The City

Chapter Four

Octavia’s stomach lurched, and some detached corner of her mind lamented the fact that she was about to lose the only food she would have that day. She rushed to the far side of the cabin, and gripped the steel pail that she had recently become well-acquainted with. The paltry nourishment she had received just a few hours prior erupted from her gullet, joining the previous day’s meal.

“You’d think,” she panted, wiping her mouth carelessly with a hoof, “I’d be used to this by now.” Another wave of nausea overtook her as the entire world rocked violently back and forth.

“Some of us simply were not born for life at sea,” a bassy female voice replied. “I do not envy you,” it continued, its somber tone made all the more severe by a thick Griffic accent, “you will likely starve before we reach land.”

“I appreciate the reassurance,” Octavia growled, her burning throat still contracting involuntarily as she broke into a cold sweat.

“Do you want I should hold you and tell you everything is going to be fine?” the Griffon asked, “I can lie if you want; it makes no difference to me.”

“No, thank you,” the mare said, “I’d just rather you dispense with the grim reminders.”

“Very well,” the griffoness replied sarcastically, “I shall pretend we are in beautiful meadow, with flowers and the buzzing of bees.”

Octavia gave her an ugly glare before slumping down to the floor and massaging her aching stomach. Her fellow captive’s morose attitude had begun to grate on her over the past few days…or rather, what she perceived as the past few days; the windowless cell they were trapped in allowed her no frame of reference.

“Ugh,” Octavia groaned as her gut roiled once again. The ship was rocking more violently than ever before, but she had nothing left to expel, coughing and spluttering as her insides tightened and released without mercy. After an indeterminate amount of time, the sickening motions subsided, and she decided to try her hoof at standing. Octavia had always made a point of keeping in shape, but it was purely for the sake of cosmetics; she was not especially fit in any meaningful sense, and several days without digesting any food had taken their toll, her weakened limbs feeling shaky and wobbly as she finally righted herself.

“I would save your strength if I were you,” the griffoness commented.

Octavia stumbled over to the wall opposite her glum companion and sat down, propping herself against it. She looked at the creature through watery, bloodshot eyes. Beatrix was a bit on the small side for a griffon female, but to a pony she still looked large and imposing. Her feathers were black, fading into tan fur as her body transitioned from bird of prey to predatory cat. Her expression was stony and she sat with immaculate posture, an aloof and stubborn being. The only element missing from this perfect representation of griffon pride was her wings. They had been stripped of all feathers, reduced to a pair of skinny, pink nubs tucked defensively against her body.

“Any ideas on how we could get out of here?” Octavia asked casually.

“What is the use?” Beatrix shrugged, “we get out of this room, we are on ship in middle of ocean. You are weak, and I cannot fly. If we stay here, at least we might live.”

“And what then?” the gray mare prompted, slouching down further in defeat.

“Well…” the griffoness put a talon to her chin as she thought for a moment, “we dock in zebra country. These dogs,” she tilted her head upward, indicating the traders who ran the ship, “they sell us. You are a pony, and quite beautiful. You will fetch a fine price. Are you virgin?”

“No!” Octavia practically shouted, reacting to both how disgustingly intrusive the question was and how casually it was asked.

“Shame,” Beatrix said nonchalantly, not acknowledging the mare’s anger, “if you were, you might be concubine. Have good life. Have servants. But no, you will probably be prostitute.”

“Lovely. And you?”

“Hard to say,” the griffoness scratched her beak, “I am strong; If I am lucky, I become soldier. Zebra tribes, they fight all the time. They need soldiers. I will die in battle, but I will die well-fed. If I am unlucky, I become laborer. I die from starvation or heat stroke.”

“You say all this as if you’re okay with it,” Octavia frowned.

“I come from small village in badlands, north of Griffon Kingdom. Full of diamond dogs. I am used to these things.”

“I’ve met several diamond dogs,” the mare protested, “and none of them were half as barbaric as all that.”

The griffon responded with a throaty chuckle, terrifying in how genuinely mirthful it was.

“You Equestrians, you know nothing of the world,” Beatrix condescended, still laughing, “I have seen the little creatures you call diamond dogs. Civilized, domesticated. What is worst they do? Steal gems?” she practically cackled, “no. Diamond dogs – real ones – they steal griffon chicks out of cradle, cook them alive, eat, and then leave bones on mother’s doorstep just for laugh.”

“That’s utterly disgusting.”

“That is the world. This,” Beatrix gestured broadly, “is the world. Your god-empress, she is smart pony. Make allies with surrounding nations; help them build up, secure their loyalties, use them as shields. You Equestrians are protected from all sides by other peoples. You know no hardship, know no fear. Your armies mobilize when little filly skins knee. I have no doubt they search for you right now. I have no doubt they make griffons search for you too. If we are rescued, it is not because they were looking for me.”

Octavia was silent, hoping the conversation would not continue, and neither would the systematic shattering of her worldview that had occurred over the past few days. There were shouts from above, and Beatrix snapped her head up, listening intently. Octavia couldn’t understand a word of Griffic, and even if she could the voices were muffled and she was distracted by the backflips her stomach was doing as the ship began rocking more violently than ever. The hull creaked and groaned as she clutched her midsection, body wracked by dry heaves.

“Storm is getting worse, much worse,” the griffoness commented, the uncertainty in her normally authoritative tone disconcerting.

“Well,” Octavia panted, “maybe it will put me out of my misery.” The statement was punctuated by more gagging.

“I saw how you struggled when they threw you in here,” Beatrix said accusatorily. “You screamed and banged on door. You cried. You cry still before sleep. Do not pretend you welcome death.”

“Do you understand what sarcasm is, Beatrix?”

“In my country we do not have sarcasm,” the griffoness deadpanned.

“I just came from your country, and I daresay tha-” Octavia stopped short as her stony companion began to chuckle heartily, somewhat comforted by the fact that even in her current state, she was quite capable of feeling like an idiot. “Very funny,” she rolled her bloodshot eyes.

“I am glad you agree,” Beatrix beamed. She had a surprisingly friendly smile, it just wasn’t something she chose to display very often.

“So,” the mare breathed as her nausea momentarily subsided, “how did you get in this mess? You don’t strike me as the type who’d end up here without a fight.”

“It is my own fault,” the griffoness admitted with some shame. “I come to city for work. Get good job, send money to family. City griffons, they drink like fish. I drink too much, fall asleep in street, wake up here. No chance to fight.” From the look of her, if Beatrix had been able to fight, both their situations might be different now. “You?” she prompted.

“I was on holiday…with my fillyfriend,” Octavia explained. “We just released an album and came into a good bit of money from it, and, well, we decided to take some much-needed personal time. She…she was going to propose…”

“This is strange custom. Griffons do not tell their hens when they will ask for claw in marriage.”

“She didn’t tell me, per se,” Octavia smiled sadly, her gaze cast downward, “it was an unspoken promise.” When she looked back up, Beatrix wore a forlorn expression.

“Your love bleeds from your eyes,” she said, softly but sternly, “it pours from your voice. You must learn to hide it, or they will use it to hurt you. You will never see her again; you must accept this if you want to survive.”

“No. I’d rather die.”

The griffon was about to say something else, when more shouting filtered down from the decks above, and Octavia got that funny feeling in the pit of her stomach one gets when falling.

“Brace yourself!” Beatrix shouted, digging her claws into the wooden floor. Octavia had no claws and absolutely nothing nearby to grab onto, and was about to point this out when she was tossed across the small room like a ragdoll. Her ears were filled with the rumble of thunder and the sharp crack of splintering wood as the entire world seemed to turn itself upside down. She let out an “oof!” as she hit the opposite wall and the wind was knocked out of her, sliding to the floor, lacking the energy to stop herself from rolling back again as the ship tilted in the other direction. Something stopped her, however, and she realized that Beatrix was gripping her leg with one set of talons, the other firmly planted in the floorboards, keeping them both anchored. When the boat finally settled, water was leaking from beneath the cabin door, as well as spurting from several points in the wall.

“W-what’s happening?” the gray mare stammered.

“What do you think?” the griffoness barked. She hurried to the door and began tapping on it, listening to the sounds it produced. After a moment she pointed to a spot near the hinges. “Wood here is weak, kick it.”

“Why?”

“Stop pretending to be stupid!” Beatrix shouted, “ship is going to sink. If we do not get out, we do not have chance! I cannot do it myself; griffon is not made to kick. You are earth pony, have strong legs. Break the door!”

Octavia had never been much for bucking, and in her weakened state she could barely stand. Her first attempt sent her hooves ricocheting off the smooth surface and she fell on her stomach with a groan. The second was slightly less embarrassing, but even then the door barely gave. After the third, she felt utterly drained, and slumped to the floor, panting and coughing.

“I can’t,” she whimpered, even as the churning of the storm began to take hold again. Her fatigued mind noted that water was beginning to pool all around her.

“If you want to see her again, you will!” the griffoness shouted, probably quite frustrated and frightened that her only salvation lay in talking a small pony out of a depression.

“You said it yourself,” Octavia choked, tasting the pooling salt water as she spoke, “I never will.”

“And when you are finally reunited in afterlife, how will you tell her that you did not even try?”

The door to the small cabin splintered, and its two inhabitants were greeted by utter chaos. Griffon traders rushed frantically about in a chest-high pool of water that was ever-rising. They desperately tried to staunch the flow from two large breaches in the ship’s hull, to say nothing of all the smaller leaks that were springing up on all sides. They didn’t notice – or just as likely, didn’t care – that their captives had broken free, and Beatrix bowled through them, knocking bodies aside as she charged up the stairs with an utterly spent Octavia clinging to her back. They reached the deck, and only then did the gravity of the situation sink in. The ship’s masts had been annihilated. The sky spun and churned, ripped and torn by flashes of lightning that sent deafening walls of noise crashing over their ears.

Octavia, hanging onto consciousness by a thread, looked up in abject terror as the water rose above them as a cliff juts up from the earth, a ponderously vast wall that was about to fall and obliterate everything in its wake. Beatrix was staring at it too, and she bowed her head, whispering a prayer to whatever gods griffons worship.

Pushed, pulled, compacted and stretched, the little pony felt her body whipped about, losing all sense of direction. Undefined objects struck her from all sides, jabbing and ripping at her tender flesh. She screamed, a soundless release of horror that was swept away by the pitiless ocean. It was a kind of fear she’d never felt before, the feeling of being at the mercy of a titanic, soulless force. She tried to scream again, but water filled her lungs and throat, the salt burning her insides. There was a terrible, terrible pain in one of her forelegs as something sharp dug into it, but it pulled her in one particular direction. Suddenly her head breached the water, and her body convulsed, expelling the liquid that filled her. Octavia gasped and spluttered before going under again. The pain in her leg exploded as it yanked her to the surface once more, and her stinging eyes saw Beatrix, one claw dug into a floating chunk of wood. The other claw, she realized, was sunk into her leg. The griffoness pulled her in, and the gray mare held onto her with every last ounce of strength as the sea frothed and boiled around them.

They rose and fell sickeningly with the waves, clinging to what might have been the only fragment of their former prison that hadn’t been sent to the depths. The water settled for a moment, and Octavia once again felt the sensation of falling in her gut as the sea itself seemed to be draining away. There was a distant roar, and she knew what was coming. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, and thought of Vinyl.

Octavia did not open her eyes; she simply concentrated on her other senses. She was warm, delightfully warm. She could feel the rise and fall of another’s breathing. She could smell a delicious concoction of sweat, booze, and sex. She was not lost amidst a raging sea, but rather wrapped around the pony whose touch she had yearned for in her dream. The gray mare reflected with bemusement that it was now in sleep she found horror and in waking found relief. It was only a very present knowledge of everything she had done to get here that kept her from wondering if this was in fact the dream, or even the afterlife. More than ever she felt sympathy for Vinyl, who did not have the luxury of such concrete assurances, and was still unconvinced anything that had happened in the past few days was real. She could tell by the way those cerise eyes constantly searched her, looking for any crack or inconsistency that might betray her as a dream or hallucination.

She suddenly noticed the distinct aroma of fresh cigarette smoke in the air, and realized that the pony in question was not asleep.

“Vinyl,” she said reproachfully, “you’ll get ash in the bed!”

Vinyl started with a “whoa,” jumping out of Octavia’s arms and twisting around to face her in one surprisingly fluid motion. “Tavi!”

“Surprised to see me?” the gray mare chuckled.

“No,” the DJ countered, slightly defensive, “just didn’t think you were awake.”

“How did you get out of bed and grab cigarettes without waking me up?” Octavia inquired curiously.

“I didn’t,” Vinyl pointed toward the front of the bed, “I keep a pack wedged between the mattress and the headboard. Got some drinks and snacks in there too if you want ‘em.”

“You’re like a vice-prone squirrel, Vinyl.”

The unicorn ignored that comment, busy magicking various objects out from the crack at the head of the bed.

“I’ve got juice boxes…peanuts…okay, wow, that should not be near the food…and half a bottle of…absinthe? Huh.”

“I’ll take the juice, the liquor, and one of those smokes, if you don’t mind,” Octavia said, amusement growing as her fillyfriend continued to pull ever more improbable items out of her stash. Vinyl forked over the requested refreshments.

“Well,” the cellist giggled, taking a sip from the bottle of greenish liquid and washing it down with some lukewarm fruit punch, “I suppose this is a slumber party now.” She put the cigarette to her lips, realizing she’d have to get up and find a lighter, but that concern was rendered moot as Vinyl sparked her horn, igniting the tip. “Ah…I’d forgotten how convenient unicorns are. Anyway, why are you still awake?” the earth mare asked, eyes trained on her partner’s after having finally adjusted to the moonlight that spilt through the room’s only window.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Vinyl stated plainly, taking a long drag.

“Well, yes, that’s a given. Something on your mind?” It was a dumb question with an obvious answer, but it carried the conversation.

“Yeah, a lot of things,” Vinyl sighed, “but let’s not talk about that right now, I’m trying to go a whole twenty-four hours without a complete nervous breakdown. Can we just talk about something happy?”

“Well I did have one question,” Octavia tapped her chin.

“Yeah?”

“How’s your career been? If the enthusiasm of your fans and our little session earlier are any indication, it seems you’ve been doing quite well.”

“Yeah, actually, it’s been pretty good,” Vinyl admitted. “After…you know…I kinda stopped making music for a while. I didn’t even touch my tables for like, six months…”

Octavia couldn’t imagine her fillyfriend staying away from the studio for more than a day, let alone months.

“Around that time Lyra and Bonnie were still staying here with me, and they were really hounding me to see a therapist. Like, every freakin’ day. I needed a way to get away from them, so I’d just lock myself in the studio, put on some tunes, and get drunk. I didn’t wanna make music without you, Tavi, but I hope you underst-”

“Vinyl, if you finish that ridiculous sentence, I will slap you.”

“Anyway,” the DJ continued, clearing her throat, “One day I was listening to this record by some guy I can’t even remember, just something I had picked up on a whim at the music shop. It was all down-tempo electronic stuff with this really grating, distorted bass and all these screeching noises…”

“So…dubstep?” Octavia queried.

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d…well, anyway, it was terrible. It sounded like a cartload of cats being throttled in a steel mill. But I kept thinking about how I could fix it – like, take the concept and make some decent tracks out of it – and finally I decided to give it a shot. Once I got back to work I couldn’t stop, and well, yeah, I knocked out about twenty songs in three months. I was still under contract with our old label, so the album came out and everypony seemed to like it.”

“Octaves?”

“How’d you figure that out…?”

“That filly who was fangirling over you in the restaurant mentioned it,” Octavia explained, “and you said it was over eleven years old. By that account, it had to have been your first solo album. I like the title, by the way.”

“Yeah…I can’t do subtlety,” Vinyl smiled grimly. “Anyway, after that I just kept cranking out a couple albums a year an-”

“A couple *a *year?”**

“Hey,” the unicorn shrugged, “you’d be surprised how productive I can be with no friends, no sex life, and a limitless supply of booze. Also Neon helped produce a lot of it.”

“That’s horribly depressing, Vinyl, and I hope you’re exaggerating,” Octavia knitted her brow.

“I know,” Vinyl rolled her eyes, “he can’t mix at all.”

“So,” the gray mare began, choosing to believe that last bit had been a joke, “can I hear some of it?”

“You already did,” the DJ told her, “that song we played earlier was one of my favorites…meaning the ones I don’t hate.”

“It was lovely,” Octavia said earnestly, “would you mind playing me the album track?”

“Uhh…” Vinyl rubbed a hoof along the back of her neck and through her mane, “you mean, you wanna just, like, sit here and listen to my music? Tavi, that feels kinda weird.”

“Why?”

“Cuz it’s all…emotional and stuff.”

“And?” Octavia demanded incredulously, “You’ve been ‘all emotional and stuff’ since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Yeah, well,” Vinyl was practically squirming, “it’s like, c’mon, you know?”

“Vinyl Scratch,” the gray mare said sternly, pausing for emphasis and to take another swig out of her bottle, “if you are honestly going to tell me that I can’t listen to your music, you’d better have a good reason as to why.”

“Tavi, please,” Vinyl buried her face in a pillow, pleading for a change of subject. Octavia suddenly realized that this was not simple embarrassment; it was very intense and pronounced discomfort. Whatever the issue was, pressing it now would benefit neither of them; the music wasn’t going anywhere, and there would be time for it later when things had calmed down.

“I’m sorry, love,” she massaged Vinyl’s shoulder apologetically, “never mind that. Let’s just talk about something else, yeah?” The unicorn simply remained face down in the pillow, far too tense, offering no alternative points of conversation. Octavia moved into a better position, her massaging going from casually affectionate to intently purposeful. As her hooves set to work trying to iron out the warzone of knots that was Vinyl’s back, she wondered: what could they talk about? Were there any elements of their lives – past, present or future – that wouldn’t inevitably lead to old wounds or things that one or both of them simply were not yet ready to discuss? Now that she thought about it, the only two recent memories in which things hadn’t devolved into sobs and apologies – namely their intense jam session the night before, and the equally-intimate and only-slightly-less-noisy romp in the bed that followed – had been the times when they hadn’t been trying to talk things out. Octavia reflected sadly that such difficulty conversing was to be expected after such a long time apart, but a solid chunk of her mind questioned if they’d ever been so spectacular at verbal communication in the first place. When she pressed her memory, she couldn’t recall any particularly compelling or successful instances of herself and Vinyl sitting down and hashing things out with words. Such attempts typically resulted in yelling, music, sex, or some combination thereof. No matter what the result, it would ruin the neighbors’ evening. The present situation was a case when passion simply couldn’t solve everything; sooner or later she would need to explain a lot of things, and hoped to receive some explanations in turn, but maybe for the time being they both just needed to shut their mouths in favor of a more…familiar language. A sudden moan from her partner as she kneaded a particularly tight spot punctuated the thought.

Octavia had just begun to debate whether or not this massage might evolve into something more amatory when Vinyl made an executive decision by falling soundly asleep, letting out a loud but peaceful snore. The gray mare stifled a giggle at how sudden and final it was. Rather than move and risk waking the slumbering DJ, she simply sank down and laid her head on Vinyl’s back. It was probably for the best; tomorrow was going to be a trying day, and they needed all the rest they could get. She yawned and closed her eyes, letting the gentle rhythm of breathing lull her into unconsciousness as well.

The absinthe rendered Octavia’s dreams hazy and vague. She lay on a sandy shore awash in orange and yellow light, crimson tide washing over her and carrying with it splintered wood and a few stray, black feathers. She felt eyes on her from above, but upon looking up, the harsh pyre of dawn was eclipsed by a midnight blue that faded to ebony, and then to a thoughtless oblivion that would remain until the real sun rose.

Recent years had not afforded Octavia melody much practice in cooking, however they had lent themselves to the honing of certain other skills, hoof-eye coordination and cutting things being among them. Even though she’d struggled not to burn the omelet, the prep time had been cut practically in half due to the swiftness with which she was able to dice all the ingredients. As she sat down to breakfast and a mug of coffee – she’d thought about making tea instead, but had decided against it lest she feel like a walking Trottingham stereotype – she felt a pang of guilt for leaving Vinyl asleep after promising not to, but figured the note and grilled cheese sandwich she’d left on the nightstand would be sufficient evidence of her presence. She just couldn’t stay in bed any longer; anticipation of the day’s plans had given her a lot to think about, something that shouldn’t be done on an empty stomach. For the first time in a long time, Octavia felt nervous – not worried like she felt about Vinyl, just anxious. She had begun to question how well-advised it was for the two of them to just show up on her parents’ doorstep with no forewarning. Philharmonica and Baritone Melody were certainly getting on in years, and she didn’t want to cause them undue stress or, Celestia forbid, heart attacks. Still, was there any better way? A call might soften the blow, but there was a chance – slim though it was – that they might not even believe it was actually her. The idea of a letter seemed callous and impersonal.

No, going to see them was the most direct and honest way of going about a reunion. They were adults, they would want to know as soon as possible, and they could handle it; she’d already delayed seeing them longer than was probably fair. Octavia couldn’t imagine that seeing their daughter again would cause her parents anything but joy. She wished she could wonder why she was actually feeling nervous, but she knew the answer: they would have questions, a lot of them, and she would not be able to deflect them as easily as she had done with Vinyl thus far.

Vinyl obviously wanted to know exactly what she’d been through, and Octavia had every intention of telling her…at some point. However, Vinyl was also just happy to have her back; how and why didn’t seem to matter all that much at the moment. Parents, however, were different, and she knew it would be difficult to remain vague enough not to alarm them while offering up enough information that they wouldn’t suspect she was purposefully omitting things. Then there was the matter of her appearance; a few days of hot showers and careful grooming had done wonders for Octavia, and she had removed the piercings from her right ear with a pair of bolt cutters. When she had donned her bowtie this morning, it didn’t look entirely out of place – even though she still felt like it was strangling her – but there was nothing she could do to hide the missing ear and the larger scars on her face and chest. When she thought about it, she didn’t like the idea of hiding them.

In her youth, Octavia had been quite preoccupied with her looks; she’d considered them another mark of her character, just as much as her finely-honed musical talents. In her mind, a mare who kept herself looking good had willpower and discipline. It was partly true, she reasoned now, but it was also partly not. Granted, keeping to a regular diet and exercise regimen required discipline, but when she had wavered in that discipline, she could easily achieve the same effect by sticking a hoof down her throat. Then, of course, the concept was further muddied by ponies like Vinyl, who could live on nothing but carbs and alcohol, and still come out looking fantastic. No, beauty did not imply character…but what about scars? Octavia knew what her scars meant: that she was strong, that she was resilient, that she had grit, determination, and heart. Each one was a mark, a reminder of an instance when she had stood against the odds and emerged victorious, or a time when she had been defeated, but survived and pushed on anyway. Together, they told a story, the story of a spirited young mare with hope and something to live for, who – in the words of an old friend – simply refused to die. Still, that was a story known only to Octavia herself. With dismay, she realized that an outside observer might see the same scars and believe her to be a brawler or a criminal. Such observations might not be entirely inaccurate, but they would be missing many layers of context. No matter what the angle, looks did not imply character; they couldn’t. Actions, however, could and did, and she knew that hiding from family and friends simply to avoid awkward conversations and judgment would speak ill of her.

Though lost in thought, Octavia had been aware on some level of the hoofsteps drawing closer to the kitchen, but her guard was so thoroughly down that she didn’t really register Vinyl’s presence until she actually shuffled into the room, a bottle of barleywine and half a grilled cheese sandwich floating in her aura. The DJ, for her part, was completely oblivious to Octavia’s company until they were looking at each other. She looked…hung over, very badly hung over, but her face brightened as their eyes met. Not saying anything – mostly due to the fact that she was stuffing her face rather ferociously – she walked slowly over to the table and slumped down across from the gray mare.

“You alright, love?” Octavia queried, noticing Vinyl’s sluggishness. She gave no thought to the fact that her fillyfriend was drinking at breakfast; this was not just common, it was routine. A much, much younger Octavia had once fretted over this very thing. It had been a couple years after their graduation, when Vinyl could use her go-to excuse – “hey, we’re in college!” – no longer. The young cellist had insisted that her partner quit drinking after a few particularly rough weeks that had culminated in Vinyl passing out on the deck of their apartment at the time, very nearly freezing to death on a frigid winter’s night. The DJ hadn’t even protested, saying it would be “no problem” and tossing out her impressive collection of liquor as though she couldn’t have cared less. Suffice it to say that Octavia had quickly learned the meaning of the phrase “lesser of two evils”.

Vinyl groaned, taking a long pull off her bottle and ruffling her drooping mane, restoring most of its disheveled, spiky glory, “I’m okay, just wishing Celestia could tone it down for once,” she said finally, squinting.

“It’s not the princess’s fault you overindulged.”

“Oh come now, Octavia,” Vinyl rolled her eyes, arching her brows and adopting a disturbingly flawless Canterlot accent, “don’t start with all that ‘you’re responsible for your own actions’ earth pony nonsense. We unicorns have a rich tradition of blaming our problems on everypony else.”

Octavia snickered, trying not to spill her coffee. One of Vinyl’s most shameful secrets was that she was a child of the Canterlot aristocracy – an ancient, prestigious line of unicorns that had supposedly gone unbroken from the time of Princess Platinum. The veracity of that claim was seriously questionable, but true or not it amounted to the same thing; her family was composed almost entirely of insufferable, lazy, sycophantic nobles who hadn’t hesitated to disown her when she was found to be “fraternizing with an earth pony”. This was another reason Octavia wanted her fillyfriend to accompany her to see her parents: the DJ had no real family of her own, and she had cherished her relationship with the Melodies. The gray mare had a growing suspicion that Neon Lights was the only pony Vinyl had interacted with on any meaningful level for the past three years. She needed to remember who she used to be just as much as Octavia did, and a good spot to start was rebuilding burnt bridges.

“Well,” Octavia swallowed another dainty bite of her breakfast, “please just try and keep it to ‘hair of the dog’ and not another entire dog,” she paused just long enough to reflect that she’d butchered that metaphor, “I’d like to get going in a couple hours at most.”

“Get going?” the unicorn mumbled quizzically, squeezing her eyes shut and massaging her temples.

“My parents, Vinyl,” Octavia reminded, “you know, the ponies you’ve been telling me repeatedly I need to go see?”

“Oh…right,” Vinyl seemed to slump down even further, if that was possible. Even though she didn’t say anything more for a good few minutes, it was very obviously a pause and not the end of the thought. “Tavi, look…” she finally continued, trailing off again momentarily, expecting resistance, but finding none, “I really don’t think I should be there.” It wasn’t the end, but it was a deliberate break, silently inviting Octavia to make her case.

“Was it really that bad? What could you have said that could be so irredeemable?”

“It’s not what I said,” Vinyl admitted, “it’s what I did, or…didn’t do. The fight was bad – I said some vile crap, especially to your mom – but I could’ve fixed it if I’d wanted to. The thing is,” she took another hefty swig of barleywine and sighed, “I didn’t. I abandoned them; I wanted to. I’m pretty sure they know that, and I don’t know how to make up for it. I don’t know if I can.” The confession was followed by a heavy silence.

“I understand love,” the earth mare said finally, “I won’t be angry if you stay home; you know better than I do whether or not that fence can be mended.”

“Thanks, Tavi.”

“But,” Octavia proceeded carefully, “don’t you think it’s worth trying?” Her face brightened at memories that were known only to herself, “you might be surprised at what happens if you just try.”

“Vinyl?”

The mare in question started, nearly losing her telekinetic hold on her drink and cigarette. She’d been so lost in her own head, she hadn’t even noticed Baritone take the chair next to her. The back porch of the Melody family home was bathed in the orange and red hues of the setting sun, and the stallion’s angular features were cast into sharp contrast by the steep angle of the light.

“Oh…uh…where’s…” she stammered.

“Philly had to lie down…or rather Octavia made her. They’re in the bedroom; I think it’s best if those two have some time alone,” he told her, expression somber.

“I wasn’t trying to be a jerk by slipping off,” Vinyl explained hastily, pausing to take a drag, “but you guys seemed…overwhelmed, and besides, this really isn’t my moment, ya know?”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Vinyl,” the gray stallion said, turning to gaze at the colorful sunset.

“She’s your daughter who’s been missing for twelve years,” Vinyl pointed out with slight irritation, “I’m just that bitch who told you to screw off for having the nerve to care about me. You can’t tell me those two things carry the same weight. They shouldn’t. They’d better not.”

“Losing somepony is losing somepony, kid,” Baritone said sadly, “it doesn’t matter how or when it happens; it hurts all the same.”

The unicorn felt a flare of indignation in her chest. Was he seriously implying that their little tiff a few years back was comparable to losing Octavia? She had half a mind to say something nasty, but decided to just let it go. Her petty, trivial little emotions and hang-ups had no place here, not tonight.

“Look,” she groaned in exasperation, “you, me and Philly have some stuff to work out, that’s a given, but let’s just put that on hold for right now. What are you doing out here with me, man? Go be with your daughter. Go be with your wife.”

“It’s been a very draining day, Vinyl,” he sighed, “don’t order me around in my own home.”

“We’re outside.”

It wasn’t a particularly clever response, nor was it even very funny, but for some reason Baritone felt a smile creep across his face and he began to chuckle. Vinyl joined in, and as she did, couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed. After a moment her laughter transitioned into a hacking coughing fit, and she doubled over, lungs straining.

“Ugh…” the DJ groaned, wiping a strand of saliva from her lips. Baritone watched her, brow furrowed with parental concern.

“You’re not twenty anymore,” he said sternly, “I hope you realize that.”

“At least…” Vinyl panted, “at least I haven’t gotten fat.”

“Ah yes, priorities.”

Vinyl’s mind was churning against the growing fog of liquor, trying to come up with a retort, when Baritone spared her the need.

“How is she?” he asked, some measure of hesitance in his voice.

“You tell me,” Vinyl shrugged, “you saw her last, I’ve been out here.”

“You know what I mean,” he sighed, “what has she told you?”

“Not much,” the unicorn exhaled through her teeth, rubbing a hoof along the back of her neck, “and what I’ve heard I just want to forget.”

“What, exactly?”

“No way,” Vinyl held up a hoof adamantly, “that’s for her to tell you, not me, and that’s all I’m saying about it.”

Baritone looked put off, but didn’t press the issue. There was a long silence between them in which both simply stared at the fading light.

“I’m kinda freaked out, Baritone,” Vinyl whispered.

The stallion blinked for a moment before his head snapped in her direction. She never addressed him by name. Ever. It was always either “dude” or “man”. Maybe once in a blue moon she would call him “Barry” as most of his friends and relations did. His actual name, however, had never been spoken by those lips.

“She just…” the DJ thought for a moment, “she seems okay. Too okay. It’s like there’s something missing, or there’s something I’m n–”

Vinyl hastily silenced herself as the back door swung open and the subject of their conversation came trotting out onto the porch. Octavia looked haggard and frazzled, her once impeccably-groomed mane ruffled and slightly damp in places. Saying nothing, she sat down on the deck chair across from them, rubbing her forehead. Her gaze finally met Vinyl’s, and though there were no words between them, none were necessary; the unicorn used her magic to float over a freshly lit cigarette and the rest of her drink. She was sad to see it go, but there was only one glass out here and Octavia needed it more.

“By Celestia’s mane,” the gray mare exhaled, her head drooping, “I didn’t think such a tiny mare could produce so many tears. She must’ve lost half her bodyweight,” she paused for a drag, “I shudder to th–”

“Octavia, what are you doing?” Baritone interjected suddenly, “you don’t smoke, and you shouldn’t.”

“Father,” Octavia said with deliberation, “I just watched Mum sob herself to sleep. Twice. I am in no mood to be parented.”

“Well I’m in no mood to watch the daughter I just got back kill herself.”

Vinyl moaned internally. Not this. Please not this, not right now.

“It’s one bloody cigarette, Dad,” Octavia stared at him incredulously, “do you think I’m just going to keel over where I sit? If that were how it worked I think Vinyl would be dead a few million times over by now.”

“All the same, I won’t have you smoking under my roof,” Baritone stated with finality.

“We’re outside,” Octavia snapped.

“You two are a bleeding hive mind, aren’t you?” the stallion demanded, glancing back and forth between the two mares.

“Yes, Dad, it makes it easier to ascend to the mothership.”

“Yo, guys, cut it out!” Vinyl shouted. Two very intense sets of eyes were suddenly on her, and she blanched slightly, but continued, “look, you’ve got the rest of your freaking lives to fight, so can you just not? Please? Look, I’ve got no right to ask you to shut up,” she said to Baritone before turning to her fillyfriend, “but Tavi, please, just…not now.”

“You’re right, love,” the other mare said gently. She took one last very, very long drag, glaring daggers at her father, then stubbed the cigarette out. “After all, unlike some ponies, I am capable of controlling my temper,” she continued to scowl at the elder Melody, “and exercising some self-control,” she added, smiling wryly at Vinyl before tossing the filter away and then downing the rest of her drink.

Baritone, for his part, resisted saying anything further, but his graying moustache twitched slightly.

Vinyl supposed that in some way it was a testament to the strength and stability of Octavia’s relationship with her father that within hours of seeing each other for the first time in over a decade, they could go back to their usual petty, pointless quibbling as if nothing had ever happened. It would almost be reassuring if it wasn’t so tiring. All three ponies were silent for a bit.

“I’m sorry, Octavia,” Baritone said suddenly, “I’ve no right to treat you like a child.” He buried his head in his hooves. “This is all a bit much, and I hope you understand,” the stallion’s voice cracked, “I just never thought I’d see you again. Either of you,” he gave Vinyl a pained look. Sensing imminent hugging, he wiped his eyes and added “don’t worry, I’m not going to cry. We’ve had enough tears here today.” The two mares eased back into their seats. “Would you girls like some dinner?” he asked after a moment. A certain white unicorn’s eyes widened with anticipation.

“Can you…?”

“Yes, Vinyl,” he laughed, “yes I can.”

Vinyl Scratch was both a self-proclaimed and objectively legitimate connoisseur of grilled cheese sandwiches, being that they were – along with oatburgers and macaroni – one of the only foods she ate on a regular basis. It is with that in mind that one may appreciate the weight of her declaration that Baritone Melody’s grilled cheese sandwiches were the unparalleled best in Equestria, as well as the fact that she’d maintained this opinion unwaveringly for the better part of twenty years. The use of exotic cheeses, olive oil, a touch of balsamic vinegar, and a flat press had always made them something special, but this time, well…

Vinyl sunk her teeth through the crispy, slightly-fried rye bread and into the still-cooling molten center of the sandwich, her eyes dilating with astonishment as she chewed. The sun was nearly gone, the long shadows that stretched across the deck and the surrounding garden slowly fading to darkness. Vinyl was only vaguely aware of the two lamplit faces watching hers from across the table as she chewed carefully, one with barely restrained amusement, and the other with intense scrutiny as his craft was judged.

“Brie…”

“Yes.”

“Roquefort…”

“Indeed.”

“And…what is that?” she breathed, swallowing slowly.

“Wensleydale.”

“It’s…beautiful,” Vinyl wiped an errant tear from one cheek. Baritone smiled with satisfaction and Octavia looked a bit put out.

“Thanks for raising the bar, Dad,” she grumbled.

“You’ll just have to try a bit harder in the kitchen,” the stallion condescended half-jokingly.

“Judging from her expression, I’ll have to try a bit harder in the bedroom,” his daughter lamented.

“Octavia!”

“Hey,” Vinyl sniggered, “it’s a good sandwich, but it ain’t that good.”

“Oh stop it, both of you!” Baritone was practically covering his ears. The two mares chuckled impishly. The Melody patriarch refused to join in any mirth related to this particular topic, joke or not, but he couldn’t bring himself to look too cross. “So,” he continued after a moment, attempting nonchalance, “now that you two are back together and safe and sound, when do I get my grandchildren?”

Vinyl groaned, but Octavia’s face became very concerned, and she leaned over the table, gazing intently at her father.

“Dad,” she said gently, “there’s something you need to know.” Baritone perked up anxiously at the gravity in her voice.

“And that is?”

Octavia sighed heavily. “Vinyl’s a girl,” she told him, her severe expression unwavering. The aforementioned mare nearly fell out of her seat laughing.

“So?!” Baritone demanded indignantly.

“I know you’re getting old, Dad,” Octavia continued with brilliantly affected sympathy, “but you do remember how kids happen, yeah?”

“Oh don’t give me that nonsense!” the elder Melody huffed as his daughter cracked a smirk, “she’s a unicorn!”

Vinyl, who had calmed down by now, eyed him quizzically. “Uh…sorry, but horns don’t do that. Trust me, if they did, my life would’ve turned out very differently.” Octavia snickered at the implication.

“Would you both stop treating me like I’m senile? There must be a spell or something.”

Vinyl shrugged.

“Well, you should look into it,” Baritone asserted.

“Even if that spell exists, I’m like the least magical unicorn ever…I can levitate stuff and that’s basically it.”

“Well, the–”

“Father,” Octavia interjected with exasperation, “honestly! Can we at least wait a few days before you begin with the badgering and outlandish demands and…insistence on reproduction?”

“Very well,” the stallion conceded, “I should be going to bed anyway.” He slowly rose from his seat.

“It’s ten after seven, Dad,” Octavia said incredulously.

“Yes, and I’m old,” Baritone replied with a chuckle, “you’re welcome to your room if you two don’t feel like walking all the way back home.”

They said their goodnights, Vinyl squirming when she received a kiss on the forehead. The two mares were left in silence. Neither of them really knew what to say; Baritone had always been good at bringing up uncomfortable topics. At length Octavia spoke.

“I don’t know whether to find it comforting or annoying that he hasn’t changed one bit.”

Vinyl lit another cigarette.

“If you’re giving yourself the choice, go with comforting, I guess. How’s your mom?”

The gray mare sighed heavily and slumped a bit in her chair.

“She’s…the same, but not. You know how fragile she is. I’m afraid the years have taken a greater toll on her than the rest of us.”

In her youth, Vinyl Scratch had always had trouble comprehending how Philharmonica Melody could be so delicate, both mentally and physically. She could be brought to tears at the slightest provocation, was constantly anxious in social situations, and tired very easily. The young unicorn had gone so far as to consider her “unstable”. Now, however, all Vinyl could feel was the crushing, vicarious ache of empathy, and disgust with herself, both for her cruel words on that awful night three years prior, and for completely failing to understand someone who had been so dear to her, someone who – deep down – she was uncomfortably similar to.

“When she’s feeling better, I want to apologize…if she’ll let me,” the DJ murmered. Octavia rose, trotting over and sitting down on her haunches next to her unicorn counterpart.

“She already forgives you, Vinyl,” she reassured, resting a hoof on top of her partner’s.

“She shouldn’t.”

Though Philharmonica had been unable to speak any decipherable words to Vinyl, many hugs, kisses, and copious tears had already told her what Octavia had just confirmed: she’d been forgiven, probably long ago…assuming the elder mare had ever been angry at her to begin with, which didn’t seem likely the more Vinyl considered it.

“Well, she does,” Octavia stated simply, “and I do hope you’ll sit down and catch up with her soon, she’s been very worried about you.”

“Y-yeah,” Vinyl sniffled, feeling her downcast eyes grow wet with simultaneous shame and relief.

“Now, now,” the gray mare cooed gently, “remember what my father said? We’ve had enough tears tonight. Why don’t we go have a proper dinner? You need something in you besides just bread and cheese.”

“Can’t we just stay here? We went out last night.”

“Very well,” Octavia relented, a slightly amused, slightly worried smile tugging at the corners of her mouth upon hearing this pony say those words. It became quickly apparent that Vinyl had caught it, as she quickly changed her tune.

“No, you know what?” the DJ said, visibly steeling herself, “you’re right, we should go do something. I don’t want to just sit here feeling sad, let’s go out.”

“Vinyl, we don’t have to.”

“It didn’t kill me last night and it won’t tonight, let’s do it.”

“We could just go back to the same place we ate last night,” Octavia suggested as the two mares trotted through the streets of Canterlot, “the food was excellent, and we had privacy.”

“Nah,” Vinyl laughed dismissively, receiving another hoofbump from a random passerby, “I haven’t been around Southspire in ages.”

Octavia sighed inwardly. Southspire, as its name implied, was the area around the southernmost towers of the city walls, however it was better known among the citizens who didn’t frequent it as The Clubbing District; consisting mostly of night clubs, bars, and the majority of Canterlot’s less-traditional dining establishments, it had a bit of a reputation, and not a particularly favorable one. Despite being a classical musician by trade, Octavia was well-acquainted with the place. Whereas her solo career had been confined to the concert halls and theatres of the city proper, Southspire was where she and Vinyl had originally gained a hoofhold as a two-mare act. It wasn’t a bad place necessarily, just a bit more rough-and-tumble than the rest of the city. Her trepidation had nothing to do with fear for her own wellbeing, and everything to do with a suspicion that Vinyl was leaving her comfort zone and venturing back into her old haunt on principle rather than out of any actual desire.

At the corner of two vaguely familiar streets, Octavia followed her fillyfriend through the tinted glass doors of a hip-looking bistro, the colorful neon sign perched atop the building flanked by two angular, brightly-lit buttresses that she very much doubted had any structural function. She couldn’t make out what the sign said from this angle, but it certainly wasn’t a place she remembered. The lights outside, however, were nothing compared to those within. It was like some gaudy parody of the kind of upscale restaurants one generally found in the downtown area of Canterlot; the walls were veneered in what appeared to be multicolored faux-marble, which just ended up looking muddy in the dim but equally-colorful lighting. Molded plastic accents, painted in metallic colors lined their edges. The tables were clad in black cloth and set with neon-colored flatware, each sporting enchanted candles that gave off different shades of light. Octavia had never claimed to have an eye for design – she was a musician and she kept both her dress and her decorating simple and modest – but even she could see that this place was visually offensive on a near-objective level.

“Scratch!” an enthusiastic shout pierced through the din of dining patrons, “what in Equestria are you doing here?”

“I missed you, ya big fruit,” Vinyl chuckled, giving Neon Lights a one-legged hug. Suddenly Octavia understood exactly why they’d made the trek all the way across town just to go to this one silly-looking eatery. Vinyl wasn’t putting on airs, she just missed her friend – the one friend who had kept her company through so many troubled years, and the one Octavia surmised may have been the only pony the reclusive DJ had seen in any meaningful sense since the falling-out with her parents. No doubt after what he saw three nights ago, Neon probably figured he’d do well to avoid bothering Vinyl, and she’d just wanted to come and say hi. It was so heartwarmingly simple a motivation that Octavia could feel herself tearing up a bit.

She suddenly realized Neon Lights was walking toward her. He was wearing a sequined suit and matching tie, as well as a pair of shades very similar to Vinyl’s. Though not nearly as long, his disheveled, spiky mane was rather similar in style as well, though much darker in color.

“Hey, Octavia,” he held out a hoof, “you probably don’t remem–”

“It’s good to see you again, Neon,” the cellist said warmly, giving him a hug. When their gazes once again met, she could see his surprise even behind his glasses.

“I…you too, it’s been forever,” he grinned, “last time I saw you was at graduation. I almost thought you might make an honest mare out of Scratch here…then I remembered she’s too shady to ever be an honest mare.”

“You come up with that one all by yourself, buddy?” Vinyl queried condescendingly.

“Anyway,” Neon ignored her and continued, “how’d you do it?”

“Do what?” Octavia countered, unsure if he was asking what she thought he was.

“Get her outta that house?” he nodded toward the white unicorn.

“Oh,” Octavia laughed with relief, “well, you know, one just has to find the right words when dealing with stubborn mares.”

“You got some words I don’t?” Neon asked in earnest, “because I swear I tried every one in the dictionary.”

“Dude, please stop trying to make jokes…” Vinyl whined. Neon once again ignored her admonishment, regarding Octavia’s attire.

“That’s an awesome jacket, by the way,” he commented, prodding the flared collar of her leather coat with a hoof, “I like the new look; very metal.”

“Hey, man, how about you feed us?” Vinyl interjected quickly.

“Oh…oh yeah, totally!” the stallion’s face lit up, as if he only just remembered he was the proprietor of this establishment, and was quite thrilled about it. “C’mon, I’ll seat you myself, everything’s on the house.”

The VIP booth, while done up in entirely too much multicolored velvet, was much less chromatically chaotic than the rest of Neon’s restaurant – the name of which was revealed, upon Octavia’s inquiry, to be just that – Neon’s. Apparently the eponymous stallion had decided a few years ago that he lacked the chops to make it in the music industry, and decided to open a bistro in Southspire, a place he frequented to the point of more or less being a resident, despite the fact that nobody actually lived there.

“Couldn’t have done it without Scratch though,” Neon admitted gratefully. At both mares’ insistence he’d stayed to chat a bit, despite clearly feeling as though he was intruding.

“Is that so?” Octavia wondered, smiling at her fillyfriend.

“Yeah. I asked if she could drop the name of the place in an interview,” the stallion continued, scratching the back of his neck, “little did I know she started dropping it in every interview. Business kicked off so fast I could barely keep up. I wanted to start out small and slow, you know, learn the ropes and all, but instead I got a crash course in running a business. Turns out I’m pretty good at it.”

“Now if you could only learn how to decorate,” Vinyl chided.

“Hey, being flashy’s the whole gimmick.”

“There’s ‘flashy,’ and then there’s ‘eyesore.’ You need to learn the difference.”

“I thought this place had your ‘stamp of approval,’” Neon smirked.

“You know, if I’d ever actually been here, I would’ve made you redecorate before I said that.”

Upon arriving back in Canterlot, Octavia had naturally assumed that Vinyl and neon were seeing each other, but as the evening wore on, she realized that could never be the case; their relationship was much more akin to that of an older sister and a younger brother. Vinyl teased him incessantly, sometimes going a bit too far, however he obviously understood – whether through wisdom or experience – not to take her too seriously.

“Aww c’mon, Scratch, you said you’d never tell anypony about that,” the stallion lamented.

“I only told her,” the DJ shrugged, tilting her head toward Octavia. Neon still looked entirely put out. Vinyl reached over the table and ruffled his mane playfully. “Aww, you know I love you,” she said in a simpering voice that became steadily sillier, “you know I wuv you!”

“Cut it out.” He brushed her off in exasperation, as if it was something he had to do frequently. Octavia simply watched the spectacle in silent amusement.

“So,” Vinyl prompted in a slightly more serious tone, “what’ve you been up to the past few days? You look tired.”

“Eh, nothing great…had to send one of my waitresses on a little unpaid vacation for being drunk on the job. I mean, everypony’s a little bit lit here, but she’s got a problem. You can’t be dropping plates and spilling drinks on customers, and I gave her plenty of warnings.”

“Wait, you didn’t just can her?” Vinyl slurred slightly, raising her eyebrows.

“Nah, I couldn’t,” Neon shook his head, “she doesn’t deserve that. Sometimes good people end up in bad situations,” his gaze drifted toward the floor, “I’m hoping she can get it together and like, come back…maybe live a normal life again, you know?”

A silence fell on the room, one which Octavia wasn’t quite sure Vinyl was sober enough to grasp the weight of.

“Anyway,” The DJ broke it with absolutely no grace, but soldiered on with the kind of oblivious confidence that only drunk ponies possess, “how about you bring me another drink?”

“C-C’mon Scratch, you’ve had like…ten.”

Vinyl scowled.

“So?” she demanded.

“So, like, take it easy, huh?” It was painfully obvious that Neon was neither used to nor comfortable with putting any kind of limits on Vinyl’s behavior, and it momentarily became obvious why. The white mare’s eyes went cold as she stared him down.

“You know the deal, Neon.”

“I…I don’t see how that deal applies anymore,” the stallion replied with a little more confidence, tilting his head ever-so-slightly toward Octavia.

“Whatever,” Vinyl snarled, “it’s your place. I can take my business elsewhere.”

“What business? You aren’t paying for any of this.”

“C’mon Tavi,” she waved a hoof toward the door, “let’s go to the bar.”

Octavia wasn’t sure what to think, and so said nothing, rising from her seat. She was debating whether to call Vinyl on this obvious overreaction, when a subtle gesture from Neon caught the corner of her vision.

“Wait,” he mouthed.

“C’mon Tavi, we aren’t getting any younger,” the white mare looked over her shoulder, swaying slightly.

“I’ll be along in a moment, love, just need to gather my things,” Octavia fibbed.

“’Kay, meet you outside,” Vinyl grumbled, her eyes looking right through Neon as she turned to leave, pretending he wasn’t there. When she was gone the stallion sighed heavily. He removed his shades, rubbing his eyes, and when his gaze met Octavia’s for the first time in many, many years, she could see how tired he was. This was not the kind of tired that came from dealing with unruly employees or running an unexpectedly successful business; this was the kind of tired that spoke of too much worry for far too long – the kind that belied a chronic and persistent lack of rest.

“It’s all fun and games,” he chuckled mirthlessly, “until you try to get her to stop drinking.”

“Have you ever seen her try to stop?” Octavia asked earnestly.

“Yeah…once,” Neon admitted, massaging his temples, “about three years ago. For whatever reason, Scratch got it in her head that she needed to sober up. Look, some people…I get why she does it, is what I’m trying to say. It used to be a solution…not the best solution, but a solution. It’s gotten out of hoof though – like, way, way out. That’s why I had to get her out of here and talk to you for a sec.”

“You knew she’d react this way?”

“Scratch thinks I’m dumb,” he said with another humorless laugh, “and I probably am, but I know her like the back of my hoof. You can’t tell her what to do, but you can make her do what you want if you know what to say.”

Octavia considered this for a moment. She’d never been one for manipulation, but she supposed that someone who didn’t have the same sway over Vinyl as she did would have to use any tactic available.

“She won’t speak to me for a few days,” Neon continued wearily, “then a week from now it’ll be like nothing ever happened.” He picked up his own drink and downed the rest of it, letting the glass hit the table a little too hard.

“I can’t keep her waiting too long, Neon.”

“Right, right,” the stallion shook his head, collecting his thoughts, “look, Octavia, I’m not going to pretend I know you well, and what little I do might not even apply anymore. I don’t know what you’ve been through, and I’m never gonna ask you…but I know what Scratch thinks of you. I’ve never seen anything like it, honestly. If there’s one mare on this planet who could get her to turn her life around, it’s you.”

“I can’t control her any more than you can, Neon.”

“B-But,” he spluttered incredulously, “yes, yes you can.”

“Let me rephrase that, then,” the gray mare responded coolly, “I don’t want to control her. That’s not how it works and it never has been.”

“Look, listen,” Neon set his hooves on the table, eyes narrowing in irritation. The easygoing, meek stallion from earlier was gone; his countenance was hard and weathered, and when he spoke, it was as though he was laying out the terms of some kind of deal. “You’ve been back for a few days. I don’t know what you’ve been doing, I don’t know what she’s told you, and I don’t need to; it’s none of my business. What I do know is that you haven’t seen what I’ve seen. You’ve seen Scratch for three days, and I’m betting she’s happier than she’s ever been in her entire life…all during what is, quite frankly, a good year. This?” he waved a hoof at the clutter of mugs, glasses, and bottles that littered the table, “this is foal’s play. When she loses it again, you’ll see what I’m talking about. It’s a cycle that repeats and repeats and repeats, and every time it does, it gets a little worse. I have spent years of my life scraping that girl off the floor like a spent piece of chewing gum only to watch her fall right back down again. Your two friends? The harpist and the candy maker? They don’t come around anymore. They couldn’t deal with it. Nopony could…nopony except me.”

It was at this point that Octavia quietly began to reassess exactly what the nature of this relationship was.

“One by one, she pushed them all away, every last one, except me, because I wouldn’t go away. Look, I get it, you’ve probably been through hell, but I’m at the end of my rope and I just don’t have any tears left for you. So don’t tell me there’s nothing you can do,” the statement was sharply punctuated by his hoof pounding against the table, “and don’t tell me that’s just the way she is,” and again, “because you owe me. Whatever happened to you, you still got to come home to Vinyl…you still get to have her, but me? I’m the only reason there’s still a Vinyl for you to have. I did my part and I kept her alive, because that’s all I could do. Now you need to do your part and fix her, because you’re the only one who can.” his eyes remained locked on hers, but the intensity slowly drained from his expression. After a moment he hung his head, cradling it in his hooves. “I…like Scratch, a lot, but this is on you now, and that’s all I’ve got to say.” After a full minute of quiet, Octavia tentatively reached across the table toward Neon, but he stopped her by breaking the silence, “just go, she’s waiting for you.”

Octavia stood up and left without another word.

“Oh c’mon, Tavi,” the DJ laughed dismissively, not slowing down, “the night’s young!”

“Vinyl, how can you treat your friend like that? Your best, and – now that I think on it – your only friend?” Octavia matched her partner’s pace, falling in step beside her. Fortunately, even in Southspire the crowds were thinning out at this hour, and they had no trouble walking two abreast.

“You’re my best friend, babe, and I don’t have time for Neon when he’s trying to be a buzzkill.”

“Vinyl, you’re drunk, and we need to go home,” Octavia said sternly, “but not before you apologize to Neon.”

The unicorn stopped short and lifted her shades, resting them on her horn. Octavia had been expecting a scowl, but was instead met with a look of resignation.

“Okay, maybe I was kind of a jerk…”

“You were awful.”

“Look, I’ll hit him up tomorrow, okay? Neon’s a laid-back guy, he probably won’t even care by morning.”

The cellist privately wondered how much of this monumental denseness was booze, how much of it was legitimate, and how much of it was willful. Knowing the mare in question, she reasoned that most of it probably fell into the latter category.

“For now, can’t we just have fun?” Vinyl asked with a shrug.

“Fun measured in what?” Octavia demanded, “alcohol by volume?”

The DJ looked like she’d been slapped in the face.

“Tavi…why’re you so mad all of a sudden? You’re the one who said we should go out.”

The cellist sighed and reigned in her emotions with practiced ease. She put a hoof on Vinyl’s shoulder and gave her a half-smile.

“I’m sorry, love…I just have some things on my mind. Look, we’ve a couple hours until the bars close; if I humor you until then will you come home and get some sleep?”

“Deal.”

Octavia wanted to have fun, she really did, but she couldn’t. The dimly lit pub rang with the clatter of mugs and flatware. Laughter, shouting, and the thrumming of electronic bass lent it a lively, boisterous atmosphere that by all rights should’ve been infectious, but her mind had walled itself off to the outside world. She couldn’t get Neon’s face out of her head – his exhaustion, frustration, and desperation weighed heavily on her. What he’d said had been unsettling as well, but that pained expression had spoken volumes more than even the most eloquent sequence of words ever could. At least Vinyl seemed at ease. Every passing pint and highball seemed to restore another piece of the charming, unflappable mare that Octavia remembered. As she sipped a tumbler of scotch in quiet unease, her DJ counterpart was chatting animatedly with a stallion next to her. Most of the conversation was lost in the surrounding din, but he was obviously a fan.

Octavia felt a touch bitter, and she hated herself for it. Despite going out two nights in a row, she hadn’t spent a single bit, owing entirely to the fact that Vinyl was served for free wherever they went. She was incredibly proud of her fillyfriend for attaining the popular success and recognition that they had sought in their younger years, but that was just it – it had been something they had wanted, something they were supposed achieve together. If she was honest with herself – and she always was – Octavia knew that it was jealousy, plain and simple. Well, there was another part to it – a feeling of distance. Vinyl was a star who received free meals and VIP treatment anywhere she went. If Neon’s experience was any indication, business owners were lucky to simply receive her patronage and endorsement. Octavia should’ve been the other part of the act, the other half of the duo, but instead she was just some rough-looking, unknown mare who – for all anyone else knew – could be nothing more than Vinyl’s flavor of the week. For the first time in a very, very long while, she felt the unpleasant sensation of her confidence being undermined. The things she’d done over the past twelve years – her sturggles, her triumphs, and her carefully-laid plans – amounted to nothing here.

“Hey!”

Octavia was snapped out of her melancholy reverie as Vinyl’s shout pierced through the ambient noise.

“Hooves to yourself, pal,” the unicorn growled, addressing an unfamiliar pony. The fan she’d been talking with was scowling at the newcomer as well – a sharply-dressed stallion whose black mane looked oily from an obvious overuse of hair products.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologized, waving a hoof, “I didn’t know how else to get your attention.”

“Next time, keep it above the waist, ‘kay?” Vinyl’s expression softened, but a hint of irritation lingered in her voice. Octavia hadn’t seen what happened, but she could guess.

“My bad,” the stallion conceded a bit too genially, “lemme buy you a drink to make up for it.”

Vinyl raised an eyebrow and regarded him as suspiciously as her blood alcohol content would allow, before shrugging and nodding. Under and behind the silent despondence she was currently wallowing in, Octavia felt a sudden, subtle tension when he turned and addressed her with a plastic smile.

“’Scuse me miss, you mind finding another seat? I want to sit and talk with DJ PON-3 here.”

The gray mare stared at him unblinkingly, expression cold and blank.

“Uh, yeah, no,” Vinyl interjected sharply, “I mind.”

“What, she your marefriend or something?” the greasy stallion cackled.

“Yeah, actually.”

“Well, ain’t that a kick in the flank,” he mused, looking Octavia up and down disdainfully, “had no idea you were a filly-fooler.” Several other bar patrons had caught the increasingly aggressive conversation and were listening intently. Clumsily, he forced himself between the two mares, carrying with him the smell of entirely too much liquor, even for a bar. “How about you ditch this chewed-up skank and I show you why most mares prefer stallions?”

“Oh, wow,” Vinyl rolled her eyes, having removed her shades, “are all your lines that good? You must be covered in bitches twenty-four seven.” She slurred her words slightly, but it was still enough to elicit a few chuckles from other customers. The stallion bristled visibly.

“Hey!” he barked, “I don’t care who you are, you don’t get smart with m–” he stopped short when Octavia tapped him on the shoulder, whipping his head around to face her. “What?!”

“You might want to back off a bit there, mate,” she told him matter-of-factly, “we don’t want any trouble.”

“Nice face,” he smirked in return, glaring daggers at her, “what’d you do, stick your head in meat grinder?”

“Hey!” Vinyl shoved him, nearly knocking the already swaying pony over, “that’s enough. Get out of here.” The stallion regained his balance and straightened his suit.

“Sure,” he sneered, clamping a hoof on her shoulder and practically pulling her off the bar stool, “and you’re coming with me.”

The moment he touched Vinyl, Octavia felt the past hour’s frustrations come to a boil. She tapped him on the shoulder once more, and waited just a fraction of a second.

“Wh–?!”

There was a violent clatter as the bar top shook with a sudden impact. Drinks all up and down its length toppled and spilled, made all the more audible by the sudden hush that overtook the establishment. The unconscious stallion crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes, blood pooling rapidly under his broken muzzle.

Vinyl stared wide-eyed, detachedly noting the single tooth that was now embedded in the polished wooden surface next to her spilt mug. She winced as Octavia pried it loose and dropped it on top its former owner.

“Makes a compelling case for keeping one’s mouth shut, doesn’t it?” the earth pony commented grimly, addressing no one in particular.

Three other stallions seated across the room shot up from their seats and started to make a beeline for the scene of the conflict, but were stopped by the bartender, a grizzled-looking unicorn wielding a crowbar in her magical aura.

“Whoa! Whoa! None of that!” she shouted, brandishing the menacing chunk of iron, “you scumbags pick up your friend and leave, or you’re gonna join him as my newest floor ornaments!”

For a moment, the stallions seemed to waver on the edge of turning the incident into a fully-fledged brawl, but as the bartender lowered herself into a fighting stance, a whole host of patrons rose from their seats to back her up. Shooting dirty looks all around, the three ponies cautiously made their way to the bar. Two of them lifted their fallen comrade while the third glowered at Octavia, not breaking eye contact until all four were out the door.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” the barkeep hollered over the chatter that had erupted throughout the room, “nothing to see here. Everypony go back to getting drunk and paying my bills.”

Once the commotion had died down, Octavia finally noticed that Vinyl was staring at her rather intently, her eyebrows raised high and mouth curved slightly down in a look that conveyed utter shock and just a touch of anxiety. The gray mare answered with a lopsided smile, and was about to speak to her fillyfriend when she felt something cool touch her hoof. She looked down to see a fresh glass of scotch, offered by the bartender, who was leaning on the counter across from her.

“Normally,” the unicorn said sternly, “I’d throw you out, too. That being said…thanks.”

“You’re thanking me for assaulting one of your patrons?” Octavia queried.

“Look, usually I have one rule: you fight in my bar, you’re out,” the other mare explained, “but I’ve been chasing that scumbag and his friends out of here at least once a week for the past six months. They’re always groping mares, getting in guys’ faces, and starting trouble. I keep running ‘em out, but they always come back a few days later, and I don’t have the money to hire a bouncer.”

“Why don’t you just refuse to serve them?”

“Yeah, right, and get my windows busted out again? No thanks. Anyway, I’ve been itching to see that punk Low Ball and his dumb nylon suit get what was coming to him, so have a drink. Just know if you do it with any of my other customers, I’m kicking you out too.”

“Noted.”

Suddenly, Octavia didn’t feel so gloomy anymore, and she didn’t feel like going home just yet.

Liquor laws in Southspire were about as strictly enforced as the “no running” rule around the average kid’s pool, so it wasn’t until about four in the morning that Vinyl and Octavia found themselves finally ousted from the bar and beginning to stagger in the general direction of their home, each relying heavily on the other to maintain their collective verticalness. The streets were more or less deserted, but they filled them with enough stumbling, shouting, and laughing for a small crowd.

“T-Tavi,” the DJ stammered, “that…that was so cool. You’re so cool.”

“Actually, Vinyl,” Octavia slurred, pulling back the collar of her jacket and then loosening her bowtie, “I’m feeling a bit warm at the moment.”

“No, dude, I mean, like, that guy tried to punk me, and you were just like pow!”

“Well,” the cellist giggled hiccupping and then lazily stroking her partner’s cheek, “he had his fi–,” she hiccupped again quite violently, “filthy hooves all over you. Nopony gets to do that but me.”

“I love you, Tavi,” Vinyl said, eyes closed with a dopey smile plastered on her face, “will you marry me?”

“Of course love,” Octavia tittered, “but can I do it tomorrow? I very much feel like lying down.”

“M-Me too,” the unicorn mumbled, rapidly losing consciousness and remaining upright through no effort of her own, “are we home yet?”

Octavia glanced at her surroundings, and then back down the way they had come, only to realize they had barely made it two blocks from the bar.

“Oh…oh dear,” she murmured to herself before shaking her companion, “Vinyl, do you know of any hotels around here? There’s no way we’re making it across town like this.”

“Uhh…” Vinyl attempted to open her eyes, but they kept rolling back up into her head as a small trickle of drool began to run from the corner of her mouth, “umm…y-yeah…I think there’s one like, three blocks from Neon’s place.”

Realizing that was probably the most help she was going to get, the gray mare shook her head and took a few deep breaths, fighting back the fog in her mind and getting her bearings. In her youth she would’ve been completely and utterly boned, but recent years had instilled in her a habit of mentally cataloguing her surroundings, however inconsequential. She had a fairly decent idea of where they needed to go, and resolved to take the shortest route possible.

“C’mon love,” she roused Vinyl once again from near-catatonia and urged her forward, “just a short walk, and then we can rest.”

“Mrrg…” was the only reply.

Octavia lifted one of Vinyl’s forelegs and slung it over her neck. As the two mares staggered through an alley that would lead them over to the next street, her head whipped around instinctively at a distant echo, but she saw nothing. With a little more urgency, she pushed on, praying to Celestia that Vinyl had been right about the location of that hotel.

Vinyl felt her rear hit asphalt, slowly sinking down to lie on her side. The impact and the cold were enough to jar her back into semi-coherence.

“Taviii…” she whined, reaching blindly in all directions, “you dropped me!” When she received no response, verbal or physical, she forced her eyes open and took off her shades. What she saw made her blood run cold and her vision shift into much sharper focus than it had any right to be in her current state.

They were in the middle of one of the narrower, lesser-traveled streets of Southspire, which was completely deserted save for herself, Octavia, and four other ponies – stallions, and very familiar ones. The cellist stood rigidly over her, body turned to the side as if to act as a shield. The motley crew of lowlifes stood in a semicircle around them. Octavia and Low Ball were exchanging words that Vinyl had to strain her addled psyche to make sense of.

“…what you did to my face!,” Low Ball was shouting. He was in bad shape. Even in the dark and underneath his muddy-brown coat, his eyes were visibly blackened. A series of stitches ran across his forehead, and his muzzle was covered by a metal brace. Another brace encircled his neck, preventing him from moving his head much. Despite how much pain the expression must have caused him, his visage was contorted with all-consuming rage.

“I’m surprised they let you out of the hospital so soon,” Octavia commented dryly. Her tone was cool and even, but her posture belied a very pronounced tension.

“Yeah, well, I had some business to take care of,” the stallion replied ominously.

“Then by all means, go take care of it,” Octavia replied with mock geniality, “don’t let us hold you up.”

“Oh, I’m about to,” he snarled. “I would say I was gonna mess your face up as bad as mine, but it looks like somepony beat me to the punch a long time ago. Judging by what I’ve seen so far, I’m betting you deserved it. I’ll settle for leaving you bleeding in a ditch. Then me and my buddies here are gonna show DJ PON-3 here what big fans we are.” Vinyl noticed one of the stallions leering at her dementedly. The other two, however, looked like they might have reservations about the direction this night was taking.

“If you touch her again…” Octavia warned icily.

“You’ll what? You couldn’t take me in a fair fight.”

By this time, Vinyl had managed to stagger to her hooves, a grueling process that drove home the fact she hadn’t a chance of fleeing, let alone escaping. She put her shades back in their proper place, mostly to hide the fact that all the false confidence given her by alcohol over the course of the evening was draining away by the second.

“G-Guys, hold up,” she slurred, reaching into her saddlebag and pulling out a large sack that jingled metallically, “I’ve got two-hundred bits here, okay,” she tried to hold up her hoof in a gesture of placation, but nearly fell over, “just…just take ‘em and leave us alone. Please.”

“Should be enough to restore your face back to its normal level of ugly, yeah?” Octavia added, and Vinyl wondered if that was an attempt to diffuse the situation or escalate it. She tossed the bag onto the ground in front of Low Ball, who looked genuinely conflicted. Belatedly, it dawned on her that he could easily just take the money and still pound both of them into the pavement, but the fact that he was even thinking about it made her realize that he had absolutely no intention of following through on his threats to begin with. This was all just classic beta-male posturing meant to scare them into submission, and, unaware of her own brilliance, Vinyl had just offered him a graceful way to back out while still saving face, in a manner of speaking. Eyes locked menacingly on hers, he leaned down to pick up the sack with his teeth. Octavia’s posture shifted subtly as he drew closer, her weight planted evenly on all four hooves, ears flattened against her skull. Low Ball gave the bag to one of his cronies and then turned to face them again.

“You’re lucky you’re rich, ladies,” he growled, raising a hoof, “but if I ever see you,” he glowered at Octavia, prodding her hard in the chest, “or y–”

He made to do the same thing to Vinyl, but he never touched her. Instead there was a wet crack and an earsplitting shriek as a gray hoof deftly seized his leg and twisted it at an unnatural angle. Before Vinyl could even register what happened, Octavia’s taught form uncoiled like a spring. The three other stallions, who’d only just begun to react, all received blows to the face nearly simultaneously, sending them staggering back in varying degrees dazed pain as Low Ball clutched his broken leg and continued to scream. Octavia lunged at the nearest one, spinning on one hoof as she closed the gap, delivering a crushing double kick to his chest with her hind legs and letting the rebounding force propel her straight into the next stallion, whom she tackled at the neck. They somersaulted twice, tumbling head over hocks before the gray mare forced him into the asphalt, silencing his panicked cry with a single jaw-shattering blow to the chin. The remaining stallion – the one who’d been making lewd faces at Vinyl – had his legs swept out from under him even as he turned to flee. In the blink of an eye, Octavia was on top of him, holding him down by the neck as she drove her hoof into his face like a piston again and again with mechanical precision and repetition. His features reduced to little more than pulp, she kicked his limp body to the side and strode purposefully over to Low Ball, leaning down into his face.

“I told you,” she hissed into his ear, “not to touch her again.” He was trying to crawl away, but she held him down and he couldn’t budge an inch. Vinyl watched with horrified numbness as Octavia reached into her coat pocket. A steel band encircled her hoof when she withdrew it, attached to which was a short, wickedly-curved blade that she wasted no time in putting to Low Ball’s throat.

“N-N…no…!” he moaned, eyes bulging in abject terror as the crude shiv pressed against his jugular.

“Shh-shh,” Octavia hushed him, her voice nothing but a gentle whisper, “if you wanted to beg, you should’ve done it earlier.”

“Mmng…p-please don’t kill me…please,” he half-sobbed, his words short and strangled as his chest rose and fell rapidly in shallow, panicked breaths.

“I don’t bring this out for show, my friend,” the cellist said, her tone almost apologetic, “if I do, it means I intend to cut something – exactly what, though, is a choice I’m courteous enough to leave up to you. I could cut you here,” she pressed the knife still harder into his throat, “or…” she dragged the blade down across his breast and belly, and Low Ball winced as it broke the skin in more than a few places. He whimpered piteously as it finally came to rest at his groin, “…or I could cut you here. Either way, I can’t have you threatening to rape mares like that, especially not my Vinyl.”

“Please…” was all he could choke out, “please…”

“I’m very tired,” Octavia sighed wearily, “and I want to go to bed. I’ll give you to the count of three to choose, or I’ll choose for you. And trust me,” she returned the knife to his neck, “I tend to opt for the most efficient solution.”

“Three…”

“Tavi…”

“Two…”

“T-Tavi, no.”

“One…”

“Tavi don’t!” Vinyl shrieked, finding her voice again just in time. Octavia’s head snapped around to look at her, and when their gazes met, what Vinyl saw sent a shiver down her spine. The warm, gentle, lavender eyes that she knew so well were smoldering with cold, righteous fury, yet at the same time there was a wild tinge of disorientation there, as if Octavia didn’t quite know where she was right now. “Tavi, please,” the DJ begged, tears of fear and confusion streaming down her cheeks, “let him go.”

“Vinyl,” she said incredulously, blinking and shaking her head ever-so-slightly, “you heard what he said…”

“Tavi, please,” the unicorn entreated, “please let him go. For me.”

Those last two words finally broke Octavia’s resolve, and she sighed heavily, tucking the knife away as quickly as she had drawn it. Low Ball practically sobbed with relief.

“Th-Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

“Do not thank me,” the cellist replied coldly, “thank Vinyl.” She grabbed him by the collar of his suit, and he yelped in pain as she pulled him up so they were nose to nose, her lips curled back in a snarl. “From this moment forward, your every breath is a gift from her.” Octavia made like she was going to stand and leave him, but at the last second she wheeled back around and delivered one sharp, final blow straight to his muzzle. The stallion’s head bounced violently against the pavement and the metal brace that had covered his nose clattered across the ground. He was still, but at least Vinyl could see him breathing. Before she even knew what was happening, she felt herself swept off her hooves and moving rapidly, even as her consciousness faltered yet again.

In the moment, there had been nothing but rage – channeled and controlled with practiced focus. Now, as she tore through the streets of Canterlot at a bounding gallop, Octavia Melody began to feel the sinking sensation of an emotion she’d lost her acquaintance with – terror. The world shifted into ever-clearer resolve as she moved, her entire being burning as disused muscles were roused from their slumber and her body fought off intoxication by dumping its payload of adrenal rocket fuel into her veins. Her only comfort as the cool night air licked the sweat from her cheeks was the warmth of Vinyl’s unconscious form against her back.

But it was also the source of her horror.

Octavia wanted to wonder why she was so afraid all of a sudden, but she knew exactly why – this was not supposed to happen here. The unfeeling violence, the calculated cruelty…it was all supposed to stop once she made it home to Vinyl, because there wasn’t supposed to be a need for it, and yet…

He had threatened her, he had touched her one too many times, and the thought of Vinyl being hurt or killed – the thought of Octavia’s own impossible struggles and victories being rendered inconsequential by the loss of the one in whose name they’d all been made – had driven her to quash the threat in the only way she knew how.

Octavia was jarred out of her rumination as her hooves left cobblestone and were met with the familiar fine gravel of the path that led from the city’s outermost streets to her estate. Rather than slowing down, she put on one final burst of speed, only refraining from breaking down the door out of the desire to lock it behind her. Red waves of exertion washed across her vision as she fitted the key into the lock with her teeth and then clicked the deadbolt once on the other side. As it slid into place, relief, anxiety and inebriation finally got the better of the gray mare and her stance faltered, sending Vinyl spilling off her back with a thump and then a clatter when a dislodged pair of shades skidded across the tile floor of the foyer. Octavia collapsed next to her, shuddering and clinging to her unconscious lover. Her eyelids felt like lead weights, and she wanted to fall asleep right here, but willed herself to stay awake until she’d seen Vinyl safely to bed.

When she forced her eyes open, her breath caught in her throat. There was blood on Vinyl’s face and neck. For a moment all the fear disappeared as she frantically searched the slumbering mare for any sign of injury, fury once again igniting in her breast as she resolved to go right back the way she came and send Low Ball and his friends on a one-way trip down the side of Canterlot mountain if she found so much as a scrape. She could find nothing, and yet it seemed like more and more crimson stains were appearing on the alabaster coat. It took her a moment to realize where it was coming from. Her hooves were covered in blood.

Octavia choked. Had Vinyl ever had somepony else’s blood on her…?

With renewed vigor she seized the slumbering form and bolted up the stairs to her home’s second floor and into the bathroom at the end of the hall.

The normally soft-seeming lights were blinding as they reflected off of cold, white tiles from all sides. It gave the small room an ethereal, almost heavenly glow that made Octavia feel all the more tainted as she scrubbed the ruddy filthy from her callused hooves. The icy tap water refused to warm up, and by the time they were clean her limbs felt numb. She felt her eyes begin to water as she looked down at Vinyl’s unconscious form, the sterile white coat matching that of the floor but for the places where it was stained red. The last traces of adrenaline were siphoning out of her bloodstream, and she felt a profound, consuming exhaustion, but would not rest until she had righted this atrocity, at least on a cosmetic level. Vinyl would no doubt have many things to say to her in the morning, and she didn’t want “why am I covered in blood?” to be among them. Though in all likelihood the sleeping unicorn probably couldn’t’ve been awoken by an air raid siren, Octavia still took the utmost care to be gentle as she dabbed at the blotches with a wet cloth. She strained her eyes, looking over and over again across every feature of the body she knew as well as her own, making sure she’d missed nothing.

When at last Vinyl was tucked under a warm comforter, Octavia finally allowed her strength to fail her. She didn’t shed any tears or sink into despair as she’d imagined she might, but simply slumped against the side of the bed and slipped unceremoniously into oblivion.