//------------------------------//
// 8) Strangelove (Blind Mix) 
// Story: Music Makes The Heart 
// by TheVulpineHero1 
//------------------------------//


Strangelove (Blind Mix)
(Remix by Daniel Miller & Rico Conning, original by Depeche Mode)




Octavia whistled as she walked, the sun rising behind her into a cloudy sky the colour of milk. It was her second day away from the music hall, and she felt almost guilty that she hadn't held a bow in all that time; however, knowing Scratch, today would be nothing but intensive practice. She looked forward to it.

Vinyl's house was impressive, although far from lovely. It was larger than a single pony needed, but not so large that it attracted attention, and the walls were the dirty white of sea-gull’s wings (and would have matched the lustre of Vinyl's own flanks, had they been washed). There was no doorbell, which struck Octavia as odd; a bell was, after all, an instrument, and Vinyl was all about music.

"You're here," Vinyl said by way of greeting after a few raps on the door, revealing perhaps the worst case of bed-head ever to hit Ponyville. It seemed Equestria's premier DJ was not a morning pony. 

"Really? Didn't notice. Good to see you, by the way," Octavia smiled wryly. Vinyl looked unimpressed. "I've asked a friend if they will deliver my instrument. It should arrive within the  hour."

"No need. I have an old cello you can use," Vinyl said, disappearing into her house. Octavia rolled her eyes, and followed at what she assumed was a safe distance.

Vinyl lead her upstairs (three at a time), and through a dusty hallway to 'the music room'. It was not a misnomer.

"I wasn't aware you were classically trained," Octavia told her, casting her eye over a collection of cellos, clarinets, kettle drums; all types of instruments.

"Because I'm a DJ?" Vinyl asked with an arched eyebrow. "Music is music."

Octavia nodded, a little impressed; to say a violin and a synthesiser were equal was one thing, but to believe it another thing entirely- and she had no doubt that Scratch believed. Threading her way through the instruments, she took up the cello Vinyl pointed her to; it was well used, but exquisitely taken care of, and had clearly cost somepony a lot of money.

She took it up, and the bow she found with it. "Well, then!" she called. "How are we to practice ignoring distractions? I place myself in your hooves, miss Scratch."

Vinyl sat down, slowly, and said, in her very smokiest of voices, "Play for me, Octavia. Then we'll see."

So she played, as naturally as she knew how; a minuet that became a sonata, a bolero that became a ballad, a vast, meandering cascade of notes and feelings, not all of which she noticed, and not all of which she understood. Vinyl watched her with the same, half-focused gaze with which she favoured the saxophonist. Eventually, she stood, and signalled silently that the piece was to end. It did, with a trembling flourish; to grandstand in the midst of those silent instruments seemed somehow sacrilegious. 

A raised hoof, and the performance began again; but this time the unicorn stalked, a  predator, through the scattered musician's tools. She came so close that Octavia's skin prickled, and she felt the cold electricity of fear descend upon her, for Vinyl's red eyes now held a curious spell. Then, she retreated, like a snake before a charmer; and it began again. 
Closer, then a retreat; a careful, four-hooved waltz was the dance Vinyl chose. In, out, in, out; then, inevitably, the retreat did not come. She tasted warmly of dry ice and fresh cut daisies. 

A procession of angry, discordant notes broke the spell.

"You kissed me," Octavia accused, quiet, almost in awe. "You kissed me."

Vinyl sat down at the other side of the room once more. "You got distracted."

"But you kissed me!" Higher pitched, almost as terrible as those last, broken notes; they both winced.

"You can leave if you like," Vinyl replied, and her voice, hard and steady as iron, betrayed her nervousness. "If not, please begin again."

Octavia tried, then, to remember the kiss that had been stolen from her. What was it she had thought? What had she felt? But it was already lost, nothing but a half-second's sensation on the lips. 

Vinyl, taking her silence for a refusal, stood and sighed, and for the briefest moment, Octavia saw her legs tremble. Somehow, that was all she needed; to see that her fear was not just her own. 

There was much in the world that Octavia did not understand, that made her tremble, that made her weep. But music was something she did understand. For good or for ill, she began to play. So Vinyl Scratch again waltzed the waltzed of the uncertain, retreating as if unsure, drawing closer as if to gathering courage. 

But when she finally came close enough to taste, Octavia's music remained unbroken.