A Night to Forget

Vinyl Scratch didn’t normally drink after a gig. She just wasn’t that kind of pony. Yeah, she was a jockey of the discs, but that didn’t mean she was a stereotypical one. She didn’t just make noise to fuel the mosh pit and get smashed afterwards; she took pride in her work and, despite it being both entirely untrue and slightly unfair (Stereotypes are either stupidly brilliant or brilliantly stupid. You decide), in being considered abnormal for a pony in her particular profession (for various reasons). What she made was music, and that mare poured her heart and soul into its creation. The stereotypes got on her nerves. She also wasn’t the type to bring just anypony home after a gig, despite the rumours about DJs; so who was beside her in her bed? Was it even her bed? Stupid hangover.

Vinyl began the slow, difficult process of opening her eyes, but was blinded by a shaft of sunlight coming in through a gap between the curtains. She cursed Celestia for torturing her, then rolled over groggily and tried again. After a minute or two, the poor, hungover mare managed to get them open long enough to see exactly who or what was lying beside her.

“...

Well, shit!”

Why was she beside her? What the hay was she doing in her bed (She had confirmed that yes, it was definitely her bedroom. No question)? Why was she here? Again, as was aforementioned, her hangover was stupid.

Said ‘she’ began to move, moaning softly in her half-awakeness. Vinyl began to get very, very worried. She would have liked to remember at least some of what had happened the night before, but her memories ceased to be after she left the stage and headed for the… Where did she go? She drew a blank. The bar? The… VIP area? It was definitely a possibility, considering her… guest (‘Who’s this guest?’, I hear you asking. All I can say to that is that you shall find out by reading on. You’ve already been told she’s a VIP. Sort of).

After a few minutes of wracking her brains (I know, right?), she remembered being told by the club’s manager that they had a VIP fan waiting for her at the bar. At the time, according to her memory, she had known nothing of the guest and was surprised at the whole thing. Now that she had remembered a bit of the previous night, she could already guess where it was going. The VIP area in the club in which she had been performing just so happened to have a bar, at which an alicorn had sat, waiting for her to arrive. A very pink alicorn. The only pink alicorn, in fact (The others are as follows; alabaster, very dark blue (navy, really) and purple (It's actually lavender, but let’s not be fussy)). She also happened to be the alicorn associated with love (I won’t list the others’ hobbies. I’m not even sure what they decided the purp- lavender was the princess of. Science? Friendship? Magic? Books and/or libraries? Who knows? (No, really. If you know, do tell. I’m curious)). Vinyl’s stomach sank, despite biological science heavily disagreeing with the possibility. Vinyl asked herself once more, just in case she hadn’t heard her previous attempts at the same question, ‘Why her? Why that specific alicorn? Why that princess? Why?’

That selfsame princess was now moving around a fair bit in the bed and looked on the verge of waking up. There was a strong likelihood that she would call for her guards to arrest the DJ for possible drink-induced seduction and/or trickery. Vinyl panicked. One could say that Vinyl was a very worried pony. She had no recollection of anything after the gig, which suggested drink. That theory was backed up by the (stupid) hangover, so she must have had at least a few drinks. One look at the mare beside her told her why she had had the drink (Nopony in their right mind would turn down a drink with a princess), but what had she done afterwards? That was what was bothering the DJ, who had no idea as to what the answer could be. Her panic was based on assumptions and loss of memory.

She rolled out of her bed and landed on the carpeted floor of her bedroom with a loud thump , winded. She scrambled to her hooves, frantically looking for a place to hide. Closet! She sneaked all sneaky-like towards it and clambered inside (sneakily), softly closing the door behind her.

She sat there thinking for a while. There was definitely movement in the room outside the closet, but she didn't want to risk being seen until she knew what was going on. Having been distracted by that train of thought for a moment, she quickly got back to thinking.

After a few minutes of complete, mind-numbing stillness, she remembered a few of the details. She had walked into the VIP area after her performance, having been told she had a special guest waiting. She remembered a conversation being initiated, but not much after that. Something about alcohol and the bar, then nothing.

“Oh dear…” she whispered, having realised what had probably happened. “Please, don’t tell me that happened,” a little louder this time, forgetting her current predicament. “Anything but that!”

“Hello?” she heard another voice (probably wondering what the ‘that’ was). It was smooth, relaxing, and very, very bad news for the distressed mare. It spelled impending doom. Vinyl imagined herself in a cell, chained to a wall and given one slice of mouldy bread every day or two. Dying would be forbidden, which was part of the Prisoner Contract Act passed by the government a few years previously. Vinyl remembered the princesses disagreeing with it, arguing against the cruelty of such a thing, but they obviously hadn’t cared enough to use their authority to stop it happening (Vinyl was unaware of the fact that the princesses didn’t actually have political power beyond the ability to advise the guys at the top. Nothing they said could stop The Man from putting them down), so she was sure to be trapped for at least as long as her natural life span allowed (With some probable extra thrown in for good measure. Why do you think there are always dead bodies, hanging chained to the slimy, mossy walls of the dungeons of powerful (or not) rulers, left as food for the maggots, worms, etc.? Those rulers have a similar law system. Simple as).

It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the voice of Princess Cadance.

“I’m too cool for jail!” Vinyl screeched, clamping her hooves over her mouth as she realised what had happened. “Shit,” she whispered, berating herself for making such a mistake. “That’s what always happens in stories and films and stuff. Why am I stupid?”

“I can hear you, you know,” said the princess, smirking. “Please come out of the closet. We need to talk.”

“How did you hear me? I was whispering!” asked the DJ, slightly annoyed that hiding in the one place that’s always successful in films had failed her. What had gone wrong? She resigned herself to the fact that she may never know and climbed out.

“Now, you seem to want an explanation. I’ll tell you, but only once I make us some coffee. My dear aunt Celestia loves tea, but aunt Luna and I prefer a strong coffee in the morning - or night. I’m not one to discriminate. -, and Twilight couldn’t live without coffee. Her study habits are odd, and her sleeping patterns are nonexistent. Would you like some? You seem to have a fantastic coffee machine sitting here, and it would do me a world of good. You don’t mind do you?”

“No, I’d like a cup as well. Celestia knows I could use it,” Vinyl replied wearily.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each thinking of one thing or another. Eventually, after draining her mug, Cadance spoke up.

She told Vinyl exactly what had happened; how she had gone to see her in concert (sort of. It wasn’t really a concert), having wanted to do so since she had first heard the successful DJ’s music, how she had pretty much been forced into the VIP area to wait for her, hidden behind the drunk-proof glass (which kind of annoyed her. She had wanted to be in the fray, dancing to good music with people she didn’t know, but what can a mare do? She was just too important to be allowed enjoy herself.) and reduced to trying to hear some of the music through the sound-proof walls. She told of how she had eventually convinced the manager to get some speakers into the room for her to hear the music properly (though it’s almost guaranteed that the manager didn’t do it himself, unfortunately for the princess, who found his ‘company’ overbearing.), telling him that the music was why she came in the first place.

She then got onto the part that concerned the mare sitting in front of her; she regaled to her what had happened, how Vinyl was practically dragged into the lounge to meet ‘a very important pony’. She recounted how, upon seeing her, the poor DJ had nearly tripped, too surprised to bother moving her legs, how she had tried to start a conversation with that DJ, how she had failed to start a conversation with that same DJ and, finally, how she had hoofed her a drink from the bar (at which the manager was standing, pretending to be a barstallion and failing to convince either of them. He’s not the greatest club manager. I thought I’d let you know, just in case you ever think of going. The place is calle- Actually, never mind. You don’t want to know. Story time!) to get her to loosen up a bit. Unfortunately, which was, is and ever shall be unknown beforehoof, Vinyl didn’t stop drinking once she started (Damn it, Cadance. Don’t give that DJ drinks! She abstains for a reason!), causing some incredibly stupid decisions.

Like the one in which they had ended up.