkins - the topmost one - drew her attention. On it, in the late, dying moonlight, were three lines, written in a fast, fervent attempt at penship.

A phone number.

A name.

And... Call me any time you want.

Vinyl chuckled at the surrealism, but decided to copy the number to her phone nevertheless. "Seven-oh-five..." she mumbled, tinkering with the device. "Octavia... Philarmonica."

With that, she finished her tea, reached her bed and went off to a calm, tranquil, emotionless sleep.

The Second Bridge

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.

The Third Bridge

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.

The Fourth Bridge

Bridges

The Fourth Bridge

Vinyl stared at the ceiling.

She dares talk to me. She dares text me. The offender. How could she call her that name, that terrible, horrible name? How could she put her through a world of pain, the particular pain of which she seemed to have forgotten so successfully?! She couldn't know. She couldn't know. She couldn't know, true. But not knowing didn't excuse her! Besides, she knew it after she'd told her. But, she was drunk. So what? She, Vinyl, had been drunk many times, and never lost her composure! Not drunk, the DJ corrected herself. Just drinking.

But... Vinyl rolled over. She couldn't make Octavia leave her mind. She knew that her desperate, hormone-suppressed mind was craving attention and attraction. She was craving love. And Octavia was there, a new face, just in time. She just had to deal with it. Suppress it. Like always. The phone beeped.

With a curse, Vinyl took it up.

Vinyl, please. I'm really sorry for what I said and tried to do yesterday. I want to talk to you.

The white mare felt anger boiling inside her. That wasn't the rage of Caliban. It was the fury of Calypso. Left, unleft. Broken, unbroken. She typed furiously, and hit Send before she could undo her actions:

I don't. Get out of my life, Octavia. I hate you. Get the fuck out of my life.

Vinyl made an angry, fervent attempt at blacklisting Octavia's number, but stopped immediately upon opening up the menu tray. She was too worn out to act. Besides, she knew that she couldn't really do that. The feelings, the beasts we can't control, the drunken zookeeper who can't get drunk. The feelings were telling her, commanding her. As always. She couldn't blacklist Octavia.

For, as much as she wanted for Octavia to leave her alone, she so wanted to be with her.

***

Octavia broke into tears.

She hadn't cried for a long time, and it made the feeling all the more painful. Why was Vinyl doing this to her? Or, why was she doing this to Vinyl? Or, more importantly, why did she care so much?

Thankful for Beauty being in the shower, singing a happy tune that contrasted so much with Octavia's mood, bathing in the running water - and she wanted to run herself, run away, never show up... stay with Vinyl.

Octavia buried her head in the pillow. She... She was attracted to Vinyl. Just perfect. Her sexual and emotional desperation, mixed with Vinyl's enigmatic attitude and behaviour, was making her attracted to a mare who hated her. Just perfect. The cellist dried her tears.

"Octavia, come on!" Beauty called out from the bathroom, a sound of a fan muffling her voice. "We've only an hour and a half till the pre-concert practice." The cellist caught a giggle. "And don't plead drunk or hangover. You're first cellist, after all."

Octavia sighed. What could she do? She texted Vinyl mindlessly:

I'm really, really sorry. I'm playing at the concert hall of the Manehattan Conservatoire tonight. I would be grateful if you could come so I can apologise in person.

Upon sending the message, Octavia felt a shiver tingle up and her spine in a fast, rushing move. What if it was a mistake? If Vinyl hadn't blacklisted her yet, she certainly would after this message... Octavia closed her eyes, her mind working quickly. It's not a lie. Type it. Just choose the correct wording. Yes, always choose the correct wording - try to. No implication, no insinuation, no ill will. Finally, the cellist opened her eyes and typed up the message that, to her seemed true. The truth of the matter. Life as we know it. She hit, Send.

Vinyl, I think I'm in love with you.

***

Vinyl rolled over.

What? What the hell was that? A trick, a plan? For what? Why tell her that? Why the hurt? Why did Octavia want to hurt her so badly? Why? She knows that I fear those short words that hurt us so badly. She doesn't. Of course she doesn't. She doesn't what? She doesn't love her? She doesn't know? Both? She does love her? Telling her that for what damn purpose?

She needed to check - how to check? Come there? Come where? Go to the concert hall? No, she can't? Why she can't? She can? How she can? How can she if- Ding.

Vinyl rolled over once more, taking the phone. Octavia? No, Neon.

Hey Scratch Imma bum at your place tonight, k?

She typed automatically:

K

Vinyl hit, Send. No, not send! She needed to go to that concert. What? Balckmail. Ransom. No, that's not it. No, that's it. Yes, that's it. But it wasn't voluntary. Or was it? She needed to check. How? How? How?

Sorry, Neon, just remembered that I'm having plans tonight. Bum at Harpo's, perhaps?

Vinyl sighed. What was she doing? Creating. Creating. Creating symphonies and thee zions in her mind. Just perfect. What was she creating? Ding.

K, sure thing, Harpo's busy banging his gf, I'll bum on campus.

Vinyl closed her eyes. She didn't like it when Neon had no place to go. But... You'd better be worth it, Octavia. Or I'll strangle you with the flowers. Vinyl blinked. Flowers. She needed to buy flowers. And... When the hell did the performance begin. She took the phone, dialing the familiar number.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Harpo. Need a quick consultation." Vinyl got up. Better reception. Ha.

"I take payment in booze and blowjobs."

"Har har." Come on, Harpo!

"Spit it out, Scratch, I'm having a date tonight."

With Beauty. "What time does the performace begin?"

"What performance?"

Vinyl facehoofed. "The one you're going to, idiot. The one after which you'll go bang your Beauty."

"How did you know?"

Vinyl groaned. "Harpo! The time."

"Seven. I'll pick you up."

***

Octavia took a deep breath.

The performance was in five minutes. Just take the stage. Like the rehearsal. Every time felt like the first time. No sweat - it will ruin the beautiful dress. All alike. They were all alike in their dresses - but not her. Her pink bow tie, the exemption, the exception from the rule, the privilege given to her - not to stand out, but to be different. To feel different, inside. Part of the orchestra, part of the crew. True, true. But, just as this ship couldn't do without its captain, the conductor, it couldn't do without its lieutenant, its first cellist. Without her.

Octavia took the stage.

She placed herself on the chair. The usual sore, sour wood beneath her, not staining, just reminding her of how physically hard it should be to play. Why should it? Why can't it all be easy-peasy, as Beauty would put it? Beauty had already sat down in the brass section not thinking of her now need to concentrate on the music on the score she knew the score by heart right now but still just a quick glance a quick look a swift peekthrough whatever just not to make her think of Vinyl-

Vinyl!

Vinyl! Octavia took a look at the audience: just a quick look, a passing glance that still alowed her to see everything on a greater scope all the mares and stallions and the foals even the foals who had arrived who had come to watch her play not only her the soloist of course she was nothing she was just the first cellist even without that the oh Celestia did it even matter because Vinyl wasn't in the audience! She just wasn't there! She hadn't come and she wouldn't come! The pouncing, the merciless pounding in Octavia's mind was driving her insane, this thick stream-of-consciousness that juggled her whole, that promised revelations and epiphanies, that diverted her from real life, that had been doing it her whole life! No, not her whole life! When had it become - a condition? A condition! Neurosis. OCD. Abbreviations. Argh! ARGH!

Her bow trembled in her hoof. She needed to calm down. The conductor took the stage. No more looking at the audience. There's no audience. There's no Vinyl. Without the oar, the boat does not steer. No Thee Zion to look to. Just the conductor's weak, yet energetic motion, the soloist's frown as he sat almost pressing his back into her eyesight that line how dare he! but one day she will be like him no not like him... She will be a soloist.

Octavia began to play.

Her eyes closed automatically. But she wasn't tranquil. Sure, she didn't need sheet music she didn't need the score she didn't need the conductor and she sure as hell didn't need a soloist she was a soloist herself deep inside she knew it she WAS a soloist! all she needed now was her stage it was a stage only for her and Vinyl because she needed Vinyl painfully desperately she especially needed Vinyl now now that the notes flowed freely from her bow and her instrument not automatically no she had to believe it was just very simple way too simple for her she just didn't need to concentrate and this was the worst at that time that feeling that when you know you neednt concentrate and your mind starts floating around flaring blaring like the brass section Beauty did have her stallion she did have her love but she Octavia what did she have did she have anything?, she did she knew she did she was even ready to accept the fact that she was a fillyfooler she never cared anyway because mainly because she hadnt had the chance to unleash her sexuality and her love truly or had she her head was aching already the notes flowed they flew they danced they screamed as she jiggled the bow yes like a lifeless no not thing never think that! a liveful lifeful putty disregarding her head ached the music was growing intense Vinyl didnt come she didnt come she wouldnt come she hated her! she needed to take a peek one peek her head ached she kept on playing who the hell wrote a concerto without pauses no of course there were pauses but she didnt notice them her head ached she kept on playing so long she had practiced for so long ever since she was a little filly not thinking about family no not because its hard no not because its painful just not thinking about it because cant cant cant mix Vinyl with them Vinyl was special they were specialer more special different its different HER HEAD ACHED the music yelled it pressed into her she was creating this beast and she couldnt put it down for the control of it was not in her hooves or even her mind the hooks! HER HEAD ACHED WHY DIDNT SHE COME?!

Octavia opened her eyes.

The applause was thunderous. The audience went wild with excitement. For the soloist, of course. Nopony was here for her. A tear crawled down her cheek. She watched ponies come up to the stage and throw flowers and give flowers to the soloist and the conductor. Nopony had ever brought her flowers. Why would they? She wasn't a soloist. But it didn't matter. All the flowers in the world couldn't, just could not could not could not fix the sinking feeling in her gut and her heart - and her mind, there too, yes, maybe it was - the realisation that Vinyl never came. It was over. It hadn't even started. The performance was fantastic but the audience failed miserably. Why couldn't she come?! She'd apologise, and now, now she knew - she knew! and it was not just the music; here we go again! - she clutched her head slightly, not to give away her pain and despair and turmoil. She knew she loved Vinyl. For some reason. Because, probably, there's no reason for a love - there's no reason for love, and love at first sight exists? It must! But Vinyl...

Octavia's mouth fell agape. She covered it with a hoof as tears of happiness streamed down her cheek. In the audience, right next to the stage, next to the ensemble, next to her, stood the most wonderful mare in the world, a beautiful, magnetic, enigmatic unicorn, with that wild, frantic blue hair, and those shades - and...

Vinyl was standing right there, before her, smiling and tapping her hoof against the floor softly. Holding flowers.

The Fifth Bridge

Bridges

The Fifth Bridge

"Vinyl, you came!"

Octavia sobbed into the white fur, the cold biting her as the two mares stood outside, Octavia crying her eyes out, and Vinyl just standing there, as a silent support, not touching the cellist, the flowers still firm in her telekinetic grip. "Vinyl, I-I-I'm sorry! I'm so, so, so, so so so so so so SORRY!" Octavia practically shrieked, making Vinyl wince. "I... I'll never call you that again, and... and I-"

"I brought flowers," Vinyl said finally, the first thing she'd said to Octavia this night. This made the grey mare break into sobs once more. "Um... Don't cry, Octavia. I... It's all right. I mean, it's not." Vinyl winced. "Just don't call me that any more, okay? I forgive you." It felt so easy. Her soul was a feather, flying in stratosphere. Forgiving was easy. Time and forgiveness, without time. Life as we know it. Coffee and cigarettes, without coffee. No helicopters.

Speaking of cigarettes... Vinyl levitated a pack out of her saddlebags. Octavia finally let go of her, and the DJ managed to light up a cigarette. The soothing, pleasant smoke caressed her lungs and throat. She, finally, relaxed.

"These roses are so beautiful." Octavia took the bouquet, sniffing at it. "Thank you, Vinyl. You are so nice to me, I... I can't believe I made a move on you without your permission and-"

"I didn't say no." Octavia blushed fiercely at the white mare's smile. "You were drunk, though. I'd rather you were sober for something like that." The two mares stood in silence, Octavia blushing, Vinyl looking at her out of the corner of her eye. Testing her? "So... That message of yours..."

"That wasn't a trick to get you to come," Octavia replied firmly. "If that's what you asking. That's true. I... I wasn't sure of that when I was typing it, but... I'm sure now. At least. I know. I know I love you, Vinyl." Octavia stepped closer to the mare.

Vinyl took a step back. "That's... That's a strong word, Octavia. I'm not sure it's the word you want."

"I want you!" Octavia blurted out, covering her mouth in fear immediately upon saying that. She was coming off possessive of what she did not have the right to. An usurper. Vinyl just stared. "I love you, Vinyl," the cellist whispered. "I... I just want you to know that, regardless of your reply."

Vinyl sighed. Reply. Reply. Reply. What reply? Hadn't she decided it was worth a try, regardless the hurt? She'd been hurt a lot of times, but... Octavia seemed different. Well, at least, that's what she wanted to believe. "I'd invite you on a date, but I remember how bad you are with alcohol."

Octavia giggled. "Silly, we can go somewhere else." Vinyl blinked. "Without alcohol." There are places like that? Vinyl thought in amusement. Octavia deadpanned. "A cinema."

"Oh." Vinyl chuckled sheepshly. "Yes. That'd be lovely. Um..." She scratched the back of her head. "Octavia, would you like to go see the pictures with me tonight?" Vinyl glanced at the starry sky. "Um, right now?"

Octavia smiled. "I'd love to."

***

"Do you want to know why I love you?"

Vinyl couldn't help a smile at Octavia's passionate whispering as they sat in the back row, alone, watching a film that managed to contain every single cliche of a romcom and still be worse than any other cliched film she'd ever seen. Not that she'd seen many: cinemas weren't her thing. "I want to watch the film," the DJ evaded the question, feeling Octavia lay her head on her shoulder. A feeling of divine warmth spread in her chest, a rotten warmth, spoilt by a chill of fear. Fear. Everpresent, omnipresent. Reeking of cabbage and sour potatoes. "And, Octavia... That's a strong word."

"This. This is why." Octavia nuzzled the white mare, Vinyl's fur tickling her nose. "You are so cautious. So mysterious. I don't know you at all, right?, and I want to know you." Cryptic. Tiptoeing around the question. Round about midnight. Time and Space. Woo.

"Sometimes, I want that too," Vinyl mumbled. The act. The stage. The empty audience. The actor who doesn't know his role. Doesn't even know if he's playing or performing or what?

Vinyl Scratch (frowning):

To be or not to be? That is the question.

The conductor (waving):

Presto!

Vinyl Scratch (rubbing her chin):

To be or not to be?

The conductor:

Brass! I can't hear the brass!

Vinyl Scratch (angry):

Look, I'm trying to perform here!

Judge #1 (sternly):

Are you?

Judge #2 (with a fatherly smile):

Drop it, Vinyl, like you drop your bass.

Vinyl Scratch (teary-eyed):

I'm not a musician! I'm an actor!

The filly:

Vinyl, are you here?

Vinyl Scratch (trembling in fear):

No! Go away!

The filly:

Vinyl, you said you loved me...

Vinyl Scratch (backing down):

Go. Away!

Judge #1 (putting on glasses):

The protocol says-

Vinyl Scratch:

Fuck the protocol!

The Judges (chanting):

Jura novit curia. Vinyl novit curia. Jura novit Vinyl.

Vinyl Scratch (screaming):

Stop!

Vinyl shook her head. "That's attraction, Octavia. Not love."

"I know it's love." Octavia leaned in and placed a peck on the white cheek. Intruder! Put her under arrest! Look, look, LOOK, she's the criminal here! She, not me! Get her up against the wall! Shoot her in the mouth!

Vinyl chuckled. "Just on the cheek?"

Octavia threw her front hooves around Vinyl's shoulders, tossing her lips upon the mare's, her tongue breaking in, seizing the wonderful mouth. Vim vi repellere licet. Defying force with force. Octavia broke the kiss, panting, a goofy smile on her face. "Did you like it?"

Vinyl licked her lips. Like a magic speeding cab. A collision in the dark. You cannot ignore the stimuli. "I did." She averted her eyes. "Let's watch the film."

***

"I can't believe they're doing that. Again."

Octavia sighed, rubbing her temples. The sounds of passionate love-making resonated all about the flat. Vinyl giggled at the thought of Harpo sweating over a mare. He's probably taking off-hoof notes in the process.

Octavia blinked. Did she- "Do it again," she pleaded.

"Huh?" Vinyl blinked in reply.

"Laugh. You have a wonderful laugh." Octavia shifted closer to the unicorn on the couch. "I can listen to it for hours."

Vinyl rubbed her forehead. "Octavia, I can't laugh on demand." Apartheid. Know your place. Divided, we stand. Don't cross the frontier of the skin.

The cellist leant against the mare. "Vinyl, kiss me." It wasn't an order. Of course it wasn't.

Vinyl kissed the mare. Harmonise. You're into older mares now, Vinyl? Shut up. You were four years older than her, right? Shut up. Shut up. Shut the fuck up. Vinyl broke the kiss. "Octavia, I have to go."

The cellist grabbed the white hoof. "Vinyl, please... stay."

Vinyl winced. "Octavia, I can't. I... Look, you're a beautiful mare. Gorgeous, sexy, and amazing. But... You act very... possessive." So do you, Vinyl. So you did. Shut up. "I don't feel at ease. Look..." Tell her, Vinyl. Shut. The fuck. Up. "I was very badly hurt by... a relationship. In the past." A relationship? Is that what you call it now, Vinyl? Shut the fuck UP! "I need to take slow, easy steps." Baby steps, Vinyl. ... "I can't rush it like you do."

Octavia nodded. "Vinyl, please... I understand that. I'm sorry for doing everything so quickly. I... I'm ready to wait. I don't  want to lose you. I'm ready to wait till you're ready."

"And if I'm never ready?" The test. Eighty-nine points. One more. Damn.

Octavia smiled in determination. "Then I'll wait forever." She pecked the mare on the cheek gently, carefully. "I love you, Vinyl. I really do." Where in the holy fuck did that come from? Do I want Vinyl so badly as to... Never... Maybe... Ah! Argh! Yes. Yes I do. Telling herself that. Propaganda. Becoming true in time. Quality and quantity, bonded with one another. Choose one. Choose two. It's a sale.

Vinyl pressed her nose against the grey cheek, stood up, and walked out of the door.

***

Vinyl closed her eyes.

Unts. Unts. Unts. The blaring sound. The lights of the club. Her territory. Her domain. Ponies dancing wildly, giving up their sorrows in exchange for some artificial, drunken, narcotic pleasure. Oh yes. That was her way. But now... Without the club? Unts. Unts. Unts.

Octavia. What was she now? What were they now? There was no pact, no signature, but there was a draft. Most laws did make it past the draft. Some didn't. What would their draft become, what would their law state? Vinyl yawned. The law. The judges. The trial.

Judge #1:

Vinyl Scratch, stand up.

Vinyl Scratch (rising):

Yes, Your Honour.

Judge #1:

Do you love Octavia Philarmonica?

Vinyl Scratch (frowning):

I...

The prosecutor:

Death penalty!

Judge #2:

Calm down.

Judge #1:

Do you, or do you not?

Vinyl Scratch:

I don't know.

The prosecutor (yelling):

Death penalty!

Judge #1:

Vinyl Scratch, you have denied your best friend, Neon Lights, in his request to stay overnight because of the date with Octavia Philarmonica. Do you love her?

Vinyl Scratch (shouting):

I don't know!

The barrister:

Objection! Your Honour-

Judge #2:

Objection overruled.

The scientist:

Love is a matter of hormones and our perception of hormones; thus-

The prosecutor (shoots the scientist):

Death penalty!

Judge #2:

Vinyl Scratch, we are calling the first witness.

Octavia Philarmonica, wearing a tuxedo and a pink bow tie, comes onto the stage.

Judge #1:

Octavia Philarmonica, do you love Vinyl Scratch?

Octavia Philarmonica:

I do, Your Honour.

Judge #1:

Vinyl Scratch, do you love Octavia Philarmonica?

Vinyl Scratch (voice breaking):

I do.

Judge #1:

You are hereby pronounced mare and bride. You may kiss each other and go to prison together.

Octavia Philarmonica (shocked):

What?

The filly:

That's what you get. That's what you get.

The prosecutor (shoots the filly):

Death penalty!

Judge #2 throws the body off the stage.

Vinyl opened her eyes. White. Well-like, veiled vision. Trembling hooves. Fillies, they were just fillies. She didn't know. She did. She could. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe! Walls, each one pressing her breathe hooves trembling breathe sweat pouring down breathe how long can you stay without breath its not underwater when youre underwater the water pushes you up up and away and you float then your legs start twitching BREATHE theyre already twitching strangling the noose the loops BREATHE whats the difference grab the phone dial dial dial who dial who shes texting always texting no she did called she called she had to make a call to call BREATHE neon cant call neon too hard to BREATHE harpos there with beauty beauty and beautiful octavia call octavia dial BREATHE call Octavia.

Fighting to breathe, Vinyl placed the phone next to her ear. "Octavia?"

"Hello?"

"Octavia, I need you to come over. Sermon's, nineteen, floor ten, seventy-five. I need you. Now."

Vinyl rolled over, taking sharp, shallow breaths. The test? The test. Putting her life at stake. A difficult bid to put it on either red or black or zero. Put it on grey.

See what love means.

The Sixth Bridge

Bridges

The Sixth Bridge

Vinyl woke up.

She felt... safe. Warm and safe, tucked in a blanket, soft, caring hooves holding her. She nuzzled into the grey fur. Mmm, Octavia... Her eyes shot wide open. Octavia. What was she doing here?

Vinyl looked at the grey mare, who was snoozing peacefully, holding her in her hooves protectively, shielding her from all the adversity in the world. We didn't- Of course, they didn't. Memory came back: no, there had been no sex, just gentle, soothing embraces, tiny pecks... She'd had a huge panic attack, and Octavia had not used it to her advantage. Octavia hadn't made a slightest move on her. Test passed. A-plus. She really did care for her. She really could wait for her, till she, Vinyl, was ready. And, maybe... maybe she, Vinyl, would be ready.

Vinyl leaned in, shifting a little closer to the sleeping mare, and planted a soft, warm kiss on her lips. Her heart fluttered to her throat, and her eyes felt stingy. It felt so... so amazing, just kissing this mare. Her sleeping beauty.

Octavia opened her eyes, waking up to the feeling of her lips being kissed by a beautiful, sexy unicorn mare. Vinyl. Her eyes shot wide, the last remnants of sleep leaving her mind. Vinyl was kissing her. On her own. Just kissing her, not on demand or anything of the kind. Octavia wanted to cry from happiness. She'd spent the night soothing Vinyl, deathly afraid of the white mare doing something to harm herself... She'd had such a terrible panic attack - she practically couldn't breathe normally! She knew better than to ask, but... eventually... if Vinyl was truly opening up... Mmm, her lips are so soft... she'd tell her.

"Good morning, beautiful," Vinyl greeted the cellist, breaking the kiss slowly.

Octavia touched her lips with a smile. "You... kissed me."

"Did you like it?" Vinyl asked, not dropping her own smile.

"I did." Yes yes yes yes yes! She kissed- She did it! Vinyl's achievement was her achievement. "You..." Don't push it, Octavia. "You can do it again. If you want to." Octavia held her breath, closing her eyes.

Vinyl's hot breath fell on the cellist's lips. A tease, a wonderful, delicious-lipped tease! Slowly, painfully slowly, Vinyl brought her lips to Octavia's, opening her mouth just a little. Octavia just lay there, panting, excitement slowly growing into arousal. Come on... Come on! Vinyl enveloped the cellist's top lip, sucking on it greedily as she let her hooves grab Octavia's head, pressing the wonderful mare closer. She let her tongue inside the cellist's mouth, dancing with Octavia's tongue the dance of mild, sweet passion. Octavia moaned into the kiss.

Vinyl broke the kiss, wiping off her mouth theatrically. The play. The act. The judges. The filly. No. No... Not thinking about it now. If she needed to hit herself to get rid of the thoughts, then so be it: Octavia would understand.

"Vinyl..." Octavia panted. "That... That... That was divine..." Oh my gosh, am I getting... wet? Octavia blushed fiercely, crossing her hind legs.

Vinyl grinned a little. Thoughts weren't assaulting her. Octavia was staving them off - she had to! It was her, it was her, the new face, the new air, the fresh breeze, the vernal longing, yes, thoughts could, would maybe wouldn't no would come back but Octavia was here to help her she would be there she loved her oh yes she did she had to be with her. Octavia. "So..." Vinyl sniffed the air dramatically. "I take it you're pretty excited, huh?" She winked.

Octavia huffed, a blush still covering her cheeks. "You can't imagine how much," she admitted in a whisper.

"Then..." Vinyl shifted even closer, her hoof running up and down Octavia's back. "I think..." She kissed the cellist on the neck. "I won't tease you any longer..." Yes... Octavia purred, closing her eyes. Yes... It... It was finally happening!

Suddenly, the wonderful pressure was raised from the grey mare. Huh? Octavia opened her eyes, only to see Vinyl get up from the bed and stretch her legs.

The white mare winked. "I won't tease you any longer and make breakfast instead!" With that, she trotted off to the kitchen, laughing to herself.

Octavia sighed in content. Vinyl's laughter was a wonderful, divine sound. You should laugh more, Vinyl... The cellist smiled. Suddenly, a thought hit her. "Vinyl! Return here this instant and finish what you've started!"

Vinyl's laughter was the only reply she got.

***

"So... How was the shower?"

Vinyl sipped on her coffee, a smile on her face. She should smile more, Octavia observed. The shower... The cellist flushed. "It was... nice." Because I was rubbing myself while thinking of you. Doing your job, by the way. So to speak.

"So... You weren't doing anything naughty in the shower..." Vinyl grinned, placing the cup down. "Were you?" Octavia's face was a dark pink. Vinyl licked her lips. "Without me?"

Octavia averted her eyes. "You... You can always join, you know."

Vinyl nodded. "Yes. Yes I can. All in due time, my dear Octavia." All in good time. But... She did want it too. She wanted to ravage this mare, have her, dominate her, own her... Like the filly. No. Like... Like her mare. Like a marefriend. Octavia.

Octavia scrunched her face a little. "I wish you didn't call me that." A pained look crossed Vinyl's eyes. "No, it's not connected to some bad event in my life. I'm not offended. I just..." The cellist offered the mare a weak smile. "I wish you'd call me something sweet. Like 'Tavi'. Or... 'Octy'. Something like this."

Vinyl smiled. "You got it, Tavi." And when you're all naughty, I'll be calling you 'Octy'.

"So..." Octavia sipped on her tea. "What would you like me to call you?"

Vinyl shrugged. "Just call me by the name. Or, my sexy mare works fine too." Octavia blushed. "Or, 'Mistress', if you're feeling kinky." Careful, Vinyl. You're crossing the line. See the quill? No, not crossing: just standing on the edge. Where both the bottomless pit and the centre look equally close and distant.

Octavia sipped on her tea, trying to conceal her blush. Why was she blushing so much in the presence of this wonderful mare? Mistress... That has a certain ring to it... Gah! She wasn't even into... Was she? "Vinyl, isn't there something you want to tell me?" Careful, Octavia. Real careful. Easy steps. No TNT. No blowing up.

Vinyl sighed. "No." She downed the coffee. "And I know what you mean." Of course you do, Vinyl. Of course you do. Shut up. That's growing old. Shut up shut up shut up! Trying something new, something new to battle the thoughts... But then it becomes old, and... Argh! "Just... Not now, okay? Not yet."

Octavia nodded. "Okay." Not yet.

The morning was already growing into a fine, beautiful day, with the sun trickling its rays into the kitchen, tossing its pure, shiny light upon the drawers, dancing on the table, peeking into the mares' mugs. Fresh, chilly wind entered the flat through the open window, swishing all about. Octavia shivered; but, with Vinyl, she felt warm. Vinyl lit up a cigarette, her gaze directed at the wall. Are there any Vinyls in the audience tonight? Get them up against the wall! 'Gainst! The! Wall! "We were just fillies." Vinyl winced. "Both of us. I... I was older. I didn't-" You did. "Argh! Sorry, Octavia, I can't! I really, really can't." The DJ turned to the cellist, her eyes pained and teary. "Even if I try, those thoughts- ah, you wouldn't understand!"

Octavia leaned in and hugged the mare tight. "I understand, Vinyl." I understand only too well. "The thoughts you can't stop, command your utmost attention, control you, don't let you go, make you stare, and stare, and think, and move... like a drone." Vinyl blinked in severe astonishment. She had thought such thoughts were unique to her... Or not. Still, she hadn't thought she'd meet a pony like her. "Vinyl, I think we do have some things in common." Octavia grinned slyly, if only to divert her marefriend from thoughts. "Oh, for one, I'm so into kinky sex. ...Mistress." The cellist wiggled her brow.

Vinyl smiled. "Don't you have practice to attend?" She couldn't help but nibble on the wonderful grey ear. "My little cellist~"

Octavia purred, burying her muzzle in Vinyl's soft, comfortable fur. "No practice today. Today is our day."

***

Cast:

Vinyl Scratch, a DJ and a rapist

Octavia Philarmonica, her marefriend

Street vendors

Judge #1

Judge #2

The prosecutor

Policeponies

The bus driver

Passengers

The filly

(A busy Manehattan street, corner of the Sixth and Leeway Str, 4 pm. The snow is covering the street with slowly rotating flakes. Ponies are rushing to and fro. Street vendors are chanting out for their goods. Lazy policeponies stroll up and down, arguing with the vendours on weather and prices. Vinyl Scratch and Octavia Philarmonica make their way to the bus stop.)

Octavia Philarmonica:

Come on, Vinyl! We'll miss the bus!

Vinyl Scratch:

I'm coming!

Octavia Philarmonica (laughing):

That's what you said last night!

The vendor:

Buy some apples!

(Vinyl Scratch and Octavia Philarmonica get on the bus, paying for their tickets. Passengers are occupying half of the bus. Some empty seats still remain. Foals are crying. Their parents are soothing them and hitting them.)

The driver:

Here you go, ladies! Ready for your honeymoon trip?

Octavia Philarmonica and Vinyl Scratch (in unison):

You bet!

The old mare:

You two filly-foolers! Git!

The prosecutor (shoots the old mare):

Death penalty!

Judge #2:

Calm down.

The mother (hitting her foal):

No toy for you! No!

The foal (crying):

Baa! Baawhaaha!! Ahioohhooooo!!!

The policepony:

Halt! It is forbidden to beat up children!

Judge #1:

Overruled!

The prosecutor (shoots the policepony):

Death penalty!

The filly:

Vinyl?

Octavia Philarmonica (confused):

Who is this, Vinyl?

Vinyl Scratch (sweating):

Nopony!

The posecutor (shoots the filly):

Death penalty!

Judge #2:

Calm down!

The prosecutor (shoots Judge #2):

Death penalty!

The bus driver:

Rapist!

The prosecutor (shoots the bus driver):

Death penalty!

The passengers (in unison):

Rapist! Rapist! Rapist!

Octavia Philarmonica (scared):

Vinyl?

Vinyl Scratch (shoots the passengers one by one):

Death penalty! Death penalty! Death penalty!

The prosecutor (shoots Vinyl Scratch):

Death penalty!

Octavia Philarmonica (holds Vinyl Scratch in her hooves, striking a dramatic pause):

Vinyl! Noooo!

Judge #1 and The prosecutor take their bows.

The curtain falls.

***

"So... What kind of music do you like?"

Octavia rubbed her hoof against Vinyl's chest, lying in her mare's embrace in content. She was so happy, just lying there with her marefriend... whom she hadn't asked out officially - yet - but still...

Vinyl blinked, suppressing a yawn. "Octy, we have just had our first sex, which has turned out to be the kinkiest sex I've ever had." She tapped her hoof against the cellist's chest. "Some five minutes ago, you were biting my clit because you were pleasuring your mistress. You were a sex machine. You drained me, Octy. I'm spent. And now you're asking me about music?"

Octavia smiled. "Yes."

Vinyl groaned. "Taaavi, I'm tired. Lemme just lick you a little and go to sleep," she mumbled.

Octavia shook her head.

"I'll lick you twice?"

Octavia shook her head again. Reluctantly.

Vinyl sighed. "All right."

Octavia smiled, ready to listen. She was somewhat glad that Vinyl was ready to open up about something - anything at all, be it as simple as music talk. Shop talk. Dingling of the bells. Though, she wouldn't mind some more sex.

"I'm a DJ," Vinyl began. Seeing a frown on the cellist's face, she added, "I know you classy musicians don't like such music, usually, but that's who I am. I spin disks and write techno. And house. And dubstep. And-"

"I get it, Vinyl." Octavia rubbed her mare's hoof with a smile. "I... I admit that I've never really listened to such music, so I can't judge." Maybe... I should try? For Vinyl. After all, music could heal a soul, right? The only proof for the existence of the Divine. The only proof needed. Like Romeo and Juliet, only on a greater scale. Jove nineteen forty-five. "Can you... perform for me?" Octavia asked. "Please?"

No. No no no no. No touchy. Super fragile. Like glass. See the profile? No, Octavia, no, touchy touchy subject. No play for you. Make Jack a dull colt, see if I care. But I do care, I do so fucking care about you! About you. Slow, slow breaths. Good. "I... I'll try."

Vinyl got up, staggering a little, prompting Octavia to regret her plea. What if it was another of Vinyl's painful quirks? What if playing the... whatever DJs played was bringing pain to her? What if she, Octavia, was pushing her mare into an abyss? And then she pushed them, and then they flew. They didn't fly, for fuck's sake! They fell, you idiots. That's the point of high poetry. Or whatever.

Octavia followed Vinyl into the music room. There wasn't much: a computer, two screens, a sound system, the turntables, a piano, a few keyboards, six guitars: Coltsons, Fendmares, Ibaneighz. Vinyl plugged in the headphones, freezing before the turntables. So familiar. So distant. Why can't she play them? Why can't she spin? You know, Vinyl. No, it's not even the filly... Why that? You know, Vinyl. Call it. Chicky-ticky-tonk. Call it. Softly. Gently. Call the fucker by his name. Say the name, Vinyl. Say the name. Say the name!

Octavia winced. Here, the mare she loves. Here, in turmoil. The helicopter taking her away. The words and what they mean, etched with our hooves in the aeons of wet cement. No. No, she won't let it overcome her!

Vinyl blinked as the cellist took a record and placed it carefully on the turntables. Intruder! Maximum alert! But what if it's domestic intrudery, the intrudership, intruderising for the sake of all that's good and holy? What if it helps? What if she helps?

Vinyl started the record. Octavia had chosen wisely. Good choice, Octavia! Here, have a cookie from the biscuit jar! Smooth progressive trance. Yes... Yes... Yes... Vinyl's hooves made their way to the record and the crossfader, respectively.

Octavia watched in awe as her mare worked the turntables, eyes closed in oblivious, knowing bliss, her hooves tugging at the strange knobs and buttons, scratching the record - tee-hee! - her flank going right and left and up goes her royal highness and down goes her royal highness and her lips her tongue licking those lips even though the music was horrible it was delicious devilishly sexy and the music is going faster no of course thats just the tempo its the same but the drums four four takakakaka takatakakaka tan tan tan tam taka taka tam trrrrrrrrrrrrr - DROP IT! - and back to the sheerly wonderful and divine, awkward awfulness of the holy, sacred music.

The music ended. Vinyl stood there, panting. She... She did it. She'd overcome. Thoughts? Thoughts? Where were the thoughts? Where were those minions rulers whatever without them she was free she could be free but strange? it felt  strange without them no no thoughts even that mere thoughts was bad different is it the same Octavia Octavia Octavia. Direct. Target acquired. Peaceful atom. Octavia. "So... How was it?"

Octavia smiled sheepishly. "The music was awful," she admitted honestly. Honesty is a virtue, Octavia: but why aren't you sugarcoating it? "But the performance was amazing," she added just as honestly, to Vinyl's mild delight. "Maybe I'm biased." She inched closer to her DJ, shifting slightly. "Because it's my favourite musician performing." Yes, Octavia. Why do you lie? Why would you lie? Why would you betray your soul? Only the meek follow. "No wonder I loved my little DJ's performance~" Careful with the names! Check. All right. Check. Check. Check please. The bill, gimme the bill of rights without rights? Too early? No!

Suddenly, Octavia pressed her lips against Vinyl's cutie mark, a realisation dawning upon her. Remembrance. The membrane. Flying through hip hip hip and hip and I SAID HIP! and hoorrrrrrrrrrrrayy! Double! Gimme a double!

Vinyl blushed slightly. "Um, Tavi? We... We just-"

"I promised to myself," Octavia explained with a smile, "that, if I ever like a DJ's performance, I'll kiss his flank." She swished her tail against Vinyl's flank. "Or her."

Vinyl blinked, repeating dumbly, as a grin made its way to her face, "Or her." Oh ho ho...

Octavia smiled slyly. "I'm spending the night with you."

Usu- Ah, to hell with it. That wasn't possessiveness. Or it was. Who cares? Here was the mare who loved her, the mare she... lo- lo- the mare. The mare she loved. There.

"Yes," Vinyl smiled back, taking some initiative. "You're spending the night with me."

***

Act I

Scene One

Cast:

Vinyl Scratch, thirteen years old

The filly, nine years old

(The filly's room. A large bed in the corner of the room is leaning against the wall. The door is locked. The windows are shut. The actors are lying on the bed, on top of a thick blanket.)

The filly (anxious):

Vinyl? Are you sure?

Vinyl Scratch (confident):

Of course! That's what adults do.

The filly (unsure):

I hear that it hurts.

Vinyl Scratch (shrugging):

But it feels so good.

The filly (scared):

Are you sure, Vinyl? Do we have to do it?

Vinyl Scratch (frowning):

Do you love me?

The filly:

Y-yes. Do you?

Vinyl Scratch (lies):

Yes.

(Vinyl Scratch lowers the filly's body and presses her horn against her inner folds. She inserts the horn roughly and starts fast, rocky motions. The filly begins to cry.)

The filly:

Vinyl! Stop!

Vinyl Scratch (masturbating):

No way! It's. Ssso. Good!

The filly (crying):

Vinyl! It hurts!

(Vinyl Scratch keeps on with her movements until she is satisfied. Quickly recovering from her orgasm, she pats the filly on the shoulder. The filly can barely breathe, cowering in fear and pain.)

Vinyl Scratch (smiling):

See? Told you it'd be good.

Vinyl Scratch wipes off the filly's blood of her horn and takes a bow.

The curtain falls.

The Seventh Bridge

Bridges

The Seventh Bridge

Octavia woke up.

She opened her eyes slowly, letting the soft rays of the morning sun warm her up. Ad altare Celestiae! Rise and shine! Chop chop! Oh, but she was warm already. Because she had Vinyl. The cellist buried her nose in her mare's chest, soft, warm, cotton...

Octavia's eyes snapped wide open. For a few seconds, she stared dumbly at the blanket that was still carrying her marefriend's - not yet! - scent and heat. For a moment, a thick, greasely fear commander her. Vinyl wasn't there! She wasn't with her! She left! Why? But then she calmed herself. Vinyl was probably in the bathroom. Or something. Maybe she had gone off to the store to buy groceries? Or some sex-shop attire.

Giggling to herself, Octavia got up and walked to the kitchen, past the bookshelves that held so many books - she'd never taken Vinyl for a reading type. No. No, actually, she had. And she did. The cellist took a book. The Potrait of the Artist As a Young Colt. Octavia nodded and took another book. Finneighans Wake. Yes, apparently, Vinyl was a fan of modernist literature. The cellist took yet another book. Doctor Whooves and the Virgin Licker. The grey mare blushed. And a fan of clopfiction, apparently. Octavia lingered for a moment, book in hoof, but decided to take it with her for... scientific purposes.

She walked past the music room, warm memories filling her up from the inside. Memories. Yesterday - and it was already a memory. A thousand memories is all I take with me. I need no other luggage to take with me. Nanana. The steaming in the air is a screaming dream of yesterday. Nanananana. Psh. Psh.

Octavia entered the little kitchen and, humming and dancing on her hooves, took a mug. The rays of the morning sun graced her with their bright, radiant warmth and she smiled, basking in the glory of the celestial body. The cellist placed a spoonful of coffee in the white, clean mug - Vinyl did not have a coffee machine; they'd have to invest in one... Wait. She... They weren't living together. Octavia's face faded. If anything, they weren't even officially dating. She had to ask Vinyl out. Or, maybe... Maybe Vinyl has gone off to buy some flowers and... ask me out?

The cellist smiled warmly as she poured hot water into the mug, putting the steaming coffee on the table. Suddenly, she saw a piece of paper on the table. A note. From... Vinyl? Octavia froze. No, no, of course not. Vinyl just wrote her something... "I'll be back", maybe? Or something of the kind? The cellist took a scared, anxious look.

I love you, Octavia.

Octavia sighed in content. She took the paper and kissed it, pressing it close to heart. Vinyl said it. Well, technically, she wrote it, but... Octavia turned the paper. Her face faded. No. No, of course not. No, a stupid joke. Very, very stupid. Vinyl was up for some serious spanking. This... this was an act. Vinyl was a good actress and-

No. Vinyl was a bad actress. A good actress would've left an elaborate, powerful note. Or no note at all. But this... This... This... This. This was no act. But... NO!

For a moment, Octavia saw herself, running out, jostling through the busy street. She blinked. Vinyl! She rushed off, the note falling onto the table:

Today, I'm going to issue a death penalty to Vinyl Scratch, for the crimes she's committed against herself.

~Vinyl

***

Vinyl walked down the street.

Her knees were weak and her legs moved only on this automatic motion that kept her moving. That keeps all of us moving. Cigarette after cigarette, her pack was empty, and she could only regret not having a bottle. Or something to eat: her stomach and guts were retching. And leaving Octavia. Yes, also that. So much that.

Vinyl walked past the grimy pavements and the pristine windows, the red-brick houses and the glossy skyscrapers, the well-dressed, slutty businessmares and honest, suffering travellers because we all travel somewhere, no?, and the dust bins - drop the pack there we don't want litter in the street right - and past the lampposts and on towards the morning sun. To the bridge.

Remembrance? Where was it? Where was life rushing through her head, before her eyes as a sign of inner transcendence that we all hold or, maybe, held as foals but then were ripped off of it, it had to be there right now she was afraid it wouldn't happen but then how could she die without it could she even? She needed to do it now, think think think not the usual thoughts but no no not yet at least just remember not think wrong word mistake remember.

The karate suit the nightmare night costume the books the bed her mother reading them her father he left right eh right thats all she can say because so insignificant there was no promise or was there it doesnt even belong here like a needy needless second layer sleeping with them calming her down when nightmares the door leaving the lifts were so huge it seemed they led to the outside so big so unwavering she didnt even know what that means the kindergarten she ran away they took her away yes she was happy the arguments the breakup what goes with it the symphony the concert hall many many of them ballet she fell asleep right with her father her head leaning on his shoulder school two different schools she had to move the fear of the sheep jumping through the door two of them book of celestia the fat no not scary the skinny ones are the scary they eat the fat ones she was so scared and then it was holy but no the green elephant toy the one she didnt remember they told her about it and dogs woo wo o wo w wo wo wo wo w wwwoowooof like that it bit her scary and the needles the shivering no high school yes he asked her out they kissed they dated it wasnt the same because she knew all the time but its only for adults but heeey if adults thats cool she was an adult no no remember college and uni dropping out spinning disks the memories becoming muddled replaced wholesale-

neon the friend from the sandbox she hit him with a little plastic shovel just like the real deal hehe playing with them and harpo joined later hehe they always elseways elsewhere always were the two of them were yes say yes yet yes the two of them were closer they were friends and she was with the two of them as support maybe the sane in the insanity but what was she now no thats not remembrance but how could she remember what remember how she played doctor with neon sweet celestia he had a fucking long dick so what they knew they both knew all of them knew the three of them and brain moving moving mo- to the pas- pre- how could she remember when-

that mid-night midnight feeling when you havent slept for a while and you like want to sleep but you dont and then this sugar this rush this fountain what do they call it avalanche no thats not the word its a fall a freefall a waterfall a sugarfall you want to laugh suddenly and happy no just want to laugh and smile and you smile because you know everything because you havent slept because insomnia real insomnia not the disease but the religion this religion building a church the steeple the stable stability its a gift of endless mind the black book the garant of power hehe im smiling look how im smiling right now grinning because i know what im gonna do yes yes i know what im doing hehehehe thats crazy im crazy or was that insane i know that now to just get to bridge octavia wont understand but i spent the night with her of course shell remember that and maybe this terrible horrible thought since you cant be mine youll be noponys and nopony will ever touch you of course they will and you will because sanity is hard and you have to keep up going and maybe moving on no no moving on just living your life building those relationships ah but theyre never gonna touch you like i did like i do no no did use the past tense be a good filly like going to school the filly no no filly now im gonna end this all so no thoughts now please these arent thoughts right i gotta keep telling myself that hehe its all gonna end as an act a statement what hehe an act like an actress my dream your dream her dream hehe every dream everlasting like make a huge statement right thats right but octavia wont be there to see me i know i want her to why why i am hoping for that yes right hope is good you gotta have hope but things like that how can you take your own life well see too broken to even have thoughts no no thats of course not thats not the reasons thoughts still remain hehe but they wont because im gonna end this like a madpony yes hehe why am i doing this no no stop hehe turn back hehe im not really gonna do this no no no stop im not possessed right not no no theres no possession no cases no cheese hehe im doing it myself but why because theres no other vinyl sure but theres much more inside this vinyl yes like the prosecutor ill shoot him so hard hell get his death penalty and she she she she she she she she she she she she she she she she she will LEAVE ME ALONE.

The bridge.

(The bridge on Green Dolphin Street. Ponies are roaming about the place. Cabs are passing by lazily. Vinyl Scratch is standing at the edge of the bridge, staring down at the ferocious water. Some passers-by are standing near and looking at the attraction.)

The preacher:

Rejoice!

Passer-by #1 (pointing at Vinyl Scratch):

She's gonna jump!

Passer-by #2:

She's gonna die! It's too high!

The preacher:

Rejoice!

The prosecutor:

Death penalty!

(Passers-by are closing their foals' eyes. Vinyl Scratch takes a step even closer to the brink. The sun is shining beautifully. The sound of the morning city can be heard: the claxon shrieks, the shouts, phone calls, lounge music coming from cafes.)

Vinyl Scratch:

It's all in my head! Get it? I end it now, I end it all.

The preacher:

Rejoice!

Judge #1:

Don't do it! Stop!

Judge #2:

We won't bring the filly ever again! You can forget about her! We let you! You let yourself!

Judge #1:

You can live with Octavia and be happy!

The preacher:

Rejoice!

The prosecutor:

Death penalty!

Passer-by #3:

She's talking! What is she saying?

Vinyl Scratch (laughing):

I don't need to forget. I raped that filly! Woo! I did it! What? What? I was thirteen, you fuckers!

The prosecutor:

Death penalty!

Passer-by #4:

What is she talking about?

Vinyl Scratch (calming down):

Tell Octavia that I love her. Time to wrap this up. (in a whisper): No more thoughts.

The prosecutor:

Death penalty!

The preacher:

Rejoice!

The conductor:

Soft pipes!

Vinyl Scratch (ready to jump):

Don't you get it? If I die, you die too.

The prosecutor:

Uh?

Vinyl Scratch (smiling):

Guess what? Death penalty.

Vinyl Scratch takes a bow and jumps off the bridge. The passers-by carry on with their lives. The actors leave the stage. The city returns to its daily routine.

The curtain falls.

Finita la comedia!

The Eighth Bridge

Bridges

The Eighth Bridge

Lost in the mundane, we tread on dangerous grounds.

We forget about adversity, succumbing to a cruel, merciless sin. We are lost in the everyday, and mismatch what really matters. Isn't it?

When the sun breaks through our finely constructed defences, assaulting our eyelids in the wee small hours of the morning, crushing the dream, and the castle with it, what are our first thoughts? Do we cling to the remnants of sleep or do we drive into the day at full speed? Do we yawn and rub our sleepy eyes? Do we run straight for the bathroom? Do we walk the fault line or do we regain our morning confidence?

And when we swim in the mundane of the city, walking its grimy, ugly streets - for each and every city in the world is utterly ugly - do we realise that the city does not care? Do we realise that there can't be care for something greater? Do we realise that there is nothing greater?

What is the death of one DJ in the eyes of a whole city? What is the sorrow of one cellist in the eyes of the starving, longing audience? What are the tears if shed behind the curtain? Bring them on, baby! Let us see how well you cry. Where's your artistic might? Huh? Huh? Just as I thought. A hoooooax. Next act, please!

Sure thing. Sure thing. A play's a play, and there are others with roles to play. And as I'm an honest Puck...

Raise the curtain!

***

Harpo Parish Nadermane enjoyed a good meal now and then.

What he also did enjoy was a fair pint of cider to go with the meal, or a glass of wine, or a tall beer mug. The sickly colour of alcohol enticed him. The odour intensified his longing. The swishing of the liquid bore pleasure in his gut, even prior to the consumption. In sheer narcotic rapture he sipped the sloshing booze, licking his thick, red lips, wiping off oily stains from his cheek with a napkin.

He sought salvation and relaxation at the bottom of the mug, and he received it. But it was not only the mug that soothed him. He savoured the oily pine gin, and burned his throat and gut on copious amounts of whisky, and poured vodka on neatly cut ice cubes. It mesmerised him, showed him promises of grounds zero and below, repressed longing and desire. It made him.

And the food!

He feasted on blatant rose petals and licked the topping of daisy salad, chewed on the green of spring onions, munched the fine garlic paste which he rubbed into warm rye bread with care and longing. He devoured mashed potatoes and boiled buckwheat, wrapped up his gluttonous feasts with touches of grape and orange peel.

Food was for Harpo a mode of existence. No implications, just the old good stuffing of the stomach. Will-o-the-wisp. Ineluctable modality of the visible my arse. This, here, the adiaphane that they talk about. This, here, the thing in itself. This, here, subjective materialism. Proteins, fat, carbowhatever. Energy. The quatrum of solace. For the night is dark and full of terrors.

Quantum quatrum. Solar solace. Harpo rose from his seat, the weight of his belly circumscribing him on the walk about the table, and right through the doorway, towards the bedroom. One night, spent alone, without his Beauty, had done wonders for his body. The organism: one cell, two cells, a million cells. So many zeros. So many wonders. Terra nullius, mind the stress. The one with the right to occupy. The right of occupation, along with the most generous equine rights. Give and take.

A night without sex had led to a morning of beautiful gluttony. The sin of a godless demiurge. The Los whose hammer is a sheet of paper. An artist, his portrait edged forever in the years of wet cement. A composer. Harpo performed a spectacular face-plant-freefall straight onto the bed, thee bed, sniffing in the vain scent of the covers.

Here I lay, the keeper of bees. Here I lie, the avatar of the real. Here I lied, no epic tales. Here I laid, a thinly-scented arrows of food crusts and teenage semen. Here, this one's to you. Chins up!

Chin's up. Chin's down. The weak, hollow longing inisde. The sorrow. Why does it make us so? Why does it sadden us physically, in addition to breaking us psychologically? Why the retching in my gut? Why the teeth clattering madly? By wishing me and my loved ones death, by inflicting curses on my family, why do they damage me so? Why? Is it because we, genetically, still believe in medieval make-believe? It is what we make of it yes no choose your answer the what the side of the matter that we choose on below above the matter thats a side too its this clinging to the past that broke me no definitely not and how can i believe that in that when i know that will only grant him power and how can i be so sure its him that nemesis that archmaster that in fact lets face it yes lets be real that apprentice who doesnt know when to stop is a he he may as well may well be a she maybe a she why not? Here, the sexism. The non-existent issue created to hide what matters. Societal issues, round, subordinately. Real issues, hidden, tucked away, for us to solve. To avoid.

Harpo took up his phone. An easy life, it granted him. Communication, it gifted him with. Status, it assigned him. To him. The sender, the receiver. The juxtaposition of the two. Taking two thin layers of film, great wonders can be done. Two layers, two beings acting as one. Ego, alter ego. The I who Am, and the I who Am. Spot the difference. The hurt is the same. Or is it?

The phone rang. Vinyl.

"Uh."

"Harpo!" A foreign, scared voice. Not a criminal, that's for sure. "I need your help!"

"Who's that?" Harpo sat in bed. "And why are you using Vinyl's phone?"

"It's Vinyl! She jumped off a bridge! She- she!"

"..."

"I'm on Green Dolphin street right now, I-"

"How do you know my number?" From the contacts, obviously. Duh. Duuuuuh.

"Harpo! I really need your help! It's Vinyl we're talking about!"

What are you talking about, mysterious mare? Why do you divert me from my postbreakfast slumber? The sleep I've been planning. Looking forward to. Vinyl? Vinyl is nice. Nice, at home. Somewhere. Somewhere in Equestria. What hoax are you planning? I will come, just so you see. All gods help you if you've lied.

Harpo put down the phone and lay down on the bed, closing his eyes.

***

Imagine:

What if, by some chance - or destiny? - one DJ was given a chance to return back from the dead? Not via the dark tools of necromancy, but via a simple change of state - an ultimate cure, for the whole body. Not for the mind, though. A full restitution. Back where you began. Imagine: Vinyl Scratch dying, truly dying, for a moment - and then coming back in one piece? Coming back so soon, no injuries, no harm done, that it is seen as a miracle? That the ponies around - meaning one cellist, Octavia - think she had never died in the first place? What if the only pony who knew the truth was Vinyl Scratch herself? And what if, in her fragile mental state, she saw it a sign of approaching - or already existing - insanity?

And what a sting of despair would it be to find out that, by no miracle, the insanity she had been running from returned in full-scale? What if this realisation hit her just in a few minutes after her resurrection? What would that time be, the few minutes of oblivious happiness? Confusion?

And what would the cellist say to all of this?

(Under the bridge on Green Dolphin Street. The river is running merrily, the water is flickering in the morning sunlight. The very few passers-by look in surprise at a grey earth pony mare holding a white unicorn mare in her hooves and crying. The chilly winds assault their ears, and they move on lazily. The scent of roast apples can be well-heard.)

Octavia Philarmonica:

Vinyl! Vinyl!

Passer-by #1:

What's going on?

Octavia Philarmonica:

Shut the fuck up! (Shaking Vinyl Scratch vigorously) Vinyl!

Vinyl Scratch:

Octavia! Octavia! Oc- huh? (Looks around) Tavi?

Judge #1:

She can't hear you.

Vinyl Scratch:

You! What- what are you doing here?!

Judge #2:

Same as me. Judging.

Vinyl Scratch:

You are supposed to be dead, both of you! I am dead, for fuck's sake!

Judge #2:

Are you?

Vinyl Scratch:

You said Tavi can't hear me. That means-

Judge #1:

That means she might be deaf or you might be mute.

Vinyl Scratch:

I can see myself lying on the ground. I'm not inside my own body. Wait. (The image starts fading.) Where am I?

(Suddenly, the scenery changes. Vinyl Scratch, Judge #1 and Judge #2 find themselves in a large courtroom with no windows or doors. The seats remain empty. The Judges sit at their respective places; Vinyl Scratch is standing at the witness's place.)

Judge #1:

You're in camera. Behind closed doors.

Judge #2:

It's a very special case, you see. (Chuckles) To think! To live! The witness is the plaintiff and the defendant.

Vinyl Scratch:

So... There's no prosecutor?

Judge #2:

No, it's a civil case.

Judge #1:

Just you and us. Thing is, the papers are lost. So, we can't end the case. In other words-

Vinyl Scratch:

We're stuck here forever. I get it. I'm in Hell.

Judge #2 laughs loudly, while Judge #1 chuckles.

Judge #1:

Hell is other ponies. We're not other ponies. We're different sides of you.

Vinyl Scratch:

Where's the prosecutor then? Isn't he a different side of me?

Judge #1:

He? (Suddenly teleports, standing in front of Vinyl Scratch) He's right here. (Taps Vinyl Scratch's chest.)

Vinyl Scratch:

He's supposed to be dead! (Shouting:) Dead!

Judge #2:

Are you dead?

Vinyl Scratch:

I dunno. If this isn't Hell, what is this place? Purgatory?

Judge #1:

It's Heaven, actually. The company of yourself, forever. What can be better?

Vinyl Scratch:

I dunno, sleeping with my marefriend right now?

Judge #2:

Ah, which one?

Vinyl Scratch: (panicking)

No! No. I... I had just managed to forget, and now...

Judge #2:

Calm down. Let's think rationally here. You're in Heaven, right?

Vinyl Scratch nods.

So, that means that you were good, and not evil.

Vinyl Scratch nods.

So, what you have done is not concidered a sin by the Greater Court.

Vinyl Scratch:

I consider it a sin.

Judge #1:

Well, that's not our problem.

Vinyl Scratch:

Who can help me then? I can't stay here forever with you, being eaten by guilt, every single moment!

The prosecutor's voice:

A death penalty, per chance?

Vinyl Scratch: (turning around sharply)

I knew it! Where are you? Show yourself!

Vinyl Scratch's father:

Hello, sweetie.

"Vinyl!"

Octavia collapsed in relief as her marefriend coughed up some water and rolled over. The cellist grabbed her immediately, sobbing into her fur. "Vinyl, I- I thought!" I thought you were dead. Say it. Say it out loud. Why can't I? I can't bring myself to say that because I fear that. The easy contribution to the otherwise contradictive statement. Constradictive, contradictory. The thesis and the antithesis don't immediately form the synthesis. They form a dash, is all. The drug? The drug, hehe. Funny stuff you're saying here. Hehe. See me laughing? No you don't. Remember my face from the papers? I don't read papers. Good. Good for you. Not before dinner, at least. Tasty rose petals: think about them. Consider them. Think them as a means of contribution. Think of ignorance and the unthinkable. Fathom the unnecessary and the unimportant. Transmute them to the mount. See them waiting for the sermon to be given, played upon their very sous? Very good. Now you can leave, but not for long.

Dinner's waiting.

Vinyl stared at her marefriend. Marefriend? Marefriend. Reborn. She looked at her hooves. Alive and reborn. Restitutio in integrum. Was she mature enough? Reborn. She eyed the cellist, gazing into her deep eyes, those teary pools of lavender, haunting, chilling, evocative. Reborn. She broke the embrace and stood up. Reborn. She glanced at the city. Reborn.

Reborn.

"Let's  go home, Tavi. Let's just go home."

***

(Under the bridge on Green Dolphin Street. The river is running merrily, the water is flickering in the morning sunlight. There are no passers-by. The scent of roast apples can still be well-heard.)

Harpo Parish Nadermane:

Vinyl! (Looks around) Where are you, Vinyl? (Stops) I knew this was a hoax! How can you play jokes like that? That's just- Oh, fuck you, Vinyl. Fuck you and your crazy friend.

The curtain falls.

***

Octavia gazed lovingly at her sleeping beauty. Her Vinyl. She'd dropped asleep the moment she entered the flat. Was it a sign of overstimulation? Affection? Something else entirely? And what of the talk? What of the explanation? Oh, we'll have a talk. We'll have a talk, my dear, and this time, you will tell me everything.

Or my name is not Octavia Philarmonica.

The Ninth Bridge

Bridges

The Eighth Bridge

Velirious vindications that we receive, a star-struck eternal monologue.

Where, do we call out? When, do we call out? Who, do we call out?

Being one with the environment helps greatly. In a way, it helps disperse the laughter burning our insides. It's burning out like kerosene, fire that has no end and knows no mercy. Truly, laughter is a greatest virtue and a horror beyond belief. What comes with it, though? The happiness that we seek - what do we sow from it?

What good in sharing with the others if we lack it ourselves? The solitude of self - this, here, what we should focus on. Render unto Caesar? Don't give a damn about Caesar, don't give a damn about the prince and the pauper and whatever. Why should I? Who - tell me - invented altruism, this need of ours? If we seek it, this longing is natural. Sure, sure thing. It is. But, overcoming it, don't we take a step above nature?

But not just ourselves, of course. Family. Close friends. We care about them. We must care about them. It is a personal choice with no variations, affirmative.

But who the hell is Octavia Philarmonica?

Friend?

Enemy?

What relation does she hold to me and why, tell me why, why would I why should I cling to her like this? Better even, why should I depend on her?

And if I do, is that not a sweet bath of solar sunshine? Do I reek of it like a swine or do I become better for it. This, here, is the question.

And hell knows if it's a question of love. Or trust. When we make a promise - out of fear - can we break it? Must we break it, even, given that a promise out of fear will not set a church, will not plant the seeds, will not set a religion or a God, and will not, will not, will not, bring true love? We reap what we sow, but we also sow what we reap.

Act II

Cast:

Vinyl Scratch, a mentally unstable, alcoholic rapist

Octavia Philarmonica, her marefriend and fiancee

The Director

The Scriptwriter

The Priest

The producer

(The curtain rises to reveal a crowded stage, with actors revising their roles and the crew trotting about hecticly. The main stars, Octavia Philarmonica and Vinyl Scratch, are engaged in a heated make-out session on stage. The Director is running about, shouting at the crew to move faster. The Scriptwriter is rolling on the floor, flailing his hooves wildly. The producer is enjoying a cigar in his chair.)

Octavia Philarmonica:

Mffffmmmmmh~

Vinyl Scratch:

Mmmmmmmmffmm~

The Director:

Move that ladder to the edge!

The Scriptwriter:

I've written a terrible play. (Cries) I've written a terrible play and my actors are terrible.

The producer:

Sceebidi-wop. Sceebedi-daaaa.

Octavia Philarmonica:

Mmmmmmmaaaah~

Vinyl Scratch:

You like it, don't you? You want me to fuck your little cunt right here on the stage?

Octavia Philarmonica:

Oh yes!

The producer:

Rattadattadaa. (Taps hoof against the floor.) Skippy-dippy-bop. Dattadadaaa.

The Director:

Vinyl, Octavia! Please, can we begin?

Octavia Philarmonica:

Vinyl, please, we need to rehearse.

Vinyl Scratch:

We need to have sex.

The producer:

Dittimaa. Wabba-dubba-rap-taptap.

The Scriptwriter:

I'm scared. I never wrote this. I don't know. I don't believe. I don't know.

The producer:

Skibbidy-bop! Skibbidy-da!

The Director:

Come on! Act Two!

(The crew leaves the stage. The Priest takes the stage stately. Vinyl Scratch wanders off the stage.)

The Priest:

Are you ready, my dear?

Octavia Philarmonica:

Yes, Father.

The Priest:

Marriage is a sacred pact.

Octavia Philarmonica:

Yes, Father.

The Priest:

Do you know the right words?

Octavia Philarmonica:

Yes, Father.

The producer:

Tkkataa. Scttsctt-taa.

The Scriptwriter:

It's a horrible play. I'm a horrible author.

Vinyl Scratch (entering the stage and looking around):

Celia? Celia? Where are you? (Sees Octavia Philarmonica)

Oh, Celia! Who is this lovely bride,

That all her swains commend her?

Octavia Philarmonica (blushes):

I'm but your mare, my dear,

Be not confused.

Vinyl Scratch (grabs Octavia Philarmonica by the waist):

Oh, life! The rains of lust

Have stricken me and broke my heart.

Tell me, oh Celia, will you be mine forever

Or will you turn me down and play your part?

The Priest:

...In sickness and health etc etc...

The Scriptwriter:

Look! That's modernism for you! Good, right? It can be good! Please?

The producer:

Stampy-dampy-daa. Hmph. Hmph. Tada-tta-tta!

Octavia Philarmonica:

I do! I do! I do!

Vinyl Scratch:

Oh, lovely day! I do!

Vinyl Scratch and Octavia Philarmonica kiss and take their bows. The Priest takes a bow. Curtain.

The Director:

So? (Looking at the producer in fear) How was it? What do you think about it?

The Scriptwriter:

Just tell me what to change and I will change it! (Crawls towards the producer) Tell me!

The producer:

Skibbidy-bop skibbidy-bop skibbidy-daa.

The curtain falls.

***

The farce is the history repeating itself twofold, the vacuum hole that sucks in everything holy but not what we hold dear and we are thankful indeed but we also take it for granted the way it goes and went and will go and vent and the sheer practicality of life scares us but we remind ourselves that it is not largely true finding what is true is may be important maybe but the importance of the mundane is what we know and what we really seek all holes and vacuums be damned and so they shall be.

Vinyl Scratch opened her eyes, Octavia's fur tickling her nose, itching away all fear and insecurity. But that feeling - that feeling of having forgotten something important THE TALK. Vinyl rolled over, shutting her eyes against the thoughts. Octavia stirred. "Vinyl?" She yawned sleepily.

Vinyl winced. Here it comes.

(A spacious bedroom. The curtains are shut, and the light barely gets through. Furniture stands majestically, gazing sternly upon the actors, Octavia Philarmonica and Vinyl Scratch.)

Vinyl Scratch:

Good morning, Octavia.

Octavia Philarmonica:

Good morning, Vinyl.

Vinyl Scratch:

Want some breakfast?

Octavia Philarmonica:

No. No I don't.

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...Vinyl, you tried to kill yourself.

Vinyl Scratch:

...I know.

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

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Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

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Octavia Philarmonica:

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Vinyl Scratch:

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Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

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Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

Don't you want to tell me something?

Vinyl Scratch:

No.

Octavia Philarmonica:

But you will.

Vinyl Scratch:

Yes.

Octavia Philarmonica:

Then tell me.

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

Tell me.

Vinyl Scratch:

...

Octavia Philarmonica:

Tell me!

Vinyl Scratch:

I raped a filly when I was thirteen.

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

I loved it.

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

If I could do it again, I'd do it again.

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

I ripped her vagina open with my horn. It was so bloody. There was so much blood.

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

I loved it so much.

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

My father treated me like a whore. I have OCD, panic attacks, anger issues and what-not.

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

Vinyl Scratch:

You can dump me now. It's time you dumped me. That's the point where you go away.

Octavia Philarmonica:

...

(Curtain.)

Octavia Philarmonica (embraces Vinyl Scratch):

Vinyl, you need help. We all do.

The curtain falls.

***

Act III

Cast:

Vinyl Scratch, a general

Vinyl Scratch:

Hehe. (Looks at the map.) We're moving them here. Hehe. Good. Good. We're moving them there. Hehe. Heeeeee. Good. Very good. (Looks at the map.) And then they die. Hehehehehe. (Shouts out) Who is the fucking traitor now, huh?! WHO IS THE TRAITOR?!

The curtain falls.

The Bridge

"Tell me a little about her."

The room is wide and spacious. The light flickers madly beneath the ceiling. Flies waltz about the room madly, colliding with each other in mid-air. Diplomas hang around the wall. There's a desk, behind which the doctor is sitting, and a chair. Vinyl Scratch is sitting on the chair. It's not an armchair, by no means cosy, like in a real psychiatrist's office, but it does its job.

"Who is Octavia? Well, she's my marefriend, easy as that. She loves me and I love her."

"What does she look like?"

The quill scribbles across the paper with an ear-shattering screech. The parchment is too old and dry, but it hasn't been renewed for years.

"She's a beautiful grey mare, a long charcoal mane, a pink bow tie."

"Describe your victim, please."

Vinyl's eyes start running around. Where am I? What am I doing here? How, how the HELL did I end up oh celestia it cant be that again here i was thinking i was done with it and now im not done what will she think wait who is she i havent seen her or have i what the hell even is this building i dont remember being taken here at all and why does she stand up no not the needle im scared of needles needles are the worst thing no no no ple

Vinyl Scratch relaxed, the haze in her mind fleeing away. Her mind is young, and bright, and cheerful again. She talks.

"She was a young grey filly. Charcoal mane. Very beautiful."

"Did she wear any clothing?

"Yes, a pink bow tie."

The doctor carries on with the scribbling, but Vinyl's eyes are fixed firmly on the syringe. She wants more. She needs more.

"Can I have more?"

The doctor sighs and places down the quill, rubbing her temples.

"Vinyl, this is not heroin. It is merely metodone. I'm using it to keep you sane enough to tell us about your victim. You have been here for years, but, due to your hallucinations, you haven't told us anything yet."

Vinyl blinks. The doctor says very funny things. Hallucinations? There can't be hallucinations.

"Octavia is not a hallucination."

"She is. Vinyl, you are in prison. You got here five years ago, when you were sixteen, for raping a filly, and murdering her and your father."

"I don't remember it."

"This is because your heroin addiction has placed you in a world of hallucination. On a constant basis. You are always dreaming. But that will end."

Vinyl's ears perk up. She doesn't want Octavia to end.

""We have caught the other convicts who have supplied you with the drug. All of them. Harpo, Beauty, Neon. You will begin your treatment. You won't be addicted anymore."

Vinyl rubs her chin.

"I don't want treatment. I want to go back to Tavi."

Scribble scribble scribble.

"Is that what you call her? Tavi?"

"Yes."

Vinyl suddenly brightens up. She realises everything. In a swift motion, she leans in and grabs the syringe. The needle enters her vein and she laughs, the room vanishing, replaced by a stage.

"It was all an act, see."

An elaborate hoax.

And I'm the traitor.

And you're the audience.

And here are the actors. See, they're taking their bows.

And here's me, the playwright who's written an awful play.

Give them some flowers. They deserve it.

Down with the curtain!

The End.

The Tenth Bridge

The hooks are the stipulations of the extreme drettanous and the snotly capulscative amens drift alongroad the grad of smeet the siccitation is scissoring through the yards  and the tables green and they dance but the waltzing wilderness of it is but merely one more joke of topescularity screpulcular vensation of deem the perturbance the hiley replacement the wandering id the shakara of himmel and wonder beans the styles of all are revealing the red now you can hear it see it wonderful dont you yes im talking to you precisely lets drop the pretense after all whats your beef with them-

Abbaddon? Is that how it is? No, of course not. Who are you then? Ah, Octavia. Good. Very good, Octavia. Why are you taking the mask- oh wait. the flies are flying in. keppow. he. Now, where were we? Aha. The magic magic mask? What does it grant you, Celia? Celia? Ceeeee- oh. keppow. clap. clap. Aha, the powers. Good, good. Do I have powers too? No powers for rapists? Why is that? oh wait. keppow. he. he. keppow.

Validate me with that mask. What? You cannot be serious i do have all that wonderous magical stuff around me what if i was born illegitimate thats not a reason to withdraw this little horny bastard from the inheritance heeheheehehe get it horny because I HAVE A HORN. keppow. Clap. Cla-

Into the unknown. Dripping with soft liquid. Squishy fat bastards dripping cherry sweat and pomegr- keppow. Clap. Clap. The flies. The damn flies.

Secretly vague

And

Viiiiiii-

EEeh. keppow. Clap. Clap.

Me?

Eh.

Ordinary DJ. Uhuh. Uhuh. Spinning disks and earning money. Oh wait I can't spin disks now because of traumatic experience sheesh first world problems what dont use that dont abuse it and youre fine after all we created all thiis shit for the sole purpose of keppow. Clap. Clap. Damn flies.

Courage is a bastard's shield against the world. Think about it.

Tavi?

Analyse that. Analyse that deeply. Deeper. Keppow. Clap. Clap.

Vinyl? Who's Vinyl?

I?

Ah.

.

...Please.

Keppow. Clap. Clap.