Your unconsciousness is unusually blissful, considering how you had been forcibly beaten into it.
Your dreams are foggy, but pleasant. You're back in the concert hall, but reality is strangely warped. The lights are too bright, and yet the shadows are deep. Instead of being behind your own eyes, you look yourself in the face from across the instrument.
Your body sits at the piano, alone.
Except for a certain grey mare.
She stands in the center of the stage, her hoof moving expertly across her instrument, coaxing a sweet melody out of it. Her bow slides rhythmically over the strings, producing a constant flow of music.
Your eyes are transfixed in her, and behind you, your body's horn lights to envelop the piano in grey light.
Your accompaniment is soft, as to not overshadow the cellist, but provides an empowering melody to highlight your partner's. Octavia doesn't acknowledge your presence, but alters her recital to accommodate your keyboard.
As your music reaches a crescendo, you begin to hear hushed voices. You falter as you search for the source, but the theater is empty. Octavia notices your abrupt halt, and stops as well. She looks at you questioningly, but you lack the ability to form words. You open your mouth hopelessly, trying to explain that you can't explain.
The voices are louder, and the hall starts to fade into blackness. Inexplicably, Octavia doesn't notice this phenomenon; she continues to stare at your blank face expectantly.
You can't move, the darkness is rapidly closing in, consuming you from the inside out.
The last thing you see is Octavia's concerned face, before you lose all vision.
****
"I think he's waking up!"
You open your eyes. A pair of giant, violently purple orbs are staring you in the face. You yelp and sit up straight, your heart jumping.
You're in a hospital bed in a sterile white room, a strong antiseptic smell permeating the air. An ugly potted plant sits in a corner, and next to it is a low bench, with a sleepy-looking Royal Riff perched on top of it. Vinyl Scratch stands over you, and your eyes flit to her glasses— the objects that had caused your fright. She smiles dryly. "Yep. He's awake."
"Easy, Vinyl. You might scare him back into a coma," admonishes Royal Riff.
"What? Coma?" Your breathe deeply, massaging your pounding chest.
"Not exactly," Vinyl says. "Riff's little joke. You were out for a full two days, though."
A small sniffle sounds from the doorway, and you looks up to see Octavia, with barely-visible red rims under her eyes. She stares at the ground, her hoof swiping at her face to try and hide the tears.
Your heart aches when you see her upset like this. But what could have caused her sadness?
"Lucky for you," Vinyl continues, not noticing the cellist. "Riffs and Symphony took the same route home as you did, and found you on the side of the street. Clothes torn, bleeding everywhere. It looked like you'd been there for a few hours."
Octavia notices your gaze and turns away. Without a word, she exits, leaving behind only the smell of coffee.
"Is Octavia okay?" you mutter quietly, just in case Octavia is still within earshot, which is likely, given her enhanced hearing.
Vinyl turns to see the tip of the cellist's tail disappearing. She chuckles humorlessly. "You're asking about her? Have you taken a look at yourself lately?"
For the first time, you look down at your bruised body. You are a mess of white bandaging and body casts. You raise your hoof to your forehead and feel stitches where your skin had broken. You attempt a reassuring grin. "Who me? I'm fine." You laugh unconvincingly.
Vinyl nods skeptically. "Yep, you sure look it."
"He seems a little . . . delirious," says Royal Riff from across the room. You raise your eyebrows at him. He shrugs.
Vinyl goes quiet for a moment. She holds an alabaster hoof in front of your face and moves it back and forth slowly. Your eyes automatically follow the motion.
"Uh, Vinyl? What are you doing?"
"Checking for mental trauma. What's your name?"
You sigh and answer the question.
"Good. What's eight plus eleven?"
"Nineteen."
"Right . . . what's my name?"
"Vinyl Scratch. DJ-Pon3."
"Nailed it." Vinyl turns to Royal Riff. "I think he's good."
"But you didn't answer my question," you persist. "Is Octavia okay? Why is she . . ." You don't finish. You don't want to accentuate the fact that the stoic, unbreakable cellist is showing weakness-- a crack in her armor.
"Because of you, of course," Royal Riff says matter-of-factly. "She's been worried! We all have!"
Your gut twitches. "Me? Why?"
"I don't know . . ." Vinyl pretends to consider. "Oh! Maybe it's because Riffs and Symphony found you half-dead on the side of the road in a very scary pool of blood! And maybe because you've been unconscious all day, and according to these machines . . ." She gestures at the giant metal box covered in flashing lights next to your bed. "You might have died once or twice!" Her voice has risen to a yell.
"Your heart may have stopped momentarily," Royal Riff clarifies.
"But I'm fine!" you insist. "I barely even feel hurt!"
"Aside from the fact that you look like you've been chewed up and spat back out again by a Chimaera, I would believe you," Vinyl says coldly. She sprawls onto the bench next to Royal Riff, accidentally pushing him off onto the floor.
"But, can I leave?"
"I'm sorry." Royal Riff stands, dusting himself off and shooting Vinyl an annoyed glare. "But the doctor's orders are bed rest and no mental overexcitement. Therefore, you cannot leave custody."
"Love how you phrased that, Riffs," Vinyl shoots, annoyed. "Custody. Like a freaking prisoner."
"Vinyl, you're not helping," Royal Riff admonishes, carefully avoiding your eyes. "Show a little consideration, would you?"
"No, it's fine," you say in Vinyl's defense, for she had become dangerously quiet. "I'll just . . . stay here, then."
"I'm sorry," Royal Riff repeats softly. Behind him, Vinyl stands and follows Octavia out the door. She pauses to look back at you.
"I've gotta go. Got to . . . work on my mixes. For . . . something."
Royal Riff cringes as Vinyl disappears. "I hope you'll excuse her. Like I said, we've been incredibly worried by your condition. We all express it in our own way . . . Symphony has been distant, and Octavia has been more or less in total isolation. She only left her apartment because I told her the doctor said that your brain waves were spiking."
"It's fine," you assure him. "About Vinyl." The words are automatic. It's probably a good thing that Symphony isn't here to criticize you on your usage of the word "fine". Your thoughts are back on Octavia, with only a small portion of your mind focused on the conversation at hoof.
"Vinyl has just been so angry for the last forty-eight hours. You have no idea how relieved she looked when you finally opened your eyes."
You have nothing to say to that. Your eyes drift across the room and settle on a crack in the ceiling tile. Royal Riff, Vinyl, Octavia, and apparently Symphony too. You've only known these ponies for a few weeks, but they're as concerned for your safety as Noteworthy and Lyra would be.
Speaking of which, what would your old friends think if this?