//------------------------------// // Don't Stop Believin' // Story: The Spice of Life // by Alun Aleriksson //------------------------------// Ch. 9 – Don’t Stop Believing “You should probably take these back. They don’t really suit me.” It had taken the better part of an hour and some interesting inquiries, but Octavia had finally caught up to her prey in a surprisingly dingy alley a few blocks from Canterlot’s main drag. The alabaster unicorn only twitched her ears to show she had heard. Octavia tilted her head, and the obnoxious glasses she had picked up before chasing her quarry fell into a waiting hoof. “Seriously, it’s no wonder you run into things: this purple tint is ridiculous!” “It’s not like I want to wear them!” Vinyl snapped back. “Just made the best of a bad situation.” “They look good on you,” Octavia offered. Antagonizing remarks would do her no favors here, so she slipped into a standard Canterlot Compliment Conversation tactic. Usually the other party responded with some social grace, even if they saw through the flattery. Vinyl was anything but socially graceful, and the noise she made proved as much. “At least I got that goin’ for me.” Octavia sat down next to the DJ, who promptly turned her head away, hiding her eyes. “Vinyl,” she started, but there was nothing to say. All those years in the ranks of the Canterlot elites of socializing, conversing, sucking up, and watching others suck up could not have prepared her for this: a civilized conversation with an ailing friend. It was a haunting realization; she had never been close enough to another pony to warrant this kind of communication. What had she become? In lieu of speaking, she examined the alley further. Most of the buildings were in decent shape, with only sparse examples of graffiti decorating the washed-out brick walls. The small house nestled between two larger complexes Vinyl had chosen as a stopping point, though, was a different story. The door was boarded up, and the lock was rusty. Rotting window boxes held remnants of what looked like plants, but given the color, Octavia couldn’t be sure. It was just like the old concert hall, she thought. It was run-down now, but with a little imagination it came to life: birds perched on the low roof to call out to their friends or mates. A tiny foal rushed out the door on her way to school, and an aging mare dutifully watered her flowers. "My mom's old place," the unicorn's unprompted explanation startled Octavia. "She was the only one I could... She..." Octavia noticed her deep breath and the small sniffle that followed: her friend was crying. Octavia didn't know what to do. Some part of her suggested laying a foreleg around her, but would Vinyl appreciate the contact? She had to do something in the way of consolation. "They're beautiful," she heard herself saying. "I've never seen that kind of color before," "That's 'cause I'm a freak." Octavia remained quiet momentarily to let the sentence have its full effect. "Do you really believe that?" More sniffles answered her. "Doesn't matter what I believe," "Of course it does! Why would you say that?" “Because that's what I’m up against, Tavi!” Vinyl spun, her scarlet irises blazing. “A whole city that doesn’t give a rat’s rear end what I think! Hay, a whole stupid country, even! They hate me because I was born!” Her tears were freely falling onto the pavement now. “I’m a mutant. A freak.” “I think you’re wonderful,” Octavia said, and then lost control of her jaw muscles. Had that really just come out of her mouth? Vinyl hardly noticed. “Oh, sure; everything’s ‘wonderful’ in Tavi-land! Lets all live happy and normal lives there and never worry about anything!” Octavia huffed. “I know you’re upset, so I’ll let that one slide. I’ll admit you’ve had more than your fair share of hardship, but I’m not so naive as to think everything will just work out for the best. I’m trying to help you, not find reasons I should leave you.” Her companion was clearly still fuming, but she bit her tongue. At least she had some modicum of sense left. Octavia glared at her to make sure that modicum remained. Vinyl turned away after a few seconds, not quite admitting defeat. “So why’d you stay?” Octavia blinked once to clear her confusion. “Why wouldn’t I?” “I’m a-” “If the next word out of your mouth is ‘freak’ or ‘mutant’, I swear I will hit you.” The unicorn shut herself up with an angry clack. “It might not’ve been,” she mumbled. Relieved, Octavia pressed her advantage. “Come on. I know what will make you feel better,” “Ice cream and alcohol?” “Nope. Even better.” “Ice cream flavored alcohol?!” “Wha-? No!” The cellist had to close her eyes to retain her composure. “No. Just get your glasses and get up. We have a song to write.” -XXX- “Look, just use a heavy beat here to transition to the faster tempo and change the feel,” “Are heavy beats your solution for everything?” “Hey, I work with heavy beats for a living, filly. I think I know what I’m doing,” "This is not a 'heavy beat' song!" Vinyl recoiled as if struck. “Not a… You take that back!” Octavia had to flinch back from the sudden hoof in her face. “Take it back, you… you beat de-flier!” The spirited spinner screeched. “I think you mean-” “Take it!” “Vinyl-” “Take. It. Back!” Octavia's deadpan expression faced off against Vinyl's half-hidden one. It would have been a good topic for a painting, really: two opposite forces clashing spectacularly in an explosion of mixed sounds and rhythms. An epic battle of classic composition versus modern music, of good versus evil, light versus dark. That is, until Vinyl cracked. “Bahaha! You should totally see yourself, Tavi! You’re taking this so seriously!” Octavia rolled her eyes. “Music is serious,” Vinyl vigorously shook her head. “No, it’s not! You still don’t get it!” Her words were punctuated by residual giggles. “That’s what swing’s all about: not taking things seriously! You gotta let go, Tavi,” “I am perfectly capable of ‘letting go,’ Vinyl.” “Then show me!” Vinyl prodded her friend’s shoulder. “All I’m saying is give beats a chance!” “... You’re joking, right?” The DJ offered a shrug. “Well, not on the beat part.” ‘Deep breaths’ The cellist chanted under her breath. ‘Deep breaths. You can do this,’ “Vinyl, I just don’t think that type of foundation follows the overall feel of the song,” “Okay, fine. What’s the feel, then?” “Well, night, of course.” Even as Octavia spoke, she realized how much sense she wasn’t making. “I mean… the feeling of night,” Vinyl bobbed her head rhythmically. “Alright, alright. So… dark?” "Don't patronize me!" “Hey, you’re not exactly being descriptive here!” Octavia groaned and sat down. "I know, I just... Well, I guess I don't know, after all." Vinyl's face moved closer to hers, the insectoid lenses unnerving Octavia more than her natural eyes. "I bet I know somepony who could help," she suggested. Octavia fought to keep her expression neutral. "Go on," "Sync!" Of all the reactions Vinyl was expecting, a pained sigh was not one of them. "Vinyl, we don't even know where he is, let alone what he could do to help!" "C'mon, Tavi, he's the king of swing! He's gotta have a pretty good idea of how the music should feel. Better than your description, anyway." Octavia frowned at the jab but knew the unicorn was right. She could hear what she wanted her piece to sound like, but that oh-so-important feeling was missing. "Fine," she relented. "I suppose you magically know where to find him, as well?" "I've got a few ideas, yeah!" Her companion smirked. -XXX- It was obvious really: Syncopation had gone home. Or rather, what felt most like home to him. Having a roof was much more preferable than sleeping in an alleyway. Vinyl exhibited her characteristic decorum as she entered the old concert hall. "Yo, Sync! You here?" She shouted. "Vinyl!" Octavia swatted the unicorn. "What? I'm asking a question!" "You could at least try to be polite about it!" The cellist chastised. "What wasn't polite about that?" "Do you have to shout every time you enter a building?" "Better than knocking; it's louder!" "Ladies, please," a third voice interrupted them. "It's no use fighting; I'm too old for either of you." The duo turned to see Syncopation rubbing his eyes. “Sorry for waking you up, Syncopation-” Octavia began. “But we need some awesome old guy wisdom ‘cause Tavi doesn’t know how to write a song!” Octavia had to literally bite her tongue to stop herself from making an impulsive retort. No, lashing out wouldn’t do anypony any good. “What she means is that we’re having trouble tying the composition together with a cohesive feel,” she explained. Syncopation turned a large yawn into a sigh. “I guess you better come in, then,” He led the pair down the hall’s central aisle to the stage. “I don’t need to educate you on the behavior of chord progressions, I assume? You’re having trouble incorporating the swing beat, aren’t you?” “No, I know the majors and minors and augments and diminished and all. I… I don’t think I know what I want the song to… sound like? It’s difficult to explain; ambiguous.” Syncopation hopped on the piano bench and tapped a few random keys. “You don’t know what you want the song to say.” “Er… yes, I suppose that makes sense. Can you help us?” Octavia found her hope returning rapidly. She looked at Syncopation with wide, pleading eyes, though she couldn’t imagine him refusing to give help to a friend. “No.” And there it went. Octavia deflated, while Vinyl opened her mouth before the old stallion continued. “I can’t tell you how to make the song feel: that’s your choice. I can point you in a direction. No promises it’ll lead you anywhere, of course.” “I’ll try anything at this point,” “I told you heavy beats would-” Vinyl started, but physically retreated from the fiery scowl she caught from her companion. “Or... not. Just a suggestion.” Syncopation waited for Octavia’s eyes to settle before he spoke again. “The question you gotta ask yourself is: ‘What do you wanna think about when you hear the song?’” “What does that mean?” “Oh, come on: you know how to put feeling in written music. You just have to pick something, like happiness or pride or anything else. What emotions and thoughts do you want to convey?” The keys Syncopation tapped became less random, fleshing out a melody Octavia knew well. “Ode to Joy,” she breathed. “Now why do you think Beethoofen called it that?” When he received no verbal response, he continued. “Music is feeling. Its purpose is to create emotion. So, what emotions do you want associated with your piece?” “Awesomeness,” Vinyl answered automatically. The others stared at her. “What? That’s a thing!” Octavia nodded, now lost in thought. What emotions should she associate with night or dreams? In a trance, she felt her hooves carry her back down the aisle and into the brisk air outside, Ode to Joy still playing through her head. The sun had just set, and silvery light mixed with purple shadows dominated her vision. Though Octavia had never been one for the “night life,” she had to admit the moon was just as inspiring as the sun. The soft clopping of hooves brought her back from her reverie as Vinyl caught up with her. “You okay? You kinda… looked weird,” “Yes, Vinyl, I am perfectly fine. Just thinking about what Syncopation said.” “You mean what I told you but you didn’t listen to?” “What you tried to tell me,” Octavia corrected. “It’s no fault of mine your words fell short.” Vinyl shoved her in retaliation. “Whatever. Whaddaya got so far?” “Well… I’m not sure. I can’t seem to pin down a single emotion for ‘night.’ I don’t know what to associate with it; I’m usually asleep by the time the moon fully rises.” Her companion chuckled. “You’re such a lightweight, Tavi,” “I also get up before noon,” Octavia retorted. “Yeah, yeah. I don’t think I’m missing much. But as for what to feel about night, I think I can help you there.” She suddenly stopped, sat, and raised her glasses to her forehead. “The night… it’s mysterious, with hidden power and misunderstood beauty. It’s majestic, calming, comforting. I look at the night sky and I see patterns and lights that aren’t possible for the day. It’s a freedom, a release. The night doesn’t ask anything, doesn’t expect anything from you. I… I can be myself at night.” She glanced to her fellow musician to gauge her response and laughed again. “Careful, Tavi: if your jaw drops any lower you’ll be tasting concrete!” Octavia recomposed herself with all the grace she could muster. “That was… beautiful, Vinyl. I-” “Never knew I was a deep, complicated pony with deep, complicated feelings?” “Didn’t know you could string words with more than two syllables together to describe those feelings, certainly,” she finished. “In any case, your ideas are simply wondrous: majesty, power… now we just have to choose one that fits. Any ideas on that?” “What, you want more from me? Sorry, Tavi, but my deepness limit has been reached for today.” Octavia would have to invest in some aspirin in the future if she kept smacking her face like this. “Pick your favorite, then,” “Umm… What all are my options?” Or maybe she could use that aspirin now. “Do you even remember what you just said?” “I’m messing with you, Tavi!” The unicorn snickered. “Give me some credit?” Octavia massaged her aching head. “As soon as you show me you deserve it,” “I got the night thing, right?” “Yes, and that was worthy of respect, but in order to earn credit-” Octavia was silenced by a hoof on her shoulder. “Tavi, Tavi, Tavi,” Vinyl shook her head as if she knew something the cellist didn’t. “I stopped caring at least thirty seconds ago.” She paused briefly, considering her statement. “Well, not about the music though. Let’s get to it!” Her energy was back in a heartbeat as she rushed off into the freshly fallen darkness. “Wait! You never said what feeling you had in mind!” “All of them!” Vinyl cackled and kept running.