> Syncopation
>  by Terrasora
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> The Coffee House
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Octavia Philharmonica stood before her audience, a single spotlight shining down onto the grey mare. She was balanced perfectly, her cello keeping her upright and Octavia herself providing the only support for her instrument. 

She took a glance at her audience, making sure that she had their full attention. She did. She looked down at her pink bowtie, making sure that it was perfectly tied. It was. Everything was set up perfectly; nothing could go wrong, nothing would be allowed to go wrong. This was, after all, Octavia’s first major performance, a making or breaking point in the young Conservatory star’s life. But Octavia was a genius! She was, after all, the most accomplished musician in her class, a fact made all the more impressive because she was an earth pony. A unicorn's magic often provided for more precision than hooves alone could match, but Octavia Philharmonica could outplay anypony else, unicorn, pegasus, and earth pony alike.

Octavia allowed herself one small smile, a rarity on the mare’s normally stony face, then cradled her bow, closed her violet eyes, and began to play.

But no sound came out. None of the resistance, the slight scrape as her bow slid past the strings of her cello. She opened her eyes and looked down. There were no strings at all! The four metal strings that she had painstakingly tuned some hours before had vanished. Not only that, but the hairs on her bow had come loose, falling to the wooden floorboards one after the other.

The crowd began to laugh. It started out quietly, a single snort from a single pony, but soon everypony was guffawing loudly.

Back on stage, Octavia was on the verge of tears. The only way this could get worse was if—

"Miss Philharmonica?"

And there he was. Professor Arpeggio, Octavia’s favorite teacher. Always willing to lend an ear to her troubles and quite possibly the most talented string musician among the faculty. The older, ever-kind, stallion was now looking disapprovingly at his student. He frowned and shook his head.

"Miss Philharmonica I regret recommending you for this concert, kindly pack your things and leave. Music is clearly not your talent." With that, Arpeggio walked off-stage. The laughter grew in intensity.

Octavia sighed pitifully and reached over, preparing to re-pack her cello, run back to her room, lock the door, and hide under the covers never to be seen again. But, like the strings and her hopes of a music career, Octavia’s cello had vanished.

The grey mare plummeted to the ground, the delicate balance she had found upset by her instrument’s disappearance. Why is everything disappearing? Octavia asked herself. Things don’t normally do that on their own…

But that thought hardly mattered given the speed at which the floor was coming up to meet Octavia. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, turning to make sure that she did not fall onto her fore hooves. 

She crashed through the floor, but found that the previously wooden panels had been replaced by a pool. Octavia fell through sinking deeper and deeper as time went on. The grey mare couldn’t move or breathe, couldn’t do anything but listen. The laughter had not lessened as she fell, quite the opposite. It grew louder, grinding against the cellist’s ears, echoing though her head along with her mentor's words. "Pack your things and leave. Leave. Leave! LEAVE!"

Octavia woke with a start, the chill of the night playing through her room. What started as a warm night, warm enough to warrant an open window and thin covers, had chilled to what seemed like single digit temperatures. 

She sat up, checking the clock on her wall by the scant moonlight. Octavia couldn’t quite make out the time, but it was definitely way too early. Worse than that, the cellist knew that she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again; her dream, as foalish as it seemed to her, had left her shaken. Literally.

The grey mare clutched at her shoulders, trying to stop her shivering through force of will. "Am I really that nervous?" she whispered to herself. She stood up and walked to the window, shutting out the draft.

Honestly, I’ve played concerts of this magnitude before. In the same auditorium, in front of the same parents and students. For goodness’ sake, I’ve played with the Canterlot Philharmonic without being as nervous as I am now!

But this time I’ll be alone. For the first time I’ll be playing for MY audience, not parents forced to wait for their children, not ponies who paid to see the philharmonic and got me hidden away in the back. Everypony there will have come to see… me.

Octavia waved her hooves in the air, trying to disperse the less optimistic side of her mind.

I’ll be fine; everypony says they enjoy my music.

And if I make a mistake?

The cellist shivered, partly from the lingering cold and partly from the prospect of missing a note in front of her audience. She laid herself back into bed.

I… I will cross that bridge when I come to it.


***


Ten minutes later, Octavia was wrapped up in her blankets, eyes closed and breaths slow and regular. She was still very much awake, but trying to trick her body into thinking it was asleep.

Okay, maybe if I stop thinking. Crap, not stopping. Crap. Crap! Mind, I order you to stop thinking! Oh, who am I kidding?

She threw her covers aside and decided to get a very early start on her day. Hygiene came first, and the grey mare marched into the bathroom, grabbing her toothbrush. A song played in her head as she brushed.

Brushie brushie brush brush bru-… Damn that Colgate and her needlessly catchy songs.

Bring water into mouth, spit into sink, wipe. Octavia checked her reflection, noting the very slight bags under her eyes and three strands of out of place mane. She dragged her hooves across her face. "I’m a mess." The few Conservatory students she spoke to called her a perfectionist. This was only partly true; every performance should be perfect, but her appearance hardly mattered to her outside of the concert hall.

Shower, extra long given all of the extra time she had. Octavia sang through the water cascading over her, switching from melody to melody as the whim took her. She began with Beethoofen, then Hayden, then switched styles completely and hummed Louis Hoofstrong and Colttrain. The cellist even found herself singing snippets of Mareosmith at one point. 

Octavia finished her shower around the time when she began to ponder the meaning of life, feeling infinitely more refreshed than she had upon waking up. The grey mare sat on her bed, reaching for the purple brush she kept on her nightstand, beginning the hundred brushstrokes meant to keep her mane in perfect condition; a bit old-fashioned, but it had become a daily part of the cellist’s routine.

1… 2… 3…

The brush had a soothing effect, getting rid of the last bit of tension that her nightmare had left behind.

I can’t believe I actually had a nightmare; I have not done that in years. It’s a bit nostalgic, actually. 9…10…11

One of the many good things about being a musician: Octavia could allow her mind to wander without losing count of her brushstrokes. In this case, the grey mare’s mind wandered to the topic of her parents.

Legato and Marcato Philharmonica; even their names sounded good together. They had met at the demand of their audience, Octavia had sat through the story enough times to know that much. The citizens of Canterlot had repeatedly called their agents, asking them to arrange a concert between the two. Legato, whose last name was Voce at the time, responded first; she had always been a rather relaxed pony, especially when compared to the far more shy and introverted Marcato. Indeed, at first, Marcato refused to perform on stage until he was promised that no spotlight would shine on him.
That all changed when he performed with Legato. 

They became friends.

They became a duet.

They became each other’s special somepony. 

Which, if half of their stories are true, was a very awkward phase for them,  thought Octavia. 83… 84 …85.

Then they became husband and wife and, ultimately, father and mother.

Honestly, I can’t imagine father as a shy colt, he’s always making some bad joke and laughing at it. Mother is just as bad, if not worse. Still, it is a rather cute story, and definitely a far cry from most other ‘falling in love’ stories. Then again, Father and Mother are rather far cries from the rest of the Canterlot “elite.” 98… 99 ...100.

Octavia replaced the brush and got to her hooves. Hygiene phase complete, now to find food.

She walked into the kitchen, checking her normally stocked refrigerator. Which was, for the first time in a while, not stocked. The cellist sighed and shut the fridge. I forgot to buy food. Highly uncharacteristically, Octavia had procrastinated, preferring to spend her time studying sheet music rather than ensuring her survival.

They grey mare turned back into her bedroom, quickly tying her pink bowtie and ensuring that she had enough bits for a rather meager breakfast at a local coffee house. She had far more than enough, but the six bits she would have to pay seemed rather extravagant to the frugal earth pony.

I could make a cup of tea and take it with me instead of buying one there…

No, her pride wouldn’t allow it, what kind of pony brought their own drinks to an establishment where ponies bought drinks? It was an absurd idea! 

Octavia left her home, assured that the door was locked, unlocked and reentered her home to pick up her sheet music, re-exited and assured that the door was locked, and made a beeline for the coffee shop.

The Sun had only just begun to rise.


***


“Good morning and welcome to SunBucks, what can I get for you?” asked the rather cheery magenta earth pony. She was clearly a morning pony. The other barista, a pale yellow with an orange mane, yawned and kneaded one of her eyes with a hoof. She was clearly not a morning pony.

“Chai tea with skim milk and a Blueberry Oat Bar, please.” Octavia mumbled her order, unintentionally avoiding eye contact with the pony on the other side of the counter.

“Yes ma’am, that’ll be six bits.”

Octavia placed the money on the counter and walked away, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. She found a secluded and rather comfortable leather chair and looked over the music she would have to perform later that day. It was still as intricate as ever. Harpo Parish Nadermane had written it, a friend of Octavia and one of the Conservatory’s most accomplished composers. The grey mare hated playing Harpo’s music. They were beautifully crafted and had been known to bring audience’s to tears, but they were nearly impossible to play! 

Harpo believed that music should be “free,” that the eight notes in a given key were insufficient. He composed with every pitch on the piano and some that weren’t. Harpo’s works were also known to bring musicians to tears… and mental breakdowns. To add to this, Harpo and Octavia were friends; the composer knew what the cellist could and couldn’t play, and always made sure that Octavia played at her fullest. At some point, Octavia had begun to call him Sergeant, a name that rather confused anypony who only knew the soft-spoken side of Harpo. In other words, most anypony that hadn’t played his compositions.

They grey mare’s thoughts were broken by a general stirring. Everypony was moving, some were leaving, a slightly annoyed but resigned expression on their face, but most were simply shifting in their seats, getting a clearer look at the front entrance. An older stallion who had been engrossed in that morning’s copy of Equestria Daily had laid it aside. The clearly not a morning person barista seemed to awaken the slightest bit. Even a college-aged unicorn had put her cell phone away. Now Octavia knew something was about to happen.

The magenta earth pony glanced at the clock. “3… 2… 1… Go!” The baristas split, one heading to the assortment of ingredients behind the counter, one manning the register.  Half a second later, the smell of rather strong coffee began to fill the room as the front entrance opened with a bang.

“GOOOOOOOOOD MORNING SUNBUCKS REGULARS!” yelled a mare as she barreled through the doors. Octavia flinched at the sudden loud noise. All the cellist could make out was a blur of white topped with an electric blue that contrasted starkly with everything else in the coffee house.

“GOOD MORNING VINYL!” yelled the regulars. Octavia flinched again. 

Morning pony or not, nopony should be this loud in the morning.

The loud pony, Vinyl apparently, tried to stop in front of the counter, but misjudged the slipperiness of the floor. She skidded and crashed, somehow managing to flip over the register. The barista sidestepped without hesitation, allowing Vinyl to fall on a rather large pillow.

The white pony glanced down at the pillow and then up at the barista standing over her. “Berry, you’re so kind to me. Probably would’ve been funnier if I’d landed on the floor though.”

Berry smiled. “No ordering from behind the counter.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Vinyl picked herself up and vaulted over the counter. “Give me a Green Eye with some caramel and hazel—” Vinyl was silenced as the yellow barista pushed a drink onto the counter.

One part of the coffee house cheered, the other ground and more than a few bits changed hooves.

The orange-maned pony giggled. “We win this one Vinyl.”

The white mare dropped a few bits onto the counter, picked up her drink with a swoop of her hoof and shook her free hoof in mock anger. "But mark my words; I will have my revenge, Carrot Top! And then you'll see," Vinyl swept a hoof, gesturing to the many ponies watching her, "You'll ALL see!" She broke out into evil laughter, pausing to take a sip from her drink. "Oh, and great job on the coffee Carrot Top."

Off in the corner, Octavia had returned to her music. Or she was attempting to, at least. That white mare had begun to walk around, speaking to nearly everypony in a voice that carried through all of SunBucks. It took a bit of time for Octavia to focus entirely on the music in front of her.

Harpo had written a particularly difficult part right in the middle of the piece.

How the hay does he come up with this?

Unconsciously, Octavia held up her left hoof, twitching it into position on her imaginary cello.

It would be a bit easier if I played that note on the A-string and then shifted down to the D-string for that part, but then I’d have to… I think Harpo hates me.

“Oh, so you’re a musician, huh?”

Octavia jumped a bit; she’d been doing that a lot this morning. She turned to Vinyl, who was now standing over the secluded and comfortable chair. Octavia gazed coolly into a pair of bright purple sunglasses, seeing only her own now purple reflection gazing back at her. 

“Whoa there, filly; didn’t mean to scare ya.” The white mare grinned. “Just curious.”

The cellist sighed mentally; she did not enjoy being interrupted, but there was no need to appear rude. “Curious over what Miss…?” She let the question hang.

“Scratch, Vinyl Scratch, but you can just call me Vinyl.” She extended a hoof which Octavia shook gingerly.

“Octavia Philharmonica,” Octavia said in way of introduction.

Vinyl looked up thoughtfully. “Mmmmmmm… Rejected.”

“… Pardon?”

“Oc-ta-vi-a Phil-har-mo-ni-ca,” Vinyl bounced her hoof on every syllable. “That’s almost ten syllables, the maximum is three. I reject your name and substitute my own.” The unicorn put a hoof to her chin and looked down at the floor.

Octavia was now thoroughly confused, a feeling not assuaged by the fact that nearly everypony in the coffee house was looking at the exchange with barely contained laughter. It was always entertaining when Vinyl found somepony who wasn’t a regular.

Vinyl’s head shot up. “I’ve got it! Tavi! … or maybe Octy… Okay, not quite sure yet but I like both of them.” She got to her hooves and turned to the other customers. “EVERYPONY, THIS IS TAVI… OR OCTY… CHOOSE YOUR FAVORITE NAME!”

Everypony yelled back, much the same way they had when Vinyl walked in. They looked expectantly at Octavia. The cellist, pink creeping into her cheeks, nodded politely. The regulars went back to their drinks. Vinyl, much to Octavia’s hidden chagrin, levitated a chair and settled next to the grey mare.

“So, you’re a musician, huh?” the unicorn repeated.

“Yes, Miss Scratch.” Octavia had switched into introvert mode. Short, curt, answer questions, don’t be too rude, avoid conversations and carry on with your day. Maybe Father really was shy and introvertedness is hereditary.

“Call me Vinyl. Cool! Me too,” Vinyl shifted slightly to show the double eighth notes on her flank.

Octavia’s eyebrow threatened to arch upward, but she withheld it.

Vinyl didn’t seem to notice, “Are you a composer or an instrumentalist?”

“Instrumentalist.” Short, curt. The grey mare began to look over her music again, attempting to look busy.

“As an earth pony? How awesome! What do you play?”

“Cello.”

Vinyl whistled softly. “Respect. I’m a producer myself, some remixes but mostly original dubtrot. Though I started DJ-ing recently. I go by DJ-PON3,” she spread her hooves, imagining the name in neon lights, “I know, awesome name, right?”

Octavia nodded slightly, taking a sip of her largely untouched chai tea. It was cooling, but still good enough to drink.

“So, Tavi,” Octavia twitched slightly at the nickname, “are you one of those Conservatory students everypony’s been talking about?”

The grey mare blinked. ‘Everypony’s been talking about?’ Ponies have been talking about the Conservatory? Octavia nodded, her nervous attitude covered by a mask of indifference.

“I heard that there’s gonna be a concert up there today, not really my thing but I might show up; there’s been a lot of hype about it and who knows, maybe I’ll get some kind of inspiration from you classical music types.” Vinyl glanced up at the clock. “Oh, buck, I’m gonna be late!” She jumped to her hooves and downed her mostly full coffee in one scalding move. “I GOTTA GO REGULARS! See you later, Octy.” Two seconds later the white unicorn was speeding down the street dodging around carriages and pedestrians, leaving behind a slightly distraught cellist.

The magenta barista, Berry, pushed the chair Vinyl had moved back into place. “Well,” she said, turning to Octavia, “that was Vinyl Scratch. I hope she didn’t scare you off, she’s a bit of…”

“A character?” suggested Octavia.

“An idiot.” Berry giggled. “But her heart’s in the right place and she’s smarter than she looks. No common sense whatsoever, though.”

Octavia smiled lightly.

“So,” continued Berry, “thinking about becoming a regular?”

Octavia thought back to the white mare, the way she moved seamlessly from customer to customer exchanging hoof bumps and jokes. How comfortable everypony seemed to be around her. The way that Vinyl had kept up a conversation with Octavia herself. The cellist glanced up at the clock on the wall. Time to leave.

Octavia got to her hooves, taking another drink from her slightly cold tea and finishing her Blueberry Oat Bar. “With all due respect, dealing with Miss Scratch on a daily basis would probably drive me insane.”

The cellist trotted off towards the Canterlot Conservatory, the now familiar feeling of nervousness twisting her stomach.
> The Moments Before
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The cellist’s hooves resounded on Canterlot’s pavement. 

Hype. The concert has hype. Ponies are actually looking forward to this concert. That shouldn’t be allowed! I mean, all the performers are still student; everypony in the audience should be dragging their hooves, arguing over whose foal was the most impressive. Boisterous DJs should not be looking for “inspiration” from a group of Conservatory students. Oh Celestia, I thought that I had overcome this bout of nervousness. 
But Octavia, obviously, had not. 

The grey mare felt her dread grow as she trudged through the gates of the Canterlot Conservatory. The building, in keeping with the Canterlot lifestyle, was rich in color, built with dozens of domes and airy spires. It was massive, not quite as large as the Canterlot Palace or Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns but large enough that most students slimmed down simply from trying to get to class on time. It was a shame really, nopony was truly able to enjoy the green pastures and statue gardens that adorned the school; they were always in a rush or were preoccupied with a page of sheet music or, as in Octavia’s case, sick with nerves.

Honestly, Octavia, you are a musician; nerves of steel are part of the job description. It’s time that you “ponied up,” as it were.

Octavia, lost in thought, crashed into a white unicorn. She fell backwards, landing on her flank, dropping the sheet music she held. I thought that only happened in stories, thought Octavia, rubbing the small of her back with a hoof.

A soft blue aura enveloped the sheet music. “I beg your pardon, madam, I’m afraid that I was not paying much attention to my surroundings.”

“No need to apologize,” Octavia began, "I am the one at fault her-" The grey mare recognized who she had crashed into, prompting a soft gasp. “Mr. Fancy Pants! Oh, I am terribly sorry!”

The white unicorn chuckled quietly, helping Octavia back onto her hooves. “Miss Philharmonica, I’m afraid I’ll be using your own words against you: No need to apologize; it’s always a pleasure to make your acquaintance. How have you been?”

The grey mare’s thoughts flashed back onto the last few days. Near sleepless nights, endless studying of Harpo’s composition, ensuring that her cello was perfectly tuned, the encounter at the coffee house. “I have little to complain about, sir.”

“Ah, nervous for your concert are you?”

Octavia blinked and wondered whether unicorns, as the rumors said, really could read minds.

“I can assure you Miss Philharmonica, I am not a mind reader.”

The cellist was not assured.

Another chuckle from Fancy Pants. “Before you burn me at the stake, allow me to explain myself. I have been reading a rather exuberant amount of Fetlock Hooves and have begun to fancy myself as a detective of sorts; it infuriates Fleur to no end.” The distinguished pony looked fondly over to a light pink unicorn, currently buying a bag of oats. “And, if you do not mind my saying so,” he said, turning back to Octavia, “you are clearly shaken over something. Would you mind if I indulge myself?”

Octavia shook her head. “By all means Mr. Fancy Pants.”

“Evidence number one!” Fancy Pants’ voice rang a bit louder than intended. He really did enjoy playing detective. “You said that you ‘have little to complain about,’ not that you have nothing to complain about. Perhaps I am being a bit nit-picky, but coming from you, Miss Philharmonica, ‘little to complain about’ means that you likely have problems that would send other ponies screaming down the streets of Canterlot.”

The cellist smiled sheepishly.

“Evidence number two! You smell of coffee, and rather strong coffee at that.”

Octavia tried to smell herself discreetly, and did indeed notice a faint smell of coffee, no doubt left over from Vinyl Scratch’s Green Eye and whatever ungodly ingredients went into it.

Fancy Pants continued. “I can’t imagine that you drink coffee, Miss Philharmonica and, in more concrete details, you currently lack that Discordian energy that a coffee of that magnitude would bring about.”

A picture of herself vaulting over counters and crashing onto pillows before the sun had even fully risen filled Octavia’s mind. 

She shuttered.

“In other words, you were likely at a coffee house earlier this morning; I know for a fact that there is a SunBucks not too far from here. My guess is that you were up far earlier than necessary and decided to head there for a quick breakfast.”
The grey mare provided a quick nod, impressed by Fancy Pants and his logic.

“Now we shall move on to evidence number three!”

“Oh dear, is he pretending to be a detective again?” Fleur de Lis trotted to her husband and Octavia. “I hope he hasn’t offended you, Fancy can get a bit… carried away.”

“Fleur, must you interrupt my fun?” Fancy Pants seemed rather disappointed about not continuing his analysis. “I was just about to finish.” His head drooped the slightest bit.

Fleur de Lis planted a quick kiss on her husband’s cheek. “Try not to take too long. I know how you get.” 

Fancy Pants grinned.

The pink unicorn caught Octavia’s eye. Fleur rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner. “He’s one of the most respected ponies in Equestria, but he might as well be a colt.”

Octavia giggled.

“If I may continue.” The stallion cleared his throat. “Evidence number three! Miss Philharmonica, you were distracted. So thoroughly distracted that you crashed into another pony. The last time I saw you in such a state was when I visited your parents some years ago. You were still a filly, preparing for one of your earlier concerts. You crashed right into a chest of drawers, apologized to it, and then walked away. I imagine that a similar thought process is guiding you today.”

A blush had spread across the grey mare’s face at the childhood memory, but she managed a nod at Fancy Pants’ last statement.

The stallion put a fatherly hoof on the cellist’s shoulder. “Octavia Philharmonica, you would have been able to play with any Conservatory student when you were still a filly apologizing to inanimate objects. You have improved more than a hundred-fold from then until now; even your worst performance would be a highlight of the evening, and the incredible performance you are about to give will blow all others out of the proverbial water.” Fancy Pants began to walk away with Fleur de Lis at his side. “My regards to your parents,” called the distinguished pony from over his shoulder. Fleur gave Octavia an encouraging smile.

The grey mare was dumbstruck; she wasn’t even able to mutter a ‘thank you.’

Fancy Pants… THE Fancy Pants, owner of a hundred different companies, voted this year’s “Pony Everypony Should Know,” widely considered Equestria’s most influential pony, places that amount of confidence in me. 

A slow smile spread across the cellist’s face. 

Octavia cantered off; she had a concert to prepare for and an audience to reduce to tears.


***


“Octavia, where in Equestria have you been?!” A dark purple stallion in a bright red bowtie stood in front of the cellist.

“Well, Harpo, for the last few minutes I’ve been trying to find you. And now I’m here, standing outside of a room with you blocking the way in. And how was your day?” Octavia smiled sweetly.

Harpo walked backwards, allowing Octavia to enter the room, which was just as luxurious as the Conservatory’s exterior, maintaining a steady stream of consciousness all the while. “My day? Worrying, nausea-inducing, terrible! And that was just breakfast; remind me not to try cooking again. But that’s not important. Tell me, my dear cellist, just how do you feel about my composition?”

“It’s well-paced, cleanly notated, and may be the best piece you’ve written.” She dropped unceremoniously onto a wonderfully plush couch. “It almost makes up for the fact that it has built calluses over my already existing calluses. I could probably reach into a fire with my left hoof and not feel it!”

Harpo laughed; a sound reminiscent of the instrument that inspired his name. “Then you won’t mind playing it for me right now.”

The cellist froze. “Oh, Celestia…”

“Is it really that daunting?” Harpo was a bit worried; what good is a music piece if no one can play it?

“Harpo… I don’t have my cello.”

“You…” Harpo glanced around the room, then back to the grey mare. The large case normally strapped to Octavia’s back was nowhere to be found. “Octavia… You don’t have your cello.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” deadpanned Octavia.

“Oh, dear, this is worse than breakfast.”

The grey mare glanced up at the clock. “Thirty minutes…” That was just enough time to get back home, pick up her cello and head back here. If she hurried. Maybe.

Octavia sprung off the couch. “Harpo, I’m leaving now. I promise I’ll make it back in time.” The stallion was looking rather sick. “Kindly do not pass out before I return.”


***


The cellist without a cello weaved in and out of the well-to-do of Canterlot society. This is NOT how I imagined my day would go. I only had to get up, overcome my nervousness, get in place, play my cello, wow the audience, and move on with my life. But did that happen? Of course not! Marephy’s Law is in full effect today.

Octavia barreled through a group of especially distinguished looking ponies, throwing out various “Pardon me”-s and “sorry”-s amid the chorus of resulting “My words!” The grey mare offered Fleur de Lis a polite nod when she caught her eye although Fancy Pants was nowhere in sight. And then she was back on the pavement, leaving behind the immaculate Canterlot Conservatory.

And honestly, what are the chances that I would forgot my cello today of all days? I even went back into my home for the sheet music. At least Harpo has that right now; he’s a level-headed pony. An image of Harpo beginning to curl into fetal position as Octavia left the room flashed into her mind. … For the most part. 

Octavia approached the SunBucks she had visited that morning.  Not much more now, she thought, silently thanking whatever being endowed earth ponies with their stamina.

“GOOOOOOOOOOOOD-BYE REGULARS!” sounded a familiar voice as Octavia pulled up to the SunBucks entrance.

By Celestia’s round-

Vinyl Scratch, ever the pony on the hurry, shoved open the glass door that barred her exit. Octavia crashed, defying physics for a moment as she levitated parallel to the ground. However, physics quickly took notice and reasserted its control, sending Octavia sprawling onto the pavement.

Vinyl glanced at the glass door. “Huh, not even a crack. I should get one of these.” The DJ turned her attention to the grey mare forcing her way back to her hooves. “Hey, you’re Tavi!” She trotted over to Octavia, providing more moral than physical support. “Are you okay? You hit that door pretty hard. I’ve done that before; doesn’t feel good.”

Stupid bad luck, stupid Marephy, stupid reoccurring purple shades. “Why are you here again?” There may have been more venom in Octavia’s voice than was intended.

“I was getting my late-morning coffee.”

Late-morning coffee. Of course, what else could it possibly have been? “Well, Miss Scratch, I’m in a bit of a hurry, so if you’ll excuse me.” Octavia cantered off.

“Yeah, ‘bit of a hurry,’” snorted Vinyl, “No shit.” She was running right next to the cellist, coffee levitating in front of her.
Octavia sped up a bit. Vinyl kept her pace.

“Sooooo,” said the white unicorn, “where you trying to get to?”

Another slight acceleration. “Home, Miss Scratch.”

“I told you to call me Vinyl. Alright, so you’re going home, but why? Nervous about playing a concert, Miss Conservatory Student?”

The two mares were practically sprinting at this point.

“I forgot my instrument.” Octavia was panting from her exertion.

“YOU WHAT?!” Vinyl jumped up, her hooves nearly pointing upwards in her shock. “Where do you live?!”

The cellist, stumbling a bit from the DJ’s acclamation pointed a hoof towards her home that had only just begun to come into focus. Without further ado, Vinyl grabbed hold of Octavia and, with a crack and a sheen of pearl white magic, teleported both of them in front of the building the grey mare had pointed at.

Octavia was breathless and speechless. Vinyl, on the other hand was clearly not. She gripped the cellist’s hoof and ran into the building. “What floor?!” yelled the DJ.

“Fifth.”

“The stairs’ll be faster. Hang on!” Five magical flashes later they were on Octavia’s floor, Vinyl panting heavily from her exertion. The DJ let go of the grey hoof and sat down heavily. “Go… get cello. I’ll… be fine.”

The grey mare hesitated, then took off towards her flat. Take out key, fit, turn, dash to the bedroom, grab cello, dash into kitchen, fill cup of water, dash back out. The entire process took ten seconds.

Octavia trotted back into the hallway, stopping by a Vinyl lying spread eagle on the carpet. The cellist, now reunited with her instrument, offered the unicorn the glass.

Vinyl took the glass with her magic and dumped it on her own face, getting around three-fourths of the total amount of water down her throat.  “This carpet,” said the DJ, “is sooooooo soft.”

Octavia giggled.

“Hey, you actually smile! Haven’t seen that before. Kinda cute.” She got to her hooves. “Well, I guess we should get going.”

The grey mare looked up at a clock, a slight pink tinge on her face. Ten minutes. “I don’t know if we’ll make it.”

The DJ raised an eyebrow, a rather subdued action considering that her purple shades hid most of her face. Octavia noticed that there were drops of water on the lenses. The next moment, Vinyl had used magic to wipe them away.

“What’re you talking about Octy? Of course we’ll make it. Magical unicorn, remember?” The DJ tapped herself on the side of her head.

“Oh. Indeed. I’m not quite… used to magic.”

“S’Alright, confuses me too sometimes, and I’m a unicorn. Ready to go?”

“Of course.” 

One final flash of magic sent the pair back to the Canterlot Conservatory. 


***


They appeared in the middle of a group of particularly distinguished ponies and rapidly repeated “Pardon me”-s and “Sorry”-s amid a chorus of “My Word!”

The two mares extricated themselves from that group.

“Well, Miss Scratch.”

Vinyl gave Octavia a pointed look from behind sunglasses.

I don't know how that's even possible.

“Well, Vinyl,” sighed the cellist.

The DJ grinned.

“I will be heading in this direction,” Octavia gestured vaguely with her hoof, “although I hope you’ll be attending my concert in a few minutes, as a thank you for helping me reunite with my cello.”

The unicorn shrugged. “Don’t mention it, I was supposed to be here anyway; I just got a bit of exercise on top of being on time for once.” She scanned the area around them and seemed to notice somepony. “Speaking of that, I’ve gotta go. Knock ‘em dead, Tavi!” And with that, the DJ disappeared into the milling crowd.

Octavia shook her head and began to walk back to Harpo. I’ve only met her twice and she was willing to exhaust herself for my sake. Such a strange mare… Her coffee disappeared after that first teleport, she must have dropped it while casting her spell. Great, something else I owe Miss Scratch. I hate having debts.


***


The cellist found herself in front of the room where, she knew, Harpo was likely worried to death. She pushed open the door and found a far better situation than she expected.

The purple stallion sat on the couch, a cup of tea held in his shaking hooves, a disheveled mane, askew bowtie, darkened skin under his eyes, and a quarter-finished bottle of whiskey standing on the carpet. “Oh, by Luna’s starry night, the cello’s here!” Harpo exclaimed, nearly tossing his tea into the air. Luckily, the composer had enough self-control to prevent this sacrilege. 

“Yes Harpo, don’t mention that I ran through a quarter of Canterlot and crashed into a glass door to get to it.”

“Octavia, don’t take it that way! We both know that you could go out there and sing the piece, or bang it out on the floorboards and blow away even Hoity Toity. But it will sound infinitely better on that cello.”

“That was almost a compliment, Sergeant. Are you drunk?”

“I always compliment you! Remember when I said that you almost played that note right? And no, I’m not drunk! I just *hiccup* had to steel my nerves a bit.” He tried to take a drink from his tea, but found that the cup had a mind of its own. He put it down on the table instead.

Octavia picked up the whiskey and re-corked it. It was relatively weak; Harpo would probably not pass out during the concert, even given the stallion’s surprisingly low alcohol tolerance. Just to be sure, the grey mare trotted over and picked up a courtesy water bottle somepony had left for them. She considered dousing Harpo with it, but decided against it, opting instead to offer it to the composer. She remembered a similar event that had occurred only a few minutes ago; an involuntary smile tugged at her lips. 

“Come along Harpo, you don’t want to miss the first performance of your masterpiece.”

“It’ll be a sad career if this is my masterpiece!” Harpo shakily stood up, drinking heavily from his water bottle. “This is the beginning of hundreds of masterpieces, compositions that will be played for generations!” A hard hiccup nearly made the purple stallion fall on his flank. “Let’s go Octavia, to the future!” Harpo awkwardly cantered to the door, attempting a heroic run, but deciding against it when the ground under him began to wobble. He rested against the door frame for a moment, and then continued through the door, water bottle in hoof.

The grey mare followed, turning off the lights and shutting the door behind her. She silently thanked her previous insomnia; her cello was in prime condition even though she had had no time to prepare it. Yet, there was something bothering her.
It was not that sense of dread and nervousness from before; Fancy Pants’s words and the cellist’s run through Canterlot had fully driven that from her mind. This was something else entirely. 

But what else could it be? If she had overcome her nervousness for the concert than what else does Octavia Philharmonica, the Canterlot Conservatory’s rising star-. 

Ah, so that’s it. After this performance I won’t be a Conservatory student. I’ll be on my own. It just hadn’t hit until now. Octavia’s stomach seemed to curl in on itself. That's a slightly terrifying thought... But one problem at a time, Octavia; first the concert then everything else. 

The mare’s violet eyes fell on Harpo, stumbling his way into the auditorium where, in a sense, she would give one of her last concerts. The cellist’s mouth twisted into a wry smile.

‘To the future’ indeed, Harpo. Our story hasn’t even begun yet.
> The Concert and Moments After
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Octavia stood backstage, just behind the curtain. The auditorium was full, hundreds of ponies dressed in their best. The cellist understood why they were there; it was a social event, a gathering for the elite. Half of them, maybe only a quarter, had ever heard Octavia play before. The rest would look at others with superior sneers. “Oh, I attended the most wonderful concert played by quite an accomplished cellist. She’s been compared to Yo Yo Mane, and it was a lovely piece. Such a shame that you could not make it.”

Octavia did not play for them. ... Well, in a way I do.

The grey mare played to turn that sneer into genuine sympathy for those who missed her concerts. Music should be enjoyed, not turned into a measure of social status, something to gloat over. She performed with the intent of drawing ponies into her music, leading them away from the pomp and circumstance of Canterlot, and she often succeeded. They were irresistibly drawn back to her and always brought others to watch her next performance.

“… And so, without further ado, Miss Octavia Philharmonica.”

That was the Master of Ceremonies, finishing his introduction. He pushed open the red velvet curtain, appearing before the cellist. It was Professor Arpeggio.

Octavia’s previous nightmare came rushing back, the disapproval of the little old stallion, and the laughter of the audience as she fell without having been able to play a single note. The grip she had on her cello tightened.

“Miss Philharmonica,” the kindly professor spoke in his usual hushed tone, “you will do wonderfully. To use a colloquial expression, ‘Knock them dead.’ Not literally of course… unless you have to.” Professor Arpeggio trotted off, chuckling at his own semi-joke.

Octavia blinked. This is not my nightmare.

The curtain drew back, revealing an empty stage, no music stand, no sheet music. Octavia would walk to the center and play the piece by memory as she always did.

This is not a dream.

She strode forward. Every pair of eyes fell on the grey mare as she walked across stage, cello carefully balanced across her back.

This is reality.

Octavia placed her instrument on its pin and stood on her hind legs, finding the intricate balance required to play. She did not rush, she did not have to. The cellist was the soloist; the reason everpony was seated in that large round room. She had all the time in the world.

This is my concert; my last concert as a student, my first concert as a professional.

She found the balance. Her right hoof gripped the bow and she nestled it against her leg. Octavia closed her eyes. If a cufflink had fallen at that moment, everypony would have heard it hit the floor.

The cellist smiled. I haven’t been nervous for a concert since I was an amateur.

Octavia began, coaxing a single warbling note from her cello. It began softly, barely audible but slowly grew in intensity. This was Harpo’s signature, a beginning meant to catch the attention of the audience as the note grew louder. A slight uneasiness fell on the listeners and nopony knew exactly why.

Then the music truly began.

The cellist broke the tension, playing higher and higher pitched notes. The music momentarily relaxed her audience. A few leaned back into their chairs, not even realizing that they had been leaning forward. But Harpo did not believe in a relaxed audience and the purple stallion, water bottle clutched in hoof, smiled to himself, knowing what was coming.

The relaxing music broke, loudly replaced by a dissonant figure. A few dapper ponies jumped. A group of especially distinguished ponies whispered a chorus of “My word"-s. In the front row, a certain composer chuckled softly.
The grey mare’s hooves bounded across her cello’s neck, playing a halting and threatening tune before breaking into a quick and dissonant dance tune. The audience looked towards the cellist, eyes slightly glazed and breathing unconsciously held. They were captivated by the music.

But Octavia didn’t notice this. Her eyes had been closed ever since that first note, not even aware of the spotlight shining down on her. All that the cellist could see was the sheet music, the confusing mess of sixteenth notes, triplets, and slurs that manifested itself in the position of her hooves, the slight differences in the pressure of her bow as it slid across the strings. She swayed in time with the music, moving back and forth with the contour of the notes. 

The piece peaked, crescendo-ing into a flurry of notes and then quickly falling down. Octavia shifted her hoof from the A-string to the D-string, unconsciously working out the problem that had seemed so difficult that morning.

Harpo smirked; he had written that part for the sole purpose of challenging Octavia and she had played it perfectly, made it seem like she was playing "Where is Hoofkin". How much more can you possibly grow Octavia Philharmonica? You’re impossibly talented and a hard-worker to boot! Leave something for the rest of us plebeians.

Yet, the composer couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride as his friend stood on her stage. In a sense, the next part of his piece was a reward for Octavia. He had marked it “Esibizionista,” a Bitalian word that means, literally, “Show-Off.”

And the cellist did exactly that. 

It was an upbeat tune, a marked difference to the melancholy and dissonant sounds of the rest of the piece. Music students would be writing essays on the meaning behind it for years to come. Some would claim that this piece represented a war; others asserted that it was a fight, and still others said that it provided a clear insight into the depressed nature of the composer, probably caused by alcohol. Harpo already had his own explanation prepared, whenever critics would think of actually asking the composer for an explanation.

I am a misunderstood artistic genius. Now let me eat in peace.

Harpo was a rather strange stallion.

As the composer mused to himself, the rest of the audience slid further and further down their seats. Those few eyes that had not grown moist earlier in the piece grew clouded by the sheer musical ability they were witnessing.

More than a few ads for used instruments graced the pages of the next Equestria Daily newspaper and many colts and fillies received cellos for no apparent reason.

Octavia finished with a flourish, allowing the final note to ring through the auditorium and die out on its own. She opened her violet eyes, nearly surprised that she had been playing for an audience. 

The note died fully.

There was a beat of silence.

Thunderous applause filled the auditorium. Everypony got to their hooves, stamping at the ground. They had forgotten the polite applause that was, for the most part, the standard response.

Octavia stood for a moment, taking in the spectacle, sweating slightly from the heat of the spotlight. She bowed and walked off-stage, the slightest smile playing across her face.


***


“They loved me!”

“Yes, Octavia.”

“It was amazing, did you hear the applause? I’ve never gotten applause as loud as that! Oh, it was wonderful!”

“Yes, Octavia.”

The cellist and the composer were back in the luxurious room. The concert had finished and many different upper-class ponies had clamored for the chance to meet them. The Conservatory staff, Professor Arpeggio in particular, had politely but firmly declined these requests. Octavia and Harpo were, after all, still students.

As it was now, Harpo was relaxing on the couch, a tumbler full of iced Maker’s Mare Whiskey. Octavia, far too energetic to drink, was bouncing across the room with a large grin plastered across her face.

“It was a wonderful composition Harpo; I was as much a listener as any of the audience members. How do you do it?”

The composer took a sip of his whiskey. “I’ve tried to explain my creative process to you before; you don’t understand it.”

“Nopony understands it; it makes no sense!”

Harpo faked a dramatic sigh, placing a purple hoof on his forehead. “True genius is never understood. Which is just as well, if anypony else had the same thought process that I do we’d probably take over all of Equestria. Can you imagine it, a nation run by me? It would be perfect! And then where would we musicians be without any strife to compose music about?”

“Sitting on our bums, whiskey in hoof, being self-absorbed?” Octavia replied seriously.

“Exactly!” Harpo took another sip of his whiskey, completely unaware of the situational irony taking place.

There was a knock at the door.

Octavia and Harpo glanced at each other.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” asked Harpo.

“You, dear friend, are the male. It is your duty to answer mysterious knocks.”

Another knock, polite but insistent.

“Yes, well…” replied the composer, “You’re already standing!”

The cellist sighed and shook her head, walking to the door. She unlocked it and opened it in one deft motion, revealing a white unicorn with blue hair.

“Fancy Pants, this is a surprise! Come in!”

Harpo’s head perked up at discovering the identity of their visitor. 

“I hope that it is a welcome surprise, Miss Philharmonica. I don’t mean to impose,” said Fancy Pants, calmly walking into the musician’s room. “And may I say that was a wonderful performance you just gave.”

“Thank you Fancy Pants.” The grey mare gestured to the other pony in the room, who was currently sitting stiffly and trying to look comfortable. “This is Harpo Parish Nadermane, composer and occasional harp player. He wrote the piece you heard just now.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance Monsieur Nadermane.” Fancy Pants extended his hoof and Harpo took it, looking rather star-struck. Octavia noticed this and held in a snicker.

“Ye-es,” Harpo’s voice cracked and he swallowed nervously, “I mean, I’m Harpo. But you knew that.” His eyes grew a bit wider. “Oh, I do hope that didn’t sound pretentious! I mean, Octavia just introduced me which is why you’d know my name, not because I’m particularly famous or anything. Although, I’m trying to be. Not that I’m asking for help! I just meant-“

Octavia interrupted. “Harpo?”

The composer turned to her, begging for help with his eyes. 

“You’re rambling. And I believe Fancy Pants wants his hoof back.”

Harpo quickly let go of Fancy Pants’ hoof, recoiling as though it were venomous. “I’m so sorry! That was a terrible first impression.”

The distinguished pony chuckled, an amused glint in his eyes. “Monsieur Nadermane, your composition was your first impression and it went quite well. Nor was your ‘rambling,’ as Miss Philharmonica put it, the worst exchange I have ever taken part in.”

Harpo nodded and visibly relaxed. However, the composer found that he could not relax fully. Perhaps if I steel my nerves a bit more. He drained his tumbler, coughing a bit from the sudden surge of whiskey.

Fancy Pants turned to the cellist. “Miss Philharmonica, I’m afraid that I did not visit purely to congratulate you, although congratulations are in order. I’m here on a bit of business as well.”

Octavia raised an eyebrow. “Did you tell Professor Arpeggio that when you came in here?” She remembered the small Conservatory teacher fiercely interrogating any ponies who intended to hire his students. Some of them had left in tears.

“I assure you, he knows full well.”

“It’s a wonder that you made it in here, Fancy Pants.”

The unicorn smiled. “I have my ways, but enough about that. Miss Philharmonica, I have recently begun my own music company. It is, at the moment, a rather modest venture but it is a rather promising one. I do, after all, have a certain amount of friends throughout Equestria. I am interested, Miss Philharmonica and Monsieur, or Maestro rather, Nadermane, in having you two becoming a part of this company.”

Octavia responded immediately, “Fancy Pants, we would be flattered t—“

Fancy Pants held up a hoof. “No, Miss Philharmonica, I will not have you making such decisions without giving it proper thought. I understand that, by tomorrow evening, you will officially have left the Conservatory.”

Octavia nodded, the graduation ceremony had taken place a week prior to the concert. There were only formalities left; final grades, words from the Professors and then the students would no longer be students.

“In that case,” continued Fancy Pants, “I will not accept any answer you may have until tomorrow at” the unicorn glanced up at a clock, “5:30. That is exactly 24 hours to think this over. I would not be offended if you decline. Miss Philharmonica, Maestro Nadermane, it was a pleasure to speak with you and I congratulate you on a wonderful performance. Although I must apologize; I arrived some minutes after the piece had begun. There was some business to attend to. But, without further ado, I will take my leave.” And with that, Fancy Pants left the room.

“Well, Harpo, not even out of Conservatory and we have already received a job off—Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You know Fancy Pants.” The composer clutched his head in disbelief. “That was Fancy Pants. I spoke to Fancy Pants.”

“Yes, Fancy Pants was here. You haven’t gone mad just yet.”

The purple stallion looked at the cellist with a new respect. “Miss Philharmonica, how do you know Fancy Pants?”

“Don’t call me Miss Philharmonica, it sounds strange coming from you. And, on the matter of my knowing Fancy Pants—actually, can we stop saying Fancy Pants, it loses its meaning if we use it too much.”

Harpo looked horrified. “You want us to give Fancy Pants a nickname?!”

“Harpo, kindly get over your colt crush for a moment.”

“C-Colt crush?” sputtered Harpo. “I don’t have a colt crush on Fancy Pants!”

“Yes, you just hold him in the highest esteem, have listened to each of his speeches, gushed like a schoolfilly when he walked in, and think he’s handsome,” Octavia smirked.

“That’s not true! …I haven’t listened to all of his speeches.”

The cellist raised an eyebrow.

“Not all of them are on HayTube!” Harpo responded indignantly.

The grey mare decided that she had teased her friend enough. “Fancy Pants is a family friend, he knew my parents before I was even born.”

“I see… Actually that makes a lot of sense, what with both your parents and Fancy Pants being on the rather liberal side of the Canterlot elite. It’s very refreshing to know that not every rich pony is a conservative snob.”

Octavia nodded, but offered no further response. Harpo poured himself another drink. 

It was not yet six o’ clock, but the Sun was already setting.

“Well, Harpo, I’m going to turn in for the day. Can I trust you not to get too drunk and find your way back home on your own?”

“Why, Octavia, you act as though I’m some kind of alcoholic!”

“You are a kind of alcoholic; a strange one who can’t hold his alcohol.”

Harpo rolled his eyes. “Fine then, mother. I won’t drink too much before getting home.

The cellist eyed the half empty bottle of whiskey that still stood on the floor in front of the composer. “Do you promise?”

Harpo drew two circles in the air with a hoof and placed it over his heart, a peculiar movement that he said was supposed to represent the Sun and Moon. “Upon my honor as a composer.”

Octavia remained skeptical but left the room anyway, nodding her good-bye.

The stallion waved at the retreating grey figure, then grinned to himself and took up his whiskey bottle. 

“Honestly Octavia, what kind of good composer has honor?” 

Nopony would ever learn how exactly Harpo got back home that night.


***


“So Mister Pants-man, are those two ponies you talked to gonna join?”

Fancy Pants had just walked out of his brief meeting with Maestro Nadermane and Miss Philharmonica. This other mare, a white unicorn by the name of Vinyl Scratch, had accompanied him. They walked towards the Conservatory’s exit.

“I’ve told them that I won’t accept an answer until tomorrow. The same thing I told you when you first joined the music company, Vinyl. Are you quite sure that you don’t want to speak to them?”

Vinyl scrunched up her nose. “And deal with those uptight rich-type ponies? No thanks. But, uh, no offense, Mister Pants, you’re cool.”

“Thank you Vinyl,” chuckled Fancy Pants. “I’m hardly ever described as ‘cool.’”

“You definitely are, though! Easily the coolest rich pony… Except for maybe DeadMare5. That pony’s awesome, I mean Dat Mask, am I right?”

As per usual, Fancy Pants was rather lost in this conversation. He settled on a polite nod and a change of topics. “Did you enjoy the concerts this evening?”

Vinyl shrugged. “Classical’s not really my style. Nopony really caught my ear. This music block is getting really bucking annoying. I am kinda bummed that I missed Tavi’s concert though. She had some really weird music with her that I wanted to hear.”

“Tavi?”

“Yeah, a mare that I met this morning. Grey color, plays cello, gives this icy stare to ponies she doesn’t know. Calls me ‘Miss Scratch,’ which is kind of annoying, but she seems like a good pony.”

Fancy Pants smiled serenely, drawing the link immediately. “Oh, really? Hmmmm.”

“What ‘Hmmmm?’ I don’t like when you ‘Hmmmm.’”

“It’s nothing Vinyl, just a notion that crossed my mind.”

“Notion my hoof,” pouted the DJ.

“Indeed. Now Vinyl, I’m afraid that I am forced to leave you here. Fleur is waiting in the carriage, but I encourage you to stay here and see if nothing else can inspire you. That is, after all, the reason I asked you here.”

“Got it, boss man. I’ll be seeing you!” The white mare walked off, making a bee line for a stand selling apple cider. Her head bobbed to a beat that only she could hear.

The gears in Fancy Pants’ head had begun to turn as he walked to his carriage, politely nodding to the ponies he passed. 
He stopped to have a brief chat with the driver before climbing into his carriage.

His wife greeted him with a kiss. “How did the meeting go?” asked Fleur-de-Lis.

“They seem interested, although I gave them the same condition that I give every other musician.”

“Fancy, give ponies too much time and nopony will join your company,” she said jokingly.

“I sincerely hope not, Fleur. If all goes well and those two join, then things will become quite,” Fancy Pants flashed a quick, devilish grin, “interesting for a time.”

Fleur giggled and nestled herself against her husband. The white unicorn gave her a peck on the forehead and then turned towards the window. The lampposts dotting the Canterlot streets were just beginning to light.

More and more of the plan began to form in Fancy Pants’ mind.

You haven’t lost your touch just yet you old Diamond Dog, he thought to himself. Things will be interesting indeed.
> The Following Day
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Octavia awoke naturally; a strange feeling to say the least. After spending years waking up to Frederic Cloppin’s Nocturne Opus 9 Number 2 and the occasional nightmare, the cellist felt that waking up without an alarm was impossible.

And yet, there she lay, hooves rubbing at her eyes and mane disheveled. 

I should get up, thought the grey mare.

Octavia weakly kicked at her blankets, only succeeding in shifting them down a few inches.

Plan B then.

Plan B, as it turned out, consisted of pulling up her blankets and nuzzling against them. The cellist understood that she likely wouldn’t be going back to sleep, but that wasn’t going to stop her. After all, what did Octavia have to do that day? Surely nothing important.

A voice in the back of Octavia’s head spoke up.

Fancy Pants. 5:30.

A single violet eye cracked open and peered at the clock. It wasn’t even noon yet.

Shower. Food. The voice, a mirror of Octavia’s own, was insistent.

The thought of breakfast nearly got the cellist to her hooves, but the movement somehow changed. Octavia wriggled deeper under her covers.

Half-formed thoughts ran through the grey mare’s mind, most of them unintelligible, many of them protesting her refusal to begin the day. Octavia could barely hear them in her semi-conscious state, feeling sluggish but oh-so-comfortable.

But all good things must come to an end and, despite her best efforts; Octavia was forced to roll out of bed. There was a decisive lack of energy in the cellist’s movements, a weight that she was feeling in her hooves.

Brushing teeth, showering, brushing hair. Hygiene routine completed.

Octavia stretched, feeling the weight alleviate by the tiniest amount.

Am I tired? Strange, considering that I actually got to sleep.

The cellist tromped into her kitchen, opening the refrigerator. She was greeted by empty shelves.

Ah, that’s right; self-filling refrigerators are still in the testing phase.

Octavia looked over at her bit bag, weighing hunger and the loss of bits in her mind. Sighing, she decided that hunger would be slightly worse. But only slightly.

But where do I go? SunBucks? 

The image of a white unicorn with an electric blue mane flashed into her mind. A glimpse at the clock confirmed that Vinyl Scratch would likely be there for her late-morning coffee.

Definitely not. Fast-food is out of the question, of course… A trip to the supermarket is in order. Celestia knows that I’ve been putting it off for long enough.

The cellist trotted outside, closing and locking the door behind her, running through a shopping list in her mind.

Flour, eggs, sugar, vanilla, butter, bread, dandelions… That’s going to cost quite a few bits. Not that I should be worried about money, but it is always bet to be careful. Lucky that Fancy Pants offered Harpo and I that job so quickly.

Fancy Pants. It’s amazing really, a pony of his wealth deciding to enter into yet another business. Music, nonetheless! At this point, he could ask to become Princess and everypony would attend his coronation. The Princess Fancy Pants cometh! Behold, behold.

Octavia giggled aloud at the mental image, garnering a few stares from passing ponies.

But enough of that. Although I do have to wonder if there’s any reason behind his sudden venture into the music industry. The market is dominated by a few large companies at the moment; any new agency, even one run by Fancy Pants, is a gamble.

Which is why he wants ponies to think it over before joining. That pony is far too kind.

The cellist walked through the sliding doors of the supermarket, a slight smile cracking the mask of cold detachment she wore in public.

Octavia walked up and down the various aisles, slowly filling the shopping cart she had found at the market’s entrance.

Flour, eggs, some apples as snacks, sugar… and vanilla… and… I really should have written all of this down.

Octavia looked up from her shopping cart, locking eyes with a mint-green unicorn. The cellist recognized her; she was definitely another Conservatory student, but Octavia could not remember her name.

Laura? Liar? 

The cellist nodded in greeting and the unicorn returned the nod, turning back to the box she held in her hooves. Octavia walked on.

I really should speak to more ponies. Harpo is probably the only student I think of as a friend… Well, Octavia, it’s a bit too late for that, considering that there are no more students.

“Miss Philharmonica, what a surprise!”

Octavia turned towards the voice, and found Professor Arpeggio serenely smiling at her.

“I was not expecting to see you until later on today,” continued the Professor. “But this is as good an opportunity as any to congratulate you on a fantastic concert. I would have said something yesterday but I was rather busy fending off the,” Professor Arpeggio grimaced, “Record Producers.”

Octavia smiled. “Although Fancy Pants was able to slip past you.”

“Ah, yes. I think we can both agree that that particular stallion is a special case. Working for him would be a great experience.” 

The elder pony looked around and leaned in conspiratorially. “Now tell me, Miss Philharmonica, did you take the job?”

“Fancy Pants is not accepting an answer until 5:30 this evening. He wants me and Harpo to thoroughly think over his proposal.”

Professor Arpeggio threw back his head and laughed, startling two ponies that had been passing by. “Yes, he is a special case. Most other companies would have you signing a contract on the spot. Luna knows I had to knock away a few rolls of parchment away yesterday. Although I can’t blame them, especially after they had heard you play Mister Nadermane’s piece. It really was a masterful display. And you had seemed so nervous when I passed by you.”

Octavia replayed that moment, feeling her stomach drop from remembering her nightmare, a small panic seizing her. “No, Professor Arpeggio, not nervous at all.”

“Well of course not! Not from you Miss Philharmonica.” The Professor grinned at his star student. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must return home. Missus Arpeggio is expecting me.”

“Of course, Professor.”

The elder pony trotted off. Octavia went back to her shopping, but could not prevent a slight voice coming from the back of her head.

‘Not nervous at all.’ That was a blatant lie. I was having nightmares about that concert. Tartarus, I nearly snapped my cello’s neck in half right before performing!

But what else could I have said? ‘Yes Professor, your top student who performed wonderfully could not feel her hooves as she walked on stage.’ Ridiculous!

Your pride will be your downfall, Octavia Philharmonica.

Octavia sighed inwardly. I hate when I quote Koltein at myself.

The grey mare paid for her groceries and walked back home.


***


“Harpo? Harpo, are you in there?” 

Octavia stood in front of the composer’s home, rapping furiously on the door. She had been knocking for the past ten minutes without receiving any form of answer.

“Harpo, get your purple flank up; you’ll miss the final day at the Conservatory!”

The door opened the slightest bit, revealing a bloodshot green eye. Harpo’s voice was little more than a rasping whisper. 

“Octavia, stop yelling. You know who’s going to show up to the Conservatory today? You. That’s it.”

“You and I will be at lessons today.”

Harpo attempted to roll his eyes, but that particular movement was beyond his capabilities. He looked up instead, putting as much exasperation into it as he could. “But I’m hungover!” whined Harpo.

“It won’t be the first time you have attended lessons with a hangover.”

The composer considered this for a moment before sighing. “Do I have time for breakfast?”

“Harpo, it is half past noon.”

“I know! Your infernal knocking woke me up; I could have easily slept until 3 o’ clock.”

Harpo’s eye disappeared from the crack in the door way, leaving the door open. Octavia took this as an invitation to enter.

The stallion prided himself on his “Disorganized Tidiness (Patent Pending)” and his home was a reflection of that. Half-finished music pieces lay on counters and tables, novels and textbooks adorned the couches and chairs, and various other bits and pieces were strewn throughout the house. The only object that was not decorated with tidbits was Harpo’s pride and joy; his harp. 

Nopony, not even Octavia, was allowed to touch that without the composer’s express permission and only then with Harpo hovering at their shoulder. 

Harpo himself was at his refrigerator’s door, holding up one hoof to cover his eyes and muttering something to the effect of, 

“Light, stop yelling; I’m hungover.”

He fished out a loaf of bread and a jug of orange juice; his “Surefire Hangover Defense.” (Patent Pending)

The composer set the toaster to three, which was guaranteed to leave his toast half-charred and set about finding a glass for his juice, stumbling through his kitchen as he did so.

Octavia, meanwhile, had found a seat on a couch and was leafing through the pages of Artemis Foal: The Eternity Colt.

“Harpo?”

“Mmmmm?” Harpo responded.

“Have you thought about Fancy Pants’s offer?”

“I am not exactly the best thinker at the moment, Octavia.” As if to punctuate his statement, the composer crashed into a chair. “But I think we would be crazy to refuse him.”

Octavia looked towards the composer, about to ask him to elaborate. Harpo held up a hoof, busy downing his first glass of orange juice.

The stallion placed the empty cup on a counter with a sigh, reaching for the jug of orange juice. “You see, Octavia, Fancy Pants is not a member of the music industry; he is a business pony through and through. He will not be as in tune, if you’ll pardon the pun, with what is expected of most musicians; namely, to perform what their producers think is best. He will take whatever we create and find a market for it; we will have far more freedom in his company than we would in any other.” The toaster finished toasting and Harpo, orange juice in hoof, awkwardly trotted over to it.

“I see… Harpo, that was one of the most convincing arguments I have ever heard from you.”

“Which is further proof that you don’t listen to me!” The composer took a bite of his burnt toast, cringing slightly at the taste. 
Five bites later and both slices of burnt toast were gone, along with a good amount of the stallion’s headache.

“Can we go now?” asked Octavia.

In response, Harpo reached into a cupboard, pulling out a bottle of aspirin and taking it with the last dregs of orange juice. 

He burped slightly. “Alright, lead the way, Octavia.”


***


“… It has been a long and arduous few years, and it pains me to see you go, but I can rest assured, knowing that each and every pony here has a bright future ahead of them. I am proud to have been your Professor but from this day forth it will be your duty to teach as well as to learn. As daunting as it may seem, I hope that you will find this task both enjoyable and informative, much like my classes.” A slight laugh echoed through the auditorium, punctuated by slight sniffles from the more emotional students. 

Professor Arpeggio smiled for a moment, and then continued. “The next years of your life will be uncertain, confusing, and difficult. Again, much like my classes.” Another laugh. “But each of you will overcome these obstacles and achieve something truly incredible. Congratulations.”

The stallion stepped down from his podium to thunderous applause; partly from the speech he had delivered and partly because his was the last speech. After sitting through three hours of speeches and congratulations the former students were prepared to leave, stretch their hooves, or fall asleep.

Others had already fallen asleep.

“Honestly Harpo, wake up!” Octavia nudged the composer’s ribs, perhaps a bit more energetically than was needed.

Harpo jumped, letting out a small squeak and beginning to put his hooves together in applause. He stopped himself when he saw that most everypony was filing out of the auditorium. 

“Octavia that is the second time you have woken me up today. Do it once more and I will break your cello in half and sleep on the remains.”

“Break my cello and you’ll never wake up again.”

The two musicians gave each other their best serious faces before grinning widely.

Chuckling, Harpo looked up towards a clock. “There’s about an hour and a half left until our meeting with Fancy Pants.”

“Indeed.”

“Where did he say we were meeting him?”

“We are supposed to be at… Oh, dear.”

Harpo looked at the grey mare. “You didn’t forget, did you?”

“No, it’s just, well; Fancy Pants and I never worked out that detail.”

“So, we are supposed to get word to him… Without knowing where he is.”

Octavia nodded.

“What is this, a fantasy novel?!” Harpo threw up his hooves.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

“My dear cellist, you have not begun to see me be dramatic. You want dramatic? I’ll give you a Shakemarean tragedy!” The stallion extended his hoof and looked slightly upwards. “Oh, cruel and most far-off recording deal! Why must thou torment us to this degree? We suffer for our art and our art doth bring us much suffering yet thine devices bring on us a task most challenging.” Harpo turned towards the cellist. “Stop me anytime Octavia.”

“No, I want to see how long you can keep this up for.”

As it turned out, Harpo was as much a playwright as a composer.

“Okay, Harpo, you’ve made your point.”

Harpo dropped his hoof. “Good, I was running out of whimsical terms.”

“Well, as I was about to say before you awakened as an actor, we could always go see Fancy Pants at his home.”

Harpo’s jaw hit the floor. “V-visit Fancy Pants? At his home?”

“Unless your infatuation would get in the way. In that case, we could simply do nothing and lose out on working in Fancy Pants’s company.”

The composer jumped to his hooves. “Come on Octavia, what are you waiting for? To Fancy Pants’s home!” He happily trotted out of the auditorium, an amused cellist followed, rolling her violet eyes.

Harpo stopped suddenly. “Octavia?” he asked. “Doesn’t Fancy Pants live on the other side of Canterlot?”

“Yes, why? … Oh, actually, that is a problem.”

Canterlot was a rather large city, a very large city in fact. Traveling from the Conservatory to Fancy Pants’s mansion on hoof would require far more time than they had at the moment.

The cellist sighed. “Well, to use a rather cliché statement, ‘Better late than never.’”

Harpo nodded, leading the way to the sidewalk. 

“Hey, you two!”

Harpo and Octavia turned towards the voice, a faint remembrance stirring in the cellist’s mind.

A chariot had parked outside of the auditorium and, sure enough, leaning through the window was a white unicorn wearing purple shades that covered her eyes.

“Hey, it’s Octy! You just keep popping up, don’t ya? It must be fate!” Vinyl flashed a wide grin. “Well, whatever. Hop in, both of you.”

Harpo was looking rather confused. Octavia massaged the area between her eyes with one hoof. “Miss Scratch, may I ask what exactly you are doing here?”

Vinyl facehoofed. “Seriously, still ‘Miss Scratch?’ I thought we had gotten over this. It’s Vinyl. V-I-N-Y-L. Or DJ-PON3. And I, Tavi slash Octy, am escorting you two to Fancy Pants. So hurry your flanks up and get in!”

Harpo looked at his friend. “Octavia, what’s happening? Should I be worried?”

“Harpo, this is Vinyl Scratch.”

“‘Sup!” interrupted Vinyl.

“Miss Scratch, this is Harpo Parish Nadermane.”

Harpo nodded his greeting.

“Alright, two syllables. You get to keep your name, Harpo! Congrats!”

The composer turned to the cellist. “Is that why she calls you Tavi or Octy?”

Octavia nodded before turning to the DJ. “Now introductions are out of the way, but I still don’t understand why exactly you are here, Miss Scratch.”

“Octy, if you keep calling me Miss Scratch I’m gonna think you don’t love me. Don’t you love me?” The unicorn’s eyes grew wide and teary and her lower lip jutted out in a pout.

Harpo began to chuckle. Octavia threw a sharp look at him.

Vinyl smirked, the puppy dog eyes falling away in an instant. “Well, at least one of you has a sense of humor. And, as I was saying, I’m supposed to take you two to see Fancy Pants. That is if you still want a guaranteed job doing what you love immediately after getting out of school.”

The composer began to walk forward, but Octavia held out a hoof. “So you work for Fancy Pants?”

“Ding-ding-ding! Someone get the mare a prize! Check out the brain on Tavi!”

Octavia chose to ignore that statement. “And what do you do exactly?”

“Oh, Tavi, I can’t answer that. Boss man wants to tell you everything himself; he’s a sucker for theatrics. He’d probably fire me if I took away his thunder.”

The cellist was still rather suspicious. 

Vinyl seemed to deflate. “Right, you don’t trust me completely, I guess. That’s cool. But right now you can either run across Canterlot and get to Fancy Pants’s mansion late; and he’s a very busy pony planning on heading out right after your meeting, or you could jump in the carriage, be pulled along by these nice gentlecolts,” she gestured to the four stallions that would be pulling the carriage, “and get there on time. It’s your choice.”

Reluctantly, the cellist put down her hoof and walked towards the carriage. Vinyl threw the door open and welcome them in with a flourish. Harpo and Octavia took their seats.

“Alright boys,” exclaimed the DJ, “We are off!”


***


The first half hour or so of the carriage ride passed in silence. Octavia seemed quite content with simply looking through a window as they rode through Canterlot. Vinyl had placed a pair of large headphones over hear ears and was currently twitching along to some song.

Harpo was clearly uncomfortable, but knew better than to interrupt two mares that had some form of tension between them.

The DJ brought her headphones around her neck, suddenly filling the cart with the sound of construction work. “Tavi, why don’t you trust me?”

The composer winced slightly; clearly Vinyl had not learned the same lessons he had.

The cellist turned towards Vinyl. Her voice was clear, devoid of anger or happiness. “I’ve only met you Miss Scratch, are you worth trusting?”

Vinyl rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I teleported you through Canterlot to get your cello or anything.”

Octavia straightened slightly, closing her violet eyes and taking a deep breath. “Indeed. Thank you for that.”

Vinyl nodded, thinking that she had made some headway. “Don’t worry about it.”

The grey mare went back to her window.

The unicorn shook her head slightly, but decided not to pursue the cellist. “So, Harpo, how long have you known Little Miss Sunshine over here?”

“Four years, back when we first started Conservatory.” Harpo’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Oh, okay.” 

A tense silence fell on the carriage.

Again, Vinyl was the first pony to speak. “Come on, I know you two aren’t always this quiet! Fancy Pants said that you guys were," the DJ put on her best impression of the posh pony, "‘a pleasure to speak with.’ All I’m getting are whispers and ponies looking through windows!”

Octavia nodded and continued to stare through a window.

Harpo straightened out the smallest bit. “Well, Miss Scratch—“

Vinyl groaned. “Don’t you start calling me that too.”

The corners of Harpo’s lips turned up. “Okay, then Vinyl.” His voice went a bit closer to his natural tone. “Octavia and I are rather… quiet by nature. We basically only speak to each other. I’m actually the more outgoing one; I can keep a conversation if I really try. ‘Tavi’ has a much harder time.”

Vinyl considered this for a moment. “Alright, I get it. I mean, I don’t mind talking so I don’t really get it, but I get it. I just have to get Tavi to talk to me, right?”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Harpo.

Octavia turned around, a horrified expression on her face. “Harpo, what are you doing?!”

“I’m trying to get you another friend, Octavia.”

Vinyl grinned widely. “Don’t worry Octy, we’ll all be besties by the time this is over.”

"... Joy.” deadpanned the cellist.


***


Half an hour later, the three musicians filed out of their carriage where a rather distinguished white unicorn stood waiting.

“There you three are, and still five minutes early,” said Fancy Pants. “I trust that the ride was enjoyable?”

Harpo was wiping tears from his eyes, clutching his stomach. “Rather enjoyable for some of us.”

Vinyl was hanging from Octavia’s neck, in an effort to get the cellist to hug her. She had been in that position for some ten minutes, much to Harpo’s endless laughter. Octavia, on the other hoof was clearly not pleased.

“LOOOOOOOVE MEEEE!” exclaimed the DJ.

Harpo broke down in another fit of laughter.

Octavia looked up at Fancy Pants in a good imitation of Vinyl’s earlier puppy dog eyes. “Fancy Pants, if you’ve ever cared for either my parents or myself you will help me.”

“I’m sorry Miss Philharmonica; not even I can fully control Vinyl Scratch. But I am glad that you two are getting… acquainted.”
Fancy Pants turned towards his mansion, beginning the trek through cast iron gates and gardens.

Octavia followed, awkwardly dragging the white unicorn with her. Harpo brought up the rear, struggling to keep back another wave of chuckles.

“Well then, Fancy Pants will you please explain why Miss Scratch—“

“Vinyl!” interjected Vinyl.

“—accompanied us here.”

“I’m sorry Miss Philharmonica, but I can’t do that unless you agree to work within my company. And there are still two minutes left until half passed five, so you can’t agree to work for me. I will, however, say that Vinyl Scratch is indeed in my employ.”

They marched through the front entrance of the mansion, settling in a large living room.

Fancy Pants, ever the gracious host, took drink orders before stepping into his kitchen.

He returned, levitating two cups of water, four highball glasses, and a bottle of cognac. “Maestro Nadermane, Miss Philharmonica, I know for a fact that you two drink even if you have chosen to restrain yourselves and ask for water. Feel free to take a glass if the mood should strike you.”

Fancy Pants took a seat, an amused gleam in his eyes upon noticing that Vinyl was still clinging to Octavia. He took out a pocket watch just as the minute hand hit the six.

“It is now 5:30. I am ready to hear your answers.”

“Yes!” responded Octavia and Harpo simultaneously. 

Fancy Pants blinked. “… That’s it?”

The composer and the cellist nodded.

A sigh escaped the distinguished pony’s lips. “I was expecting some sort of speech, an attempt to rationalize your choice. That response was rather anticlimactic." Fancy Pant seemed genuinely downcast, but he quickly bounced back. "No matter, though! You will learn to love the theatrics with time. And now I believe that some explanations are in order.”

Fancy Pants closed his eyes, taking a moment to center himself. “I did not lie when I said that this music company is a modest venture. I have an amount of editors, technology personnel, ponies who can take care of the press, but only a hoofful of musicians. In fact, the exact number has just increased to three musicians.”

Octavia’s eyes bulged and Harpo, who had just begun to take a sip of water, coughed savagely.

After ensuring that the composer was not dying, Fancy Pants continued. “Indeed, I am rather… selective. But I hope to foster a sense of unity amongst my musicians.” The unicorn grew serious. “Make no mistake; you three are now a team, even when performing by yourselves. I do not enjoy the fact that most artists of today work separately, many of them competing against the very same musicians they should be working with... I am aiming to create something unique, and you three will be at the forefront.”

Fancy Pants leaned back slightly, taking a sip of his alcohol. “Are there any questions?”

The three musicians felt as though they had been called to the principal’s office. They said nothing, opting instead to shake their heads.

“Miss Philharmonica, you asked me how Vinyl fits into all of this. The answer is simple; she is the senior member of the group and your direct superior.”

Octavia looked down at the white unicorn currently clinging to her. Vinyl grinned cheerily.

“… Pardon?”

> The Meeting
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fancy Pants repeated himself, making it clear that Octavia had not imagined his words.

Vinyl Scratch… is my boss.

Octavia wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She had hardly met the DJ; Miss Scratch could easily turn out to be a musical genius.

Who is currently clinging to my neck with a moronic grin plastered on her face.

Fancy Pants could not fail to notice his guest’s discomfort. “Is something wrong, Miss Philharmonica?”

“No, Fancy Pants, I’m just a bit… surprised, is all.” Octavia reached for her water, hesitating for a moment over the highball glass Fancy Pants had brought.

Vinyl looked at the other three ponies. “Should I be offended by that? I think I should be offended! I’m offended, Tavi! What do you mean it’s a ‘surprise’?”

Harpo cleared his throat slightly. If Octavia took this, a fight would break out. “Well, Vinyl, we weren’t expecting to meet our boss so quickly or that she, meaning you, would be the one to escort us to this meeting. It just caught us off guard.”

The white mare considered this for a moment. “… Alright, I guess that I’m not offended anymore. Good save, Harpo.”She flashed a grin at the composer, which Harpo acknowledged with a nod.

Fancy Pants glanced at a clock on the wall. He rose to his hooves. “I’m afraid that this meeting must be cut slightly short; there is another matter that requires my attention. You are free to stay here for as long as you wish. Indeed, I would prefer that you all spent as much time together as possible. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

The distinguished pony shook hooves with each of his employees, pausing a bit when he got to Octavia. “Actually, Miss Philharmonica could you accompany me for a moment? Just to the doorway; my old bones are not what they used to be.”

The cellist followed Fancy Pants, leaving Harpo and Vinyl alone.

That’s a rather dangerous combination, thought Octavia.

They reached the doorway. Fancy Pants spoke. “I’ve noticed that you have some… reservations towards working with Vinyl.”

Octavia sighed. “I have reservations towards working with anypony. I didn’t even work with Harpo until I was forced to. I’m sure I will get used to working with Miss Scratch just as I got used to working with Harpo.”

“But, Vinyl Scratch is not exactly the same as Harpo Parish Nadermane. In fact, there are very few ponies that can be compared to Vinyl; she does not conform to any preconception or archetype. I actually wondered if she was part draconequus for a while; there are times when she could do Discord proud.”

Octavia raised an eyebrow.

“But I digress,” continued Fancy Pants with a sheepish grin. “My point is that Vinyl is chaotic, boisterous, unique, but she is also highly talented and completely trustworthy. And I need my musicians to trust each other and to work together.” Fancy Pants turned serious for a moment. 

“Is that clear, Octavia Philharmonica?”

“I will try my best, Fancy Pants.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Fancy Pants nodded his goodbye, and trotted through the door.  The sky was slowly darkening and his carriage was already waiting for him.

He chatted briefly with the drivers before climbing into his seat, feeling a slight twinge in his legs as he did so.

That part about my ‘old bones’ was supposed to be a jest. Nevertheless, Fancy Pants was beginning to feel the effects of his age.

Don’t give out on me just yet, he thought, massaging his hind legs. There’s still so much to do.


***


Harpo and Vinyl watched Octavia and Fancy Pants leave the room. Vinyl, now without the cellist to use as a body pillow, flopped comfortably onto the corner of the coach. Her head began to bob to some inner music as she levitated her glass.

The composer considered his newest boss. She is rather eccentric, definitely not what I expected my first musical superior to be like. A laid back attitude, so I don’t expect her to be very controlling of my music. Or ‘our’ music, as Fancy Pants seems to want us working together.

“Hey, Harpo?” asked Vinyl, breaking the composer’s train of thought.

“Yes, Vinyl?”

“You’re staring. I mean, I know I look good but ya gotta treat me to dinner before anything else.” 

Vinyl smirked.

Harpo blushed a bit and waved a dismissive hoof. “I assure you, I’ll keep our relationship professional. Forgive me for staring.”

“Don’t worry about it, if I knocked out everypony who stared at me, there’d be unconscious stallions lining the streets. And a couple mares too.” The DJ went back to her drink.

A silence fell between the two. Vinyl was oblivious to it, lost in whatever song was running through her head. Harpo, on the other hoof, felt slightly uncomfortable. The white mare had kept a nearly continuous stream of words during the carriage ride and there had hardly been a moment of silence during their meeting with Fancy Pants. The quiet seemed… Unnatural after all of that noise.

“So, Vinyl, what do you think of Octavia?” Harpo nearly clapped a hoof over his mouth. Where did that question come from?

The DJ arched an eyebrow, momentarily caught off guard. Then she smirked. Harpo decided then and there to run whenever that smirk appeared. “She’s a good filly, a bit quiet, but cute 
when she actually smiles. But don’t worry Harpo, that’s all you.”

The composer’s eyebrows knit themselves together. ‘That’s all you’? Whatever does she mean by that?

There was a beat of silence.

Two beats.

Two and a half bea –

Harpo sprang to his hooves. “I haven’t even considered– That’s not how it– Octavia and I are NOT–” The composer sputtered, gasping for air. He turned towards the hallway, half-expecting a grey blur to rocket into the room.

Vinyl held up her hooves, trying to contain her laughter. “Alright, alright, sorry! So you two aren’t together, you just seemed kinda close so I assumed. I mean, you could definitely do worse.”

The stallion gave a pointed look. “She would have killed you if you had said that in front of her.”

“Who, Octy? No way, I can’t believe that.” The cellist’s cold glare ran through Vinyl’s mind. 

“Okay, I can sorta believe it. But she wouldn’t hurt me for something like that, would she?”

“Octavia Philharmonica is not a typical mare. She hates when people assume, especially in regards to… that particular subject.”
                
“What ‘subject’? Relationships?”
                
Harpo nodded.
                
“What, does she think colts are icky?” Vinyl laughed.
                
The stallion feigned a laugh but, even with his proven skills as a playwright, he was a far cry from an actor.
                
“Okay, so she does think they’re icky. But…” Vinyl’s eyes widened, “Oh Celestia, is Tavi a fillyfooler?”
                
“Vinyl! Have you ever noticed how interesting this table is?”
                
“Don’t dodge the question!”
                
“It’s a very fine piece of woodwork.”
                
“Harpo, look at me.”
                
“I must ask Fancy Pants where he bought this. I mean just look at it! It think it’s mahogany.”
                
“Harpo!”
                
The stallion grinned sheepishly. “… Mahogany?”
                
“No, not mahogany. Foolish composer, you’ve piqued my interest so now I have to know. Is Tavi, Tavi of the Ten Syllable Name and Uptight Attitude, a fillyfooler?”
                
They were interrupted by the sound of hoofsteps coming back through the hallway.
                
Harpo breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry Vinyl, it seems that we’ve run out of time.”
                
The DJ looked disappointed, or she attempted to at least. Harpo saw the corner of her lips twitch the slightest bit and knew that behind those purple shades were the eyes of Discord himself. He would not be hearing the last of this.
                
Harpo reached for the highball glass Fancy Pants had left for him.
                
Oh, Eternal Sisters of night and day, protect me from the madness of mares.

 


***


 

                
Octavia trotted into a silent room. Harpo was pouring himself a drink, Vinyl was looking at the cellist with an unnerving smile.
                
Remember what Fancy Pants said, Octavia; ‘trust each other and work together.’
                
With an attempt at a smile, the cellist broke the silence. “So, I trust that you two had a nice conversation.”
                
Vinyl’s smile widened. “Oh yeah, it was great! Taught me a lot.”
                
Harpo drained his glass and reached for the bottle.
                
“I see, that’s… good.” Or it might be very bad, thought Octavia.
                
“Tavi, what are you still standing around for? C’mon, take a seat.” Vinyl patted the seat next to her. The grey mare took a seat on the opposite end of the couch.
                
The three musicians sat in an uncomfortable silence, made all the more uncomfortable by the DJ’s unwavering grin.
                
Vinyl was the first to break the silence. “Why don’t we play a game?”
                
Harpo was still enticed by his drink, leaving Octavia to answer. “A… game?”
                
“Yeah, just to pass a little time before we head out. Don’t worry, you’ve probably played it before. Just need a little time to prepare.”
                
Vinyl trotted into the kitchen, a definite spring in her step.
                
Octavia rounded on Harpo. “What did you two talk about?” she hissed.
                
“… Have you noticed this table?”
                
“Harpo, please don’t talk about tables, you only talk about tables when you’ve done something wrong.”
                
The composer sighed, rubbing between his eyes with a hoof. “Okay, Vinyl may have the slightest inkling of the possible idea that somehow in some unknown parallel universe that has an exact copy of you in it, it is a possibility that that copy is… well, a fillyfooler.”
                
Octavia stayed silent.
                
“… Octavia?”
                
Still no response.
                
“Dear Celestia, I’ve turned you into a statue. Admittedly, this is one of the better outcomes.” Harpo chuckled weakly, more out of fear than humor.
                
“… Harpo?”
                
“Yes, most lovely, talented, and merciful Octavia?”
                
“I’m going to kill you. Slowly and without remorse.” There was no sign of a joke in Octavia’s eyes.
                
“Now, let’s not overreact; you interrupted us at a most opportune moment! I did not specifically tell Vinyl whether you were a fillyfooler.”
                
“You just set up the equation, then? ‘Two plus two equals what?’”
                
“I swear, Octavia, we can get out of this.”
                
Vinyl trotted back into the living room, an assortment of liquors held in her aura. “Alright, the name of the game is Truth, Dare, or Drink.”
                
Harpo drew two circles in the air and placed his hoof over his heart. At that moment, he wasn’t sure whether to be more afraid of Vinyl’s grin or Octavia’s glare. It’s okay, Harpo, he thought to himself, you’ve lived a good life.
                
Vinyl kept up a running commentary as she poured an assortment of drinks into their glasses. “I used to play Truth or Dare all the time, you know, back in my younger partying days. The questions got kind of boring after a while; we just ran out of things to ask! But a drunk pony is always kinda funny, so I decided to add alcohol to Truth or Dare.
                
“It works the same way, somepony picks somepony else and asks ‘Truth or Dare?’ all of that PG fun, but now you can decide to down your drink instead of answering a question. I’ll warn you though,” she said pointing at the seemingly random mix of alcohol, “that thing packs a punch. Can’t really remember it’s name, but somepony said it was like being hit by a gold brick wrapped in a lemon. Yeah, so it messes you up. Oh, and choosing to drink doesn’t take a question out of play. We can ask the same thing as many times as we want.”
                
“I don’t really see how this is going to help us,” protested Octavia.
                
But the DJ was ready for protests. “It’s a kind of trust exercise; it brings us closer together. And we need to be really really close for this music project to work, right?”
                
Octavia thought back to the first time she had met Vinyl Scratch. What had that barista said? ‘She’s smarter than she looks.’
                
I should have taken that as a warning.
                
Vinyl grinned wickedly. “Ready to play?”
                

***


 

                
Fancy Pants sat in a restaurant. He had arrived ten minutes early, as per the rules of business etiquette. The stallion he was meant to meet had yet to make an appearance.
                
Fancy Pants sat patiently, making small talk with anypony who approached him. His menu was still folded in front of him and his complementary glass of water sat untouched. Fancy Pants believed that eating or drinking before the full party had arrived was impolite. Unless, of course, the party was late.
                
But that would not be a problem.
                
Exactly nine minutes after Fancy Pants had taken his seat, a rather dapper pony entered the restaurant. He was a grey earth pony with an immaculately combed white mane and he walked with an attitude of superiority.

Without waiting to be seated, the pony strutted through the dining room and took the seat opposite Fancy Pants. The minute hand of the clock twitched. Hoity Toity was right on time, as always.

“Fancy Pants, I’m pleased that you could make it.”

“It was no problem, even with the slightly short notice.”

Hoity Toity smiled wryly. “Yes, I wanted to speak with you as quickly as possible.”

Fancy Pants began flipping through his menu. “What would you suggest I eat, Mister Toity?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you were the one who suggested coming to this establishment. The serving staff is rather lovely, by the way; I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to some of them. But I digress. I was simply wondering if you had some sort of preference in this particular restaurant.”

The other stallion was visibly miffed at the change of topic. “The dandelion salad. Unless you’re an omnivore?” Hoity Toity said ‘omnivore’ with evident distaste; he, being an earth pony, was a vegetarian.

Fancy Pants smiled. “Dandelion salad sounds perfect. Will you be ordering the same?”

“No, I’ve already eaten.” The earth pony, Fancy Pants noted with glee, was positively fuming that 
they were speaking about food.

The unicorn feigned surprise. “Really? I came with a rather large appetite, expecting an extended meal. Would you mind if I ordered a dessert? I have quite the sweet tooth.”

“Do as you wish, but I must insist that we get to business!”

“Of course, pardon me.” Fancy Pants noticed a waiter approaching their table. If I time this just right. “By all means, Mr. Toity, why exactly have you called me here today?”

Hoity Toity smiled smugly; things were finally getting back on track. “I have recently been infor—”

“Good evening sirs, are you ready to order?” A mint green unicorn levitated a pad of paper and pen in front of her.

“Quite ready,” smiled Fancy Pants, “I will have the dandelion salad with raspberry vinaigrette, plenty of croutons if that isn’t too much of a problem.”

“Of course not sir,” smiled the waitress. She turned to Hoity Toity. “Anything for you, sir?”

“No, thank you.” The steam rising from Hoity Toity’s ears was nearly visible.

The waitress turned with a polite nod and trotted to the kitchen.
                
“Now, Fancy Pants, can we finally get to business?”
                
“Indeed, Mr. Toity, we can. It is a bit strange that we keep going off topic.”
                
“Yes, I wonder why that is.” The sarcasm dripped from Hoity Toity’s voice.
                
Fancy Pants grinned jovially.
                
I’ll wipe that grin off of your face, you buffoon. Hoity Toity put on a fake smile. “I’ve been told that you plan on starting a musical company, Fancy Pants.”
                
The unicorn smiled serenely. “Word gets out quickly.”
                
“Come now, sir! You and I both know that that is not a good idea. Not when you take your… competition into account.”
                
“Indeed, your business is a rather daunting challenge.” His smile did not slip in the slightest.
                
“I’ll take that as a compliment. But I worry for you Fancy Pants, I really do! Trying to break into the music industry at this point is a fool’s errand. But I wouldn’t want your efforts to go to waste, not when you’ve already signed two rather talented musicians.”
                
“Ah, word gets out very quickly indeed.”
                
“Yes, I have been doing my research. But this leads me to this meeting.” Hoity Toity leaned forward, bringing his hooves together in front of him. “As it stands, your endeavor will fail, you will lose millions of bits, your personnel will lose their jobs, and my company will remain untouched. But your company has potential, potential in the form of Octavia Philharmonica and Harpo Parish Nadermane. I would like to buy your company, Fancy Pants.
                
By doing so, we both stand to gain something. I would gain new talent and you would receive immediate compensation for your troubles. What do you think?”
                
Fancy Pants pretended to consider the offer. “I think that it sound like a very rational deal. But we would not be having this conversation if I had always taken the most rational road.”
                
“Oh, be reasonable Fancy Pants! If you will not do it for yourself then do it for your musicians! A start-up company is no place for them; you wouldn’t know what to do with them. They can do so much more with someone like me guiding them.”
                
“I don’t think you’re giving my performers the credit they deserve. They’re grown ponies, Mr. Toity; they can think for themselves.”
                
“I see. It’s just like you to believe that.” And that thought betrays your ignorance. Hoity Toity stood up. “Are you sure that you won’t reconsider?”
                
“Quite sure, Mr. Toity. Thank you for the meeting.”
                
The earth pony nodded and slowly turned towards the door.
                
“Actually, Mr. Toity, I could not help but notice something.”
                
Hoity Toity turned his head slightly, locking eyes with Fancy Pants.
                
“You only mentioned two musicians. There are three in my employ.”
                
“Oh, yes that other mare. Plastic Cut or something of that sort? I know that you took her from some gutter or other. She doesn’t concern me; in fact it seems that she’ll simply be dead weight. Surprising, really, that you’d associate with somepony like her.” And with that, Hoity Toity trotted outside, chuckling to himself when he was sure that the unicorn could no longer see him. That went perfectly.
                
The mint green waitress trotted up to Fancy Pants, dish levitated before her.
                
“One dandelion salad with raspberry vinai—” She nearly dropped the plate when she looked into the other unicorn’s eyes.
                
Fancy Pants dropped a hoofful of bits onto the table. “Please, put the meal into a bag. I’ve lost my appetite.”


> The Game
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Octavia stared at the glass in front of her. Vinyl’s mystery cocktail was a murky green. A rather strange color considering that none of the drinks used to make it were green.

I think it’s smoking. 

Harpo was holding up his own glass, inspecting it against the light of a nearby lantern.

“So, Tavi, Harpo, are you ready to play?”

Octavia sighed slightly. “I don’t know about this.”

Vinyl gave a sigh of her own, in a far more exasperated manner. “C’mon Octy! It’s just a way to clear the air between us, get us to trust each other.” She turned to the composer. “You’re game, aren’t you Harpo?”

Harpo was hardly able to open his mouth before Vinyl interrupted.

“See, totally cool with it! You don’t want to disappoint the poor stallion, do you?”

The cellist absentmindedly twirled her glass. 

This would be a great opportunity to establish trust between us. And Fancy Pants did say to trust Vinyl Scratch.

A disbelieving snort sounded in Octavia’s mind. I doubt that Fancy Pants had this in mind.

That’s a given. But what’s the worst that can happen? At most, I’d have to confess to filly-fooling. And that’s hardly a source of embarrassment.

Not an embarrassment to me or Harpo, but what about the rest of Canterlot? Can I trust Miss Scratch to keep a secret?

Of cour—

Vinyl Scratch clapped her hooves in front of Octavia’s face, snapping the cellist out of her stupor. “Hello, Equestria to Octy. Are you gonna play, or what?”

Octavia stared into the shades covering Vinyl’s eyes, seeing only a purple-tinged reflection of herself. “Okay, I’ll play.”

The DJ jumped up, grinning widely and clapping her hooves.

“But,” continued Octavia, “nothing leaves this room.” She gave Harpo a pointed glare for good measure. “Right?”

Vinyl looked horror-struck. “Tavi, I am shocked that you would think such a thing. What kind of pony breaks the Truth, Dare, or Drink code?” The DJ placed one hoof over her heart, raised the other, and began to recite The Code. “‘All answering of Truths and doing of Dares and drinking of Drinks stay within the game. Unless they’re really funny and you have them recorded. Then they go on HayTube.’”

Octavia groaned and sank into her seat. I immediately regret this decision.


***


Three fully grown ponies, two of which were well-known among the Canterlot Elite for their talents, sat in a rough circle. Vinyl had insisted that they sit on the floor while playing.

“Okay then, who’s going first?” asked Vinyl.

Octavia and Harpo glanced at each other.

The cellist spoke first. “We were under the impression that you would start.”

Vinyl looked shocked. “Me? What fun would that be? The best part of Truth, Dare, or Drink is going ‘Oooooo’ after somepony asks a question. One of you two has to start.”

The classical musicians shared another look, not quite understanding the DJ’s thought process.

But then again, who does? thought the more cynical side of Octavia.

“Well,” Harpo said hesitantly, “if it’s all the same to you, then I’ll start.”

Vinyl nodded, her trademark grin widening the slightest bit.

Harpo paused for a moment, unsure of how to start. “Okay… So,” he began to turn to Octavia, met the grey mare’s eyes, and decided to preserve his health by continuing to turn, “Vinyl!”

The DJ grinned expectantly.

“Um… Truth or Dare?” asked Harpo.

“Let’s start off with Truth.”

“Okay… So… How,” the composer scratched his head with a hoof, “Um… How was your day?”

Harpo was a rather awkward pony. 

Vinyl facehoofed. “Harpo, that’s not a Truth, Dare, or Drink question. That’s small talk. We do NOT make small talk in Truth, Dare, or Drink!”

The stallion decided to go on the defensive. “Well, I don’t exactly have much experience with this game!”

Octavia smiled slightly. I’m rather enjoying this.

Vinyl held up a hoof. “Okay, composer-colt, point taken. Here, Tavi and I will show you how it’s done.”

I may have spoken too soon.

Vinyl turned to the cellist. “Truth or Dare?”

Octavia was desperately trying to find a way out. “Wouldn’t this technically be the first question? I thought that you didn’t want to be the first one to ask something.”

But Vinyl waved a dismissive hoof. “Nope, Harpo asked a question. A really bad question, but still a question. So Octy, Truth or Dare?”

Caught between a rock and a hard place. On the one hoof, Octavia already knew what Vinyl would ask if the cellist said ‘Truth’. She even knew how to answer that particular question. And yet, I can’t bring myself to say Truth.

But if Octavia replied with ‘Dare’… she shuddered slightly at the thought.

Vinyl was reaching out, prepared to clap her hooves in front of Octavia’s face. Partly to bring the grey mare back to reality, partly because it was fun.

Unfortunately, Octavia’s eyes refocused, glancing at the white hooves slowly inching towards her face.

“T-Truth, Miss Scratch,” Octavia slightly stammered. “And please don’t poke me. It would be rather strange if you did.”

Vinyl’s hooves whipped back to her side. “I wasn’t gonna poke you! Just snap you back to reality. And another thing, haven’t I already told you to call me ‘Vinyl,’ like a Celestillion times?!”

“That’s not a real number,” said Harpo.

“That’s beside the point!” The DJ turned back to Octavia. “Okay, I have a question.”

Here it comes, thought Octavia.

“Why the hay do you call me ‘Miss Scratch’?”

The cellist blinked. Right, was not expecting that question. Not that I’m complaining. 

“Why do I call you Miss Scratch?” Octavia repeated the question. “Well, to be polite I suppose.”

Vinyl shook her head. “It’s not polite if it annoys the living Tartarus out of me, now is it? I want another answer.”

Octavia thought for a few moments. “I don’t know you well enough to call you by your first name.”

"But I’ve asked you to call me by my first name!”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean that I actually know you.”

Vinyl began to argue, but thought better of it. I’m not gonna be able to get through to her.  The DJ laid down on the carpet. 
“Okay, then let’s change that. Now it’s your turn to ask me a question.”

This mare has simultaneously the simplest and most ingenious mindset, thought Harpo if there’s a problem then ‘change that.’  He looked between Octavia and Vinyl. I wish I had a bag of popcorn.

Octavia, meanwhile, had taken the time to come up with a question. “So, Truth or Dare?” she asked the DJ.

“Truth.”

“In that case, tell us about your cutie mark. You seem to be infatuated with your status as a DJ but your cutie mark is not a record or a speaker or anything of the sort.”

Vinyl smiled slightly. “Well, yeah. Producing or DJ-ing isn’t my special talent.” She shifted a bit, allowing the other two to more fully see the bridged eighth notes on her flank. “The way I figure, my talent’s in making music in general. Not just dubtrot or techno, but being able to get songs out of my head and onto paper.”

Harpo nodded appreciatively. He could sympathize with a fellow composer.

“But that’s not all,” continued Vinyl. “The eighth notes are backwards, facing the left instead of the right. That kinda confused me for a little bit.” Vinyl chuckled a little. “Isn’t it weird? I mean, it’s my cutie mark, which is basically supposed to be me in a nutshell, and I had no clue what it meant. Anyway, I kept on writing music and for a little bit I thought composing was the most boring fucking thing.”

Octavia flinched slightly at the cuss word, but did not interrupt Vinyl’s thoughts.

Not that an interruption would have done much to stop the DJ. “Now what the hell was I supposed to do? Practicing my special talent made me wish that I was back in school! And I hated school; I already knew that I would drop out at my first chance. Anyway, I ended up getting so frustrated that I tried to give up composing altogether. So I wrote the most awful thing that I could, with no key and with double-sharps and with big-ass intervals between notes and I threw in the most annoying repeating noise in the basses.” She wiped a tear away, although Octavia couldn’t tell whether she was actually crying or not. “That was my first dubtrot song. It was so beautiful.

“But anyway, I found out that my talent was in writing the boring things that snobby ponies listen to,” Vinyl grimaced at the thought, “and in completely turning music on its head and making the gloriousness that is dubtrot. So yeah, that’s what my cutie mark means,” she concluded sheepishly.

Octavia and Harpo nodded, taking in the new information. Harpo raised his hoof as though he was a still student

“So Vinyl, you dropped out of school?”

“Sorry Harpo, can’t answer that. It’s not your turn.” Vinyl grinned widely. “Actually, it’s my turn. And I’ve got a question for you,” she said to Harpo.

“Really? Excuse me while I contain my excitement,” deadpanned the composer.

Vinyl simply smiled. “Truth or Dare?”

“Well, since everypony else seems to be choosing Truth, I choose…” Harpo pretended to think for a moment. “Truth.”

“Okay, so Fancy Pants said that you and Octy drink. What’s your worst drinking story?”

“Oh, dear…” Harpo was seriously considering downing the mystery cocktail.

Octavia, on the other hoof, always found the stallion’s drunken stories amusing. “Go ahead Harpo, you have hundreds of these stories and you can’t even remember the very worst ones.”

“Oh please, it’s not like you have a higher tolerance than I do!” replied Harpo hotly.

“That’s a blatant lie and we both know it.”

“Yes, but that’s beside the point.” Harpo sighed and ran a hoof through his mane. “Alright then, since I’d rather not drink whatever poison Vinyl has concocted—”

“It’s only legally a poison,” muttered Vinyl.

“—I suppose that I’ll tell a story. Actually, I don’t even think that you’ve heard this one, Octavia.”

The cellist arched an eyebrow and subconsciously picked up her glass. She had grown used to hearing these stories while relaxing, normally accompanied by Harpo and a glass of alcohol.

Harpo noticed this but decided against saying anything. “Right, so this one is relatively recent. About two or three months ago, I believe. I was at Lyra’s party, whatever her reason for throwing it was.”

Lyra, thought Octavia, that was the unicorn’s name.

“Most of the class was there,” continued Harpo, “minus you Octavia. As I recall, there was a documentary on Louis Hoofstrong playing that evening.”

Vinyl took a moment to make fun of Octavia. “You missed out on a party to watch a documentary?”

Octavia turned slightly pink. “It was a very interesting documentary!”

Harpo smirked. “One that you had already watched. Three times.”

The grey mare’s face continued to redden. “That didn’t make it any less interesting. Just… shut up and tell your story!”

“Well, as I was saying, Octavia wasn’t there, but nearly everypony else was. There was one mare in particular that I was paying special attention to, although you won’t get her name out of me without another turn.”

Octavia thought back. Harpo had a tendency for crushes, constantly asking the cellist for advice on understanding mares, secretly dedicating pieces to the object of his affection, and then having his “love” fizzle out a few weeks later. Two or three months ago would have been… “Beauty Brass, right?”

Harpo blanched slightly but attempted to cover himself. “Maybe. I’m not saying that it was or it wasn’t.”

The two mares shared a look.

The lone male, realizing he was now in hostile territory, cleared his throat. “But let’s say that it was. I spent a good amount of the party trying to speak to her and failing horribly either through my own fault and because, as we all know, the universe hates me. I gave up eventually, opting instead to speak with Lyra and Frederick Horseshoepin, who’s a pianist in our class,” he added for Vinyl’s benefit.

“Anyway, the party eventually wound down. There were only about ten ponies left, Frederick, Lyra, Beauty, and myself among them. By that point I was completely and utterly wasted and had managed to confess my crush to Lyra and Frederick. They were about as sober as I was and encouraged me to pursue my crush. So I did. Or attempted to at least. I remember getting up to walk over to Beauty Brass, falling two or three times on my way there. Possibly four times… Okay, no more than five which is rather good considering that I had to walk about twenty feet.

When I finally got to Beauty I  tried to tell her exactly how I felt. The way I remember it, my confession was worthy of a Nobel Prize and any mare who heard it would immediately drop everything to be with me. And I actually did get a kiss out of it. But it turns out that I wasn’t kissing Beauty Brass, I actually wasn’t anywhere near her. 

I was making out with Bon Bon, who had also become rather inebriated.”

Octavia burst out laughing. “Oh, Harpo… that… how?” Octavia’s inarticulate speech was overwhelmed by another fit of laughter.

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Vinyl. “You were making out with the mare who runs that sweets shop? How’d she get there?”

“Bon Bon is Lyra’s fillyfriend. And Lyra is rather… protective of her. So when Lyra saw me making out with her fillyfriend she was furious. She picked me up with her magic, pulled me towards her and then bucked me away again. Repeatedly. Lyra is surprisingly strong.” Harpo rubbed his lower back, remembering the pain.

Vinyl giggled slightly. “Okay Harpo, that counts as an embarrassing drunk story. Good job.”

Octavia nodded, small bursts of laughter still coming out. Her stomach slightly hurt and, noting that there was a glass in her hoof, decided that drinking was a good way to settle it. Octavia, paying no attention to what was in her glass, raised it to her lips and drank.

Bad idea.

The alcohol started pleasantly enough, feeling like any other drink as it sped down the grey mare’s throat. She calmly put the glass back on the table and looked up at the other two ponies. She was met by two wide grins.

“What?”

Both ponies pointed at the glass. Octavia glanced down, noting that about half of the cocktail had disappeared.

“Oh, fu-AAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAH!” 

Harpo and Vinyl jumped at Octavia’s sudden outburst.

“Vinyl!” shouted the cellist. “What the hell is in this Discordian drink?!”

“Oh my gosh, you called me Vinyl!” Vinyl opened her hooves.“This calls for a hug.”

“Not until you tell me if I have to go to a poison center!”

“Okay, so that’s a maybe on the hug.”

Octavia clutched her head. “Dear Celestia, it felt like my brain was being hammered by a lemon wrapped in a gold brick.”

Vinyl picked up her own drink and studied it. “Hmmmm… I must’ve mixed it wrong. Anyway, I don’t think you’ll have to go to a hospital or anything. Maybe… On another note, how much would your cello get me if I sold it?”

“That’s not funny,” replied Octavia.

“Hey, I’ve gotta prepare for every situation.”

Harpo held up a hoof, noticing that Octavia had a murderous gleam in her eye, a look that he was all too familiar with. “Shall we get back to the game? I believe that it’s my turn.”

Vinyl nodded. Octavia looked like she was going to argue, but relented.

“Wonderful,” said Harpo, rubbing his hooves together. “Octavia! Truth or Dare?”

“I’ll choose…” Octavia thought for a moment. Harpo will be asking the question. What would Harpo ask me? Something embarrassing no doubt, possibly some kind of story. The cellist’s eyes widened. Oh, he wouldn’t ask that would he?

Octavia glanced at Harpo but could interpret nothing beyond the composer’s slight smile.

He would. Without hesitation.

“I choose Dare, Harpo.”

Vinyl gave a low, “Oooooooo.”

Harpo leaned forward, a glint in his eyes. “In that case, Octavia. I want you to finish all of the drinks,” he lightly tapped the table carrying Vinyl’s cocktails, “on this table.”

The DJ reared back, softly clapping her hooves and letting out another “Ooooooo.”

Octavia grimaced. “I’d rather choose Drink.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” shouted Vinyl. “You can’t chicken out of this. New rule! If you choose Drink then you have to drain everpony’s drink, not just your own.”

“You can’t change the rules like that!”

“Sorry Tavi, those are the house rules. And by the way, dropping out of the game means that you have to drink all the drinks, refill them, and then drink them all again.”

“… You are pure evil.”


***



The game of Truth, Dare, or Drink had devolved into the game of Drink. After Harpo’s Dare, Octavia dared Harpo to do the same. The composer was able to finish the drinks and, in a very slurred voice, dared Vinyl to drink three glasses. The DJ did so easily and, forgoing the question of “Truth or Dare,” bet that Harpo wouldn’t be able to finish two more glasses.

He couldn’t, somehow managing to pass out while still drinking. The mares were able to wake Harpo by splashing water on his face, but he was only conscious long enough to decide that the couch was more comfortable than the floor.

He was now softly snoring on that couch, a dribble of drool clinging to his muzzle.

Only about twenty minutes had passed since they first started their game.

Vinyl and Octavia sat on the floor, the pleasant haze of alcohol settling in their minds.

“Sooooo,” said Vinyl, “Truth or Dare?”

“Vinyl, I think that it’s safe to say that that game is over.”

“Yeah, I figured… Truth or Dare?”

Octavia sighed. “Truth, I suppose.”

“So, you’re a fillyfooler, right?”

Ah, that’s right. I’d almost forgotten Harpo’s slip up. “Yes, Vinyl.”

“Thought so. Harpo’s not very good at keeping secrets, is he?”

“No he is not.”

A few moments passed in comfortable silence.

“Sooooo,” said Octavia, slightly mimicking Vinyl, “Truth or Dare?”

“I thought the game was over.”

“It is. Truth or Dare?”

Vinyl smiled. “Truth.”

“Can I trust you to keep it a secret?”

“Of course, Tavi. What kind of pony would I be if I couldn’t keep a friend’s secret?”

Harpo chose that moment to give a particularly loud snore.

Both of the mares giggled.

Another bout of silence.

“Truth or Dare?” asked Vinyl.

Octavia thought for a moment. “Dare.”

“Ooooooo,” was Vinyl’s response. “Right, then I dare you to kiss me.”

“Pardon me?”

“C’mon, it’s not a game of Truth, Dare, or Drink until somepony gets a kissing dare. What’s wrong, are you chicken?” Vinyl turned to the cellist, puckering her lips and making an obnoxious kissing sound.

Octavia hesitated for a moment, feeling the alcohol slightly clouding her mind. She leaned in towards the DJ.

In all honesty, Vinyl had meant it as a joke; a way to tease the cellist. Not that I’m against it, she is pretty cute. The unicorn closed her eyes slightly, feeling Octavia get closer and closer.

“Drink,” said the cellist, moments before their lips made contact. Vinyl was actually able to feel Octavia’s breath as she spoke the single word.

The DJ opened her eyes, her lips still comically puckered. 

Octavia was leaning back, a fresh drink in her hoof and a smirk on her face. She drank the cocktail, shivering as the alcohol settled in her stomach. The grey mare had grown used to drinking that particular poison.

“Octy,” said Vinyl. “You are the biggest tease in the history of teases. I don’t think I can trust you anymore.”

“Whatever, Vinyl.”

“No, I’m being serious!” The rapidly widening grin on the DJ’s face said otherwise. “I’m offended. I may have to swear a vendetta on you. You know what, I will!”

Octavia watched with an amused expression as Vinyl dramatically pointed a hoof at her. “One day, you’re going to want to kiss me. You’re going to want to kiss me so badly because you’ll have realized how incredibly awesome I am. And I’ll let you. And then you’ll want to kiss me even more than that. And I’ll let you. BUT there will come a time, years from now when this is just a hazy memory, when you’ll look up at me with longing and shout ‘Kiss me!’ and I’ll look down and whisper, ‘Drink.’ This is my vendetta.”

The grey mare placed a hoof to her chin, considering something. She stared at the ground, looking like a living version of ‘The Thinker.’ She held that pose for a full minute, then looked up at Vinyl with a gleam in her eyes.

“Shut up, Vinyl.”


***


Fancy Pants escorted his wife out of the party. He had come here directly after his meeting with Hoity Toity, maneuvering through the crowd of well-to-do Canterlotians with smiles and jokes aplenty.

Fleur de Lis had never seen him so upset. Her husband did not make numerous jokes and laugh boisterously, her could normally be found serenely walking from pony to pony, having actual conversations rather than smiling, clapping somepony on the back and moving on.

Something had clearly annoyed him.

The mask came off as soon as husband and wife had entered their carriage. Fancy Pants placed his head on the window, relishing in the glass’s coldness.

“Hoity Toity?” asked Fleur.

An affirmative grunt was Fancy Pants’s response.

“I see. Was he as uncaring and elitist as always?”

Another grunt, this time accompanied by a thud as Fancy Pants softly banged his head against the glass.

“Ah, it’s about Vinyl, isn’t it?”

The husband pulled away from the glass, turning towards his wife. “Yes. He believes that she is ‘dead weight’. He believes that a living, breathing pony can be ‘dead weight.’” Fancy Pants felt his anger build up. “He didn’t even bother to learn her name. Simply judged her by her past.”

Fleur de Lis scooted closer to her husband, nuzzling against him. “You can’t say you didn’t expect it. Prejudice, as we both know, is a common occurrence in Canterlot. But we can deal with it, we have dealt with it. Preconceptions are little before an actual show of talent and effort. And your musicians, dear, certainly have both talent and the effort to back it up.”

Fancy Pants sighed. “We realize that, but will anypony else?”

“Fancy Pants, everypony else will realize that.”

But the stallion was reluctant to let go of his anger. “Not Hoity Toity.”

Fleur rolled her eyes. “Oh, nobody gives a minotaur’s flank about Hoity Toity’s opinion.”

Fancy Pants’s eyes widened in shock but he chuckled at his wife’s words, wrapping a hoof around her and giving Fleur a small squeeze. “Now Fleur, that’s not nice,” he pretended to scold.

“But it’s true. And the musicians will have a chance to prove it in a week.”

The stallion grinned widely, his earlier worries mostly forgotten. “So you got them the job?”

Fleur gave her own proud smile. “Indeed, with hardly any effort. Although I have to wonder how Octavia and Harpo will react to this. It isn’t exactly in their comfort zone.”

“Not to worry, Vinyl has some experience in the area, even if it isn’t her normal ‘club scene.’”

“And only a week to prepare?”

Fancy Pants grinned again, a drive burning in his eyes. “It’s a trial by fire. They either make it or get burned trying.”

“Taking the money you invested with them.”

The stallion shrugged. “You win some, you lose some.”

“My dear husband, have I told you that you’re insane recently?”

“My lovely wife, I’d worry more when you stop calling me insane. Because then we’d both be mad, and where would that leave us?”

“Somewhere in Prance, enjoying some quality food and simply relaxing. There would be no risk at all,” said Fleur de Lis in a wistful tone.

Fancy Pants grimaced. “Exactly. How awful.”


***



Some minutes later, husband and wife walked through the doors of their manor where they found three drunken musicians soundly asleep.

Strangely, the sight was rather endearing, even when Fancy Pants noticed that a few bottles of his alcohol collection were now nearly empty. The married couple shared a look and walked away, returning from opposite directions with an assortment of blankets and pillows.

The three younger ponies were effectively “tucked in,” Vinyl and Octavia sharing a blanket because of how close they were and Harpo still snoring away on what had effectively become his couch.

Fancy Pants and Fleur de Lis shared a smile, feeling more like parents than bosses and retired to their own room for the night.
> The Coffee House and Back Again
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vinyl didn’t wake up immediately; she was far too comfortable for that to happen, the combination of a thick blanket, a slight headache, and a wonderfully warm pillow had a paralytic effect on the DJ.

She nuzzled into her pillow, giving a little sneeze as the fur-like texture tickled her nose.

Unfortunately, Vinyl’s sneeze had the added effect of causing her pillow to stir slightly.

No, bad pillow, thought the DJ, no moving. Vinyl still wants to go sleep-sleep. She drew the pillow closer, prompting a small squeak from it.

“Vinyl,” whispered the pillow, “Vinyl, please let go of me.”

My pillow has a fancy voice. Sounds like Octypus. Haha, Octypus. I should call her that when I wake up. Vinyl nuzzled deeper into her pillow. She had found a very comfortable place to rest her head even though several fine strands of something that felt like hair rested on her face.

Spiderwebs? Vinyl asked herself. Mr. Spider, if you can hear me don’t wake me up. Because then I’d have to crush you. And that would be… not… good.

Vinyl felt a series of taps on her hoof, obviously someone trying to steal her pillow.

“Noooooo,” whined the DJ, “you’re mine. No one else can have you.” She tightened her grip slightly before dropping back into sleep.


***


On the other end of the embrace, Octavia felt a blush creep along her face. Her head was throbbing slightly; definitely not the worst hangover she’d ever experienced.

She glanced up at the couch. Harpo was still snoring away, which was a very good thing for the cellist. She would have heard no end of it if Harpo had seen Vinyl cuddled against Octavia.

But there was really no danger of that, now was there.

And it was dreadfully comfortable, even with the sleeping unicorn pressed against her back.

A sleeping unicorn who asked me to kiss her. 

Octavia was slightly distraught over that thought.

Why exactly did she do that?

Well, it was a Dare. A kissing dare. 

Yes, a kissing dare that she imposed on herself. How often do ponies playing Truth or Dare impose a kissing dare on themselves?

Vinyl twitched in her sleep, the sudden movement making Octavia jump.

Not very often, Octavia admitted to herself.  

That would have only happened if she actually wanted to kiss me. Or she was drunk. Maybe it’s best to believe that she was drunk.

Octavia Philharmonica, this is one of the few times that Harpo’s Golden Rule applies. ‘If you can remember doing it in the morning, being drunk is not an excuse.’

Yes, I know his rule! Oh, look at me, I’m arguing with my own mind. This is not a good sign for my sanity.

Vinyl mumbled something that sounded like “Giant turntable monster” and nuzzled against Octavia’s neck, evidently trying to hide.

Okay, that was rather cute.

And then Vinyl’s knee jerked out, hitting Octavia in the back. 

That was less cute, thought the cellist biting back a cry of pain.

The DJ giggled, still asleep and rather proud of herself. She had, after all, just vanquished a giant turntable monster.

But Octavia was in a bit of a predicament. Vinyl’s knee was now pressed against her back. It was immensely uncomfortable. But if the cellist moved she risked waking Vinyl. Which would have been impolite.

Minutes ticked by and Vinyl showed no signs of removing her knee or waking by herself.

Screw being impolite, it feels like my back is going to snap! 

Octavia tapped Vinyl’s hooves. “Vinyl,” she whispered. “Viiiiinyyyl.”

Vinyl grunted, momentarily awake.

“Vinyl, please move your knee. It hurts.”

The white mare grumbled a bit, but moved her knee. The pressure on Octavia’s back didn’t subside at all.

“Vinyl… Your other knee.”

After another bit of grumbling, Octavia was rescued from her back pain.

“Thank you,” breathed the cellist.

Vinyl was already fast asleep.


***


If it wasn’t for the shallow breaths that tickled her neck, Octavia would have assumed that Vinyl was dead. She had certainly maintained a 'dead mare's grip' on the cellist.

The cellist had been lying on her side for about half an hour trying not to wake the sleeping DJ.

I can’t feel my left side, the cellist quietly lamented. Well, it could be worse. Harpo could be awake, taunting away.

Harpo chose that moment to give a loud snore, partially waking himself up. Luckily for Octavia, the composer was suffering from a much larger hangover than the two mares and promptly returned to sleep.

Octavia breathed a sigh of relief. Somepony in Canterlot Castle likes me. Honestly, what a cruel joke it would have been if Harpo had chosen that time to wake up.

But now Octavia was back to doing nothing. Which was a rather boring experience. She didn’t even have any music to look over or a book to read.

Now what do I do? Enjoy that Vinyl is cuddling with me?

You’re already doing that, said a teasing portion of Octavia’s mind. It sounded suspiciously like Harpo.

Oh, shut up you… or me… Whatever pronoun I’m supposed to use when speaking to a part of my own mind.

But you are.

Hardly. It’s getting a bit too warm for my comfort.

Oh, Octavia, said the voice with a tut, what’s the point of lying to yourself? 

There was no response. The voice was right; Octavia was enjoying the experience, even though she couldn’t feel half of her body.

But it’s an inborn response, Octavia rationalized. Everypony enjoys being held. Just because I’m enjoying it doesn’t mean that there’s a deeper emotion guiding me. It’s a purely platonic cuddle. A cuddle of friendship.

With the one who wanted to kiss you? Would Vinyl consider this platonic?

Octavia tried to turn around and look at Vinyl. She was rewarded with a cramp in her neck.

Right, can’t turn my head that far. Not anatomically possible.

The DJ gave a contented sigh. 

A small smile was forced out of the cellist. Oh well, she thought, what’s wrong with enjoying this?


***


Vinyl woke up for a second time. She came out of her sleep very slowly, drawn out by a melody. It was a very familiar song, although the DJ couldn’t quite place it.

It’s coming from pillow, Vinyl realized.

“Lullay Moon Princess, good night sister mine. Rest now in moonlight’s embrace.” Octavia was singing under her breath, trying to pass the time.

Pillow has a nice voice.

“Bear up my lullaby winds of the earth, through cloud and through sky and through space.” Octavia, fearing that she would sing too loudly and wake Vinyl, began to hum.

“Awwwww,” came Vinyl’s disappointed response. “I like it better when you actually sing.”

The cellist jumped, but recognized the voice. “You’ve finally woken up. I’ve been lying here for nearly an hour. Would you mind letting go of me?”

“Yes, actually I would.” Vinyl placed her head on Octavia’s shoulder. “I don’t think I’ll let go. You’re too comfortable for your own good.”

“And you are currently awake, so I don’t feel bad about doing this.” Octavia smacked Vinyl sharply between the eyes. The DJ reeled back, clutching at the point of impact.

The cellist got to her hooves with a smile. She stretched luxuriously, the feeling slowly returning to the left side of her body.

Vinyl sat, rubbing her eyes. “You… you hit me.”

“Indeed, and something tells me this won’t be the last time I do it.”

The DJ reached over, picking up her pair of purple shades. “Yeah, it probably won’t be.”

“Vinyl?” asked Octavia.

Vinyl Scratch, eyes now fully covered, looked up.

“Why are you always wearing those?”

“They’re prescription.”

“… Prescription. Prescription bright purple sunglasses?”

Vinyl scoffed. “They’re not sunglasses, Tavi. I don’t only wear them when the sun’s out. They are,” the DJ took a moment to adjust her eyewear, “shades.”

Octavia chose to move on. “So prescription shades?”

“What, no! What kind of doctor gives out prescription shades? Seriously, I want to meet that guy.”

“You just said that your glasses were prescription!”

“Oh, yeeeaaah… They are.”

“Why… IN TARTURUS… Are you two being so loud this early in the morning?” Harpo sounded highly annoyed, but the overall effect was diminished by the pillow he had jammed onto his face. The composer himself still hadn’t decided if he had done that to block out the mares or to attempt to smother himself.

“Harpo’s awake,” said Vinyl.

“Good morning Harpo,” said Octavia.

Harpo pointed a hoof in the direction of their voices, unwilling to remove his pillow-mask. “You two, take your lovers’ quarrel somewhere else. I need to sleep off a little bit more of Vinyl’s cocktail and neither of you are helping.”

“They are called Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters, Maestro Nadermane,” said Fancy Pants, walking down into the room. “Or at least an imitation. Judging by the alcohol that remained, Vinyl didn’t quite mix them correctly.”

Harpo whipped the pillow from his face, recoiling at the light. “Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters?! Vinyl, were you trying to kill us?! Oh dear Luna, I drank four of those. This is it; I’m going to die of alcohol poisoning. Admittedly, I’ve always suspected it would end this way.”

Fancy Pants chuckled. “Nothing quite so drastic, I’m afraid. Vinyl made a much weaker version, although it seemed to be strong enough to keep you here.”

“Forgive us for imposing,” apologized Octavia. Harpo and Vinyl nodded.

“Not a problem,” said Fancy Pants with a dismissive hoof. “I would have had to assemble you three at any rate. This only makes my job easier.” 

Octavia’s stomach growled. Octavia’s face turned a rather nice shade of red.

“But forgive me; I’ve kept you from breakfast. And it is never a good thing to conduct business on an empty stomach.” Fancy Pants glanced up at a clock on the wall. “You have two hours to find something to eat. My kitchen is at your disposal or you may venture out to seek your own meals. I would be more than willing to cook for you, but the first time I attempted to make a meal I burnt everything. Including the plate. And that was simply for a cup of coffee.

“But I’m sure I could whip something up,” concluded Fancy Pants with a smile.

The musicians edged towards the door, keeping up a steady stream of polite declines as they did so. The door slammed shut, leaving behind a highly amused Fancy Pants.

Fleur de Lis’s voice floated down. “Remember that it’s your turn to cook!”

“Of course, dear! Would you prefer a Prench breakfast or a more traditional one?”

“Anything would be fine, darling, as long as you’re cooking.”

Fancy Pants happily trotted into the kitchen, manipulating ingredients and utensils with the deftness of an experienced chef.

Note to self: Teach musicians that risk may have unexpected benefits.


***


“So now what?” asked Harpo, squinting against the rays of the recently risen Sun. 

“I don’t know about you two,” responded Vinyl, “but I’m heading to SunBucks.”

“The one by the Conservatory?” questioned Octavia.

Vinyl nodded.

“All the way across Canterlot?”

Another nod.

“And how exactly do you plan on getting there?”

A cart pulled up next to the three ponies.

“On your way for your morning coffee, Vinyl?” asked one of the drivers, a dark brown pony with a tire for a cutie mark.

Vinyl grinned. “Oh Spokes, you know me so well.” She gestured to Harpo and Octavia. “This is Harpo Something Fancyname and this is Octy slash Tavi.” The two nodded their greetings. “They’re new musicians, hope you don’t mind if they come along?”

“Pleasure to meet ya, name’s Spokes. And ‘course they can ride along, we’re strong ponies.” He tossed his head towards the other drivers. “Ain’t we boys?”

There was a chorus of confirmation.

Vinyl, Harpo, and Octavia filed into the carriage. Octavia murmured to herself all the while. “You use Fancy Pants’s private carriage to pick up coffee. Of course you do.”


***


The carriage ride passed quickly and in relative silence, for which Harpo was grateful. His headache had been steadily growing ever since he woke.

But now, standing in front of the coffee house, the promise of caffeine served to slightly alleviate his pains. He began to walk to the glass entrance, but Octavia held him back. 

Before Harpo could protest, the cellist pointed a hoof at Vinyl, who was bouncing up and down and stretching. The DJ settled into a running stance, counted down from three and exploded into the coffee house.

“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOD MORNING SUNBUCKS REGULARS!”

“Now it’s safe to enter,” said Octavia, sweeping a hoof towards the entrance. Harpo took his cue and entered, just as Vinyl dropped a few bits onto the counter.

The regulars who had bet on Vinyl cheered heartily. The others groaned and reached for their bit bags.

“See Berry, I told you! I told you that I’d win this one, and I did!” The DJ was doing her patented victory dance. It involved a lot of jumping around and taunting.

Berry Punch had scrunched up her face. “I would have had that if it wasn’t for this one.” She tilted her head in the direction of the other pony behind the counter.

The other pony gave a sheepish grin, scratching the back of his head with a hoof. “Well, it’s not as if I actually work here. I’m just filling in for Carrot Top. She’s a good pony, and a ginger to boot so I couldn't just say no! I like gingers, always wished that I could be one, but it never did happen.” The stallion spoke with the same kind of Canterlot accent that Octavia had.

The crazed DJ in question sipped her coffee. “Yeah, I was wondering what you were doing here. What’s up, Doc?”

‘Doc’ glanced up. “An infusion of wood and hay. Not likely to come crashing around our head anytime soon, which is always a good sign in my books. And I’ve told you, Vinyl, it’s Time Turner for now. That’s a rather good name, isn’t it? I’m proud that I came up with it.”

“Whatever. You called yourself Doctor when we first met, so I’m gonna keep calling you Doctor.”

“Well that’s fine. Doctor’s a good name too; I’ve grown rather fond of it.” The Doctor noticed the two new arrivals. “Hello there. Didn’t notice you two walk in. What can I get for you?” The stallion grinned and turned to Berry Punch. “Did you hear me? ‘What can I get for you?’ It’s like I actually work here.”

Berry Punch smiled, rolling her eyes. She caught Octavia’s eye. “Hey, I remember you! Ms. Seeing-Vinyl-Scratch-Every-Day-Would-Make-Me-Go-Insane, right?”

The Doctor looked slightly confused. “What an oddly specific name. Would you mind if I shortened that to Miss Seeing?” he asked Octavia.

Vinyl laughed. “That’s not her name, Doc! This is Octy or Tavi if you’d rather call her that. And that’s Harpo Fancyname.”

Octavia and Harpo both decided that letting Vinyl introduce them was not the best idea.

The composer stepped forward, extending a hoof towards the ponies behind the counter. “Harpo Parish Nadermane and Octavia Philharmonica.”

The Doctor took the hoof with a grin, giving it a hardy shake. “Now those are great name. It’s one of the things I’ve always liked about this place; the names. Short and to the point. Well, not exactly short, but they do eventually get to a point. I’m Doctor Turner… I mean, I’m Time Whooves. Wait, no, that’s not quite right either.” He looked into the distance, still shaking Harpo’s hoof. “Doctor Whooves! You can call me Doctor, Doctor Whooves, or Time Turner!”

Harpo gave the rather strange stallion a crooked smile.

The Doctor maintained his grin. They awkwardly smiled at each other, their hoofshake unbroken.

“Doctor,” said Berry Punch, “I think he’d like his hoof back.”

“Oh, that would explain the awkwardness.” He let go of Harpo’s hoof. “You should take care of that limb, losing it can cause a lot of problems. Like fatherhood.”

Harpo gave a nod, thankful that that experience had come to an end. Berry Punch made her own introductions as the Doctor turned to Octavia.

“That was a wonderful concert, Miss Philharmonica. Or would you prefer that I called you Octy or Tavi?”

Octavia was just able to hold back a wince at her nicknames. “Thank you. And just ‘Octavia’ is fine.”

“Not a problem. So, what can I get you two?” The Doctor chuckled again. “Me, working at a coffee house. This is wonderful,” he said to himself.

Octavia ordered a chai tea with skim milk and a bag of blueberry scones.

Harpo asked for orange juice.

The other ponies gave him a strange look. A few of the regulars who had been eavesdropping gave him a strange look.

“What?” asked Harpo defensively. “Orange juice has wonderful hangover-curing powers!”

Vinyl and Octavia ushered Harpo to an empty table. The DJ excused herself, having to make her rounds through the coffee shop.

Octavia and Harpo discussed a composition that Harpo had begun writing, but the grey mare’s eyes constantly darted to the side.

The composer guessed what she was looking at. “Rather amazing that she can speak to so many ponies, isn’t it? Although it would be best if you didn’t stare.”

Octavia turned slightly pink. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Honestly Octavia, I’m a composer. It’s far more likely that I’ll go deaf than go blind.”

Octavia gave a small sigh. “I wasn’t staring. Simply admiring how she can flit from conversation to conversation and leave everypony smiling. It’s a skill that I do not possess.”

Harpo raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Are you sure that was all you were admiring?”

The cellist looked around, trying to find something to throw. Unfortunately, nothing sprang too hoof. “You’re lucky that you’re outside of striking distance.”

“Come now, Octavia! We’re all grown ponies here.”

“Says the colt who just ordered orange juice at a coffee house.”

“Ad homonym does not suit you, my dear cellist. And what does everypony have against orange juice?”

But Octavia’s eyes had wandered back up to the unicorn.

Harpo noticed this and chuckled. “Do you have a crush on Vinyl, Octavia?”

The grey mare glared at Harpo, briefly wondering how heavy the table would be. It looked light enough to throw. Damn, it’s bolted to the floor.

Octavia had to settle for a verbal assault. “Harpo, what have I told you about talking to me about relationships?”

The composer frowned, blowing a breath through his nose. “That it’s forbidden.”

“Yes and why is that?”

“Because I tried to play matchmaker.”

“And how did that go?”

“I thought that you’d like Amethyst!”

“Harpo, she wasn’t a fillyfooler.”

“Oh, yes. That must have been rather awkward. But I’m not playing matchmaker, Octavia! I will simply aid you on your journey towards Vinyl.”

Octavia rubbed the bridge of her nose with a hoof. She had been doing that quite a lot lately. “Harpo, we don’t even know if Vinyl’s a fillyfooler.” Octavia decided not to mention the kissing incident.

“But you’re not averse to being with her if she was?” Harpo asked hopefully.

Octavia glared at the composer.

“Right, no clear answer. Got it. And Vinyl is obviously ‘batting for your team’ as the saying goes.” Harpo leaned in. “I can tell.”

“Amethyst.”

Harpo leaned back into his chair, throwing his hooves into the air. “I make ONE mistake and I never hear the end of it!”

“Harpo’s mistake?” asked Vinyl, setting Harpo and Octavia’s drinks down before dropping onto a chair. “I wanna hear about Harpo’s mistake!”

“Maybe another time, Vinyl,” said Octavia.

“Lame.”

They drank and ate in relative silence for a few minutes.

“Sooooo,” said Vinyl, “what do you think Fancy Pants wants to talk about?”

Harpo held up a hoof, trying to quickly swallow a blueberry scone he had stolen from Octavia. “Probably some actual work. Recording and what not.”

Octavia nodded in agreement. “Harpo, you owe me a bit for that scone.”

The composer reached over and took another scone. “And now it’s two bits,” he said with a cheeky grin.

Vinyl smiled, levitating a pastry towards herself. “If we’re recording, then I should tell Doctor to meet us at the boss’s place.” She turned around in her chair. “HEY DOC! Fancy Pants’s in like an hour and ten minutes!”

“I’ll be there!” said the Doctor with a cheery grin.

Vinyl turned around again, stuffing the scone into her mouth.

“Vinyl?” asked Octavia.

“Mmmmm?” grunted the DJ.

“Why is Mister Turner going to meet with us?”

“Oh. Doc’s our tech guy. Well, he’s our main tech guy. There are others, but everypony who’s not a musician or in PR eventually answers to him.”

Octavia and Harpo glanced at the brown stallion who was currently playing with the cappuccino foam machine.

“… Really?” asked Harpo.

“Oh yeah! The guy works miracles, he just kinda pulls out this pen, and then this whirring thing happens and everything works. He is kind of weird though. But it’s a good kind of weird.”

Octavia took another sip from her tea, glancing at the DJ and at the Doctor who had managed to burn himself. “Fancy Pants has gathered quite the interesting team.”


***


One hour and five minutes later, Vinyl, Octavia and Harpo were back outside of Fancy Pants’s manor. The Doctor had not accompanied them. Instead, a grey pegasus mare had dragged him out of the coffee house. Apparently, the Doctor had left for SunBucks without letting the mare know, even though he had promised to spend the day with her. Derpy Hooves was not happy about this. 

The rest of the coffee house had found it highly entertaining.

Needless to say, none of the three musicians expected the Doctor to show up, not when he had an angry fillyfriend to deal with.

The musicians walked into the leaving room. Fancy Pants poked his head out from the kitchen. “Ah, you three are back. Excellent. Just give me a few moments.”

The dapper pony ducked back into the kitchen. The sound of running water soon followed.

Harpo and Octavia shared a look.

“Is… Is Fancy Pants… washing dishes?” asked Harpo.

“I… believe so,” responded Octavia.

Both composer and cellist imagined Fancy Pants in a frilly pink apron, combed mane covered by a hair net, and hooves covered by yellow rubber gloves, furiously scrubbing at a stained plate.

They shook the image from their minds and joined Vinyl, who had unceremoniously flopped onto a seat.

Fancy Pants’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “Actually, can one of you get Fleur de Lis? I believe that she’s in the garden.”

“Not it,” said Vinyl and Harpo in unison. They both turned to Octavia.

The cellist sighed and got to her hooves, walking to the back of the manor where she assumed the garden would be.

Harpo and Vinyl shared a hoofbump, watching as the grey mare exited the room.

Vinyl glanced over at the kitchen door, and then motioned for Harpo to lean in.  “So Octavia is definitely a fillyfooler, right?” she whispered.

“Octavia is my friend and I am not at liberty to divulge any information that she dee—“

“She told me last night.”

“Yes, she most definitely likes mares.”

“Okay, good. I wasn’t sure if she was just messing with me or not. Thanks for telling me.”

“That’s not a problem. Well, the fact that I unwittingly let a friend’s secret slip is a problem, but that’s not what I meant. Vinyl, why do you care about Octavia’s sexual preference so much?”

“No reason.”

Harpo raised an eyebrow. “Really? There is absolutely no reason why you, a mare, want to know whether Octavia, another mare, likes mares?”

Vinyl scratched at the back of her head. “Well, there might be some reasons. I mean, nopony really does anything without a reason for it, right?”

Harpo grinned widely. “You have a crush on Octavia. Oh, that’s perfect.”

“She’s just so cute! And soft. And warm.” Vinyl’s stared off into the distance.

The composer softly clapped his hooves in front of the DJ. “Vinyl, come back to Equestria. I don’t want to know where your mind wandered, just bring it back here.”

Vinyl gave a sheepish smile. “But it’s just a crush. Nothing too important.”

But Harpo was already considering the implications of this ‘crush’. Vinyl would be good for her. And of course, it would be hilarious to see them together. And isn’t that the most important thing?

“Harpo… are you okay?”

Harpo grinned. Vinyl felt like she was looking into a mirror.

“My dear Vinyl, I am better than okay.” This is going to be so much fun.


***


Octavia walked out into the garden. Why did I leave? Nothing good could come from leaving those two alone. With my luck, Harpo would decide to go back to playing matchmaker. Why did I ever tell him that I was a fillyfooler?

The cellist felt a tug on her tail. She turned around, seeing the last of a coral pink aura dissipate.

“I’m sorry dear,” said Fleur de Lis, pruning the branches of a nearby tree, “but you were about to walk into a rose bush. That would not have been a pleasant experience.”

“For me or for the flowers?” asked Octavia, looking down at the bush’s thorns.

“Both,” replied Fleur with a smile. “Now, what brings you to my humble garden?”

“Fancy Pants asked me to bring you inside.”

“Of course, I’ll be right in.” Fleur continued her pruning, clearly not in a rush.

Octavia scuffed at the ground, unsure whether to walk back inside or stay out there. She looked around the garden.

There was no reason why Fleur should have referred to her garden as humble; it was a beautiful place. Flowers of all shapes and colors were dotted around a brick path. Each of them was in full bloom, giving off a wonderful aroma in which no single flower dominated the others. Further from the path were the trees, some of them fruit-bearing, and others heavy with cones. Octavia was eyeing a particularly fruit-laden apple tree. One of the apples floated down in front of the cellist, held in that same aura she had seen around her tail.

Fleur turned towards Octavia with a smile. “What good is fruit if it isn’t eaten?”

The earth pony took the apple with a quiet “Thank you,” taking a few moments to eat. “It really is a lovely garden.”

“Thank you dear. I enjoy working here; it offers a respite from the hustle and bustle of daily life. And gardens work wonders for a preoccupied mind.” Fleur went back to her trimming.

Octavia nodded, chewing on her apple. Everything was quiet, save for the occasional snip as Fleur cut down a weak branch.

Harpo should know better than to play matchmaker, thought Octavia, he knows how much I hate that.

But would it be so terrible if it was Vinyl Scratch?

Octavia thought back. The DJ had done nothing terribly wrong in the few days since they had met. Yes, she had annoyed Octavia but there was something strangely endearing in Vinyl’s mannerisms. She was so confident, so willing to help, always speaking with a grin and trying to make somepony laugh.

And it doesn’t hurt that she is a pleasure to look at. Octavia looked around, wondering if she had thought that too loudly.

Snip, went the pruning tool.

Octavia sighed mentally. No, I wouldn’t mind being with Vinyl. But I don't know enough about her. I only met her two days ago. Even though it feels like it’s been weeks.

It’s only a crush; I’ll get over it eventually.

“I’m done here,” said Fleur, appearing next to Octavia, “shall we go? Oh, and you can just throw the apple core next to one of the trees. It’ll turn into compost eventually.”

Octavia nodded, tossing the remains of her apple. They walked towards the manor.

“Miss de Lis?” asked Octavia.

“Fleur, Octavia, call me Fleur.”

Why does nopony like being called by their last name? “Fleur. Would you mind if I came back to this garden at some point?”

The unicorn smiled. “Not at all.”


***


“Right, now that everypony’s here, I will explain your first job.”

Fancy Pants had gathered them all into the living room. The musicians sat together on the couch, Fleur de Lis sat in a chair, and Fancy Pants stood in front of them all.

“This is a rather routine attempt to gather publicity,” continued Fancy Pants, “you three will be performing in front of a crowd in an attempt to make a name for yourselves as a group.” He paused, anticipating some kind of question.

None came. Vinyl motioned for Fancy Pants to continue.

“I understand that you, Harpo and Octavia, come from a different musical background than Vinyl.”

Vinyl snorted. “Yeah, a lame background.”

“In lieu of this,” continued Fancy Pants, “Your first duty will be in an area that none of you actually have much experience in.” He grinned. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, and Fleur has already arranged for you to play. So now you have no choice in the matter.”

He’s insane, thought Harpo.

“And you will be playing at The Lighthouse Café,” concluded Fancy Pants.

Octavia vaguely recognized the name, but couldn’t quite place it.

Vinyl, on the other hoof, recognized it immediately. “Lighthouse Café?! Th-that’s a jazz joint! That’s a really good jazz joint! You want us to play jazz?!” She pointed a hoof at Octavia and Harpo. “You think that they’re ready to play really good jazz?!”

Harpo and Octavia briefly considered being offended, but decided that they agreed. 

“Fancy Pants,” said Harpo, “I’ve never composed for jazz before.”

Vinyl facehoofed. “He thinks that we can just ‘compose’ it.”

Fancy Pants held up a hoof. “Calm down. You’ll be fine. You do have a whole week, after all.”

The DJ held her head in her hooves. “One week. Great.”

> The First Practice
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Octavia stared at the building before her. It was rather short, especially compared to the other buildings surrounding it, but it somehow was not dwarfed by them. The building seemed to glow, the morning sunlight reflected every which way by glass and stainless steel. Fancy Pants had spared no expense.

But it also had a rather unwelcoming feel about it. Everything was reflected and distorted by its walls and windows. Octavia couldn’t shake the feeling that it was staring at her.

Or maybe it’s some kind of gateway. Ponies have always believed that reflections lead to other worlds. 

The grey mare shrugged a shoulder, allowing the case she carried to settle into a more comfortable position. She failed miserably in this, the case’s strap cutting into a particularly sensitive nerve between Octavia’s shoulder and neck.

She winced in pain, cursing slightly as she walked towards the building’s entrance. Stupid double basses. A cello’s weight is nothing to scoff at, but this… this is just ridiculous.

The lobby was sparsely furnished; a few paintings here and there, a couch that was too new to be comfortable and some chairs that would never be comfortable.

Octavia walked to the receptionist’s desk. A shape, whom Octavia could only assume to be the receptionist, was currently rustling through some drawers. The musician gave a small cough before speaking. “Pardon me. I’m supposed to meet with Miss Vinyl Scratch today. I’m one of the musicians that Fancy Pants hired, my name is—“

The shape popped its head over the desk and Octavia was greeted by a grinning brown stallion.

“Good morning, Octavia! I’ve been wondering when you’d show up; Harpo’s been here for a few days already and it’s been at least a week since I last saw you.”

Octavia blinked a few times. “It’s been two days.”

“For you maybe, but I’m pretty sure it’s been a week. Well, we’re probably both right; you know what they say about time.” The Doctor grinned expectantly.

The musician smiled awkwardly.

A few moments passed in this way, until Octavia realized that Doctor Whooves was actually waiting for an answer.

“Er…” said Octavia eloquently “time flies?”

“I suppose that they do say that, even if it isn’t exactly true. You see, time doesn’t fly so much as swim in a kind of… what’s the word… It’s kind of a wriggling, vibrating shake movement.” The Doctor put a hoof to his chin. “Wiggle-waggle? Jiggle-biggle? Bibbly-Bobbly? Jelly Baby? No, I don’t think it was that last one.”

Octavia was stoutly resisting the urge to raise an eyebrow and snap at the Doctor. This strap is going to saw off my leg! “Excuse me Doctor, but where is Vinyl?”

Doctor Whooves pointed in the vague direction of an elevator. “Third floor, fourth door on your right,” he muttered.

The cellist nodded her thanks and trotted to the elevator, straining against the weight of the double bass. She jammed her hoof against the button a good dozen times before the doors mercifully slid open. The Doctor continued to mumble to himself all the while.

Octavia balanced her instrument against an elevator wall and punched the button for the third floor. The doors shut just as the Doctor let out a proud shout of “Wibbly-Wobbly!”

The grey mare shook her head. What a strange pony. But then again, this is the stallion that Vinyl called ‘weird.’ Octavia shivered. I shudder to think of what he can do.

Two pleasant dings and an ineffective self-administered shoulder massage later, Octavia was trudging through the third floor.  I hope Harpo’s alright. Two days alone with Vinyl Scratch must have been disastrous for his health. She raised a hoof in front of the fourth door from the right. Actually, Harpo and Vinyl spending two days together would be disastrous for my health. 

Octavia knocked on the door and was promptly greeted by the thump of something hitting the floor and a scrambling of hooves.  There was some muffled shouting as the door slammed open, nearly knocking the grey mare to the ground and a mass of purple flew out of the room. 

“Octavia!” pleaded Harpo from his place around the cellist’s neck. “You have to get me out of here, she’s crazy! I haven’t slept in two days and I’ve only eaten chocolate bars and orange juice! Chocolate and orange juice DO NOT go together!” The composer hid his head in the cellist’s mane. “She ruined orange juice… The monster.” Harpo was on the verge of tears.

The grey mare awkwardly stood, not quite sure what was happening. “Um… I’m sorry?”

Harpo whimpered slightly and nodded into Octavia’s mane.

“It wasn’t that bad!” said Vinyl, appearing in the doorway, “I gave you a Crunch bar!”

The stallion looked up. “You threw that bar at me when I started to fall asleep!”

The DJ shrugged. “Crunch bars are good.”

“It was already opened and it fell on the floor!”

“Five-second rule.”

Harpo looked up at Octavia. “She’s crazy, Octavia. She is absolutely Dog-Barking-Wide-Eyed-Make-Discord-Himself-Proud crazy!” He clutched at the grey mare’s hoof. “Run. We have to run!”

The composer took his own advice, bolting for the elevator. He ended up in the air, wrapped in a pearl white aura, his hooves mightily galloping through nothing.

“Alright, that’s enough out of you,” said Vinyl. She walked back through the doorway, a still struggling Harpo floating before her. “C’mon in, Tavi. ‘Mi workplace es su workplace’, and all that crap.”

Well, thought Octavia hesitantly, this is a rather foreboding start.


***


Octavia looked around the room. It was nearly identical to the lobby, but on a smaller scale and with tables placed in seemingly random places. Balled up music sheets covered the floor amid shattered quills, pools of ink, and empty jugs of orange juice.

Harpo was unceremoniously plopped onto a couch. He scrambled to his hooves, but was quickly beaten down by a pillow wrapped in Vinyl’s aura.

“No, bad Harpo,” scolded Vinyl, “you can’t leave yet. Take a nap or something while I work with Tavi.”

“Right,” said Harpo dreamily. “Nap. Sleep. I can do that.” He turned around, facing the couch. Within minutes, the composer’s breathing became steady.

“Vinyl?” asked Octavia. “What exactly happened here these past few days?”

The DJ glanced around the room. “Nothing you need to worry about.” A stack of papers levitated across the room, settling in front of Octavia. “This is what we’ve been working on, or at least the clean copies of it.”

Octavia took the papers, quickly scanning through the dots and lines she would have to play.

“We won’t be able to do any big band jazz since we’ve only got a bass and a piano,” continued Vinyl. “You did re-learn how to work a bass, right?”

The grey mare nodded absentmindedly, preferring to concentrate on the music. It seemed simple enough; a few moments of virtuoso playing, but nothing outside of her talent range. Why was Harpo so worried?

“Hey, hey Octy!” Vinyl was waving a hoof in front of Octavia’s face.

The cellist blinked a few times. “Oh, I’m sorry Vinyl. Just a bit distracted by the music.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said the DJ, waving a hoof. “Just get out your bass and let’s hear you play.”

Octavia nodded, glad to be relieved of her burden. She took the bass from its case and reached for the bow.

“Woah, woah, woah,” said Vinyl. “What’re you doing?”

Octavia looked up. “Getting ready to play?”

“No bow, just your hooves and the strings. The bow’ll just get in the way.”

The grey mare hesitated slightly, but followed Vinyl’s order. Octavia stood on her hind legs, balancing herself against the bass. It still felt rather awkward. I miss my cello.

Vinyl levitated a page of music, holding it in front of Octavia. She motioned with a hoof.

Octavia took a deep breath and strummed at the strings. A quarter note followed by a triplet, repeating for a few measures. It was a bass line, a foundation for the rest of the piece; hypnotic, like a heartbeat for the rest of the song.

Vinyl snatched the paper, muttering to herself all the while. The beat came to a halt; Octavia watched with a shocked expression as the DJ quickly crossed out and re-wrote a section. The music sheet retook its place.

“Do it again,” said Vinyl.

And so Octavia did. Again and again, getting a little farther into the song every time, but never more than three or four measures would pass before Vinyl scratched something out of her work and the musician would have to start all over. The music had a hypnotic effect, resounding through the small room. Always the same quarter note and triplet rhythm, followed by a slight flutter as the sheet music flew through the air and the scratching of Vinyl’s quill.

Octavia had to squint to make out the notes. Flecks of ink seemed like grace notes, a careless line could actually be a slur; Vinyl had to stop and correct the musician multiple times. The DJ never yelled, but her naturally loud voice spelled out exactly what Octavia was supposed to play. 

The grey mare always delivered, taking the changes in stride and slowly learning how to differentiate between notes and stray quill marks. Vinyl remained impassive, moving only to stifle a yawn or to reposition her sometimes drooping head.
Hours passed as Octavia struggled to keep her balance and play the music Vinyl had written. 

The DJ was correcting furiously, drops of ink flying all around, tongue slightly sticking out of the side of her mouth. Octavia would have found the sight rather endearing if her hind legs weren’t crying out in pain.

Vinyl’s quill broke, sending ink out in every direction. “Shit,” cursed the DJ. “Alright, Octy, that was my last quill so take a break while I try to dig another one out of somewhere.”

Octavia nodded gratefully, placing her bass on the ground before shakily walking over to a chair. She watched as Vinyl rummaged through various drawers, flinging out everything that wasn’t a quill. 

She hasn’t even really changed the music, just a slur here, a sharp there. But she does it every few minutes! I’m surprised Harpo isn’t dead.

“Ah-Ha!” shouted Vinyl, holding a quill in triumph. “C’mon Octy, let’s get back to work.” The DJ began to walk back to her place, stifling a huge yawn as she did so. She stumbled slightly.

“Vinyl, are you okay?” asked a concerned Octavia.

The other mare was fixing her glasses, trying to hide her trip behind a grin. “Just fine, Octypus! Now let’s get to”— another treacherous yawn escaped Vinyl’s lips — “that music again.”

Octavia nodded reluctantly. I should say something. Get her to stop for a while. Harpo is basically dead at the moment; Vinyl should be at least as tired.

But she didn’t say anything.

Instead, Octavia took to her bass, her right hoof colored slightly pink from plucking the metal strings. They worked without speaking for a little more than an hour. Vinyl continued her random corrections, pausing every once in a while to lift her glasses and rub at her eyes. Each time she did so, Vinyl kept her eyes tightly shut.

But Octavia wasn’t really concerned with Vinyl’s eye color at the moment. The grey mare cared more about the heavy bags under the DJ’s eyes, evidence that she was running herself ragged. Another heavy yawn wracked its way through Vinyl Scratch.

“Vinyl,” Octavia began hesitantly.

Vinyl held up a hoof. “No.”

“Pardon?”

“I know what you’re going to say, and no, I’m not going to rest or take a nap or anything. I don’t need it.” Vinyl’s protests were slurred.

Part of Octavia wanted to yell at Vinyl. Of course you need it! You’re about to fall over! “Are you sure?” she said aloud.

Vinyl nodded, her purple shades very slowly sliding from her face. She viciously pushed them back into place, refocusing on the sheet music.

Her quill, normally furiously flitting from note to note, paused inches away from the paper. A few drops of ink fell from the feather. Vinyl looked up at Octavia. 

The DJ tried for a jovial grin. It came out as more of a grimace. “Don’t worry, Tavi, I’m fine. I’ve stayed awake for longer than this.”

Octavia frowned, unconvinced.

“I’m fine. Besides, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

Octavia’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Pardon me?”

“Well, this isn’t exactly your type of music. This little bit of practice makes it pretty clear.” Vinyl shrugged. “Don’t worry though; you’ll get the hang of it.” The DJ paused. Shit, that came out wrong.

She looked up at Octavia. For a split second Vinyl saw pain in that face; a small flash in Octavia’s eyes that betrayed her wounded pride. Then it was gone, replaced by a mask of professional indifference.

But Vinyl knew what she had seen.

“Look, Tavi,” began Vinyl.

“No Miss Scratch, I fully understand what you mean. This really isn’t my genre of music, and I’ll be glad to take any advice you may have.” Octavia gave a small and polite smile.

But Vinyl wasn’t stupid. The smile was forced; it was a face that Octavia was used to wearing, one that she wore well, but Vinyl could tell. The grey mare’s smile was a puppet’s smile.

“Tavi, I didn’t mean it to sound like that,” groaned the unicorn. “I just mean… The music needs something more, something like…” Vinyl spun a hoof in circles, trying to find the words.

Octavia simply nodded, balancing herself against her bass, her smile never slipping. “Of course. Shall we continue?”

Vinyl rubbed at the space between her eyes. “No! Octy, I want to apologize; I really don’t like the way I sounded.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I’m fine with it.”

“No, I do. And no, you’re not!”

Octavia’s eyebrows began to knit together. “Miss Scratch, if I say I’m fine with it, than I am fine with it.”

“But you’re not!” Vinyl said loudly. “I’m back to being ‘Miss Scratch’ because I said the wrong thing!”

The grey mare was scowling now. “Miss Sc—Vinyl. Don’t apologize if I tell you that you don’t have to apologize.”

“But I feel like I should say sorry.” Vinyl was getting a bit heated. “Look, just accept the damn apology!”

“But there’s no reason for it!”

The door opened quietly, and the Doctor entered, carrying a platter of cups. “Anyone care for a drink?”

The two mares stared at the intruder. Time Turner noted the slightly pink hue in their faces. “Right, bad timing,” he said, inching towards a nearby table. “I do that a lot. It’s a habit; I just kind of pop in when I’m least expected. Sometimes that makes good things happen,” the mares were still glaring at him, “but this isn’t one of those times.” He put the platter down. “Well, I’ll just… leave this here. If that’s okay.” The Doctor was little more than a brown blur as he raced through the exit.

Vinyl levitated a cup towards herself, finding that it was filled with rather cold coffee. She drank it anyway.

Octavia stayed silent, going through the motions required for the music.

Both of them held their positions for a time, not making eye contact.

Vinyl rubbed at her eyes and gave a small sigh. “Let’s call it a day.”

Octavia bristled. “I can still keep playing.”

“Yeah well, I can’t,” snapped the DJ.

The grey mare scowled, putting her bass on the floor. She put the instrument away, leaving the room with her head held defiantly upward.

The door closed.

Vinyl’s head drooped significantly.

“Well, you bucked that one up.” Harpo was still laying on the couch, facing away from the room, but he was clearly awake.

Yeah, this is what I fucking need right now, thought Vinyl. “Thanks Harpo, I hadn’t noticed.”

The composer spoke into the couch, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Really? I thought it was pretty obvious.” He gave a crude imitation of Vinyl. “‘Just accept the damn apology!’”

The DJ leapt to her hooves, seriously considering hitting Harpo. “It’s her fault! All she had to do was say ‘It’s okay’ or ‘Apology accepted’ and we’d still be here working on music!”

Harpo sat up and turned towards Vinyl with a serious expression, one that the DJ hadn’t even seen while they were working on music. “Vinyl Scratch, I have known Octavia for years now and she has never once accepted an apology of mine.”

Vinyl opened her mouth, but Harpo held up a hoof.

“That doesn’t mean that she’s never forgiven me. And the Royal Sisters know that I've done plenty of things that have required Octavia's forgiveness."

The unicorn stood still, a scowl still clear on her face. “She just had to say ‘It’s o-FUCKING-kay!’”

Harpo remained impassive. “Vinyl, let me tell you about Octavia Philharmonica.”


***


Octavia walked out of the room, silently fuming. Honestly, what a stubborn mare. How hard is it to not apologize when no apology is necessary? Octavia pressed down on the elevator call button. The doors quickly slid open. What do I care if somepony tells me that a musical genre outside of classical is different from what I normally play? It’s simply a fact! The elevator doors slid open again, and Octavia stepped out into the lobby. And I am a professional; I can take criticism, so why apologize for critiquing?! Idiotic.

Engrossed in her thoughts, Octavia did not notice the brown stallion trying to get her attention. The mare crashed into the Doctor.

“Pardon me,” muttered the cellist.

“Not at all. I realized that having you crash into me was probably the only way to grab your attention, and now that I have it I can say what I wanted to.”

Octavia was already halfway to the exit.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “I say something and nopony listens.” He trotted after the retreating mare.

But Octavia had returned to her thoughts. But what a condescending remark! ‘Don’t worry though; you’ll get the hang of it.’ As if I’m some kind of foal.

“Octavia.”

‘I’ll get the hang of it,’ of course I’ll get the hang of it! The first time I played a bass in years and I played nearly every note perfectly, exactly as that Vinyl Scratch wrote on the score.

“Octavia.”

Actually, what in Luna’s name could have been wrong with what I played? I did exactly what she asked exactly how she asked for it. And she tells me that I was playing it wrong. How infuriating! What could have possibly been wrong about a song played perfectly?

The Doctor poked Octavia in the ribs. He didn’t put much strength into it, but it was enough. The cellist jumped straight into the air and rounded on the Doctor. “What was that for?!”

The stallion met Octavia’s gaze coolly. “Octavia, I’ve been following you for a few blocks now, trying to grab your attention. It was either this or crashing into you again, and the latter didn’t really work a few minutes ago.”

Octavia raised an eyebrow. “And, at the risk of sounding rude, what do you want?”

“Well, there’s a candy shop not too far from here. Care for a Jelly Baby? I haven’t had one in ages.”

The eyebrow went further up the cellist’s brow. “Don’t you have to manage the receptionist’s desk?”

“I’m tech support; I was only at the receptionist’s desk because she had to take the day off. Not sure why. But that’s beside the point. Candy shop?”

Octavia shook her head. “I’m not in the mood for sweets.”

“Oh come now; every mood is a mood for sweets! Chocolate when you’re feeling down, soft candy when you’re energetic, hard candy when you can afford to calm down. And Jelly Babies! Don’t get me started on Jelly Babies.”

“I’m afraid that I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”

“Well, that’s a shame. But seeing as we’re already in front of the shop, why don’t you come in anyway?”

Octavia glanced up. The Doctor had subtly led them to the entrance of a rather simple red-brick building. Different displays of chocolates, candies, and cakes could be seen through two large windows. The entire shop seemed to be suffused with a warm glow. A white sign hung above the doorway, the words “Bon Bon’s Confectionary” written in pink and mint-green striped letters.

The Doctor opened the door slightly. “C’mon. I’ll tell you a story to help clear your mind. Perhaps something about Vinyl Scratch.” He entered the shop. The quiet sound of a small bell rang out.

Octavia sighed and followed. The sound of a tinkling bell marked her entrance.
> The Doctor's Stories
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Welcome to Bon Bon’s Confectionary, is there anything I can help you with this evening?” A cream colored earth pony stood behind a counter, maintaining a light smile as she addressed the Doctor and Octavia. “Though the Doctor knows this shop about as well as I do.”

The stallion waved. “Evening, Bonnie! Had a good day?”

Bon Bon gestured dismissively. “Slow day. We’re probably gonna lose the shop,” she said brightly.

“You say that every time I come in here,” said the Doctor, walking towards a display case. “I’m starting to think that it’s a lie.”

The candy maker shrugged. “It could be. You should buy more candy, just to make sure.”  

The Doctor grinned in return. “Come on, Octavia,” he said turning slightly. “Pick out anything you like; I’m buying.”

Bon Bon turned to the cellist. “Did the Doctor drag you here?”

Octavia gave a tight smile, unwilling to break her sour mood. Sour in a sweets shop. How ironic.

Bon Bon’s own bright mood didn’t slip. “Please forgive him; the Doctor doesn’t really understand the concept of boundaries.”

The Doctor popped up next to Bon Bon, leaning in close. “Boundaries, what good are boundaries? All they do is bind things, trying to tell me what I can and can’t do. Useless!”

“Doctor, go back to your Jelly Babies.”

The stallion trotted to a corner, where he busied himself by filling a paper bag with candies. He muttered numbers to himself all the while, trying to find the greatest amount of candies he could fit into the bag.

Bon Bon turned back to Octavia. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you one of Lyra’s classmates?”

The cellist nodded.

“I thought so, you looked familiar,” she said, smiling. “It’s a shame, but Lyra isn’t in at the moment; she’s out at her job. And how goes your life outside of the Conservatory?”

“Fine.” Octavia tried to keep the scowl off of her face but a slight twitch in her eye betrayed her impatience.

“Of course it is,” said the candy maker with a knowing smile.

Octavia remained impassive. Why did I agree to come here?

“Octavia!” shouted the Doctor from his corner. “Start looking around already! You’re a filly in a candy shop; this should be one of the best days you’ve had! 462 Jelly Babies… 463 Jelly Babies…”

The cellist sighed softly. She wandered through the shop, halfheartedly looking through all of the sweets. Nothing appealed to her.  I’ve never cared for candy. The occasional stick of sugar-free gum is fine, but there’s really no purpose for anything else. She moved from display to display, watching as the colors shifted from pastel to neon. A particularly bright electric blue caught her eye. It was a hard candy, a perfect sphere with a slightly lighter line of blue swirling around it.

Octavia’s snout scrunched up slightly. That stubborn mare. She’s even in the candy. She sighed inwardly. Maybe it’s best if I leave now and simply sleep off my bitterness. I’ll be all better by tomorrow morning.

The cellist turned to the corner, fully intending to excuse herself and head home.

“Come along, Octavia let’s head back out,” said the Doctor from his position in front of the counter. “I’ve already bought our candy.” He held up a paper bag jam-packed with Jelly Babies and a personal pint of ice cream. “Well, it’s ice cream in your case but it should have the same brightening effect that candy has.”

Octavia raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t I supposed to pick out what I wanted?”

“You were taking too long,” replied the Doctor. “Unless you don’t like ice cream?”

“I don’t mind ice cream, but I was actual—“

“Good, then we’ll be off!” The Doctor placed the sweets into a saddlebag and trotted towards the shop’s entrance. “I’ll see you soon Bonnie, give my regards to Lyra!”

Bon Bon waved a hoof as the stallion exited. Octavia followed the Doctor, grumbling as she did so.

“Hey, Octavia?”

The cellist, frowning slightly, turned towards the candy maker.

Bon Bon continued. “The Doctor only comes here with somepony else when that pony’s feeling down in the dumps. He’s trying to help, in his own annoying and completely disarming way. I just thought you should know that.”

Octavia nodded hesitantly. Yes, every single crazy pony that I’ve met has a heart of gold, she thought sarcastically. They’re infuriating, but that’s okay because they’re trying to help. The cellist pushed through the sweet shop’s exit and was forced to step aside as the Doctor rushed back into the shop.

“Wait out here for a tick, Octavia. I almost forgot something,” he said as he blurred inside. He was back a few seconds later, a small plastic spoon in hoof. “Can’t eat ice cream without a spoon! Well, that’s actually not true, but I doubt that you’d eat ice cream without a spoon. Wouldn’t quite fit your character.” He opened his saddlebag, pulling out his bag of Jelly Babies. “892 I was able to fit in here. I know that I’ll break 900 one day.” He picked out a red candy and threw it into his mouth. “The red ones are the best,” said the Doctor around his sticky candy.

The stallion walked off down the street, leaving Octavia to follow him. They didn’t speak, the Doctor perfectly content with his candy and Octavia more than happy to nurse her black mood.

If I had been left to my own devices, thought Octavia, I would likely already be back on my hooves and prepared to work again. In fact, Vinyl and I would probably still be working on our performance. Instead, we wasted a perfectly good practice day! Now there’s only four days left.

Octavia blanched slightly at the thought. Four days. Four days to figure out exactly what Vinyl thinks my playing is lacking. Or four days to prove Vinyl wrong and convince her that I am playing exactly what she wrote. Not only that, I’m playing it with emotion! What more could she ask?

“Ah!” said the Doctor suddenly, “Here we are.”

The two had walked to the entrance of a park. The lampposts had just begun to spring to life as they walked along a concrete path. Trees lined the path, leaving about enough room between them for a starry-eyed couple to wander aimlessly from the path.

Octavia and the Doctor were neither starry-eyed nor a couple.

The stallion looked from side to side as they walked, taking in as much of the admittedly empty scenery as he could. “I quite like parks,” he explained. “It’s a little bit of green amid an otherwise grey landscape.” He gave a sideways glance at Octavia. “Not that there’s anything wrong with grey.”

The cellist gave a tight smile.

The Doctor continued. “You know, I enjoy hustle and bustle, I’ve never been one for staying still. Canterlot suits me just fine in that respect. But there are times when I want to just stop running around and fixing things, there are times where I want to move to a more relaxed place. Someplace a little more rural, someplace quite a bit smaller than Canterlot. Maybe even smaller than Manehatten. The kind of place where everypony knows each other, the kind that you see in musicals with all of the inhabitants dancing and singing together. Of course, the musical aspect would never happen, but living in a place like that would be rather nice.”

Octavia nodded despite herself; that kind of life did sound rather nice. But why bring it up?

The pair had walked into the park’s central plaza. The path spread into a perfect circle, a ring surrounding a small green hill. A statue of Princess Celestia and Princess Luna adorned the top of the hill.

The Doctor gestured to a nearby bench.

They sat.

The stallion offered Octavia her pint of ice cream.

The cellist stared down at the small cylinder. A candy shop and a park. Why exactly am I here?

“You’re supposed to eat that, you know?” The Doctor gave a good-natured grin.

Octavia sighed, taking the lid off of her ice cream.

A few moments passed in silence.

“Well, that was step one,” said the Doctor. “Now you’re supposed to use the spoon and actually, well, eat the ice cream.”

Octavia frowned, her eyebrow twitching slightly in agitation. “What do you want Doctor?”

“That’s a rather broad question.” The Doctor thoughtfully chewed a Jelly Baby. “I don’t really want anything in particular.”

Octavia’s frown deepened. “Then why have you dragged me through Canterlot?”

“To cheer you up, of course!” Another smile came from the stallion.

“I would have been perfectly fine by tomorrow morning.” This has only made me dwell on the argument, she added mentally.

“Yes, but nothing would have changed. You and Vinyl would have been the same as you were today, there would be another careless sentence and I would have to clean whatever remained of you two! Literally! Our custodian is taking the day off tomorrow, so I’ll have to fill in.”

“I was willing to let the statement pass. You should be talking to Vinyl Scratch.”

The Doctor waved a hoof. “Vinyl would have simply teleported me out of the room. She’s a surprisingly strong unicorn. No, I would do far more good speaking to you than speaking to her.”

Octavia gave him a disbelieving look. “And how do you plan on doing that, Doctor?”

“With a story!” Octavia was nearly blinded by the Doctor’s grin.

“… A story?”

“Well, a couple of stories. But first, take a bite of your ice cream. It’s melting.”

Octavia reluctantly ate a spoonful, forcing herself to get through it. Her stomach growled. I haven’t eaten all day, have I?

“There, that should be a bit better. Hunger only worsens a mood, but ice cream fixes that rather quickly.”

The cellist nodded slightly, eating a bit more. A few minutes passes as the Doctor unstuck two Jelly Babies and Octavia enjoyed her ice cream.

“Now,” said the Doctor suddenly, “what do you know about Louis Hoofstrong?”

“Louis Hoofstrong?” asked Octavia.

“Yes, Louis Hoofstrong. You mentioned watching a documentary on him back in SunBucks a few days ago.”

“What does Louis Hoofstrong have to do with anything?”

“It’s a transition!” said the Doctor indignantly. “I’ll get to the point eventually. Just tell me a story about Louis.”

“Right.” Octavia took a moment to collect her thoughts. “Hoofstrong is arguably the most influential jazz player in history. He was born in New Orleans where he learned to play trumpet and cornet.”

The Doctor waved his hooves. “No, no, no. That’s a history lesson, not a story! Stories begin with ‘Once upon a time,’ they describe characters, tell us what makes them tick, make us care for the ponies we’re learning about!” He paused. “What aspect of Louis made him so influential, what made him such a musical force?”

Octavia flinched slightly, taken aback by the Doctor’s insistence. “Hoofstrong was… talented.”

“Yes, he was talented, but there were hundreds of other musicians at the time that could make the same claim. What made him so impressive was his personality, his story.” The Doctor was smiling lightly. “He epitomized the music of his time. Have you heard of his ‘pound proudly’ remark?”

Octavia shook her head.

“Once upon a time,” said the Doctor with a slight smirk, “there lived a young boy from New Orleans. He was a musician in every sense of the word; he had taught himself to play the trumpet and taken some basic lessons in the cornet. However, that was the extent of his formal musical training.

The boy eventually found his way to a band, and, even though he was undoubtedly talented, he quickly made a fool of himself. Once, during a rehearsal, Louis made a grave mistake, loudly blaring a section of music marked pianissimo. The other, more experienced musicians had seen the pp marking and had appropriately played the section quietly, only to have this upstart play the same section as loudly as he could.

Needless to say, the band was confused, a few of them were angry and asked Louis to explain exactly what he was doing. Hadn’t he seen the pp? Louis looked down at the sheet music and back up at his band mates. ‘What, this?’ he asked, pointing at the letters. ‘I thought that this meant Pound Proudly!’”

The Doctor ended his story, looking expectantly back at Octavia.

The cellist ate another spoon of ice cream.

The stallion seemed to deflate slightly. “You didn’t get it, did you?”

“… It’s a nice story,” consoled Octavia.

“Well, maybe another story will make it easier to understand.”

Octavia motioned for the Doctor to continue. Not that she could’ve stopped him in the first place.

“Once upon a time,” began the Doctor, “there lived a wonderful Griffon musician by the name of Johann Sebastian Beak. He had attained a level of fame incomparable to most any musician, but his time was coming to an end.

As Johann lay on his deathbed, his son, in an attempt to console his Father, sat at the piano and played one of Johann’s pieces. However, the son was interrupted and was forced to leave the piano’s seat. Johann, old, sickly, dying, and decrepit as he was, leapt from his bed and hurried to the piano, picking up where his son left off. He finished the piece and crawled back into bed, finally dying a few weeks later.” The Doctor held Octavia’s gaze. “Is it clearer now?”

The cellist considered the stories. “No Doctor, I’m not quite sure what you’re trying to tell me.”

The Doctor sighed, putting his hoof to his forehead and mumbling something that sounded like “Musicians.” He popped a few Jelly Babies into his mouth before continuing. “Beak and Hoofstrong. These two are world-renowned musicians and easily earn the title of ‘genius.’” He looked at Octavia for confirmation.

The cellist nodded.

“However,” continued the Doctor, “there are significant differences in their thought processes. Johann, as many rules as he broke in his music, could not stand the thought of an unfinished piece. Everything he wrote was meant to have a form; he wrote music exactly as he wanted it played. Having somepony ‘Pound Proudly’ instead of play pianissimo would have been unthinkable.

Fast forward a few centuries to Louis. He ultimately attained the same amount of fame as Johann without a hundredth of Johann’s formal training. And that’s due to the fact that formality doesn’t matter within genres like jazz and blues. What matters is the emotion.”

Understanding dawned on Octavia. “I played with emotion!” she protested. “I always play with emotion.”

The Doctor held up a hoof. “You play beautifully, emotionally. But you still have the perfectionist mentality befitting somepony with your musical background. You’re afraid of missing a note, of going outside of the notes and into the music itself. You’re afraid of ‘Pounding Proudly.’ And it shows in your music.”

Octavia stared down at the ground. She slowly rolled her cylinder of ice cream from hoof to hoof, softly chewing on the plastic spoon. “Is… Is that what Vinyl believed?” she asked hesitantly.

The Doctor nodded. “I believe so. If I could hear it, then Vinyl probably felt it.”

The cellist looked up at the stallion. “Then why didn’t she just say it?”

“Vinyl… isn’t very good with words. She says and does exactly what she wants. An expansive vocabulary would be completely useless to her.”

“That shouldn’t have stopped her,” Octavia huffed stubbornly.

The Doctor ate a few more of his candies. “Octavia, how much do you know about Vinyl Scratch?”

“She’s insane.”

The stallion chuckled. “Yes, that’s a very good way to describe her. Then again, it’s still lacking.” He tapped a hoof to his chin. “Why don’t we try telling a story about Vinyl? That’s a great idea! You start.”

Octavia shook her head. “I don’t have any stories regarding Vinyl. I’ve only known her for about four days.”

“Really?” questioned the Doctor. “You’ve known that unicorn for 96 hours and you don’t have a single story to tell? I knew Vinyl for exactly five minutes before I had a story to tell!”

Octavia searched her thoughts, absent-mindedly eating her ice cream. If I’m not careful, snacking will become a habit.

The cellist searched through the last four days. “When…” she began hesitantly, “When I first met Vinyl, she dove headlong across a table.”

The Doctor nodded. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

But Octavia hadn’t finished. “She manifested next to me and tried to start a conversation. I was nearly dead of nervousness by the time we had finished speaking.”

The stallion held up a hoof. “Good, you have an outline for your story. Now, repeat after me,” he said with a grin. “’Once upon a time.’”

The cellist raised an eyebrow.

The Doctor spun his hoof in a circle. “I’m waiting.”

Octavia sighed. “Once upon a time, I met a DJ. She was loud and energetic, capable of drinking Discordian amounts of caffeine in a single gulp. I prophesized that she would drive me insane.

A few hours after meeting, she teleported me across Canterlot, nearly running herself ragged in the process. And then I found out she would be my boss.” Octavia paused slightly. “She wanted to be my friend. ‘Besties,’ I think she said. We drank, and woke up the next day. And then we had an argument over a careless remark. But…”

“But?” asked the Doctor.

“But she was right.” I was simply being stubborn. I still don’t think an apology was necessary, but maybe accepting it would have been the better option. She had hurt my pride and I refused to let her apologize. The cellist rubbed her eyes with a hoof. “I’m an idiot. Vinyl’s an idiot. We’re all idiots.”

The Doctor nodded, a soft smile on his lips. “That’s something we have to learn time and time again. Don’t worry though, it gets better from here on out.” He got to his hooves. “I should get going; Derpy hates it when I’m late. But I should have enough time to see you safely home.”

Octavia looked up. The sun had set fully. How long have we been here? She shivered slightly from the cold. “Thank you Doctor, I would appreciate it.”

The two trotted off, neither of them really talking on the relatively short trip to Octavia’s home. As promised, the Doctor saw her to her doorstep.

“One last thing,” said the stallion, opening his saddlebag. He pulled out a small paper bag. “Say that you don’t have a sweet tooth all you want, everypony enjoys candy.” He grinned and began walking off. “Good night, Octavia. Try not to fall back into a dark mood!”

“Wait, Doctor!”

The Doctor turned, tilting his head slightly.

“You never told me your story about Vinyl.”

The stallion shook his head lightly. “It’s a rather short one; you’d have to ask Vinyl for more information.” He took a breath. “Once upon a time, a certain unicorn who had lost nearly everything told me to find her if I ever needed help. Simple as that.”

“That’s it?” asked Octavia.

“If I added anymore, it wouldn’t be my story. It would be Vinyl’s and I wouldn’t have any right to tell it.” The Doctor nodded resolutely. “Good night, Octavia.

Octavia waved, slightly disappointed. “Goodbye Doctor. Thank you again.”

The Doctor simply raised his hoof, not looking back.

The cellist walked into her home, locking the door behind her. Everything was in its usual pristine condition.

Octavia walked into the kitchen, pouring a glass of water for herself before going into her bedroom, pausing before her bookcase.

I think that a bit of late-night­ reading is in order, she thought to herself, pulling out a piece of romantic dribble that she would never publicly admit to reading.

She flopped into bed, opening the novel’s well-worn pages. Octavia reached into the paper bag the Doctor had given her. Hard candy.

The cellist pulled out a perfect sphere of electric blue with a slightly lighter shade of blue swirling around it.

Octavia grinned. At this rate, I’ll develop quite the sweet tooth. She popped the candy into her mouth, grimacing slightly at the overly sweet taste, and began re-reading her story.

She was asleep within the hour.
> The Composer's Advice
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Go ahead then, Harpo. Tell me about Little Miss Sunshine.” Vinyl crossed her hooves. “What gives her the right to reject my apology?”

Harpo took a calming breath. “She didn’t reject your apology.”

“Oh, so she just didn’t let me say I’m sorry? That’s completely different!” A sarcastic smile adorned Vinyl’s face. “I guess I should go not apologize for thinking that I needed to apologize for saying something stupid.”

“Vinyl, Octavia does not need an apology; she needs time to her herself. Let it go, wait until tomorrow. She’ll have calmed down by then.”

The DJ flopped unceremoniously onto a couch. “Yeah, but I won’t.”

A few moments passed in silence. Harpo sighed lightly. “Why does it bother you so much?”

“Common courtesy,” replied Vinyl gruffly.

“We both know that you don’t believe in common courtesy. You don’t believe in any kind of courtesy, actually.”

Vinyl scowled. “You sayin’ that I ain’t nice?”

A Manehatten accent, Harpo noticed. That wasn’t there a few minutes ago. “No Vinyl, you’ve done some rather kind things. You just do it at rather unexpected times.”

The unicorn looked up, blowing out a steady stream of air. “Unexpected. Yeah, right.”

Harpo raised an eyebrow. “Something you’d care to share with the rest of the class?”

Vinyl was silent.

Harpo picked up a cup of cold coffee. He took a sip, finding that the coffee was nearly good enough to drink cold. Nearly. He put the cup back down, looking intently at Vinyl Scratch.

The mare glanced at him as sharply as she could from behind reflective purple lenses. “Are you really gonna wait until I start talking?”

The composer shrugged. “If that’s what it takes.”

“Well, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’!” Vinyl re-crossed her hooves.

That accent’s back. Harpo smiled. “I’m willing to bet that I have more patience than you do.”

The DJ didn’t respond, opting instead to draw her hooves even tighter together.

The composer picked up his coffee, sipping it lightly. I wonder how long this will take. He maintained eye contact with Vinyl, an amused glint in his eyes.

The DJ frowned and defiantly stared back. They stayed this way for some time, Harpo’s serene and unfaltering gaze meeting Vinyl’s shades.

What the buck does he want from me? thought Vinyl. I don’t have to explain myself; it’s pretty damn obvious why I’m upset! I was tired and I said something stupid, something that probably—that definitely—hurt Tavi.

Worst part is that I never even explained myself! I just came across as a shallow critic. ‘You didn’t play that well. I am not going to tell you how to make it better, but just know that your music is bad.’ Dear Celestia, I sounded like one of them. Vinyl shivered. I promised that I would never, ever let that happen. And Harpo is still staring at me!

“What do you want?!” shouted Vinyl suddenly.

Harpo jumped, snapped out of his own thoughts by Vinyl’s exclamation. Well, I was imagining a well-made dandelion salad before you interrupted… I’m hungry. “I’d like you to talk to me, Vinyl,” he said aloud.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Vinyl insisted hesitantly. “Nothing important anyway.”

“Forgive me for doubting that.”

Vinyl sighed and took off her glasses. She stared down at the floor, absent-mindedly playing with her shades. “It’s nothing.”

Harpo’s expression softened slightly. “My father has a saying he was rather fond of, ‘Nothings are somethings that have become too big to acknowledge.’ It annoyed me to no end when he said it.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” asked Vinyl.

“Exactly what it says; my father is not the kind of pony who wastes words. It means that every time something gets out of hoof we try to find ways to make it seem smaller than it is. We downplay it until it comes out as ‘nothing,’ when it would be so much better to admit to it.” Harpo leaned forward slightly. “Care to share your ‘nothing?’”

The DJ sighed again and looked up. Harpo gave a slight start but said nothing as his eyes met with Vinyl’s crimson irises.

“Harpo, how often have you two, you and Octy, actually messed up?”

The composer chuckled. “We’ve done some rather stupid thi—“

“No,” said Vinyl. “How often have you done something wrong musically? How many times has someone called you out for writing something bad?”

Harpo frowned slightly. This is a serious Vinyl; I’ve never seen a serious Vinyl. “You can’t please everypony.”

The unicorn seemed to slump slightly. “And what happens when you can’t please anypony?”
Harpo blinked. “I—I’m afraid that I don’t quite understand.”

Vinyl gave a cynical huff. “I figured. You two are geniuses, right?” A note of bitterness crept into her voice. “It’s easy for you. Everypony knows who you are. ‘That was a great concert.’ That’s what nearly every pony says when they see you two.”

The composer blinked again. “Vinyl,” he offered hesitantly, “that was a special case. We’d been preparing for that concert for nearly a year; it was our final performance! We poured everything we had into it; Octavia ran herself ragged, I stayed up for countless nights trying to fit in just the right notes!”

Vinyl snorted. “That doesn’t mean anything. At least not to some ponies.”

Harpo stayed quiet, not entirely sure where Vinyl’s sudden bitterness had sprung from. It probably came from ‘nothing,’ he silently mused.

A few moments passed.

“I’m sorry Harpo,” said the DJ quietly. “None of that was for you or Octy.”

“I figured. Although we’d be glad to keep the part about being ‘geniuses.’” Harpo tried for a grin.

Vinyl gave a kind of half-smile in return.

“Now,” continued Harpo. “Would you care to explain whom exactly receives your enmity?”

The half-smile dropped, instantly replaced by a scowl. “A group of fucking idiots,” she said savagely.

“Language, Vinyl, I’m still a colt at heart!” Harpo glanced from side to side, then leaned in conspiratorially, “What ‘fucking idiots’ exactly?”

“The kind of idiots who judged my music without even listening to it! The ponies who heard ‘DJ’ and immediately decided that I was some kind of drug-addicted slut who ‘couldn’t possibly understand what music was’!”

Harpo frowned. “Critics,” he spat out vehemently.

Vinyl gave a disapproving grunt. “Not critics. A critic actually criticizes, a critic tells you what’s wrong with what you’re doing, a critic points out flaws and gives ya a chance to get rid of those flaws, a critic‘ll tell ya how tah improve your work!” The DJ was breathing heavily, her voice steadily rising as she spoke. “Those assholes didn’t do nothin’ like that! All they did was make sure that I wouldn’t get a good gig or any way to make some actual money.” Vinyl paused.

Harpo took his moment. “And so you moved out of Manehatten?” he asked.

“How’d ya know I came outta Manehatten?”

The composer raised an eyebrow. “Lucky guess,” he deadpanned.

Vinyl softly brought her hoof to her forehead. “Right, accent. It just kinda comes out every once in a while. And no, I left Manehatten for… for a different reason.”

There was a decided note of pain in Vinyl’s voice. Harpo decided not to follow that line of questioning.

There were a few beats of awkward silence.

“So,” said Vinyl, “that explains why I wanted Octy to accept my apology. I don’t want to be like one of the assholes.”

“That would be crappy,” added Harpo with a smirk. He blinked and looked around. “Octavia would have beaten me for that one. There’s no satisfaction in a pun if there isn’t a reaction.”

Vinyl punched him on the arm. “Better?”

The composer winced, rubbing at his developing bruise. “Painfully so.” Punfully so, in fact, he added mentally. “And what about you? Feel any better?”

The DJ considered it for a moment. “A little… I think.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to answer a previous question you had and possibly embitter you in the process.” Harpo held Vinyl’s eyes. “Just hear me out, okay?”

Vinyl nodded.

The composer took a deep breath. “You asked how often Octavia and I make mistakes. Musical mistakes, to be exact. I have to say that we don’t do it very often. Octavia’s ‘practice’ is really more of a ‘polish,’ and improvement rather than actually figuring out how to play. There are very few pieces that she can’t play after a few minutes of study.” The composer smirked again. “I’m proud to say that those ‘very few’ are my pieces. It’s a testament to my ability as a composer that I can write music that nopony can play.”

The DJ shook her head, a slightly sad smile on her face. Harpo held up a hoof, preempting any comments.

“And that ability,” continued Harpo, “means that I can never ever rest. There were hundreds of other students, many of whom I have never met, hoping to see me make a mistake. It comes with success.

“In other words, we’ve lived through different musical careers but we’ve each gone through our own challenges and arrived at this point. Now we have to work together; You, Octavia, and I will be facing the same challenges in the future even if what we’ve been through its fundamentally different. Which is rather wonderful as it means that we can draw from our separate experiences, from what we know, and smash all of that together into something. Hopefully it will be something good, but it might be something terrible.” Harpo hesitated for a few moments. “Did that make any sense? I feel like that made sense, but it might have been completely non-sense-making.”

Vinyl nodded. “Yeah, it made sense. A lot of sense actually.” She chuckled slightly. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I take offense at that! I am a very profound and troubled pony and I will be treated as such!” Harpo gave a snooty huff and turned his head.

The DJ rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

The two shared a smile, and silence fell back onto the room.

Vinyl was the first to speak. “Hey, Harpo? How am I supposed to make it up to Tavi?”

Harpo nearly facehoofed. “Are you still upset over that? Just go see her in the morning or something. Be serious, try not to be stubborn, don’t lose your temper, and explain why you feel that you need to apologize. And then maybe kiss her and become fillyfriends or something; it would save me the effort of ‘playing Cupid.’”

Vinyl laughed, the first real laugh she had had since Octavia left. “Harpo, I know that you’re looking forward to that. You wouldn’t shut up about the ‘plans’ that you had for setting up a date for me and Octy!”

“Well of course! Imagine you and Octavia as a couple! Octavia would have no idea what was happening most of the time and you wouldn’t care about what was happening! I mean, you two are complete opposites. It would be hilarious!”

The two laughed. Vinyl had to stifle a massive yawn as she did so.

Harpo glanced at the clock. “Is it that late already?” He jumped off the couch, wincing slightly as his legs unfolded. “I refuse to miss another day of sleep to something like work. Come on Vinyl, I’ll see you home.”

“No, I’m fine,” said Vinyl from behind another yawn. “I’ve stayed up longer that this before.”

“Oh, shut up. You have an apology to deliver, and a sleep-deprived you would say something stupid again. And then we’d be back at square one and I’d have to be serious! Do you know how much I hate being serious?” Harpo asked seriously.

Vinyl gave a sheepish grin. “How much?”

“I absolutely loathe it. Now let’s go, double-time!”

The mare chuckled slightly, bringing a hoof to her forehead in a kind of salute. “Aye aye, Sergeant.”

Harpo glanced at Vinyl. “Yes, ‘Sergeant,’” he said with a smile. “One last serious word of advice Vinyl; I hope that you’re not too tired to remember it.”

The DJ shook her head.

“Be firm,” continued the composer. “Do not, for any fraction of a second, believe that you are not good enough to question your musicians.” He turned back to the doorway. “You felt that there was something wrong with the way Octavia was playing. You should have stopped her and said something. Get your point across. Shout if you have to.

You think that Octavia and I are ‘geniuses.’ Well, from this point on you have to prove that we’re not.” Harpo smirked slightly. “Is that clear, Private?”

A soft snore was Vinyl’s response.

The composer turned, immediately noticing a curled-up ball of white fur. He scowled slightly. I try to look cool and play the part of the ‘experienced mentor’ and I don’t even have an audience! He walked over to a conveniently placed blanket. That was probably the most heart-felt speech I have given to date, and those last few lines! I should have won an award for those last few lines. He threw the blanket over Vinyl, taking a moment to smile at the sleeping form of his friend.
Harpo walked to the door, flicking off the lights and assuring that the entrance was locked. Honestly, the nerve of some ponies.

The door shut softly behind him.
 

***


Trans Script sat at a corner table in one of the most highly acclaimed restaurants in Canterlot. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, glittering from the hundreds of candles they held, waiters stepped quietly from table to table asking dignified questions, receiving dignified answers, and maintaining a dignified air as they relayed each order to a group of slightly flushed, yet highly dignified, cooks.

Trans tugged at her dress, trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

She felt decidedly out of place, sure that everypony in the restaurant had turned to stare at her when she had first walked in and claimed that she had a reservation. This, of course, was not true.

Some of the posh ponies were in the posh restroom, and were thus unable to stare at the light brown mare in her slightly wrinkled green dress.

The mare had simply stared at the menu for what seemed like hours, trying to decipher how exactly a squiggle over a vowel changed a word’s pronunciation.

In the end, she had asked the waiter for more bread.

Trans Script stared down at the empty bread bowl. Why did I show up so early? Ten minutes was way too much time. Or maybe the ten minutes have already passed? She hopefully looked up at a nearby clock. Exactly three minutes had passed since she stepped foot into the restaurant. Well, buck me.

The mare drummed a hoof against the table absent-mindedly. She leafed through the menu again, focusing on the images this time. Maybe if I pointed at one, the waiter could take the hint. Her head softly thumped against the table. I should have gone in to work.

Why am I even here? Just because somepony like him approached me, asking to meet at one of the fanciest restaurants in Equestria. Then again, it’s a nice way to make some quick cash. And Celestia knows that I can always go with a few extra bits. And if anyone has a few extra bits, it’s definitely—

“May I suggest the dandelion salad? It’s a rather nice dish, and maintains its taste, even when taken to go,” said a distinguished voice from above the mare’s head.

Trans Script looked up, expecting to see a waiter of some description. Instead, she found herself looking into the eyes of her employer. “Fancy Pants! Wha-What are you doing here?”

Fancy Pants raised an eyebrow. “Eating, Miss Script. Although Fleur and I,” Trans Script caught a glimpse of pink speaking to another table, “were just leaving before I caught a glimpse of you. Meeting somepony?” The unicorn kept a casual lilt to his voice as he spoke.

“Y-Yeah, but he’s not here yet,” said Trans Script nervously. “Sorry for not going in today. It’s kind of important.”

“No matter,” said Fancy Pants with a smile. “I assume that you got the Doctor to cover for you?”

“Yes, sir.” The mare silently breathed a sigh of relief.

“Well, I’m afraid that I have to take my leave. I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Script. Have a nice evening.” Fancy Pants gave a final smile and turned to the entrance.

He stopped by Fleur, joining in on her conversation with the ease befitting a pony of his status.

Trans Script glanced at the clock. Why is time suddenly moving? Stop, time, stop!

Fancy Pants and Fleur de Lis finished their conversation. They moved towards the exit.

The minute hand moved with a tick.

Keep going, keep going! thought Trans Script.

The couple was hailed by another well-off pony. They entered another conversation.

Damn it!

The minute hand moved with a tick.

Fleur maneuvered out of the conversation, excusing both herself and her husband. They were back on course.

They reached the doorway.

Fancy Pants raised his hoof.

The minute hand moved with a thunk.

The door opened, forcing Fancy Pants to take a step back. Through the doors walked a dark grey Earth Pony with purple aviator sunglasses. He walked with a certain self-entitlement, but hesitated the slightest bit when he saw Fancy Pants.

And then Hoity Toity stopped altogether. “Good evening Fancy Pants, Fleur de Lis. Did you have an enjoyable meal?”

Fancy Pants nodded, a smile painted onto his face. “Quite, the dandelion salad you recommended was as delightful as always, wasn’t it dear?”

Fleur de Lis made no effort to smile, but remained polite. “Indeed, it was wonderful. Are you here on business or pleasure, Mr. Toity?”

“Business is my pleasure, Miss de Lis,” said Hoity Toity with a guffaw.

The married couple put on their polite smiles.

“But I would hate to keep you,” continued the Earth Pony. “It was very nice seeing you again.”

Fancy Pants and Fleur de Lis exchanged their final pleasantries and walked out of the restaurant. Hoity Toity continued on to his seat at a brusque pace.

He sat across from Trans Script exactly ten minutes after the mare had arrived.

“Good evening, Miss Script,” he said. “Shall we get to business?”

Trans Script nodded, feeling undignified when compared to the immaculate Earth Pony.

“Now,” continued Hoity Toity, “my proposition is a rather simple one. I simply want to kn—“

“Good evening, may I take your order?” A mint-green unicorn raised a quill and a notepad in her magic, experiencing a slight sense of déjà vu.

Trans Script looked at Hoity Toity.

Hoity Toity looked at the waitress.

The waitress tried to give a confident smile.

Hoity Toity sighed. “Nothing for me,” he said with a note of impatience. “A dandelion salad for my associate. That will be all.” He turned back to Trans Script.

The waitress trotted back to the kitchens. Why do they keep sending me to serve this guy? I’m gonna file a complaint.

“As I was saying,” said Hoity Toity, “I simply want to know what the three musicians are working on. I want… information on them. Their interior dynamics, how well they play, their disputes, their weaknesses, where they will play, when they will play, and anything else that you can think of. A relatively simple task, don’t you think?”

Trans Script didn’t react, preoccupied with the implications of what Hoity Toity wanted.

The Earth Pony nodded his head slowly. “‘Yes,’ is what I want to hear, my dear. Unless you feel that you are not up to the task? In which case, I would simply have to go elsewhere and you would never hear from me again. Nor will you receive the compensation I am willing to offer.”

“No!” said Trans Script quickly. “I want to help.”

Hoity Toity smiled. “Thank you darling. I’m sure that your help will be of the greatest assistance.” He stood up, dropping a large amount of bits onto the table. “Use this to pay for your meal. Keep anything that’s left over for yourself. I will pay you in accordance with the information that you provide.” He tilted his head slightly. “Is that fine?”

Trans Script nodded.

“Wonderful! I’m sure that this will be a mutually beneficial partnership.” Hoity Toity took Trans Script’s hoof in his own. “Thank you for accepting my proposition.” And with that, the Earth Pony took his leave, leaving a slightly distraught Trans Script behind.

The salad was served.

Trans Script ate, not actually tasting her meal as she did so. She finished rather quickly and paid her check. She glanced down, counting the exuberant amount of bits she still had. The mare left the restaurant in a daze.

A few minutes later, Lyra Heartstrings was counting her tip. It was easily one of the largest she had ever received. Okay, maybe I won’t complain.

She collected the plates, wiping down the table for good measure. But as soon as I get the chance, I am getting the buck out of this job.
> The Morning
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Octavia Philharmonica stared at the ceiling. Admittedly, there was nothing particularly interesting about this ceiling, but Octavia could not think of anything better to do at the moment. She could, of course, have gotten out of bed, but that action was not very appealing at the moment. And it did not help that her bed had gained the ability to magnetically bind ponies named Octavia Philharmonica to itself.

Not that Octavia was complaining; it was a rather comfortable bed.

But the musician was currently employed. Which meant that she would be able to pay bills and  food, but also meant that she would, at some point, have to leave her bed.

Octavia silently cursed every job throughout Equestria as she forced herself to her hooves. Mornings. I don’t think I like mornings. I never had a problem with them as a student, but I am now quite sure that Discord himself invented mornings. Yes, Parasprites and mornings: Discord’s agents of Chaos.

The grey mare trudged slowly to the kitchen, feeling especially sluggish. Or it may be the idiotic amount of sugar I consumed last night, she thought, filling a glass with water. It’s worse than a hangover. Octavia returned to her bedroom, sitting heavily on her bed. She glanced at her nightstand, a small paper bag catching her attention.

The cellist smiled softly. Maybe mornings aren’t all that bad. The smile wavered slightly. Vinyl. Oh dear, what am I supposed to do about Vinyl? I should apologize. But what if she’s still annoyed and this whole mess doesn’t clear over?

Stubborn mare. Octavia wasn’t sure whether she was referring to herself or Vinyl.

The cellist sighed, glancing at a nearby clock and downing the rest of her water. Well, no need to brood on that. I have just enough time to shower and eat before heading out. I’ll deal with Vinyl when I see her.

You’re procrastinating, said a slightly teasing part of Octavia’s mind.

Shut up! snapped the rest of Octavia.

She walked towards the restroom. I am not procrastinating! There’s simply no other way to speak to Vinyl until I get to work. What am I supposed to do, go see her at her home? I don’t even know where she lives! Besides, nopony in their right mind would visit somepony else this early in the morning.

There was a knock at the door. Admittedly, it was a very quiet knock.

Octavia straightened slightly, staring towards the sound.

There was another knock at the door. Slightly louder.

It wouldn’t be… Octavia’s thought trailed off.

The knock returned, more insistent this time.

The grey mare shook her head. Somepony somewhere is getting a sick pleasure out of my dilemmas.


***


Vinyl stood at the door of Octavia’s home. She had been standing there for about five minutes, trying to psyche herself into actually knocking. Her hoof twitched an inch closer to the door, but she pulled it back as though the door were a snake.

I wish the door were a snake, thought Vinyl. An angry Octy is probably a lot worse than a snake.
She tried again, and this time her hoof lightly rapped against the wooden door. Vinyl recoiled, shielding her face with her hooves, half expecting an angry cellist to rocket through the door.

A few moments passed. Maybe she didn’t hear me. I could just leave and she wouldn’t even know I was here! The DJ’s hoof moved to the door, knocking three times. Vinyl stared down at the treacherous appendage. I never liked you.

A few more moments passed. Where the hell is she? I come here to apologize and she doesn’t even answer the door.

Vinyl knocked on the door a third time, far more insistently this time. “Come on, Tavi,” murmured the DJ. “Don’t make this any more awkward for me.”

She shifted her weight from hoof to hoof, a slightly complicated task as she had four of them. Vinyl considered knocking again.

The door opened and a disheveled Octavia stepped out. Her mane was not combed and stuck out in places, her bowtie was not on, and there were still some sleep lines on her face. There was some kind of blue ball, one with a slightly lighter swirl of blue going through it, stuck in Octavia’s mane. The cellist rubbed her eyes against the sudden sunlight.

This, thought Vinyl, may be the cutest thing ever.

The two mares stared at each other. Then they blinked a few times. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Vinyl lifted a hoof.

“Yo,” said the DJ. She winced inwardly. That was stupid.

Octavia nodded slightly. “Good morning Vinyl.”

“Yeah, um… morning.” Vinyl’s voice trailed off. “I—um—wanted to apologize for… you know.” Smooth, Vinyl. Good job. “I mean,” continued the DJ, “it’s cool if you don’t want to hear it or anything. Well, actually, that wouldn’t be very cool. I’d actually be really sad to hear that, but what I meant was that it would still be cool… you know?”

Octavia had a rather confused expression at the moment.

Vinyl stomped a hoof, annoyed at her ineloquence. “I swear, I had this all rehearsed! It was going to sound awesome and completely get my point across. And then you walk out looking like you just woke up, which is really bucking cute, and all of that just flew out of my head!”

“So,” said the cellist, “you came here to apologize?”

Vinyl nodded glumly.

“How did you even find where I live?”

“Doc told me. This morning. He’s already at work.”

Octavia blinked, remembering the talk she had had with the brown stallion. She frowned slightly. “How did he know where I live?”

Vinyl shrugged. “It’s the Doctor. He just kind of knows stuff.”

Octavia nodded.

A few seconds passed in an awkward silence.

“So, Octy,” ventured Vinyl, “are you still pissed at me?”

The cellist shook her head. “Vinyl, I was never ‘pissed’ at you. Slightly annoyed, a bit bothered, but not angry.”

“So,” the DJ paused. “So, can I apologize?”

Octavia was on the verge of rolling her eyes. “You did a rather large amount of apologizing yesterday.” 

“Yeah, but you didn’t accept any of them.”

A spark of annoyance leapt with the cellist. “Because there really wasn’t any need for an apology.”

Vinyl looked up, giving Octavia the biggest puppy-dog eyes she could muster. Admittedly, the over-all effect was diminished by the giant reflective shades Vinyl wore. “Please Octy; just say ‘It’s okay.’ Pretty please?”

Octavia closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Does it matter that much to you?”

“Yes,” replied Vinyl without hesitation.

“Fine then,” said Octavia, opening her eyes. “It’s okay, Vinyl. I forgive you.”

The DJ breathed a sigh of relief. “That feels a lot better.” She took the moment to hug Octavia. “See, doesn’t accepting an apology make everything better?”

The cellist tried to push Vinyl away. “I still don’t see why you stubbornly insist on apologizing.”

The DJ kept Octavia firmly in her embrace. “Long story. Tell you later. Why do you care so much about not accepting apologies?”

Octavia hesitated for a few moments. “Also a long story.”

Vinyl smiled in an understanding matter. “That’s cool. It’s all water under the bridge now anyway.”
“Indeed.”

A beat of silence.

“Vinyl?” asked Octavia.

“Yes, Tavi?”

“Will you be letting go of me anytime soon?”

“No chance, Pillow.”

Octavia blinked. “What did you call me?”

Vinyl’s response was drowned out by a growl from her stomach. The DJ blushed slightly.

The cellist blinked again. “Vinyl, how long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“I ate yesterday.” Vinyl paused. “Chocolate bars count, right?”

Octavia rolled her eyes and ground a hoof into Vinyl’s side. The DJ jumped and the cellist was able to slip out of her grasp.

“I’m surprised you haven’t collapsed.” The grey mare walked back into her home. “Come in, Vinyl; I’ll treat you to breakfast.”

Vinyl waved her hooves dismissively. “No, that’s fine. I’ll eat later.” Her stomach growled again. “I’m not even hungry,” she said through a sheepish grin.

Octavia arched an eyebrow. “You’re lying. Just follow me; consider it an apology for being so pig-headed yesterday.”

Vinyl smiled. “Well, if you insist.” She glanced at the candy stuck in Octavia’s mane. “But only because you look so sweet today.”

The cellist shook her head, walking back into her home. Vinyl followed, busily trying to think of candy puns.

‘Give me a break’? No, that’s a little obscure. ‘I could Hershey’s kiss you’? No, that’s too obvious. And those were both chocolate puns, that’s a hard candy stuck in her mane… Is chocolate a candy? It’s not a hard candy, duh; but I’ve always thought of chocolate as chocolate and candy as candy. But they put chocolate in the candy aisle… except when they don’t. Vinyl’s train of thought had been completely derailed, spiraling into a sweets related existential crisis. 
Octavia trotted into the kitchen, looking back towards the DJ. Vinyl had a pensive look about her that betrayed her profound thoughts.

“Vinyl, do you have any preferences for breakfast?” called the cellist.

Vinyl snapped out of her stupor. She flopped onto a nearby couch. “Do you have any of those chocolate cereals? A couple of those are giving away toys.”

Octavia peeked through the kitchen doorway. “You’re not serious.”

“I know! They’re just giving away toys! I mean, the toys are kind of lame but it’s okay because they’re free, right?”

The cellist disappeared into the kitchen, mumbling to herself. “Of course you’re serious, you’re completely serious. My boss is a five year old.” She rummaged through the refrigerator. “How about oatmeal?” she called into the living room.

“Oatmeal? Are you crazy? Nopony actually eats oatmeal. Too healthy.”

“I eat oatmeal,” murmured Octavia.

“What? I couldn’t hear you!”

“Nothing!” Octavia rummaged a bit more. “How about pancakes? Do you have a problem with pancakes?”

“No ma’am.” Vinyl put a hoof up to her forehead, before remembering that Octavia was in an entirely different room. “I don’t have a problem with pancakes.”
 

*** 


“Taaaaaaaavi.” Vinyl placed herself inches away from the cellist’s face. “Are the pancakes ready?”

“No, Vinyl,” said Octavia in a deceivingly calm tone. “It’s been five minutes. I’ve only just finished the batter.”

“Can we eat that?”

“No.”

Vinyl slumped. “Can we just leave? We’ll eat on the way to work.”

My boss, everypony, thought Octavia sarcastically. She placed a pan on the stove, allowing it to heat up slightly.

The DJ poked the grey mare’s cheek. “Tavi, this is taking foreeeeeever!”

Deep breaths, Octavia, she thought to herself. This is an apology. I can’t snap at the pony I’m trying to apologize to.

Vinyl poked Octavia again. “Can I at least have some candy?”

The cellist arched an eyebrow as she poured the batter. “What candy?”

The DJ lifted up a portion of Octavia’s mane. “Well, it looks like a really sweet bit of hard candy.” She squinted at the sphere embedded in black.. “Hey cool! It looks kind of like my mane!”

Octavia snatched her hair out of Vinyl’s hoof, staring at the offending piece of candy. When did that? Octavia nearly facehoofed. I fell asleep without finishing it.

“Vinyl,” said the grey mare as she walked out of the kitchen. “I hate to do this, but I need you to watch the pancakes for a while. Make sure they don’t burn; I need to shower.”

Octavia walked out of the room.

Vinyl nodded. “Right, watch the pancakes. I can do that. I mean, even a filly could do something like th—Dear Celestia, she’s taking a shower. Right now. And I’m just sitting in the kitchen.” The DJ poked her head through the doorway, catching a glimpse of Octavia’s tail enter a room.

The door closed firmly behind the cellist.

Vinyl cursed under her breath. “She’s showering and I’m all the way over here. Damn it Vinyl, you need to step your game up… I can’t believe I just said that.” She turned back to the task at hoof. Pancakes. Shouldn’t be too hard.

 


***


 

Octavia washed out the last bit of candy. “Honestly, that was just careless of me,” she mumbled to herself. “And I looked like an idiot. What a wonderful way to begin the day.”

There was a shout coming from the direction of the kitchen. Something heavy clanged to the floor. Octavia hesitated slightly, and then bolted through the door. “Vinyl! Are you okay?”

The DJ pointed an accusing hoof towards the floor. “It jumped at me! That thing’s crazy!”

The cellist followed the hoof. “Vinyl… That’s a pan.”

“An evil pan! First it wouldn’t let go of my pancake and then it threw my pancake up into the air! So I tried to make some more pancakes, but every time I tried to flip them, this evil thing sent them up there!” Vinyl pointed sharply towards the ceiling.

Octavia glanced up, dreading the sight of a pancake-covered ceiling. “And where exactly did the pancakes go?”

“Well,” said Vinyl in an exasperated manner, “it’s clearly”—she looked upwards—“not stuck to the roof. Huh. Where did they go?”

Octavia shook her head. She lost a pancake. How do you even lose a pancake? This is the pony I apologized to.

“So no more pancakes?” asked Vinyl. “Can we head out now?”

Octavia found it strange that Vinyl Scratch, of all ponies, couldn’t seem to wait to get to work. “There’s still some batter left.”

Vinyl shifted her weight, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Are you sure you don’t wanna go?”

“Is there a reason why you want to leave now?”

The DJ paused. “Well, I didn’t come here just to apologize. I mean, that was a big part of it but it’s not the only reason.”

Octavia didn’t respond.

“I’m actually a cyborg form the future that’s supposed to protect you.” Vinyl maintained a serious expression as she spoke.

“… Pardon?”

“I’m just messing with you,” said the DJ with a slight laugh. “Actually, Fancy Pants sent me over here to get you.”

Octavia felt a chill come over her. “Fancy Pants wants to see us?”

“Yup.”

“Vinyl… it’s been about forty five minutes since you first came here.”

“Yup.”

“How long have we kept Fancy Pants waiting?”

“It’s been abou—“

Octavia held up a hoof, cutting off Vinyl. “Think carefully. Be certain, absolutely certain, of how much time has passed and how long you kept Fancy Pants, our boss Fancy Pants, waiting.”

Vinyl nodded. Scary Octy. Engage survival mode. “Not very long.”

Octavia’s eye twitched slightly.

The DJ’s mind was screaming at her. Wrong answer! Change answer, for the love of Celestia, CHANGE YOUR ANSWER! Vinyl began speaking as quickly as she could.“It’s been about an hour, but Fancy Pants is really cool and I’ve kept him waiting for way longer than an hour before. Besides, Harpo and the Doctor are there and they can keep Fancy Pants entertained and—Tavi, why are you picking up the pan?”

Octavia stared at the metal object in her hooves.

Vinyl briefly considered bolting outside. “Tavi… we’re friends, remember? You like me. You don’t want to cause me pain. Pain hurts.”

The cellist reluctantly put the pan onto the stove. “Yes Vinyl, we are friends. Let’s go.”

Vinyl breathed a sigh of relief and turned towards the door.

Octavia lashed out with her hoof, connecting with the back of Vinyl’s head.

“Next time that our boss asks us into work,” said Octavia, “tell me that our boss is asking us into work.”

The DJ rubbed at the back of her head and nodded. “I’m your boss too,” she mumbled.

“Yes, but we’re also friends, aren’t we?” Octavia smiled sweetly.

Vinyl tried to fight back a growing grin. “Do you always beat your friends?”

“Vinyl, I only beat my friends.”

A few blocks away, in a squat and imposing building, Harpo Parish Nadermane sneezed.
 

***


 

“Vinyl, Octavia, I’m so glad that you two could join us.” Fancy Pants grinned in his normal affable manner.

Octavia looked down slightly. “We’re sorry we kept you waiting.”

“He’s gonna be fine with it,” whispered Vinyl from beside the grey mare. Octavia didn’t respond.

“And I am fine with it,” asserted Fancy Pants. “Harpo and the Doctor have kept me company. They are remarkably informed about local gossip.”

The stallions grinned from a nearby couch. The Doctor was wearing a custodian’s uniform with two names stitched onto it: ‘Doctor’ and ‘Time Turner.’

Fancy Pants leaned slightly towards the mare. “So, have you finished your little spat?” he asked with an amused glint in his eyes.
                
Octavia nodded.

“Yes, Fancy Pants,” said Vinyl in a monotonous voice.

The rich pony clapped his hooves. “Wonderful! That certainly makes my job much easier; I was considering hoof-cuffing you two together until you made up. But that doesn’t seem necessary anymore.” Fancy Pants grinned. Nopony was quite sure whether he was joking or not.

The ponies relapsed into a smiling silence.

“Now,” continued Fancy Pants, “in all seriousness, I wanted to check your progress. Is there any problem? Well, besides the fact that you couldn’t work together.”

Octavia began to wonder whether there was some actual malice behind Fancy Pants’s teasing. “I can’t think of anything.”

Fancy Pants thought for a moment. “Well, maybe not a problem. Is there anything you need would be the better question.”

Vinyl put a hoof to her chin. “Can we get the piano in here? And some kind of recorder?”

Fancy Pants nodded. “Doctor, can I ask for your assistance?”

Time Turner sprang to his hooves. “Of course you can ask! Better yet, you can have it.” The two left the room.

Octavia rounded on Harpo. “You told Fancy Pants about yesterday?”

The composer held up a defensive hoof. “We told Fancy Pants about yesterday. The Doctor and I. And it was a wonderful little chat!”

The cellist was not amused. “You had ‘a wonderful little chat’ about personal matters! My personal matters! That you discussed with our boss!”

“Honestly Octavia, you need to calm down,” said Harpo. “Fancy Pants is not like any other boss. He’s far more forgiving, especially when compared to the other ponies who own record labels. Can you imagine working for somepony like Hoity Toity or Prince Blueblood?” Harpo shivered. “Terrible.”

Vinyl took a seat by Harpo. “Yeah Tavi, relax a little. Fancy Pants is a really cool pony.”

“He’s rather like your parents,” added Harpo.

The DJ perked up slightly at that. “Tavi’s parents?”

Harpo nodded. “Yes, Marcato and Legato Philharmonica. They’re about as nice as Fancy Pants and Fleur de Lis and just as easy-going. In fact, they’re probably even more ‘go with the flow’ than Fancy Pants and Fleur.”

Vinyl whistled softly. “That’s a lot of flow to be goin’ with.” She turned to Octavia. “And Miss Stick-In-Her-Flank Worrywart is their daughter?”

The cellist threw a frown at Vinyl.

“Yes,” said Harpo. “The most liberal parents can have the most conservative children.”

The DJ nodded slightly. “I can see that.”

“Are we finished talking about my family?” asked Octavia with a raised eyebrow.

“Indeed, we’re moving on to your personal past now.” Harpo smirked and leaned towards the DJ. “Vinyl, have I ever told you one of Octavia’s drunk stories?”

Vinyl’s smirk grew to match Harpo’s. “No, I don’t think you have. Wanna share with the rest of the class?”

“Well, this one happened around two years ago at one of Berry Punch’s parties.”

Octavia punched Harpo’s foreleg. “That’s quite enough out of you.”

“But it’s a very good story!” whined Harpo.

“One that I don’t want repeated.”

Vinyl huffed. “So I’m the only one who can’t know? That’s no fun!”

Harpo winked at the DJ and mouthed the words “I’ll tell you later.” Octavia hit him again.

“Ow!” cried Harpo. “Always with the violence! I’m going to report you to the Guard one of these days.”

“Not with your record,” smirked Octavia.

“Woah!” said Vinyl. “Harpo’s got a record? Dude, hoofbump.” The DJ reached a hoof out to Harpo.

“To be honest,” said the composer with a sheepish grin. “I don’t remember doing most of the things I did.”

“Doesn’t matter. Hoofbump.” Vinyl shook her outstretched hoof. Harpo bumped it.

The Doctor poked his head through the doorway. “Right, so the recorder isn’t a problem; that’ll fit right through the door. But the grand piano doesn’t work in the same way. Help would be appreciated.”

Octavia walked out and Vinyl got to her hooves. Harpo caught the DJ’s eyes and gestured for her to stay.

“So,” whispered Harpo. “Alone in Octavia’s house, were we?”

Vinyl nodded.

“Please tell me that you didn’t let the opportunity pass.”

“… Define ‘pass.’”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Harpo didn’t look too sad at this news. “Perfect.”

“Perfect?”

“Yes,” said Harpo with a malicious grin. “I have such a malicious mind for relationships, and I would hate to be robbed of this opportunity. Just wait until this gig is over.”

“Harpo,” said Vinyl uncertainly. “I don’t know if this is a good idea anymore.”

The composer looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Look, Tavi’s great and everything, but I don’t know if she’s, you now, for me. I wish she was, but I’m not really sure.”

Harpo nodded slightly. “I see… Do you still care for her?”

“Well yeah, but—“

“Do you still want to be with her?”

“Of course, but—“

“Then I don’t see a problem!” Harpo grinned. “Besides, you’ve only known Octavia for a few days. Give it a few more, and you’ll probably be head over hooves with her.” Or completely through with your crush, he added mentally.

“Oi, you two!” came the Doctor’s voice. “You have eight working hooves that are currently not working!”

Harpo winked at Vinyl as they got to their hooves. “Trust me on this.”

Vinyl smiled weakly. “We’ll see, Harpo.”
> The Second Practice
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few minutes and a few stubbed hooves later, a grand piano sat within the practice room. Vinyl was seated on the piano’s bench, absent-mindedly poking at the keys. The other ponies had re-taken their seats on the couch.

“Is that everything you need?” asked Fancy Pants politely.

“Yup,” said Vinyl, nodding. “That’s pretty much everything. I think we’ll be good.”

A mare poked her head into the doorway. “Excuse me, sir,” she said to Fancy Pants. “You asked me to come find you at three o’clock.” She spoke in a very timid voice.

Fancy Pants smiled warmly. He got to his hooves, not even bothering to check the clock. “Thank you Miss Script.”

The receptionist nodded and disappeared back to the lobby.

“Well,” continued Fancy Pants, “I’m afraid that some other business requires my attention. I will come check on you as soon as I am able to. Harpo, Doctor, do try to keep those two,” he gestured at Vinyl and Octavia, “from killing each other.”

The Doctor saluted.

Harpo grimaced. “No promises.”

Fancy Pants chuckled slightly as he walked out of the room.

Vinyl clapped her hoofs together. “Okay, straight to work. Octy, get your bass, Harpo, get the sheet music, Doctor—“ The Doctor grinned expectantly—“Doctor, do whatever you have to do today.”

The stallion nodded, his head swiveling from side to side as he looked for something to do.

“This time,” continued the DJ, “we’ll be recording what we play. And I’ll be joining you on this baby.” She affectionately patted the piano in front of her.

Octavia raised an eyebrow as she unzipped her double bass’ case. “You are a pianist?”

“Nope,” replied Vinyl. “But I know what key plays what note. We should really try to find a good pianist one of these days.”

The musicians reconvened. Harpo set up a music stand, placing the sheets of music at Octavia’s eye level. Vinyl played a series of notes, trying to work a bit of the rust out of her hooves. It didn’t help that a lack of sleep and food had brought a haze onto everything the DJ did.

Stupid keys, stop moving, Vinyl thought to herself. “Okay, Tavi. Play. All the way through.”

Octavia frowned slightly. “Are you sure?”

The DJ nodded. “All the way through. Nopony will stop you, and I’ve done most of the revisions I want.” Vinyl had to stifle a yawn. “ Doc, you mind setting up the recorder?” The Doctor complied, setting a black box midway between Vinyl and Octavia.

Vinyl rolled her hoof. “Play, Octy.”

The grey mare shrugged and shuffled through the sheet music before her. She got onto her hind legs, finding the awkward balance against her bass. Octavia stared at the notes, her head slightly bobbing to the beat of the song. She drew her bow across the strings. Three notes, a slight pause and the same three notes again. Now two short notes in between the original group of three. Repeat. Repeat again.

Then the music changed. Octavia coaxed the long notes from her bass, adding vibrato when appropriate. The sheet music told her everything she needed to know.

Stop the bow, rest for a few beats. Back to the triplets.

Vinyl watched as Octavia played. The DJ’s head drooped slightly; she had to force herself to stay awake.

The cellist finished the piece with a flourish, glancing up at Vinyl for a response.

A slight frown creased Vinyl Scratch’s face. “Right.” She turned back to the piano, hiding a yawn as she did so. “We’re gonna play that again. I’ll be on the piano this time.”

“Harpo, count us off,” said the DJ.

The composer did so, and Vinyl and Octavia played.

A series of notes came from the piano, adding to the tension of Octavia’s bass line. The song took on a slightly confused air.

And Vinyl began to sing.

Harpo and the Doctor sat up straighter. Octavia nearly fumbled a note.

Vinyl’s voice wasn’t necessarily a nice one. It was rough and scratchy; it was clear that she had never had any formal lessons. But it fit perfectly.

Vinyl’s voice was quiet but insistent, almost threatening. She promised fury, her voice made good on that promise. Vinyl was searching for something, trying to find the person that would make her life better, but she was uncertain. She had the bravado, the drive to achieve what she wanted, but she was confused.

Octavia played the notes unconsciously, too focused on Vinyl’s voice and the music itself to care about the sheets in front of her.

The song came to a close again. The cellist did not flourish this time. This was not the song for flourishing.

There were a few moments of silence.

“Vinyl,” said Octavia hesitantly. “I didn’t know you could sing.”

The DJ gave a tired grin. “I can’t. I can barely even hold a note. Now listen for a bit.” Vinyl surrounded the recorder in her magic, rewinding the tape and replaying their latest session.

Octavia’s eyebrows knit together slightly. The first few seconds, the part of the song before Vinyl sang, sounded… blocky. The grey mare couldn’t really put it into words. It was as if the bass and the piano couldn’t decide what would take the lead. The bass was exact, playing on the down beats exactly as it should have. The piano was nearly always slightly off; a chord would sound a split second before or after a beat.

And then the recorded Vinyl began to sing.

It took a bit of time, but the bass began to fall back. It would miss the beat by the slightest mark; Octavia would hurry to fit a note into the music. By all logical reasoning, the music should have become disorganized. But it didn’t. The blockiness and stiffness of the music had cleared up. Any dissonance between the instruments had become part of the music.

Vinyl rewound the tape further. “Now, let’s hear just the bass line.”

And there was the first take. Octavia played alone. As expected, every note was perfect. But it was lacking.

Octavia sighed. “Okay Vinyl, it’s rather clear now.”

“What is?” asked the DJ.

“I’m mechanical. I’m used to simply following the music, a practice which does not function in this kind of music.” Octavia glanced at the Doctor. “It’s been mentioned before.”

Vinyl waved her hooves. “No, actually, you’re golden. Okay, not golden, but maybe silver. Your classical style isn’t too bad when you’re playing alone. It doesn’t sound bad! But it’s a different story when you’ve gotta play with other ponies, that’s when you really have to loosen up.”

Octavia nodded.

“Problem is,” continued Vinyl, “I don’t know if you’ll be able to.” She yawned, but tried to put a cocky edge into her voice. “I mean, this time you were caught off guard by my singing. And I can’t blame you; I was really good. But we need to make sure that that wasn’t a fluke.”

The cellist arched an eyebrow. “And how do you propose we do that?”

Vinyl grinned and looked at Harpo. The stallion grinned in return. “Tavi,” said Vinyl, “you’re going to make mistakes. A lot of mistakes.”
 

***


Five notes. There were exactly five notes on the sheet music before Octavia Philharmonica. There were no sharps or flats, no slurs or changes in tempo. Only a repeating five-note figure. And Octavia, star pupil of the Canterlot Conservatory, a rising star in the classical community, was supposed to make a mistake.

She threw a pained look at Harpo and Vinyl. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“If there is one thing I have learned in my years of knowing you,” replied Harpo, “it’s that you can mess up. I believe in you, Octavia.”

Octavia gave a wry smile. “Thanks for the bout of confidence.” She took a deep breath, placing her bow on the bass’s strings. Another glance at the sheet music. Dear Celestia, I won’t even have to switch strings. I am about to commit the greatest atrocity known to music.

The cellist began the down stroke.  Or she attempted to. The bow twitched lightly in Octavia’s hooves, but she couldn’t bring herself to play. Octavia felt a trickle of sweat crawl down her forehead.

How do you even make a mistake? thought Octavia. By definition, a mistake is unintentional. I can’t make a mistake if I try to make a mistake.

Octavia let out a breath, lowering her bow. “This is absurd.”

Vinyl nodded. “Exactly. Now mess up.”

“I can’t!” protested Octavia.

The DJ glanced at Harpo. “She’s kidding, right? She can’t not be perfect?”

Harpo had a slightly sad look in his eyes. “I’m afraid so. Octavia is allergic to mistakes. It’s a tragedy, really.”

“Shut up, Harpo,” snapped Octavia. “I’m not perfect by any means, I just can’t bring myself to play badly when I can play well.”

“Honestly Octavia, it’s just a sharp instead of a natural, or a slight difference in the way you play a half note. It’s not a big deal!”

“It is to me, Harpo! There is a certain standard that’s expected of me.”

“Maybe at the Conservatory, but this is a jazz club. It’s a completely different audience that will be partly distracted by their food!”

Vinyl’s head swiveled back and forth, watching the argument with half-interest. This is the first time that I’ve had to deal with a musician who was too good. What the hell am I supposed to do here? The DJ’s head began to throb. A headache. Buckin’ beautiful.

“Harpo, there is a standard I have to maintain no matter where I am! I am more than willing to change the way I play, but I will not purposefully make an idiotic mistake!”

Vinyl clapped her hooves together, one sharp clap that carried throughout the room. The argument ended suddenly. Both musicians and the Doctor, who had been watching the argument with growing interest, turned to face the DJ.

“I…” began Vinyl dramatically. “I have a headache. I don’t like headaches. So now I have to be completely serious, which means being kind of mean, and take control of the situation. Thanks.” She pointed a hoof at Octavia. “Tavi, what song are we playing?”

The cellist blinked at the sudden accusation.

“C’mon Tavi, we don’t have all day!”

Octavia frowned slightly. “Well, we’re playing…”

The DJ leaned forward. “What’s the title, Octy?”

Octavia was drawing a blank. “I… I’m not sure.”

Vinyl nodded. “Alright, well I’ll tell you. We’re playing an arrangement of ‘On the Bound’ by Fiona Apple. She’s a distant relative of the family that provides the club we’ll be playing at with cider. But that’s not why we’re playing the song. Tavi, out of the millions of songs in Equestria, why did I choose ‘On the Bound’?”

Octavia paused. She gulped slightly. “I don’t know.” I had never thought about it.

The DJ nodded again. “It’s not a jazz piece and it’s not very upbeat. But it’s a great song. We’re playing it because it’s such a good song that everypony at the club would enjoy it. It works as background music for the ponies who just want to eat and the ponies who want to listen to music get to listen to good music. Follow?”

Octavia nodded her understanding.

Vinyl took a deep breath, fighting back a growing haze. “So now you’re wondering why the hell I’m saying all of this. I need you to pay attention to the song, Octy. Not just the notes, but the song itself. The reasons why we’re playing it, the reasons why the song was written, what the song’s trying to say; all of that has to go into what we play. It’s hard, it’s kinda confusing, but that’s how music works when just playing the notes isn’t enough… So that’s the end of my lecture.”

The other ponies were staring at Vinyl with something akin to shock. Well, everypony besides the Doctor. He was smiling lightly, rather enjoying that Vinyl had managed to turn the others’ perceptions.

The DJ arched an eyebrow. “What?”

Harpo waved his hooves. “Nothing! That was simply an… enlightening lecture. Wasn’t it, Octavia?”

“Indeed.” Octavia paused for some moments. “I have to look over the music again.”

“Hey, Octy,” said Vinyl. “We’re not fighting again, are we?” Vinyl’s vision blurred slightly. Her headache intensified.

The cellist shook her head. “As long as you don’t try to apologize.”

The DJ tried for a smile. Am I going to pass out? It feels like I’m going to pass. “Alright, we’re cool. Good.”

“Vinyl, are you okay?” asked Octavia in a worried tone.

The DJ waved a hoof. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” She got to her hooves, taking a seat in an empty chair. “I just need a bit of time.”

The Doctor got to his hooves. “Vinyl, take off your glasses,” he said seriously.

Vinyl looked up at the stallion. “Doc, I’m fine. I just have to…”

The Doctor took Vinyl’s hoof in his own, measuring her pulse. He felt her forehead. “No, you’re most certainly not fine.” The stallion reached into his mane, pulling out a small metal cylinder. He pointed it at Vinyl. The end lit up and the instrument gave off a slight whirring sound. The Doctor held up the metal object and flicked it, murmuring to himself. “Vinyl, take off your glasses,” he repeated.

Harpo and Octavia watched with worried expressions.

Vinyl’s headache intensified further and everything became slightly blurred. She reached up and pulled off her shades. The DJ’s eyes stayed closed. “My head really hurts.”

The Doctor nodded with a slight smile, folding Vinyl’s glasses and placing them on a nearby table. “It would. Harpo, can you toss me a pillow?”

The composer hesitated for a few moments, and then tossed a cushion at the other stallion. The Doctor caught it neatly, and placed it behind Vinyl’s head. “Rest for a bit, Vinyl.”

The Doctor’s voice was little more than a buzzing to the DJ. “I’ll just… Just give me a moment.”

“Take your time Vinyl,” replied the stallion.

“I’m sorry, I just have to…” The DJ slumped against the pillow.

The Doctor turned to the pair of rather stunned musicians.

“Doctor,” began Octavia hesitantly, “is there something wrong with Vinyl?”

The brown stallion shook his head slightly. “Not wrong. It’s not a life-threatening illness, if that’s what you’re asking, but she is quick to exhaust; which is a rather large problem, considering her habit of running herself ragged for no apparent reason.” A soft snore came from the sleeping DJ. The Doctor continued. “She has hardly eaten or slept in the past three days. All we have to do is let her rest. She’ll be up in a few hours.”

Harpo frowned. “She slept last night. I remember putting a blanket over her and turning off the lights.”

“Indeed,” said the Doctor. “But she didn’t sleep for long. I came in at about five in the morning and she was already hard at work revising the sheet music.”

The three ponies glanced at Vinyl Scratch. She was out cold.

“If anything,” said the Doctor, “I’d recommend that some snacks be prepared for when she wakes up. She’ll have a rather ravenous appetite.” He grinned lightly. “Well, more so than she usually does.”

Harpo gave a half-smile, relieved that the atmosphere had lightened slightly. “So, you really are a doctor, then? I was beginning to wonder.”

The other stallion arched an eyebrow. “I am not a doctor, Harpo. I am the Doctor. With a capital D. There’s a difference.”

There was a slight silence in the room, broken only by Vinyl’s snores.

Well, thought Octavia, she could have warned us about suddenly passing out. That was a frightening experience. “So,” she said out loud. “What do we do now?”

“Well,” said the Doctor, walking to the doorway. “I’ll be heading out to find some form of food. You two should stay here; there’s precious little time until your first gig and you should take every moment of it to practice.” His eyes locked onto the cellist’s for a moment. He grinned. “Oh, this is going to be fun!” The stallion exited the room.

“Harpo,” said Octavia after a few seconds pause. “Do we have a copy of the songs we’ll be playing?”

Harpo smiled. “Yes, I believe we do.”
 

***


Vinyl awoke groggily, her eyes only half open. Stupid headache, stupid exhaustion, stupid food. Why do we even need food? Plants don’t need food. I want to be a tree. She tried to bury deeper into her pillow. Music’s good, though.

There was a steady bass line coming from somewhere in the room. Vinyl hummed along to the song. Damn, Tavi’s gotten pretty good. Vinyl’s eyes snapped open. Oh Celestia, that’s Tavi playing! The DJ sat up fully, her eyes immediately snapping to the cellist.

Octavia was lost in what she played, bowtie askew, mane slightly disheveled. The cellist silently sang along, her eyes closed. The music was slightly off; the tempo constantly shifted and Octavia had actually added a few notes here and there. She wasn’t simply playing the sheet music.

Vinyl grinned. This is so much better. A wave of queasiness washed over the DJ. Shouldn’t have sat up so quickly, she thought to herself as she leaned back into her chair.

 Harpo caught Vinyl’s eye. He was sitting off the side, in the midst of a game of Solitaire. The composer arched an eyebrow, throwing a smirk in her direction. He mouthed the words, “Pretty, isn’t she?”

Vinyl chuckled slightly, her gaze returning to the cellist. She nodded.

Harpo returned to his game.

They sat in silence, listening to Octavia play.

The cellist allowed the last note to fade out. Vinyl clapped as loudly as she could in her debilitated state.

“Alright Octy! It sounds like you got it now.” The DJ smiled warmly. “How long was I out? A year? Two years?”

Octavia looked up at Vinyl. “Oh, Ha-Ha. Very fun—” The cellist gave a start as she saw the DJ’s eyes.

“What?” asked Vinyl in a confused tone.

“N—Nothing, Vinyl. I’m glad that you approve of the music now.”

Vinyl frowned a bit. “Oh, the eyes! Duh.” She pointed a hoof at her eyes. “Yeah, they’re a really cool red right now aren’t they? Kinda freaks ponies out when they first see them.”

Octavia shook her head. “I’m not ‘freaked out.’ It is a rather… beautiful color.”

Vinyl smiled awkwardly, blushing a bit under the cellist’s attentive gaze. “Well, don’t get used to them. They’re only this scarlet kind of red when I’m tired or angry. My eyes change color a lot.”

Harpo sniggered. “Tired or angry? Vinyl, ‘tired or angry’ basically defines your character.”

“Shut up Harpo,” replied Vinyl jokingly. “I’ll kick your flank if you ever call me angry again. I’m a bucking ball of love and tolerance!”

The composer grinned. “Yeah, and I’m a filly scout.”

Vinyl turned back to the cellist. “But yeah Tavi, you really got into the music. You were swinging, filly!”

Octavia smiled lightly. “I’ll assume that that’s a compliment.”

“Are you kidding? You have to do that again! Swing, Tavi, swing; it’s the only way you should be playing from now on!” Vinyl’s stomach growled. “Ummmm… Are there any chocolate bars around?”

“I’ll do one better,” said the Doctor as he swung into the room. He was followed by Trans Script, who was pulling a dinner cart.

Vinyl got to her hooves quickly, apparently too quickly as her vision began to cloud over. She shook her head, not allowing anything to keep her from her food. “Doc, have I ever told you that you’re awesome?”

“Yes you have Vinyl. But it’s always nice to hear it,” replied the Doctor with a grin. “Now, help yourself to whatever you’d like. We don’t want you to fall into exhaustion again.” He turned to the receptionist. “Thank you for your help, Miss Script. Care to join us?”

Trans Script shook her head furiously. “No, thank you. I—I’m fine. But, um, if there’s anything else you need…” She let the statement hang.

The Doctor nodded. “Of course. You’ll be the first to know.”

Octavia and Harpo walked over to the cart.

“Pardon me,” said Harpo, “but I don’t believe that we’ve met. I am Harpo Parish Nadermane, and this is my colleague Octavia Philharmonica.” Octavia gave a polite nod.

“I—I’m Trans Script.” The mare seemed slightly flustered. The other ponies put it down to a natural shyness. “I really should be going. But if there’s ever any problem, I’ll be at the front desk. I’ll—I’ll try to help.” She tried for a reassuring smile. It was more of a grimace.

Harpo nodded. “I can’t imagine that there will be many more problems now that these two,” he nudged Octavia and nodded at Vinyl, “have made up. And if you really have to be going, then it was nice meeting you, Miss Script.”

Trans Script backpedaled to the door. “Yeah, likewise. I’ll just… be going now. Goodbye.” The mare left, walking rather awkwardly.

Harpo arched an eyebrow. “Well, she was rather… nervous.”

Octavia gave him a sharp rap on the leg. “You were too direct. You terrified her!”

The composer put an indignant hoof on his chest. “I terrified her? I’m not intimidating in the least! Everypony loves me! I’m talented and handsome and modest!”

“The most modest pony in Equestria,” Octavia added snidely.

“Exactly! The most modest pony in Equestria! I’m glad that you finally understand my greatness, Octavia.”

Octavia rolled her eyes, picking a salad off of the dinner cart.

The Doctor was looking through the doorway, a slight frown on his face. “How strange,” he muttered to himself. “Nerves? From Trans Script?”
 

***


Trans Script sat at the front desk, a fresh piece of parchment and a quill in her hooves. She had gleamed two, maybe three, pieces of information from her short time with the musicians.

She scribbled them down, making a mental note to check in with Hoity Toity whenever she had the time. The receptionist stowed the parchment in her mane, and laid her head against the front desk.

“What the buck am I doing?”
> The Party
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vinyl sat at her piano, a wide grin plastered across her face as her hooves and magic danced across the keys. Her eyes burned with tension from behind her purple shades as she tried to outplay the cellist-turned-bassist behind her. Holy Celestia, she thought with a start, forget outplaying, I can barely keep up! She glanced back at Octavia. But I’m not done yet!

The DJ-turned-pianist put on an extra flourish, signaling the beginning of an impromptu solo. Octavia rolled her eyes slightly and toned down her playing, providing the basic bass line to go along with Vinyl’s solo. The unicorn’s mind went blank and her hooves re-doubled their efforts. She improvised for around a minute, the notes she played as much a surprise to herself as to the other ponies in a room.

Octavia Philharmonica could not take her eyes off of the DJ; the sight mesmerized her. Vinyl was too caught up in her improvisations to notice, but the cellist never once took her eyes off of the DJ.

Vinyl’s already tangled mane flew as she played. Her glasses slipped slightly, revealing her steadily reddening irises. It seemed as though the more passionately she played, the redder her eyes became. A smile was steadily growing on Vinyl’s face. A single line of sweat dripped down from the DJ’s forehead.

Octavia took in each and every detail.

Vinyl allowed her piano to settle back into the song, snapping the cellist out of her stupor. They played in harmony again, Octavia desperately trying to keep herself from staring at the DJ.

On the other side of the room, Harpo placed his hooves together, a devious glint in his eyes.

The song came to a close. The Doctor and Harpo stomped the ground, cheering and whistling for their two favorite musicians. Fancy Pants resigned himself to a dignified clap.

“That was brilliant!” cried the Doctor. “That was absolutely fantastic!”

Harpo shouted his agreement. Octavia grinned sheepishly, not quite used to overwhelming praise. Sure, there were a few articles which praised the cellist to the stars, but most of her performances ended with polite applause.

Vinyl, on the other hoof, was soaking everything in. She lived off of a crowd’s energy. The DJ held a hoof to her ear, leaning in towards the stallions’ compliments. She rolled a hoof in the air, the universal sigh for ‘keep it coming.’

“Yes,” said Fancy Pants once the Doctor and Harpo had cheered themselves out. “It was a wonderful performance, and quite the departure from your usual style, Octavia.”

The cellist smiled, her cheeks tinged slightly pink from the praise.

“And you Vinyl,” continued Fancy Pants. “It’s rather incredible that you were able to instill such a stylistic change in such a short amount of time.”

Vinyl scuffed at the ground in mock embarrassment. “Aw shucks, Mr. Pants, it ain’t much. Just doin’ my job, is all.”

Fancy Pants smiled warmly. “An impeccable job, as always.”

The DJ beamed. “Well, Tavi did a lot of the work. I kind of passed out for about an hour yesterday and when I woke up, she was jamming. I don’t know how she did it!”

All eyes turned onto the grey mare.

Octavia looked around, her own eyes eventually settling on a gramophone in the corner. “I listened to the songs. Quite a few times, actually. I can still hear Fiona Apple singing.” The cellist paused for a moment and shuddered. “It’s rather disturbing, actually.”

Vinyl grinned and walked over to Octavia. She thumped the grey mare on the back. “Disturbing is good! Disturbing means that the song got to you!”

Octavia sharply rapped Vinyl on the side.

“What was that for?!” protested the DJ as she rubbed her side.

“You hit me,” said Octavia matter-of-factly.

“I didn’t hit you! That was a thump.” 

“Well, I don’t appreciate ‘thumps.’”

Vinyl grinned. “You sure? I wouldn’t mind thumping you some more.” The DJ waggled her eyebrows.

Octavia sputtered, her face growing steadily redder. She opened her mouth to provide a sharp retort.

Fancy Pants clapped his hooves sharply. “I’m going to cut off this digression. I’d rather prefer that my musicians did not maim each other in front of me. I would have to hide the remains.” He gave a weary sigh. “I speak from experience when I say that it is not an easy task.”

The other four ponies stared at Fancy Pants.

The distinguished unicorn chuckled lightly. “If I weren’t so planted in business I would go in for acting. But I have already begun this venture. Tell me, my dear musicians, do you think that you’re ready to perform?”

Harpo and Octavia looked at Vinyl. Fancy Pants noticed this and resumed his chuckling.

The DJ took on a thoughtful pose. “I…” she began slowly. “I think that there’s a point where more practice doesn’t help.”

Harpo coughed. It sounded like a laugh.

“And what are you laughing at Harpbutt?”

Harpbutt took his new nickname in stride. “Well, Harpbutt, meaning myself, is simply commenting on the irony of your statement. Yesterday you literally worked yourself to the point of exhaustion. And now you think that practicing won’t help us.”

Vinyl dismissed the idea with a wave of her hoof. “That’s different. You can work until you pass out as long as you’re getting somewhere. You can only relax if you can’t do anything about something. Follow?”

Harpo lifted his hooves. “Harpbutt concedes the point.”

“Thank you, Harpbutt.” Vinyl smiled sweetly.

Octavia mentally facehoofed. I am working with a group of foals.

“So,” continued Vinyl, “like I was saying. Actual practice, like playing instruments and staring at music notes, won’t help us anymore. It’ll be useless, it’ll confuse us, and it’ll tire us out.”

Fancy Pants smiled serenely. “So is this the final practice session?”

Vinyl nodded. “Yeah, I think it is.”

The cellist squirmed at the thought, but held her tongue.

Fancy Pants got to his hooves. “Wonderful. Remember that you will be playing in the Lighthouse Café on the day after tomorrow. Meet here at about noon and I will take care of the rest. Is there a problem with that?”

The musicians shook their heads.

Fancy Pants turned to the other stallion. “Doctor, is there anything that you’d like to add?”

The Doctor considered it for a moment. “No, not particularly.” A pause. “Well, actually, that’s not true. Vinyl, we haven’t finished our test run of the sound system.”

The DJ clacked a hoof against the ground, bumping it against a table and dropping a cup of coffee in the process. “That’s right! Is Neon already over at the Lighthouse?”

The brown stallion nodded.

“Alright, we’ll head over right after we clean up here.” Vinyl levitated the cup back onto the table, staring down at the spilt coffee with disappointment.

Fancy Pants nodded. “A good plan. I’m afraid that I won’t be joining you; I have some business that I must attend to.”

Octavia frowned. “It seems as though you have nothing but business these days, Fancy Pants. I hope that you’re taking better care of yourself than Vinyl did.”

“Hey!” said Vinyl as she rubbed at the coffee with a rag. She jerked upwards, slamming her head against the underside of the table. “Ow! Who the hell put that table there?!”

“You did,” the Doctor offered helpfully. “You levitated it over because you needed someplace to put your coffee. That was right before you moved over to the piano and knocked over another cup of coffee.”

“Thanks for that, by the way,” said Harpo.

Vinyl threw a look at the brown stallion. The Doctor smiled warmly. Octavia hid her mouth behind a hoof as she giggled.

Fancy Pants looked on with a grin. “I assure you, Octavia, I will not be crashing into tables anytime soon. I am simply in the middle of negotiations.”

“Negotiations for what?” questioned Octavia.

Fancy Pants winked. “A surprise.” He walked towards the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take my leave.”

He pushed on the door and nearly crashed into Trans Script. The mare had one hoof raised, evidently about to knock on the door.

“Oh!” said the receptionist. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir! You told me to find you at about this time so I came up here, but it looks like you’re already about to leave, so my being here is kind of pointless… I’m sorry.” There were slight bags under Trans Script’s eyes, but she spoke at a breakneck speed. Her final two words, however, came out slowly and pronounced.

Fancy Pants gave her a slightly worried smile. “It was my fault, Miss Script. I was attempting a slightly theatrical exit and was not aware of my surroundings.” He put a hoof on the receptionist’s shoulder. “Are you quite alright?”

She looked up, locking eyes with the unicorn. Her lower lip quivered slightly. Trans Script took a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine in a little bit. By tomorrow. I’ll  be good by tomorrow.”

Fancy Pants nodded. “I hope that you are.” He turned his head back towards the musicians and the Doctor. “Goodbye again.” He gave Trans Script another nod, brushing past her on his way through the door. 

The receptionist nodded her own goodbye, trailing Fancy Pants as she made her way back to the lobby.

The musicians and the Doctor watched them leave.

“So,” said Vinyl, “what do you think’s wrong?”

Harpo shrugged, getting up to stretch his hooves. Octavia nodded, her mind preoccupied with the idea of not practicing.

The Doctor looked thoughtful. “There’s no way to know for sure.”

“But you have an idea, don’t you Doc?”

The brown stallion nodded slowly. “I know that there’s something wrong. That is the extent of my current knowledge.”

Vinyl nodded. “You gonna investigate?”

The Doctor considered this for a moment. “I might.”

Silence reigned in the room for a time. Harpo paced from side to side, feeling restless for no apparent reason.

Vinyl got to her hooves. “Alright, Doc and I have to go down to the Café. You two can go home already; we’ll take it from here.”

Harpo nodded. Octavia’s eyes widened slightly.

“Home?” asked the cellist.

“Yes,” said Vinyl. “Home. That place with a bed. You can go to sleep or just relax or something. I’ll see you in two days.”

“Would you mind terribly if I went with you two?”

The DJ arched an eyebrow. “Really? We’re just going to be messing with wires.”

“That’s fine,” replied Octavia.

“It’ll be boring,” warned Vinyl. “Neon already has most of it done; we’re just going to top things off.”

“I don’t mind. And neither does Harpo.” The cellist turned to the composer. “You don’t, do you?”

“Actually,” said Harpo. “I feel a slight crick in my back. I think that heading home would be a goo—“

“He doesn’t mind.” Octavia smiled sweetly.

Harpo threw up his hooves. “Nopony ever listens to me. I could say absolutely anything. Zippity doo-da. Bobo squawkin’ boppin. Vinyl has a crush on Octavia.”

The DJ magically threw a Styrofoam cup at Harpo.

Octavia ignored Harpo. “So, would you mind terribly if we joined you?”

Vinyl kept her eyebrows raised. She stared at Octavia for a while. Then she shrugged. “Whatever.” She walked out through the door, the Doctor following close behind.

“Octavia,” whispered Harpo to the cellist. “What are you planning?”

“I’m not planning anything, Harpo. I’m simply curious as to what Vinyl works with. And now we get to meet another member of Fancy Pants’s staff. It is a completely positive situation.” Octavia unconsciously fiddled with her bowtie.

Harpo noticed this. “I don’t believe you.”

Vinyl’s voice floated in from the hallway. “So are you two actually coming, or what?!”

Octavia trotted out of the room before the composer could continue his questioning.

Harpo frowned slightly. “I will never, never in my entire life, understand the thoughts of that mare. And Luna help me if I ever do.”


***


Fancy Pants walked through the doors of his newly built studio, his mind preoccupied with Trans Script’s obvious discomfort.

It’s clearly some kind of personal problem, but it is not one that can be solved through a pay raise or a few sick days. He frowned slightly. I wish she had told me what is actually bothering her.

“Dear, please stop frowning. It does not suit your normally handsome face.” Fleur de Lis appeared at Fancy Pants’s side.

The husband jumped. “Fleur! When did you get here? You almost gave me a heart attack!”

The pink unicorn giggled lightly, gesturing to the cart in front of her. “We’ve been here for some ten minutes. You walked out of your building, walked to the curb, and then simply stood there and frowned. It was slightly worrying. Is there anything wrong, dear?”

Fancy Pants smiled down at his wife and quickly kissed her. “Yes. But I can’t do anything about it just yet, so there’s no point in worrying. Now come, we’ve a party to get to.”

He took his wife by the hoof, helping her back into the cart.

“Good morning Spokes,” called Fancy Pants as he passed by his driver.

“Mornin’, sir,” said Spokes with a nod. “How’re your musicians doin’?”

The dapper stallion grinned. “Wonderfully. Absolutely wonderfully. It’s incredible just how quickly some ponies grow.”

Spokes grinned. They exchanged a few more pleasantries before Fancy Pants joined his wife in the cart.

“You’re in a better mood,” noted Fleur de Lis with a smile.

Fancy Pants nodded as his cart began to move. “I had a rather nice talk with Spokes just now. Those three, those musicians, have been incredible. They’ve only known each other for a few days, but most anypony would think that they had been working together for months!”

Fleur nodded, her smile widening at her husband’s enthusiasm.

“It’s incredible, Fleur,” continued Fancy Pants. “Octavia has completely switched her playing style, Harpo took a moment to seriously advise Vinyl, and Vinyl herself seems to have taken a leadership role.” He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “I’m so proud.”

The mare laughed. “You better be after all of the work that you’ve put in. You’ve been running yourself ragged.”

The stallion nodded. “But it will pay off in the end. Especially if today goes well.”

“Not that there’s a reason for it to go badly.”

“Don’t jinx it!” Fancy Pants looked from side to side. “Okay, I don’t think that the universe heard you. We should be fine.”

Fleur de Lis rolled her eyes. “Honestly Fancy, think of who you’re going to speak to. It’s an easy feat!”

Fancy Pants put a hoof to his lips. “Fleur, never underestimate the power of a jinx.”

“Dear, will you ever grow up?”

The husband nuzzled closer to his wife. “Only if you asked me to.”

Fleur smiled, kissing Fancy Pants. “Never.”

“Good. I was bluffing anyway.”

The cart rolled to a stop. Fancy Pants and Fleur de Lis exited. They stood in front of a luxurious mansion. Carts were steadily arriving, each one carrying a member of high Canterlot society.

The couple put on their show smiles, greeting any pony that recognized them. Which is to say every pony that they encountered. Through some tactful maneuvering, Fancy Pants and Fleur de Lis were able to enter the mansion within fifteen minutes.

Fleur glanced up at a nearby clock. “It took us a little under twenty minutes to walk about twenty five feet.”

Fancy Pants smiled. “Indeed. I think that it’s a new record. Come on, we’ll greet our host.”

The pink unicorn grimaced slightly. “I don’t like him.”

“Nopony does.” The stallion looked towards the staircase where, sure enough, a white unicorn with a blonde mane stood. 

Prince Blueblood was reluctantly shaking hooves with his guests, making a point of not making eye contact with any but the most respected ponies. 

Fancy Pants shook his head. “He thinks that he’s Princess Celestia at the Grand Galloping Gala.”

“Do we have to greet him?” asked Fleur.

“I’m afraid so.”

The couple stood in line, making pleasant conversation with the ponies around them. The atmosphere seemed to grow more unpleasant as they drew closer to Prince Blueblood. Conversation ceased altogether while there were still five ponies between the couple and the pompous pony.

Eventually, however, Fancy Pants and Fleur found themselves at the front of the line. The husband put on his social grin, taking the other stallion’s hoof. “Prince Blueblood, thank you for having us.”

The Prince literally looked down his nose at Fancy Pants. “The privilege is yours. Try not to associate with the rabble.”

Fancy Pants’s eye twitched imperceptibly. Fleur placed a hoof on his side, leading him away from the line.

“Two sentences,” said Fancy Pants. “Two sentences and I am quite ready to leave.”

“You and I both,” agreed Fleur. “But don’t worry. There are some ponies here that are actually worth speaking to.” She gestured to a nearby table.

A grey stallion with a short, black mane and dark blue eyes sat with a white, yellow-maned, violet-eyed mare. They were leaning in conspiratorially, the grey stallion shaking from some form of laughter.

Fancy Pants gave a half-smile. “Fleur, you’re too good at changing my mood. I’m beginning to think that I am bipolar.”

“Darling, you are bipolar.”

The dapper unicorn shrugged.

The mare at the table had spotted Fancy Pants and had begun to wildly wave her front hooves. The stallion was still broken down with laughter.

Fancy Pants raised a hoof in greeting and he and his wife made their way to the table.

“Fancy Pants! Fleur de Lis! We did not expect to see you here!” The mare had a melodious, energetic voice. The stallion’s giggles devolved into hiccups.

“Really?” asked Fancy Pants. “I was under the impression that we had agreed to meet here.”

The mare put a hoof to her chin. “We did, didn’t we?” She turned to the grey stallion. “Honey, we did, didn’t we?” Her husband, recovering bit by bit, nodded. “Well, then” said the mare turning back to Fancy Pants, “why did you keep us waiting? And after we had agreed to meet!”

Fancy Pants smiled. “Pardon us, but we had to greet our most esteemed host.”

Prince Blueblood’s voice carried through the open room. “Raspberry punch? I asked for strawberry punch! Do you not understand who I am?!”

The stallion, now recovered from his fit of laughter snorted. “A bleating idiot is what you are,” he said loudly.

His wife rapped him sharply. “Don’t say that! What if somepony heard you?”

“Then they would probably agree with me!” The grey pony smiled slyly.

Fancy Pants grinned. “Now I see where she gets it.”

“Where she gets what?” replied the other husband. “A tendency to beat ponies that she loves?” That earned him another punch from his wife.

“No, darling,” said the mare. “He means the tendency to make snide comments.”

Fleur smiled. “I think it’s a bit of both, really.”

“And how is our dear daughter?” asked the mare.

“Well, Legato, Octavia has been growing by leaps and bounds! I’ve been saying it all day, but it is astounding! I am, however, for her to grow fully comfortable with the ponies she’s working with.”

Marcato Philharmonica’s turned excitedly to his wife. “She’s exactly like me, dear! Remember when I couldn’t say more than two words to you?”

Legato sighed wistfully. “Those were the days.” Fleur de Lis hid her mouth as she giggled.

“Oh, be quiet,” said Marcato. “You love me. You love my voice! I could speak for days on end and you would listen to every single word.”

“Darling, you have been speaking for years on end. I’m lucky that my ears haven’t fallen off.”

Marcato grinned and turned to Fancy Pants and Fleur. “We’ve been married for 27 years and I have never once bested her in an argument. Even when I won, I lost.”

Legato swung a hoof at him. Her husband caught it and gave it a quick kiss. The mare turned slightly pink, but chose not to withdraw her hoof.

Marcato’s grin widened. “A few years ago, that would have left me with a black eye. Well, at least I can still make her blush.”

“Indeed,” said Fancy Pants with a warm smile. He glanced at his own wife. “Some things never change.”

“Oh,” said Legato, “but time inexorably marches on.” Her voice took on a slightly more serious tone, though it kept its bright lilt. “That’s the reason why we’re here Fancy Pants. Time is marching on and you’re going to help it along, replacing the last generation in the process.”

Fancy Pants shook his head. “Nothing can replace the past. Everything simply builds upon it.”

“Pish posh,” said Marcato resolutely. “The future will overshadow the past, will change the changes that our generation has made, don’t pretend that it won’t! And I say it’s about time.”

Fancy Pants arched an eyebrow. Fleur de Lis smiled lightly.

“Yes,” continued Marcato, “let the new replace the old. I believe in that even more firmly now that my daughter’s part of the new.”

“Then you’ll help us?” asked Fancy Pants.

“Of course we will,” affirmed Legato. “Whatever else could we have decided? You didn’t think that we’d deny your offer, did you?”

Fleur de Lis gave her husband a teasing smile. Fancy Pants replied by quickly sticking his tongue out at her.

The business pony turned back to the Philharmonicas. “Then we will see each other in a few weeks time.”
Marcato and Legato nodded.

“In that case,” said Fleur de Lis, “we’ll take our leave for now; Fancy and I have to make our rounds.” 

“Wait,” said Legato, “one last thing. Please make sure that they are completely prepared for the occasion. Oh, and don’t tell Octavia that we’re involved; I want it to be a surprise.” The mare had a child-like glint in her eye.

“Of course,” replied Fancy Pants. He and Fleur de Lis walked towards the epicenter of the party, their walk constantly interrupted by greetings.

The Philharmonicas leaned closer together, taking on the position they had been in when Fancy Pants first walked in.

“This is going to be so much fun!” said Legato in a slightly squeaky voice.

“Isn’t it?” replied Marcato excitedly. “Octavia and her friends will either be made or mortified! What more could a parent ask for?”
> The Cafe
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“And just where the hell have you two been?” A blue unicorn wearing sunglasses stood in the middle of the Lighthouse Café. He tapped his hoof in impatience. “I’ve been waiting for hours! I swear, I do most of the work but you two get more money. How is that fair?"

“Shut up, Neon,” Vinyl said dismissively. The Doctor nodded his greeting.

Neon sighed. “Point taken. Well, while you two were busy doing whatever you were doing, I actually got some work done. Pretty much all of the sound system is set up.” He gestured towards the soundboard and speakers behind him. “I know, I know; I’m awesome.”

Vinyl snorted and marched over to the system, followed closely by the Doctor. They slowly walked around the machinery, eyes zooming over every inch of metal, their hooves fiddling with buttons, switches, dials, and wires.

Harpo and Octavia awkwardly walked in, their heads turning every which way.

“Well,” said Harpo, “it’s a rather… nice establishment.” His eyes locked onto the building’s extensive bar. “Scratch that. It’s perfect and I never want to leave.”

Octavia rolled her eyes, passing over the bar and to the stage. “That’s where we’ll be playing, is it?”

Neon looked up at the classical musicians. He frowned slightly, noticing their bowties and perfectly styled manes. “Are you looking for something?”

Harpo and Octavia raised a synchronized eyebrow. “Pardon?” they asked.

The unicorn put on his best ‘dealing with ponies’ smile. “I’m sorry, but the Café’s closed for the day. There’s another restaurant a bit more to your standards a few blocks away.”

The composer scowled slightly. “Oh, really? Would you care to write up some directions for us?”

Neon completely missed the malice in Harpo’s voice. “Of course, just let me get some paper and a quill.”

The Doctor’s muffled voice came from somewhere behind the turntables. “Ee’s Joe King.”

Neon looked up. “Joe King, Doc? Do you know this pony?”

The technician’s head popped up. He carried some kind of metallic pen in his mouth. “No! Not Joe King! Ee’s Joe King!”

“Then you don’t know him?” asked the unicorn.

Harpo put a hoof to his chest. “Have you forgotten me already Doctor? After all of the special times we’ve shared?”

“Woah!” exclaimed the unicorn. “TMI, dude. Doc, you’re a good-looking pony and all, but I don’t want to hear about your ‘special times.’”

The Doctor spit the pen out of his mouth. “Are you sure about that Neon? They make for rather good stories. In fact, you can say that they’re out of this world.” He turned to his left, smiling into the empty air.

The other ponies gave him a blank stare.

The brown stallion scratched the back of his head. “Yes, that works far better when Derpy’s here.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I was trying to say that ‘He’s joking.’ They won’t need directions; they’re not going anyway. Neon, this is Harpo Parish Nadermane and Octavia Philharmonica. They are the newest additions to Fancy Pants’s group of musicians. Harpo, Octavia, this is Neon Lights. He’s an upstart with an ego.”

“Aw Doc, you know me so well.” Neon blew a kiss at the other stallion.

The Doctor neatly swayed back and away from the imagined kiss. “If he ever bothers you just tell me. He’ll be fired and sent back to the university we found him in.”

Neon Lights took off his glasses. He looked far younger without them; clearly somepony in his first or second year of full adulthood. “You… You wouldn’t really do that, would you?”

The Doctor stayed silent.

“Doc?”

The brown stallion chuckled slightly. “Of course not, Neon.” He allowed a dangerous gleam into his eyes. “Well, maybe not. Just don’t mess up.”

“Too late for that,” said Vinyl from the back of the room. She worked as she spoke, using her magic to rearrange wires and manually fiddling with the knobs. “Wires are messed up, lighting’s off by half a second, bass is too low, treble is way too high, there’s a bit of dust on the tables, and I don’t have a cup of coffee in my hooves.” She raised her voice slightly. “INTERN! Why don’t I have a cup of coffee in my hooves?”

“Vinyl,” whined Neon, “I haven’t been an intern in a week! I can’t be getting you coffee all the time now that I’m actually working.”

The elder DJ stopped suddenly, allowing the wires to lower and her hooves to stop fiddling. She turned towards Neon. “Intern. What could possibly be more important than my coffee?” Vinyl spoke in a soft, dangerous voice.

Neon Lights visibly gulped. “N-nothing, Miss Vinyl Scratch.”

“Why don’t I have a coffee in my hooves?”

“I-I don’t know. I’ll go get you that coffee now.” He all but ran from the room. Vinyl turned back to the turntables, slightly humming to herself.

Octavia and Harpo stared after Neon’s retreating figure.

“Vinyl,” began Harpo.

“Would you care to explain exactly what just happened?” finished Octavia.

The DJ looked up from her work. “Neon’s gonna go get me some coffee.” A look of realization spread across her face. “Oh, did you want something too Tavi? Sorry, I should’ve asked first.” Vinyl turned her head slightly. “NEON! GET SOMETHING FOR TAVI, TOO!”

“Got it!” came Neon’s distant reply.

“No thank you, I’m fine,” asserted Octavia. “What I meant was—“

“NEON! FORGET THE EXTRA THING!”

“Is she sure?” asked Neon from the other room.

“I don’t know!” Vinyl turned back to Octavia. “Octy, are you sure?”

“I—I,” stuttered Octavia. “I am quite sure, thank yo—“

“YEAH, SHE’S SURE!” Vinyl turned back to her turntables.

“Well, does she want some chips or something?” Neon had decided to make some sort of good impression on the new musicians.

Octavia glanced back and forth between the shouting DJs, looking ever more frazzled at every word.

“I am loving this,” murmured Harpo to the Doctor.

The brown stallion nodded with a grin.

“NO THANK YOU! I AM FINE!” shouted Octavia suddenly.

Vinyl blinked and looked up at the cellist. “Whoah Tavi. What got into you? Do you need a soda to calm you down? NEON! GET TAVI A SO—“

Octavia jammed her hoof into Vinyl’s mouth. The cellist leaned in, lifting the DJ’s shades and looking directly into her eyes. “Vinyl Scratch. If you continue to interrupt me, and if you continue to make assumptions about what I want, then by Celestia, I cannot be held accountable for my actions. Is that clear?”

Vinyl nodded quickly.

“Sorry Vinyl, I couldn’t quite catch that last shout,” said Neon, walking back into the room. He was levitating a cup of coffee. “But look! Coffee! Now you don’t have to be so terrifyin—“ The colt stopped suddenly, noticing that the object of his terror was at the mercy of another pony. “I’ll… I’ll just… Go get some coffee for Miss Octavia.” He turned around and walked back out of the room.

The cellist took a deep, calming breath and withdrew her hoof, taking a moment to wipe it on the floor.

Vinyl made a face and rubbed her jaw with a hoof. “Damn Tavi, you’re scary. And kind of gross. I mean, you walk on that thing!”

“Yes, I do. Now tell me, why is Neon terrified of you?”

“He’s new, just a kid trying to break into the business. I’m kind of like his mentor.” Vinyl grinned slyly. “Mentors are supposed to yell and make sure that their students learn something. I like that part of mentoring.”

“And he’s rather attracted to Vinyl,” added the Doctor helpfully.

The DJ shrugged, plugging in the final wire. The speakers came to life with a loud pop. “Yeah, so he likes me. He’s also terrified of me. Poor kid.”

Neon walked back into the room, now carrying two cups of coffee. “Miss Octavia, I wasn’t sure how you liked your coffee so I just left it black.”

“Thank you Neon, but I don’t drink much coffee. And just Octavia is fine.” The cellist smiled.

Harpo snatched a coffee cup out of the air. “In that case, I’ll be taking this.” He took a sip, promptly scalding his tongue and trying desperately to hide it.

“Alright,” said Vinyl as she rubbed her hooves together, “let’s test this baby out. Neon, you have the microphones, right?”

“Yup! I have them right over there.” He levitated three microphones over to Vinyl.

Three clicks later and the microphones were all hooked up.

“Just one last test,” said Vinyl. She cleared her throat and lifted a microphone. “Test. Test. Crafty Changelings crafting changes. She saw seaponies swimming at sea. Who’s a silly pony? Who is? You is, Octavia.” She tapped the microphone. “Okay, we’re all done here.”

The cellist shifted her weight, looking slightly uncomfortable.

Vinyl noticed this. “I don’t think you’re actually a silly pony Octy; it’s just a song.”

Octavia shook her head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what’s up?” asked the DJ.

Harpo brought one hoof down on the other. “Oh, it’s your routine! Of course! Octavia, you’re not still embarrassed about that, are you?”

The cellist shook her head.

“Routine?” asked Vinyl. “What routine?”

Octavia scuffed the ground. “It’s nothing really. We can leave now; there are things at home that I have to attend to.” She tried to walk to the door, but Harpo held out his hoof.

“Don’t you dare, my dear cellist.” He turned towards the other ponies. “It comes from my younger days, when I was a bit more interested in less… fully scientific endeavors. Numerology, horoscopes, and the like. A routine is a way of getting yourself into a certain state of mind whether that is a state of enthusiasm, serenity, or, as Octavia uses it, performance.”

The Doctor nodded. “Sounds like a rather good habit.”

“It is,” agreed Harpo. “But Octavia is never comfortable in talking about it.”

“It’s weird,” mumbled Octavia. “Nopony else does it. Even you don’t do it anymore, Harpo.”

“I do it,” said Vinyl.

Octavia looked up in surprise.

“Yeah,” continued the DJ. “Every time before I get on stage. It’s just trying to remember a time where you totally kicked flank, right? I do it to pump myself up.”

A slight scratching sound filled the air. Four ponies turned to Neon, who had pulled a quill and a pad of paper from thin air. He was taking notes.

The colt noticed the others’ stares. “What? It sounds like a really good idea.”

Harpo chuckled slightly. “Follow me, young DJ; I’ll explain the finer aspects of a routine.” He nudged Octavia slightly. “You get on stage and do what you need to. Don’t take too long, though. I’d end up walking home alone and who knows what’d happen if a stallion like me were seen alone at night.” Harpo sat at the bar, gesturing for Neon to follow him. As soon as the others turned away, the composer reached over and snuck a bottle of whiskey off of the bar.

Octavia slowly walked on stage, glancing around, trying to imagine what the café would be like in two days.

Well, she thought to herself, it’s a relatively popular place. The chairs would be filled with ponies. The booths in the back would be for groups—

“How does your routine work?” asked Vinyl.

Octavia grimaced slightly and threw a sharp look at the DJ. “I was in the middle of it.”

“Oops. Sorry.”

Octavia shook her head. Now, where was I?

Those tables in the middle have candles on them. A couple would probably be sitting there. A bouquet of flowers, a small gift. How cute. The seats in the front think that the music is just as, if not even more, important as the food and camaraderie.

The café seemed to come to life under Octavia’s gaze. Love-struck ponies with stars in their eyes stared at each other over the candle light. There, in the corner, a new couple awkwardly trying to make eye contact. They blushed and quickly looked away as soon as they met each others’ eyes.

In the back was a boisterous group; friends that had known each other for years. They laughed at shared stories and at stupid remarks. They would laugh to the point where no sound came out and they could only clap like helpless seals.

Up front, the ponies carefully ate their salads. Actually, a few had forgotten that the food was on the table. Each of them was clearly listening to the music, tapping their hooves or bobbing their heads to a beat.

Octavia’s left hoof twitched, almost unconsciously playing the melody to the very first song she had ever learned. It was familiar; it was a song that she would never make a mistake in.

With a smirk, the cellist added a quick improvisation. She settled back into the simple tune. And even if I did make a mistake, nopony would care. What’s the quote? ‘If you hit a bad note, hit it again so it looks right’?

Octavia opened her eyes, not quite sure when exactly she had closed them. “Yes, that just about describes this musical genre.” She stomped her left back hoof twice.

“Finished, Octavia?” called Harpo from his place at the bar.

“Yes, quite. We can leave now.”

“It’s about time,” said Vinyl. “I’m tired out after fixing all of Neon’s mistakes.”

“It wasn’t that bad!” whined Neon.

The Doctor trotted over and put a hoof on the colt’s shoulder. “No, it wasn’t that bad. It was probably worse than that.” He slapped Neon’s leg playfully. “But we fixed it! Now let’s go, it’s past your bedtime.”

The group of ponies left.

Two seconds later, Harpo came rushing back in with a sheet of paper and a quill, both of which had been borrowed from Neon. He threw a hoofful of bits onto the counter and scribbled a quick note.

It read: “I hope this covers one two bottles of whiskey.—Hugs and Kisses, Harpo Parish Nadermane.”
 

***


Trans Script put a timid hoof to the speaker. “T—This is Trans Script. I need to speak to Mr. Toity.” Don’t forget; you’re here to get out of this deal. There’s no reason to spy on them. I don’t even know why I did it in the first place! It was so stupid of me.

The golden gates before her swung open slightly. The receptionist entered and the gates closed behind her with a small click.

She walked along a brick path, hardly noticing the wide green expanses, the trees, and the hedges dotting Hoity Toity’s manor.

This will only take a moment, she thought to herself. Just get in, say that the deal is off, then get back out. Don’t even give him a chance to talk, don’t even give him any reasons why you’re leaving. Just say that you are.

Her saddlebags, weighed down with bits seemed to keep her from walking properly.

Give him his money back too, but only if he asks for it. Wait, no that would mean that he would be talking! I can’t let him talk; he’s too damn clever when he talks. Trans Script felt something on her shoulder. She jumped.

Hoity Toity stood in front of her, one hoof reached out to hold her back. “You were about to crash into me. We can’t have that, now can we?” The stallion gave her a stunning smile. “Now tell me, Miss Script; to what do I owe this surprise? If memory serves, you came to visit me yesterday night.” Hoity Toity thought for a moment, and then walked into his manor.

Trans Script was having a panic attack. Damn it, he’s already talking! Why didn’t you say anything?! Okay, there’s still time, I just have to keep him from talking again. I just need time to say two words and I’ll be fine.

Hoity Toity walked back out, now clutching a piece of paper. “Yes,” he said, “you did come to see me last night. I have the evidence right here.”

Trans Script could not tell whether she had imagined the emphasis on ‘evidence’ or not. It didn’t really matter to her at the moment. What mattered was the scrap of paper Hoity Toity held in his hoof.

The stallion glanced at the paper. “Indeed, I remember you coming and showing me these notes. Written by your very hoof, it seems. Of course, no one else would know these small details besides yourself, now would they? Which is why, my dear Trans Script, you are ever so valuable to me.” He smiled again. “Incredibly valuable. I need to make sure that you stay with me, darling.”

Trans Script seemed to be frozen to the spot. Her jaw worked up and down, but no words would come.

Hoity Toity maintained his smile. “Is something the matter, you look absolutely rigid! Then again, it is rather cold this evening. Would you care to come in?” He gestured towards his manor’s door.

The receptionist stiffly walked in. Hoity Toity followed closely, then led the way into his living room. The room was richly decorated; paintings hung from every inch of the walls and fresh flowers adorned every table. A roaring fire suffused the room with a glow, its light glinting off of the various pieces of golden decorations.

The two ponies sat.

The stallion poured two cups of tea, and offered one to Trans Script. “I would be lying if I said that this visit was entirely unexpected; most of my associates become a bit… jittery right about now. It is, however, merely a passing phase.”

The mare absentmindedly sipped her tea, and a modicum of feeling returned to her.

“I trust that you’re feeling a degree of regret right now.” Hoity Toity spoke with sympathy.

Trans Script nodded.

“Of course you are; it’s only natural. I am not affected because I have been dealing with matters like these for quite a while. But you’re new to this. I’m sure that it’s been troubling you.”

Another nod.

Hoity Toity tutted slightly. “How noble; if only I could still think that way. But please, Miss Script you have to realize that you are an indispensable part of what I am trying to accomplish.”

Don’t let him talk. You said that you wouldn’t let him talk. Why are you letting him talk?!

Hoity Toity continued. “But, even if you do not realize your importance, I do. Which is why I’m prepared to increase my offer three-fold.”

Trans Script blanched, completely caught off guard. T—Three times?

The stallion leaned forward slightly. “Three times the amount that I’ve been paying you. Maybe even more, depending on the information you provide. Isn’t it a good deal?”


***


Trans Script walked out of the manor, saddle bags and spirit a good deal heavier than they had been when she entered.

Hoity Toity waved goodbye from his patio before going back into his manor.

“I’d forgotten how persuasive you could be,” said a rather pompous voice.

Hoity Toity turned to the white stallion who had spoken. “Thank you for the compliment. It’s quite the honor coming from someone of your status.”

Prince Blueblood humphed. “Indeed it is. Especially after you so hurriedly ran me out of the room simply because some commoner came into your home. I was hardly able to hear any of the conversation. If anything, you should have simply left her out in the cold.”

Hoity Toity’s smile twitched the slightest bit. Even I can’t stand this colt. “Maybe next time. Now, to what do I owe this great honor?”

Prince Blueblood walked over to a fruit bowl, levitating and scrutinizing an orange. He tossed it to Hoity Toity. “Peel this for me.”

Hoity Toity, silently fuming, pulled a nearby cord. A butler appeared as if from thin air and quickly peeled the orange.

Blueblood pulled the orange from the other stallion’s hooves. “You owe this honor,” he said as he ate, “due to Fancy Pants’s insistence on breaching my business.”

His business, thought Hoity Toity indignantly. I have the far bigger recording company. His is nothing. “Of course. He has quite the ambitious goals.”

“Yes, he does. Tell me everything you know about his company.” Prince Blueblood spoke as if he were bored.

Hoity Toity didn’t miss a beat. “I hardly know anything. There hasn’t been quite enough time to gather information. I am trying, but Fancy Pants guards his secrets closely.”

Blueblood finished his orange. “You’re useless. Of course you are; what else was I to expect? You will inform me of anything you learn.”

Hoity Toity felt his eye twitch. “Of course.”

The white stallion left the manor without a word. Hoity Toity stood still for a few moments before walking to a couch. He picked up a pillow and flung it across the room. It hit a vase, scattering glass, water and flowers in all directions. The stallion scowled and pulled another cord. Two maids suddenly appeared and quickly cleaned up the mess.

“Buffoon," said Hoity Toity from between gritted teeth. “Idiot. Stupid, self-entitled, short-sighted fool.”
> The Diner
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Octavia Philharmonica, as she had done so many times in the past, awoke in her bed. What made this particular awakening so special, however,  was that she didn’t begin her day with the usual condemnation of all things morning-related. This is mostly due to the fact that it was no longer morning when Octavia finally woke up.

It was one in the afternoon.

The cellist stared at the clock on her wall, marveling silently at her sleeping ability. She also felt slightly disgusted with herself, but that feeling was pleasantly covered by 15 or so hours of sleep.
Octavia stretched luxuriously, taking a certain satisfaction out of the cracking sound her joints made.  I should sleep in more often. It’s a rather nice sensation. Her eyes, still slightly clouded with sleep, settled on her double bass.

The cellist sighed. No practice today. I have to spend the next twenty-four hours doing essentially nothing. She flopped back into her bed, drawing the covers around her. I might as well just go back to sleep.

Well… there’s no scheduled practice. A small voice in Octavia’s mind made her sit up again.
I mean, continued the voice, I don’t see a reason not to practice today simply because I’m not reporting in to Harpo or Vinyl. Indeed, we’ll be taking an initiative that most other ponies will commend.

With a grin, Octavia sprung from her bed. The voices in my head can be exceedingly logical! She paused for a moment, thinking over her statement. I’m sure that there’s a better wording for that.

About half an hour later, Octavia stood in her living room, carefully balancing herself against her double bass’ weight. She had forgone breakfast, deciding that food played second fiddle to practice. Indeed, the grey mare had argued with herself before deciding that hygiene was slightly more important than practice. But only slightly.

It’s not as if I’m directly disobeying Vinyl, Octavia reasoned. She never said that we couldn’t practice today, only that we wouldn’t be holding a formal practice. As it stands, I am not holding a formal practice. I’m merely trying to kill some time. Besides, we’ll be playing in the Lighthouse Café tomorrow! What pony in their right mind wouldn’t be practicing? Doubts momentarily put aside, Octavia straightened her sheet music, which was more a formality than a necessity, and put her bow to the strings.

There was a knock at the door.

The grey mare visibly winced and threw a glare at the door. She laid her bass on its side and walked to the door, grumbling all the while. “Why does the universe hate me? I am placed in ironic situations on a nearly daily basis. This never happened when I was in the Conservatory.” Octavia painted over her annoyance with indifference and opened the door.

Vinyl lifted a hoof. “Yo.”

“Vinyl,” said Octavia with a wry smile. “Of course.”

The DJ arched an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you not happy to see me, Octy?” She pouted and took off her glasses, revealing her widened and slightly teary eyes. “Don’t—Don’t you love me?”

Octavia sighed. “It simply means that the universe has a rather drab sense of humor. One that is directed towards me, apparently.”

Vinyl nodded, putting her shades back on in one practiced motion. “I know that feel. But don’t worry, the one and only Vinyl Scratch is here to make it all better! Have you had lunch yet?”
Octavia smiled sheepishly. “Well, not in a sense. You could say that I’ve only just woken up and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

The other mare gaped. “You slept in?! I didn’t even sleep in today! Not that I didn’t try, but Harpo showed up and—Well, the important part is that you got more sleep than I did.”

The cellist arched an eyebrow. “I enjoy sleep as much as the next pony, Vinyl.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Vinyl mentally breathed a sigh of relief. “So, can I treat you to a breakfast-slash-lunch… thing?” She grinned hopefully.

“Brunch?” offered the cellist.

“Yeah, breakfast-lunch thing.”

Octavia glanced back into her home.

The DJ’s grinned wavered slightly. “Is that a maybe? Should I take off my glasses again? I’m really cute when I take off my glasses.” She chuckled, trying to cover up her nervousness.

The cellist closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry Vinyl, but there are some rather important things that I have to attend to.”

Vinyl’s ears drooped, but she tried to keep her voice bright. “Oh, well ya gotta do what ya gotta do. I mean, if it’s important… I’ll be leaving then.” She turned and walked a few steps.

Octavia re-entered her home and closed the door.

Vinyl kept walking, kicking at any leaves or pieces of litter in her path. “It was a stupid idea anyway,” she muttered to herself. “She’s been working really hard; Tavi probably just wants to relax for a day or something. I mean, she even slept in!”

A balled up piece of paper hit the DJ.

“Ow!” she cried, more out of shock than pain. “Great, now somepony’s throwing things at me! WELL, YOU CAN GO TO HELL!” she shouted at the general direction the ball had come from.

She levitated the projectile. “If I cast a strong enough ‘Return’ spell, this thing will probably get the asshole right in the face.” She turned it over and found, barely legible over the ball’s crumpled surface, the words ‘Read Me.’

Vinyl snorted and unfolded the paper.

“Wait a bit,” she read aloud. “Hugs and Kisses, Cupid #1.” The DJ glanced around, her eyes eventually picking out a rather familiar purple stallion. Harpo grinned widely and blew her a kiss.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” mumbled Vinyl. “He suggests this whole damn thing and then he decides to follow me around?! I’m gonna shove this paper right up his—“ The DJ felt a hoof on her shoulder. She turned and found herself face to face with Octavia.

“I’ve decided that the important things can wait.” Octavia blushed slightly. “And, I am rather hungry,” she added quietly.

Vinyl swore that she heard a snicker, but Harpo had managed to disappear before she could confirm it. However, the case of the disappearing composer did little to dampen the DJ’s uplifted mood. “Cool!” she nearly squealed. Vinyl cleared her throat. “I mean… cool. Okay, let’s go get something to eat, Tavi!”

Octavia nodded. “Lead the way.”

The DJ strode off, head held high. The cellist had to trot slightly to keep up.

“I think you’re really gonna like this place, Octy. It’s not the classiest restaurant, but it makes some really good food! And it doesn’t have a lot of that super-healthy crap.” She glanced back at Octavia. “Unless you like the super-healthy crap. I’m sure that there’s something on the menu that isn’t drowned in cheese and butter.”

The cellist pulled a face that was somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “I’ll be rather satiated with a salad.” Her stomach gurgled slightly. “Perhaps a big salad.”

“Suit yourself,” said Vinyl with a shrug. “I’m just saying; cheese, butter, and deep-fried things are totally worth turning one or two arteries into rocks.”

“Charming.”

“That’s me, Tavi. I’m nothing but charm. And cheese. Charm and cheese.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.” Octavia smiled slyly as Vinyl sputtered.

“Hey! That’s mean! I was just kidding; you weren’t supposed to actually agree with me!”

The cellist put a hoof to her mouth, trying to stifle a giggle.

The DJ pouted. “And after I’ve gone out of my way to treat you to a breakfast-lunch thing. I’ll actually be spending money on a pony that isn’t me! Do you realize how rare this is?”

“I wouldn’t particularly mind paying for my own meal.”

“Tavi, there is no way that you’ll be paying today.” Vinyl stopped and held Octavia at full length. “Do you hear me? You’re not allowed to touch your bit bag today. Upon penalty of…” The unicorn looked around for a moment before settling back into staring into Octavia’s eyes. “Belly-rubs. And that’s not an idle threat.”

The cellist shrugged off Vinyl’s hooves. “Belly-rubs. Terrifying. You are quite the intimidating pony, Vinyl Scratch.”

“And no sarcasm either! Upon belly-rub penalty.”

Octavia rolled her eyes. “Pray tell, why are you so fixated on that particular physical interaction?”

Vinyl lowered her glasses slightly and winked at her companion. “Because that’s how it starts.”

“How what starts?”

“You know!” The DJ paused slightly. She could only read confusion in Octavia’s expression. “’When a stallion loves a mare.’ Wait, that doesn’t really work in this case. ‘When a mare loves a mare.’ Or, actually, I could start with ‘when a stallion loves a stallion.’” Vinyl shrugged. “I don’t really care who’s with who. Sure, there are some ponies out there that would care, but they’re assholes so I don’t really give a crap what they think… Octy, what were we talking about?”

The grey mare’s cheeks had taken a decidedly pink hue. “I—I’m pretty sure you got your point across.”

“Mmmkay. Anyway, we’re here.”

The mares stopped in front of a small building. It was squat, with a single lit up red sign that said ‘DINER’ above the door. The bulbs in the ‘N’ and the ‘R’ had apparently gone off.

“‘DIE’” read Octavia. “That’s rather foreboding.”

Vinyl put a hoof on the cellist’s back. “Don’t judge it just yet. And, um, don’t pull out you bit bag in public. And try not to look rich.”

There was a slight pause. “You’re kidding, right?”

The DJ winked and opened the door, bowing slightly as she gestured for Octavia to pass.

The interior of the diner was markedly different from the exterior. It was well-maintained and well-lit, fresh flowers adorning every highly polished table.  A pleasant chatter filled the room and Octavia was surprised to see that the restaurant was brimming with ponies. It seemed as though everypony was speaking to each other.

The cellist stood still, slightly gaping at the warm atmosphere. Vinyl chuckled, purposefully bumping into Octavia as she passed.

“Doesn’t feel like Canterlot, does it?”

The grey mare shook her head.

The DJ chuckled again. “Come on, let’s go get a table.”

Octavia glanced around, noticing that a few other ponies were waiting to be seated. “Shouldn’t we be waiting?”

“Nope,” said Vinyl. “I know the owners.”

A warm, old-sounding voice broke over Octavia’s response. “Vinee! It’s about time you showed up, you haven’t visited in a lifetime, honey!” A small, white-haired, yellow unicorn rushed over and hugged Vinyl. Or at least she attempted to rush. It was more of a quick shuffle, given her old age.

“Hey, Ma,” said Vinyl as she hugged the mare.

Octavia’s eyes widened slightly. Ma? Is this Vinyl’s mother?

Ma leaned back and poked Vinyl in the stomach. “You get skinnier every time I see you! Do you ever eat?”

“Of course I eat! I always eat! I’m starting to think that you want me to be fat.”

“Oh, hush up,” said the elder mare, waving a hoof. “Wait for a moment and I’ll get you a table.” She turned and seemed to notice Octavia for the first time. “Hi there, sweetie. Are you one of Vinee’s friends?”

Vinyl stepped closer, gesturing to Octavia with a hoof. “Ma, this is Octy. Or Tavi. It’s really up to you what you want to call her. And yeah, she’s my friend.”

Ma sharply rapped Vinyl’s hoof. “Don’t point like that, Vinee; it’s rude.”She hit Vinyl again. “And let your friend speak for herself.”

The DJ backed away, laughing as she did so. “Watch yourself, Octy. Ma hits harder than you do.”

“Oh, hush up.” Ma turned back to Octavia. “Now dear, what’s your real name?”

“It’s Octavia, ma’am. Octavia Philharmonica.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Octavia.” The elder mare smiled. “I’m Ma. I own this here shack of a diner. You can’t see him right now, but my husband Pa is cooking in the back.” She turned to Vinyl. “I’ll have him come out to say ‘Hi’ in a little bit.”

“Remind him that he still owes me ten bits from that hoofball game.” Vinyl glanced at Octavia. “Not that I really need it,” she added hurriedly.

“Of course dear,” said Ma in that noncommittal way that elders have. “Follow me, there’s a table in the back we keep open for things like this.”

Vinyl and Octavia followed Ma to a table. The elder unicorn conjured a notepad and a pen. “The usual for you, Vinee?”

“Yup,” said the DJ with a smile.

“And for you, Octavia?”

The cellist quickly went through the menu. “A fruit and oat salad for me, please.”

Ma nodded. “A health-conscious choice. Not like Vinee over there.”

“Hey!” protested Vinyl. “You think I’m skinny now; imagine what I’d be like if I ate like Tavi!”

The diner owner chuckled slightly and flipped her notepad closed. “I’ll be back in a moment, dears.” She walked off.

“So,” said Vinyl. “That was Ma.”

“Yes it was. She seems like a rather nice pony.”

“She’s evil.” Vinyl put on her most serious face. “The way I hear it, Nightmare Moon came back 200 years ago and Ma scared her back to the moon.”

Octavia arched an eyebrow. “Ma’s 200 years old?”

The DJ wiggled her hooves, switching into a warbling ‘spooky’ voice. “Noooopony knooooows.”

The two mares shared a laugh, and then fell into a quick silence. Octavia looked around, noting that those ponies who weren’t sitting with their family seems to be on dates. I wonder if Vinyl and I look the same way.

Vinyl was looking at Octavia, noting the way that the cellist blushed upon realizing that this was a common date spot. Right, Harpo said that Octavia probably won’t curse me out and walk away… Probably. Out of the corner of her eye, Vinyl noticed a purple pony reading a newspaper. An upside-down newspaper.

Harpo, catching the unicorn’s gaze, winked.

Vinyl facehoofed before she could stop herself. The sharp sound the self-slap made drew Octavia’s attention back to the table.

The DJ smiled sheepishly. “There was a… fly. I hit it.”

The cellist smiled slightly. “You hit you.”

“Same thing.”

Silence fell back onto the table. Vinyl rubbed the back of her neck. Is it just me or is this getting really awkward? I should say something. The DJ opened her mouth and, for the first time in years, found that she had nothing to say. C’mon Vinyl, get your act together! This isn’t even a real date. Vinyl flinched slightly. It really isn’t a real date. Wow. That’s kind of sad.

Octavia broke the silence. “Am I right in saying that Ma isn’t your mother?”

Vinyl knit her eyebrows. “My mom? Ma? I wish.”

“I thought so. But it was slightly confusing when we first walked in.”

“Nope, Ma’s not mom. Ma’s nothing like my parents.” There was a slightly bitter note in Vinyl’s voice. “What about you?”

The cellist frowned slightly, Vinyl’s quick change of topic not escaping her notice. “Yes, actually. Ma and my parents would probably get along swimmingly. Though I’d have to meet Pa to make a proper judgment call.”

Vinyl snorted. “Lucky.”

A dark green stallion trotted up to their table, levitating two plates in his magic. He put down the food: Octavia’s salad and a pizza that practically dripped with oil and cheese.

“You’re back, huh,” said the stallion with a slight frown.

“You owe me ten bits, old colt,” replied Vinyl.

Pa snorted. “And you owe me fifty.”

“Hey! I’m buying something, aren’t I?”

That coaxed a small smile out of Pa. “Yeah, you are. Eat up, enjoy it. I’ll take the ten bits out of your bill.” The stallion acknowledged Octavia with a nod and then leaned in and whispered something to Vinyl. Pa trotted back to the kitchens.

Vinyl pulled away a slice of her pizza, strings of cheese stretching nearly half a foot away. She looked up at Octavia and smirked.

“What?” asked the cellist.

“Nothing,” said the DJ slyly. “So, what’s your judgment call?”

Octavia considered it for a moment. “It would help if I knew what Pa told you.”

Vinyl grinned. “He said that we looked cute together.”

The DJ’s grin only widened as Octavia grew progressively redder. A few tables away, an eavesdropping composer pumped his hoof.

The cellist kept her head down, taking a few pieces of fruit from her salad. “And… what do you think?” she asked quietly.

Vinyl’s eyes widened from behind her shades. “Wh—What was that?”

“Nothing,” said Octavia quickly. “Nothing. We should eat before the food gets cold.”

Vinyl decided not to mention that Octavia was eating a cold salad. The DJ glanced over at Harpo who had, at this point, put down his newspaper. He gestured for Vinyl to keep talking.

“Well,” said the unicorn as she ran a hoof through her mane. “I’m sure that you’d make anything cute.” That was smooth, right? I think that was a good compliment.

Octavia smiled. “Thank you Vinyl.”

“Anytime, cutie.” The unicorn winked. “And, of course, everything gets a little more awesome when I’m there.”

“Of course.”

Vinyl wasn’t done. “So if we were together, we’d probably be one of the coolest things in Equestria. Well, even more than we are already.”

Octavia picked at her food.

Yeah, thought Vinyl, I probably messed that up. Well, she hasn’t left the table so… that’s a good thing.

Octavia’s mind was in a somewhat more chaotic state. Vinyl likes me. Unless she’s joking. But she probably wasn’t joking. Unless she was. Would she joke about something like this? Yes. Undoubtedly. But the real question is whether or not she’s joking at this very moment! Dear Celestia, I’m acting like a teenage filly. Honestly, I’m a grown mare; I should be able to handle things like this easily! All I have to do is ask her whether or not she’s serious. And then things would build from there.

But if Octavia had learned anything in her relatively short time as an adult it was that teenage problems were still very real in the adult world. She had not gained a sudden sense of clarity on her eighteenth birthday. Indeed, things had only become more confusing when she entered adulthood.

And so, Octavia Philharmonica kept her eyes on her salad.

Vinyl felt a shroud of disappointment fall on her. A few stray tears threatened to fall from her eyes. Hell no. There’s no way in hell that I’m crying right now. I’ve dealt with disappointment before. And she didn’t cry.

The rest of the meal passed in relative silence, punctuated only by various attempts at small talk. These conversations would only last for two or three responses. Without speech, lunch didn’t even last an hour.

The two mares bid their goodbyes to Ma and Pa. Vinyl found that Pa had indeed taken off the promised ten bits. Vinyl and Octavia walked out onto the busy Canterlot streets.

It was nearly three o’ clock. The Sun hadn’t even set yet.

The two stood awkwardly outside of the diner.

“So,” said Vinyl. “What’s next?”

“I’m… not sure. You don’t have any ideas?”

Vinyl shook her head.

“Then I suppose that I’ll be heading home… Do you really not have a suggestion?”

Vinyl shook her head again. “No.” I wish I did though.

Octavia nodded sadly. “In that case, thank you for brunch, Vinyl. It was lovely.”

“Don’t mention it,” said the DJ, fiddling with the receipt.

The cellist began to walk away. Vinyl noticed some writing on the receipt’s back. ‘Ma and I saw you looking at her. Don’t let her get away. – Pa’

The unicorn read those two sentences at least three times before the meaning set in. She raced to catch up to Octavia.

“Hey Tavi!” shouted Vinyl. She skidded to a stop beside the cellist. “Look, there isn’t much to do right now but that’s because it’s only the afternoon! I’m actually doing a set tonight so, ummm… If you want to come?” I really lost steam towards the end there.

Octavia arched an eyebrow, but the questioning effect was lessened by her slowly growing smile. “You’re doing a ‘set’ today? The day right before a performance?”

“It’s a short one!” protested Vinyl. “Only about an hour and a half. It’ll be over by nine, so I’ll be fresh for tomorrow. So what do you say?”

“I’d love to, Vinyl.”

Yes! The DJ was practically hopping in her mind. She’s coming~, she thought in a sing-song voice. She’s coming~. “So, um, pick you up a little before seven?” Dear Celestia, I’m so smooth I should be a criminal.

Octavia nodded. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” She trotted off.

“Very nice, Vinyl,” said Harpo as he materialized at the DJ’s side. “I nearly thought that the day was over after your little brunch fiasco.”

I’ll assume that a fiasco is bad. “Hey, it wasn’t super bad! We ate and everything!”

Harpo considered this for a moment. “Yes, it could have been worse. Good job.” He patted the unicorn’s head.

Vinyl ground her hoof into his side.

“Ow!” The composer rubbed at the point of impact. “Okay, point taken. Now, let’s move on to bigger problems.”

“Problems?”

“Yes, my dear miscreant, problems.” He paused dramatically. “You just invited Octavia. Octavia Philharmonica. Miss Prim and Proper herself! To a nightclub.”

Vinyl waved a dismissive hoof. “Oh come on; it’s just a club! Even Octavia won’t have a problem with going to a—“ The realization hit the DJ like a whale fired by an atlatl. “Oh, buck. Octy’s going to a club.”
> The Nightclub
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I still can’t believe you’re wearing that.”

“My bowtie is essentially a part of me, Vinyl. It sets me apart.”

Vinyl snorted. “Yeah, especially because it’s a bowtie. Nopony in all of Equestria wears bowties except for you. I’m pretty sure that nopony in all of Equestria would wear a bowtie except for you.”

“Harpo wears a bowtie.”

“So?”

“Well, I just contradicted your statement.”

The DJ shook her head. “Sorry Tavi. Harpo’s lame. Ipso Facto, he can’t be used as an example.”

Octavia sighed. “Your logic, as per usual, is flawless.”

Vinyl laughed slightly, purposefully bumping into the cellist. “Yup. You should take a lesson from this, Octy. Never argue with me; it doesn’t work out.”

The two mares turned a corner and were greeted by the sight of a teeming line of ponies. Most of them were young, looking barely old enough to be allowed entrance to a nightclub. A few others were obviously too young. They glanced from side to side, daring somepony to challenge their age.

Octavia stopped at the very end of the seemingly endless line. Vinyl walked on for a few more steps, skidding to a stop when she noticed that she was walking alone.

The DJ arched an eyebrow. “Tavi, what are you doing?”

“Waiting patiently. I’m not entirely sure why I took you up on your offer; it will take the rest of the evening to get anywhere near… where we’re going.” Octavia couldn’t bring herself to admit that she was going to a ‘club.’

Vinyl smirked, trotting over to the grey mare and throwing a hoof over her back. “Tavi, baby—“

“Don’t call me that.”

“Tavi, baby,” repeated Vinyl with a widening smirk, “you’re with DJ-PON3. Even better, you’re with DJ-PON3 at a club. A club that I’m playing at! Tavi, baby—“

“I’d still rather prefer that you didn’t call me that.”

“We’re practically royalty!” Vinyl nudged Octavia out of the line. “C’mon, no waiting for us!” The unicorn trotted ahead, the cellist following at a more self-concious pace. Octavia could swear that the ponies waiting in line were trying to kill her with glares. She nervously adjusted her bowtie.

This isn’t what I expected, thought the cellist. It’s too cliché, like something I’d see in one of those gritty movies Harpo enjoys watching. Sunglasses and leather, slicked back manes and mares wearing far too much make up. The only thing missing is the overly muscular bouncer standing by the doorway in a too tight black suit.

Vinyl’s voice forced Octavia out of her thoughts. “Don’t worry about her, she’s with me.”

The cellist turned, finding herself face to face with quite possibly the largest pony she had ever seen. The bouncer was snow white, his mane cut short in a kind of blonde buzz cut. He was also positively ripping with muscle. As in, he waddled instead of walked and would probably never be able to scratch an itch on his back kind of muscled. It was rather terrifying.

The entire effect was slightly diminished when Octavia noticed that the bouncer’s wings were practically nonexistent. The pegasus snorted and Octavia could have sworn that she saw steam come from his nostrils.

Vinyl tapped the monster of a pony on the shoulder. “Hey, so are you gonna let us through or what?”

The bouncer looked Octavia over one more time. He frowned slightly. The cellist offered a sheepish smile. The pegasus reared onto his hind hooves and brought his forehooves closer to his body. His eyes seemed to bulge slightly as he opened his mouth and shouted, “YEAH!”

Octavia nearly had a heart attack.

The bouncer noticed this, his cheeks turning slightly pink as he coughed into his hoof. “I mean, yeah, go right ahead.” He unhooked a velvet rope and pushed the door open for the two mares. The cellist was looking particularly frazzled, her eyes glancing nervously from side to side as she fiddled with her bowtie. The bouncer frowned sadly as Octavia passed.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I get carried away.”

The grey mare’s eyes widened slightly. She had not been expecting an apology; Octavia wasn’t even completely sure how to respond.

Vinyl stepped up, patting the bouncer softly. “It’s alright. She’s a bit uptight anyway; the scare probably loosened her up a little.”

The mountainous pony smiled warmly and cast another worried glance at Octavia. The cellist smiled in return.

“See?” said the DJ. “No harm done. C’mon Tavi.” She led the way into the club. “Oh, and keep up the good work Snowflake!”

“YEAH!” came the hearty acknowledgement.

The door closed and the mares found themselves in a short hallway. Another set of double doors stood a few steps away.

“You ready for your first club Tavi?” asked Vinyl excitedly. “Dude, it’s gonna be so awesome! I mean, it’ll be really loud and crowded and stuff, but it’s so fun if you can get past all of that!” A note of worry crept into her voice. “But if you ever want to leave, just say so, okay? I might not be your scene… It’d be really cool if you had fun, but you might not.” There was a slight pause. The DJ shook her head, trying to dislodge her doubts. “But no worries! Um, unless you want to ask me anything before we actually go in?”

“His name is Snowflake?” she asked.

“What?”

“Snowflake. That muscle-bound mountain of a pony who could send somepony into cardiac arrest with a glance is named… Snowflake.”  Octavia simply couldn’t wrap her head around it.

“YEAH!” shouted Vinyl.

The cellist squealed and jumped slightly. She recovered quickly, however, and threw a glare at the DJ.

The DJ in question grinned. “I mean, yeah. Well, actually no. Snowflake’s not his real name but we all call him that. Anyway, he’s a real softie once you get to know him so Snowflake fits just as well.”

“But what’s his actual name?”

Vinyl took a moment to think, her mind flashing through all of the various ponies she had met in her relatively brief life. She shrugged. “I dunno. It never really came up.”

“You don’t know his name?!”

“Yes!” said Vinyl proudly. “His name is Snowflake! That’s the nickname I gave him, so what other name matters?” She nudged Octavia playfully. “Isn’t that right Octy slash Tavi?”

The cellist sighed. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because you love~ me,” purred the DJ as she trotted to the next set of doors. Vinyl didn’t notice the deep red creep into Octavia’s face. A shame, as the unicorn would have found it absolutely adorable.

As it was, Vinyl was more considered with throwing open the doors in as dramatic a manner as possible. She had been planning this moment ever since she had first asked Octavia to the nightclub. The DJ wanted it to be special.

“Welcome,” said Vinyl as she glanced back to Octavia, “to my world.” She flung the doors open.
There was a flood of music and light. The doors seemed to lead to an entirely different universe, one where dancing ponies were little more than a teeming shadow under multi-colored flashing lights. The music resounded across the room, blared from multiple speakers. It was a force, almost tangible as it forced the dancers to move and twist. Octavia flattened her ears, believing for a moment that the throbbing music had burst her eardrums.

Vinyl grinned widely. Anypony who could see past her shades would have ran screaming at the manic glee in her scarlet eyes. She grabbed Octavia by the hoof. “Let’s go!” the DJ shouted over the noise. “C’mon Tavi, follow the queen into her land!”

The unicorn led the way, skirting the dance floor as she walked towards an open table. Octavia winced with each step, partly from the construction noise that seemed to pass for music and partly from the sight of ponies grinding and gyrating against each other.

The cellist felt like a disapproving old mare by the time she sat down.

Vinyl placed a hoof on Octavia’s shoulder and shouted something.

Is it just me, wondered the grey mare, or is Vinyl being far more… physical today?

The DJ shouted again, but her words were quickly snatched away by what sounded like a power drill.

Octavia pointed a hoof at her ears and then gestured towards the club’s many speakers.

Vinyl facehoofed, and a small pearl-white aura surrounded her horn. The cellist felt a slight tickle in her ear before, with a slight pop, the music faded to a more tolerable volume.

“Better?” asked the DJ.

Octavia nodded, kneading her ears with a hoof in an attempt to stop their ringing.

Vinyl turned slightly pink. C’mon PON-3, this is your domain. Take a chance. What’s that thing that Doc says? Allons-y? Well, allons-y Vinyl!

“Hey,” Vinyl’s voice cracked. Buck.

The cellist looked up, still trying to get the sound out of her ears.

Welp, thought Vinyl, no use in chickening out now. She slid into the seat next to Octavia. “Here, let me help you.” The DJ leaned in slightly, feeling her heart pound in her throat. She blew lightly into the cellist’s ear.

Octavia felt all of her blood rush into her head. Wha—She—Ear. I… I can’t brain. The cellist felt her eyes close of their own accord. She didn’t even notice when Vinyl had drawn back.

A few moments passed in silence.

“Um… Octy?” asked Vinyl hesitantly.

“Mmmm?” came Octavia’s semi-intelligible response.

“You’re not gonna kill me now, are you? I’m supposed to play this set and they aren’t gonna pay me until I actually play so… dying would be bad.”

“Mmmm,” replied Octavia, as she allowed her head to come into contact with the table. Cold… Cold feels good.

Vinyl grinned savagely. Hehehe, I think I found a weak spot. She leaned in again, bringing her mouth as close as she could to the cellist’s ear. “Hey, Octy,” she breathed.

Octavia jumped again, her head making full contact with Vinyl. The DJ was sent reeling, clutching at her muzzle as she bit back a stream of highly creative curses.

The cellist felt herself hit something. Hard. Octavia turned around in time to see Vinyl fall from her seat. A moment of heart-stopping worry coursed through Octavia.

The DJ looked up, a hoof pressed against her muzzle. “You… you headbutted me. I think I’m bleeding.” She brought her hoof out and looked at it, expecting to see some drops of blood. There wasn’t even a speck. So she tried again, touching her muzzle and holding her hoof out. And again. And again.

“Okay, so I’m not bleeding,” said Vinyl. “But you still have to make up for striking me.”

Octavia had gotten over her earlier worry. “You deserved it! In fact, I think you deserve worse!”

Vinyl smiled sweetly. “I think you should kiss it and make it better.”

“No.”

“Just a peck? C’mon Tavi! Your hard head could have killed me and you won’t even give me a little kiss?”

The cellist scowled, trying to hide the blush that was creeping over her face. “No Vinyl. Not after you blew into my ear like that.”

“But you liked it!” protested the DJ.

“No, Vinyl!”

The unicorn grinned slyly and drew closer. Octavia tried to back away but found her path blocked by a wall.

“W—what are you doing?” stammered the cellist.

“Oh nothing. I’m just wondering how long I could blow into your ear before I got you to kiss my wound.” Vinyl batted her eyes. The overall effect was diminished by her glasses.

“You wouldn’t dare,” replied Octavia.

The DJ leaned toward the cellist’s ear, thoughts of evil dancing in her head. She took one deep breath. Which Vinyl promptly lost as Octavia kissed her directly on her sore muzzle.

The cellist was blushing fiercely. She seemed to have spent most of the day in that sort of state. “Happy?” she asked in a soft voice.

Vinyl held up a hoof. She closed her eyes, trying to make sense of her thoughts.

“Vinyl? Are you okay?”

“I… just… time. Give me a little…” The DJ’s voice trailed off.

Octavia frowned, worrying over the idea that she had misread Vinyl. She might have been joking; one can never tell with this mare! Oh, dear Luna; I just made a foal of myself didn’t I? The grey mare was quite prepared to melt into the floor.

Vinyl felt the last bit of her mind reboot. “Happy? You want to know if I’m happy?” She grinned wildly. “Tavi, you have no idea.” She took off her glasses and met Octavia’s gaze directly; her grin never faltering in the slightest. After a time, the cellist smiled back.

“Listen, Octy,” continued the DJ. “This is really nice, like really really nice. Like I’m trying really hard to make sure that my words form into word… chains…”

“Sentences?” offered Octavia.

“Sentences! Sentences that make sense. I mean, it’s been a lot of fun, but I was wondering if you’d—“

“There you are!” said a bright, Canterlotian voice. The Doctor trotted over to their table. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Vinyl. Hello Octavia.”

Octavia nodded her greeting. The DJ silently fumed.

“Vinyl,” continued the Doctor, “your turn starts in about three minutes so you should start walking up to the turntables. I thought you should know that.”

Vinyl let out a huff. “You and your Celestia-damned timing, Doc.” She stormed off towards the dance floor, keen on finishing her set as quickly as possible.

The Doctor turned to Octavia. “What happened? Did I do something wrong? I feel like I’ve done something wrong. It’s not a good feeling.”

“I’m sure you’re fine Doctor.”

“Well of course I’m fine! I’m always fine, even when somepony like Vinyl, well not like Vinyl as it’s Vinyl that I’m talking about, throws me a glare more terror inducing than the Vashta Nerada!”

“Vashta… Nerada?” asked Octavia.

“I’ll tell you later. Maybe,” he added under his breath. “No, the more pressing issue is why our loveable goof of a DJ is angry it me. Octavia, what happened right before I got to this table?”

The cellist sputtered for some time. Do I lie? No, that would be a horrid course of action! Besides, I’m not entirely sure that it’s possible to lie to him.

“Ooooooh,” said the Doctor in sudden realization. “You kissed her, didn’t you? Yes, all of the signs are there. Look, you’re reddening as I speak!”

Octavia felt herself sink lower and lower into her seat.

“Well, it’s about time! Though it’s a bit of a shame that I can’t repay my debt.” The Doctor shrugged. “But what can you do?”

The cellist looked through her haze of embarrassment. “A debt, Doctor?”

“Oh, yes! Has she not told you yet? I figure that you, of all ponies, would have asked Vinyl how she came to her present state in life before you kissed her!” The stallion tutted jokingly. “Naughty, naughty, Octavia Philharmonica.”

Octavia sharply hit the table. “Doctor, I’d appreciate if you’d stop broaching this subject.” There was an unusual degree of steel in her voice.

The Doctor held up his hooves. “Right. Crossed the line. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Just please, don’t pressure me over something as trivial as my love life.”

The Doctor put a hoof to his forehead in a kind of salute. “Understood.”

The two sat in silence, the Doctor quite content within his own mind and Octavia rather preoccupied with the sight of a certain DJ.

Vinyl Scratch skirted around the dance floor, reaching the turntables just as the previous DJ, a green colt, finished up his song. The two seemed to speak for a very short time, perhaps just enough for Vinyl to offer a congratulations and a hoof bump, before they separated.

Octavia watched as Vinyl took her place at the top of a slightly raised platform, her form largely obscured by the turntables. DJ-PON3 was wearing the widest grin Octavia had ever seen.

“Have you ever heard her play?” asked the Doctor.

The cellist shook her head. “Do you think that I frequent these locations?”

The stallion laughed. “Fair point. I’ve never been good at small talk. Anyway, you’re in for a treat. Well, as soon as Vinyl lowers her soundproofing spell.”

“How did you know about that?”

The Doctor laughed again and winked. “I think I’ll get a drink; they’re complimentary to anypony who works here. Including technicians for rambunctious DJs. Care for anything?”

“No, but thank you for the—“

“WASSUP, EVERYPONY?!” Vinyl’s voice came crashing over the entire club. Octavia jerked backwards, slamming her head into the wall. The Doctor laughed and took out a pair of earplugs.

“You’re lucky Vinyl hasn’t lowered her spell,” said the stallion as he extended the small bits of plastic. His voice was nearly drowned out by the club’s roar of approval.

“ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD TIME?!” shouted Vinyl.

Another roar. Octavia hastily shoved the earplugs into place. The Doctor trotted off to the bar.
The DJ levitated a record into place. A dull throb filled every bit of the nightclub. It seemed to push out every other sound. For the first time in a long time, everything in that club was silent.

“Well,” said Vinyl in a hushed tone. “It’s about to get a hell of a lot better.” The music picked up slightly, layer upon layer of sound building over the bass. The DJ’s voice rose with the music. “Because who’s behind the turntables today?”

A few devout club hoppers whispered, “DJ-PON3.”

“Who’s behind the table today?!” insisted Vinyl.

Another response, this time louder and joined by more voices, “DJ-PON3.”

“WHO’S BEHIND THE TABLE TODAY?!”

Vinyl’s music hit its highest point as she asked her question. The music cut off suddenly, replaced by a robotic voice. “DJ-PON3,” said the voice just as the crowd shouted the same name.

The DJ held up her hooves as the ponies on the dance floor cheered stomped the ground for her. Then she brought her hoof down on the turntables.

“DROP IT!” she shouted. Her music came into full swing, a steady bass overlaid by a teeming mass of notes that somehow meshed together. The crowd had completely lost themselves, jumping like maniacs and waving their hooves in the air. They danced without reservation, not caring about whether the other ponies judged them or whatever image they had tried to maintain by going out to a nightclub. A few ponies, in the heat of the moment, kissed in the middle of the dance floor. Others were flailing wildly and accidentally punched a few ponies.

And presiding over it all with a wide grin as she manipulated knobs and slides and deftly switched out records, was DJ-PON3 herself.

Octavia marveled at Vinyl. Of course, the unicorn’s music was terrible; it grated on Octavia’s ears and literally rattled her teeth. She could only bare it because of her earplugs and the fact that Vinyl herself was playing the ‘music.’

From a technical point of view, however, it was incredible. The cellist understood that composing that genre of music must require as much skill as composing for a complete orchestra. Still, thought Octavia, it sounds positively horrid.

She never did notice her back hoof tap along to the bass.

The Doctor settled back into his seat, now armed with a glass of water. “Amazing, isn’t she?”
Octavia nodded, unable to take her eyes off of the bundle of energy that was the DJ. “Like nothing I’ve seen before,” she replied wistfully.
 

***


Vinyl plopped down into an empty seat. She was flushed and sweating, but grinning from ear to ear. “So, what did you think, Tavi? Have you fallen in love after seeing my awesome DJ-ness?”

Octavia smiled wryly. “Oh, indeed. I’m practically yours, Vinyl.”

The DJ waggled her eyebrows, feeling especially daring after her highly successful set. She could still hear the crowd chanting her name. “Well, then you won't say no to going on an actual date with me sometime this week, right?”

The cellist felt her heart beat faster. She tried to go over the implications of an actual date. Well, it’s pretty obvious that she’s attracted to me and I feel the same way for her, but is this proper? I mean, there are so many things that can go—

The Doctor gently kicked Octavia. He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to Vinyl. The unicorn’s grin had been slowly diminishing as Octavia hesitated, though Vinyl did her best to maintain her bright attitude.

“Well,” said Vinyl, “you shouldn’t feel pressured or anything. You only have to come if you really want to. Personally, I really wish that you want to. I think it would be awesome, but if you don’t then…” She shrugged, trying to fake nonchalance but a note of worry and future sadness tinged her voice. “Well, what can you do about it?”

Octavia steeled herself, unsure of how Vinyl would react. It’s probably best to get it over with now and deal with the consequences later. “Vinyl… I’d love to.”

The DJ’s mouth hung open. The Doctor reached over and shut it for her. And then Vinyl’s grin returned, brighter and wider than ever. “That’s awesome,” she whispered. “That’s so awesome. This is So. Freaking. Awesome!” She got to her hooves and trotted in place. “Ohmigosh, Tavi I’m so glad that you said yes. This is gonna be so much fun! I swear, Octy, it’ll be one of the coolest days ever.” She stammered slightly. “Not that I want to get your hopes up or anything, cuz it might be really bad! Not that it’ll be really bad! I’m just saying that it’s a possibility that—“

“Vinyl?”

“Yes Tavi?”

“Shut up.”

“Yes Tavi.”

There was a loud pop right behind their table. All three ponies turned around and found Harpo sitting in the table next to theirs, holding a freshly uncorked bottle of champagne. “Well, it’s about time one of you said something! I thought that I was going to drink this by myself.” He gave the label a cursory glance. “Not that I’d mind doing that. My liver would, but I wouldn’t.”

“Harpo,” said Octavia. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“Too long, my dear cellist. I really have to pee.” The composer put down the bottle and four flute glasses. “Also, I put this on your tab Vinyl. Hope you don’t mind.”

Vinyl laughed. “Harpbutt, you’re an asshole.”

Harpo winked. “The mares love it. Now, I really do have to pee.” And with those graceful words, Harpo trotted off to the little colt’s room.

The DJ levitated the bottle, filling each glass with the bubbling alcohol. She threw back her glass in a single gulp before turning towards Octavia with a cheeky grin. “So, Tavi, how about a dance to celebrate our date?”

The cellist sipped her own champagne. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Drink up,” replied Vinyl, “the night is young. You already decided to go on a date with me; you can’t possibly make a worse decision tonight!”
> The First Show
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Canterlot weather team had outdone themselves that day. The sun was bright, the clouds were just high enough to provide shade without disrupting the day and a wonderful slight breeze seemed to whisper promises of a great day.

It was the kind of bright and shining day that an optimistic, and likely highly caffeinated, unicorn would burst into song about.

But at the moment, Vinyl Scratch was neither optimistic or highly caffeinated. She was pissed. One whole night of drinking had left her with a hangover; one of the worst ones that she had experienced in recent memory.

And the Sun! The Celestia-damned sun was shining right through a gap in the curtains and into Vinyl’s unshielded eyes. The DJ moaned in pain and turned over, trying to escape that infernal beam of light.

It didn’t work. Vinyl could literally feel that single ray of sunshine shining onto her, heating a square inch of her coat by a few degrees. It was really uncomfortable. Worst part was, her head hurt too badly to use her magic! She couldn’t even get back to sleep!

Vinyl scooted across her bed, trying to get away from the light. “Damn, Sun. Damn day,” she grumbled all the way. “Stupid birds and their damn tweeting. Let DJ go back to sleep tim—Umph!” The DJ’s ramblings were cut short as she crashed into something soft.

Spider webs, she thought to herself. Giant spider trying to eat me. Still better than that sunlight. She nuzzled deeper into the threads. I didn’t know spiders smelled good.

“Vinyl,” said the spider web. “We’re not doing this again are we?”

The DJ shook her head slightly, giggling as Octavia’s mane brushed her muzzle. “Just go with it. It’s cute. And I’m sleepy. And hungover… I think I’m gonna barf.”

“Charming,” deadpanned the cellist.

“But I already feel a lot better. Wanna know why?”

“Why is that, Vinyl?”

“I woke up next to you.”

Octavia giggled. “That was one of the sweetest, most clichéd things I’ve ever heard.”

“Nothing but the big guns for you, Octy baby.”

“Please don’t call me that,” the grey mare protested weakly.

Vinyl chuckled, feeling herself slip back into sleep. She breathed in deeply, taking in a scent that was uniquely Octavia’s. “Tavi?”

“Mmmm?” replied the cellist, clearly succumbing to drowsiness herself.

“Tell me that I’m not dreaming. Last night’s just a blur; please tell me that we’ve actually got a date coming up and I’m not just imagining it.”

“It wasn’t a dream. I remember everything. Including the drinking competition you forced me into. And the ‘dancing’.” Octavia yawned. “I would hit you if it weren’t such a nice morning.”

Vinyl laughed again, wincing as her head throbbed from the sudden exertion. She reached a hoof over and nudged Octavia’s ribs, eliciting a slight squeak. “I remember that part. I didn’t know you could drink that much. You can’t dance though.”

“That wasn’t dancing. That was a group of ponies having a fit. I’ll show you proper dancing one day.”

“Will that be on our second date?” asked Vinyl hopefully.

Octavia considered this for a moment. The words had just come out; she hadn’t really thought of what they would imply. Though I suppose that it only makes sense. After all, a dance is a rather common setting for a date.

“Octy,” said Vinyl, interrupting Octavia flow of thoughts, “why do you think so much?”

The cellist raised an eyebrow. “Is that a bad thing?”

The DJ yawned and scratched at her muzzle. “Yup. Thinking sucks. Sometimes it’s better to just… y’know, go with it.”

Octavia decided not to protest. The morning was too bright and the moment too nice to ruin with an argument. Although the room could do with a bit of a cleaning. The cellist blanched and looked around.

“Vinyl,” she asked. “Is this your home?”

The unicorn answered with a soft snore.

Octavia reached her hoof back and gave Vinyl a weak smack. The DJ jerked upwards before sinking back, overcome by nausea.

Vinyl groaned. “I think that I really am gonna hurl.”

“Please hold it in. Is this your home, Vinyl?”

The DJ groaned and rolled her eyes. She lifted her head slightly and timidly glanced from place to place.  It was a bedroom and it was relatively messy, but nowhere near the degree of untidiness of Vinyl’s room.

“I have no memory of this place,” said the unicorn.

Octavia nodded silently.

It’s a rather compromising position to be in someone else’s home. Especially when you can’t remember who that person is or why you’ve woken up in their bedroom. It’s even worse when you can hear somebody approaching said bedroom from the other side of a closed door.

“Vinyl,” said Octavia in a worried and slightly deranged voice, “pick something up. Preferably something heavy.”

“Do I have to get out of bed?”

That earned her a smack.

“Fine, fine,” said Vinyl as she reached over the side of the bed. Her hoof hit something hard and rectangular. “This’ll probably work.”

Octavia had done the same on her own side, and was currently hefting what looked like an empty inkwell.

The door creaked open slowly. Vinyl decided to spare a glance at the object in her hooves. It was a hardcover book, its leather cover lovingly worn down. The most eye-catching detail, however, was the ornamental gold-leaf title. Written, in perfect cursive, were the words ‘Harpo’s Journal.’

Harpo himself burst through the bedroom door, carrying a tray of pancakes and orange juice. “Good morning lovebird—OH SHIT!” The composer ducked back through the door, just as an empty and very heavy inkwell bashed against the wall.

The stallion’s pleading voice sounded from behind the door. “I swear, I didn’t put anything in the pancakes this time!”

Vinyl turned towards a very embarrassed Octavia. She held up Harpo’s journal. “I think this is Harpo’s house.”

The cellist’s ears drooped and she began to slide deeper into the covers. “Well… I’m going to go into hiding for a few days.”

“Was I interrupting?” asked Harpo from behind his own cover. “Because I really don’t want to walk in on something like that. Put your bowtie on the doorknob next time, Octavia. And burn the bed when you’re done. I’ll leave the food out here.”

Each sentence made the cellist burn a brighter shade of pink. Vinyl laughed.

“Hey, Harpbutt!” she called. “Bring the food over here or I’ll read your journal!”

Harpo poked his head into the room. “A journal?” he scoffed. “What makes you think I have a journal?”

Vinyl held up what was clearly marked as ‘Harpo’s Journal.’

“You have no proof,” replied Harpo.

Vinyl tapped the words ‘Harpo’s Journal.’

“There’s no way that’ll hold up in court.”

Vinyl threw Harpo’s Journal at Harpo.

The composer attempted a neat catch, but failed miserably. He rolled his eyes and picked his journal up from the floor. “Anyway,” he said, walking into the room with his tray of pancakes, “I just wanted to make sure that you two aren’t dead.” Harpo unfolded a pair of legs from the tray and placed it before the mares. “And Vinyl, I am rather surprised at you!”

The DJ, who had a forkful of pancakes mid-way to her mouth, froze. “Why? What did I do? Did I kill somepony?”

Harpo shook his head. “No. That, actually, would have been less impressive. You, my dear unicorn, not only got Octavia to loosen up, but you didn’t die of alcohol poisoning!” He beamed proudly. “Go on, eat your pancakes, you deserve them.”

Vinyl grinned and immediately stuffed her face. Of course, she quickly regretted that decision as her nausea nearly made her spit breakfast back out.

Harpo hit Octavia’s leg. “And you! Get your head out of that pillow; it’s not like you killed me! I mean, you almost killed me, but you’ve threatened to do that pretty much every day that I’ve known you! So get up!”

Octavia threw a rather fluffy pillow aside. “Fine. But next time, warn me that I’m going to wake up in a bed that’s not my own!”

“Well,” replied the composer, “excuse me for dragging you and Vinyl, both of who were nearly unconscious, into my home, tucking you into bed, sleeping on my rather uncomfortable couch, and cooking breakfast for you in the morning.”

The cellist smiled slightly. “I forget how kind you can be, Harpo.”

The stallion snorted. “Kind? Of course not! I’m an ‘asshole,’ remember?” He took a sip of Octavia’s orange juice. “I don’t believe in being kind.” Harpo decided that he had made a suitably dramatic appearance. The composer walked back outside.

Vinyl smirked. “He’s a real softy, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is. Though it’s rather obvious why he doesn’t have a marefriend.”

Harpo poked his head back into the room. “I heard that. Oh, and drink your orange juice; you have about two hours to get to the Lighthouse Café. Ta-ta!” He grinned and popped back out.

Vinyl and Octavia simultaneously turned to a clock.

Then they turned towards each other.

There were a few beats of silence.

Both mares dove into their food, draining their glasses and demolishing their pancake stacks.

“Bowtie! Where in Equestria did I leave my bowtie?!”

“My glasses, my glasses! I can’t be seen without my glasses!”
 

***


One hour and forty-five minutes later, two frazzled mares and a grinning composer walked into the Lighthouse Café. Harpo, as an apparent punishment for not waking up the mares earlier had been forced to carry Octavia’s bass.

He found this highly amusing.

The Café was in full swing. Quite literally, in fact.  A few of the less inhibited and slightly more inebriated ponies were up and dancing. The rest were enjoying their meal, having a conversation with the others at their table, or watching the drunken, dancing ponies. There was a general pleasant murmur underneath the swing music.

A brass band was playing on stage, an assortment of multi-colored ponies in multi-colored dress shirts turning in time with the music they played. Even the tuba was swinging; a very difficult feat, considering that the tuba must have weighed just as much as the pony playing it.

Harpo’s grin evaporated. “Come on, come on!” he whispered to Octavia and Vinyl. “We need to get backstage! There’s only fifteen minutes until we have to play!”

Octavia nodded and the three trotted around the side of the stage and to the back. Harpo breathed a sigh of relief.

“There you are!” shouted the Doctor as the three made their way backstage. “Do you not realize how close you are to being late?!”

Vinyl shrugged. “But we’re here.”

“Yes, but—“ the Doctor sputtered, trying to find the right words. “But it’s the thought that counts!”

The DJ chuckled slightly and brushed past the stallion. “Good point, Doc.” Octavia followed, giving the Doctor an apologetic glance as she passed.

The technician facehoofed. “I need a vacation. I’ve never needed one before, but I think I need one now. Maybe I’ll save some kind of alien race; that would be a lot less stressful than working with the lot of you.”

Harpo smiled sympathetically. “At least they’re not making you carry a needlessly large block of wood.” The composer ducked under the bass’s strap, precariously balancing the instrument on his back.

“Harpo,” warned Octavia, “if that bass falls, you will be a needlessly large block of wood.”

“Octavia, that doesn’t even make sense,” protested the composer.

“Test me and it will.”

Harpo, secretly terrified of Octavia’s threat, carefully laid the bass onto its side.

“Ten minutes,” said the Doctor.

A certain feeling fell upon the musicians. It’s difficult to put into words. There was a certain tension in the air, one that was only magnified by the occasional pluck of a bass’s strings. It wasn’t nervousness, nor was it anxiousness. There was definite concentration, but none of the three could have told you what it was they were concentrating on.

Not that it mattered to them. No, the only thing that mattered was their performance.

The swing music came to an end. The Café customers applauded, a few adding in wolf whistles and cheers. Some moments passed as the brass band put away their instruments.

The Doctor waved them onstage.

There were no introductions, no polite applause. The mumble, ever-present during the swing number, seemed to have died down slightly. Even the group of ponies in the back, who had reached the point of laughter that rendered them incapable of doing anything more than clapping like seals, were taking a break from their revelries.

It seemed as though everypony in the Lighthouse Café was watching the musicians take their places. 

Octavia looked around. In the back, loaded into a booth was the group. In the center was a couple, a fresh bouquet of roses between them. The ponies sitting near the stage had a more intent look in their eyes; they were there for the music and, by Celestia, they would be blogging about every single performance they heard.

A wry smile shaped the cellist’s lips. This concert was completely different from anything she had ever played before. She tapped her back left hoof twice, balancing herself against her double bass.

It’s so different, she thought to herself, not that that’s a bad thing.

Vinyl took center stage, grabbing the microphone in her magic. Sometime before getting onstage she had taken off her glasses. She surveyed the crowd, locking eyes with anypony she saw looking back. She looked over her shoulder, giving a brief smile to Octavia and Harpo, who sat on the piano bench.

The DJ-turned-singer turned back towards the audience and tapped a beat out on the floor.
 

Oh, the heart. Beeeeeats. In its. Caaaaage. 


The performance had begun.

Harpo took his cue, coaxing a winding tune from his piano. Octavia followed suit, providing more subtle harmonies to the overall song.

Vinyl’s voice soared over all of it. She twitched in beat to the song, bobbing her head and tapping her hoof as she sang, her voice growing in intensity as the song went on.

The Café came back to life. The group in the back resumed their jokes, the couple in the middle went back to glancing at each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking, and those closest to the stage leaned back in their chairs, nodding to the beat and sipping their cappuccinos.

The first song came to a close. The audience applauded politely, a few of them chatting about the performance.

And so the night went. Harpo, Octavia, and Vinyl played about ten songs, and each one seemed to make the crowd warm up to them more and more. A few ponies shouted out requests. Every time that this happened, Vinyl would laugh and shake her head. Then they’d move on to another song. The audience cheered louder and louder as every performance came to a close.

By the last song, that cover of On the Bound that had caused so much trouble just a few days ago, the audience got to their hooves, stamping on the ground, whistling, and quite forgetting that their meal was mostly cold.

Off towards the back, a group of ponies clapped like helpless seals.

And then the gig was over. Octavia was flushed, her hooves aching slightly and her back legs trembling from having to support her full weight. Oh, but she was satisfied. Incredibly so, in fact. This was the culmination of a whole week’s worth of arguments and practice and ill-advised time spent in a nightclub. It had been hectic and amazing, and the cellist didn’t even question when Vinyl told her that she and Harpo would finish cleaning up and the Café had set aside a table for them.

Instead, Octavia clambered down from the stage and tiredly walked to the reserved seat. She didn’t even notice Harpo move backstage, nor that he came back onto the stage with his harp in his hooves.

Vinyl turned back to her microphone, her voice tired and slightly dry from her hour or so of singing. “So, having a good time?” she asked in a far more reasonable tone than she had used at the nightclub.

A firm round of applause greeted her question.

From her place at a table, Octavia ordered a drink, wondering what exactly Vinyl had planned.

“Well, this is going to be the last song.” There was a low groan from the audience. Vinyl chuckled and winked. “But don’t worry, we’ll be back soon. I promise.” She turned to the composer. “You ready Harpo?”

The stallion nodded and Vinyl, as she had done for the past hour, gave the count. “One… Two… One, two, three, four.”

Harpo started off the song, lightly plucking at his harp’s strings. Arpeggiated chords flowed out of the instrument, shaping the music until Vinyl began to sing.


Just for a moment, the moment I saw her, I lost my breath and my lips whispered she is the one.


Octavia blinked. She could swear that the DJ was looking right at her.

The cellist hailed a passing waiter. “Pardon me, but do you have anything stronger than water? I’m currently being serenaded and I feel that a drink is rather appropriate.”

The waiter nodded and politely pointed out the alcohol section of the menu.
 
And so, Octavia was forced to sit through a song, feeling Vinyl’s soft, smiling eyes constantly turned to her. The cellist was glad when the drinks finally came. I’ve been drinking quite a bit lately, she thought to herself.

Vinyl maintained her serenade, her eyes never leaving the cellist's. A hint of a smile and the barest shadow of a blush colored Vinyl's face.

Octavia took a sip. Then again, it’s not like I’m drinking for no reason. That’s Harpo’s job. And it is a rather sweet gesture; singing for me in front of so many other ponies… Unless she’s not singing for me at all. Oh dear, I’m over-thinking again.

The final song came to an end. Vinyl and Harpo took their final bows and finished cleaning up the stage before joining Octavia at the table.

The DJ was slightly pink, though not all of it came from the heat of the spotlights. “So, Octy,” she said nervously, “what’d ya think?”

Octavia smiled. “I rather enjoyed the venue. It provides a change of pace from the more impersonal concert hall.”

“Well, that’s not what I meant. I was asking about the last song and the… you know what? Never mind. I’m happy so long as you had a good time.”

Harpo rolled his eyes and lightly rapped a hoof against Vinyl’s side.

“Ow!” cried the unicorn. “What the hell was that for?!”

“Well,” said Harpo in a slightly exasperated tone. “You weren’t going to explain yourself otherwise!”

“There’s nothing to explain! Tavi understood it, didn’t you Tavi?” Vinyl turned towards Octavia. “… You did get it, right?”

The cellist nodded, feeling a blush and a smile creep onto her face. “Yes. ‘You are what love is to me,’ isn’t exactly a subtle message.”

Vinyl laughed. “Hey, don’t look at me! Harpo picked out the song; I just wanted to sing something.”

“I think it’s a good song!” complained Harpo. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” said Octavia. “It’s just a rather… sentimental song.”

Vinyl threw a hoof around Harpo’s shoulders. “Awwwww, does somepony have wittle feewings?”

The composer shrugged the hoof off. “Well excuse me for trying to help!” he grumbled as he got to his hooves. “I’m going to go outside for a bit. You two had better share a cute moment at least once before I get back!” Harpo walked away, leaving the two mares.

There were a few moments of silence.

“Well, it wasn’t a bad song,” said Vinyl.

“Indeed. It was rather nice, in fact.”

The DJ scratched the back of her head. “This is a lot easier when I can’t hear myself think.”

Octavia smiled in a sort of agreement. The conversation lapsed back into silence.

Right, thought Vinyl, singing, check. Harpo leaves, check… Now what? Seriously, I should have way more experience with this! Why the hell can’t I just get up and do something?!

The cellist stood up and took the seat next to Vinyl.

The DJ stared at Octavia for a moment.

“What?” asked the grey mare. “Is this seat taken?”

“You’re not supposed to make a move. I’m the move maker pony.”

“Well, this seat has a better view of… the door! I enjoy watching ponies walk in and out; you can really catch the… er… essence of Canterlot?”

Vinyl seemed to freeze slightly. Then she smiled warmly and brought Octavia into a tight hug. “Tavi, you’re the most adorable thing ever.”

Octavia blushed. “Well, you and your singing caught me off guard! … That was very sweet of you, Vinyl.”

The DJ laughed softly. “That’s me… super sweet and crap. Just wait until we actually get on a date.”

The cellist smiled and pecked Vinyl’s cheek. “I can’t wait.”
 

***


Harpo kicked at the ground outside of the Lighthouse Café, sparing glances at the two mares he had left alone. He smiled when he noticed that Octavia had physically changed positions to sit next to Vinyl. And then he sighed.

“This was far too easy,” he said to himself. “I was expecting some kind of resistance. But nooooo; they’re already going on dates.”

He threw another look at the two that had ruined his fun. Octavia kissed Vinyl. Harpo grinned. It’s about time that I did something right.

“Mister Nadermane,” said a rather uptight voice.

Harpo looked up and found himself face to face with Hoity Toity.

The composer nodded. “That’s me. How can I help?” A note of caution had crept into Harpo’s voice; he knew exactly who Hoity Toity was and it was rather suspicious that he would be anywhere near a place like the Lighthouse Café.

The other stallion took on a slightly amused look. “Well, my original intent was to come here bearing a proposition for you and Miss Philharmonica. A job offer.”

“I’m afraid that we would—“

“Have respectfully declined,” finished Hoity Toity. “No, I knew that you wouldn’t take my offer; neither of you has the capacity to imagine not working with Fancy Pants. You, in particular, have heard the rather… unsavory tales regarding myself.”

It wasn’t a question. Harpo nodded anyway.

“Yes,” said the business pony, “I had thought as much. I’m here for a different reason.”

“And what’s that, Mr. Toity?” Harpo glanced back at Octavia and Vinyl. Neither of the mares had noticed; they were too wrapped up with each other.

Hoity Toity took a card from his coat pocket and offered it to Harpo. “I’m here because I will be needed. Quite soon, in fact. Fancy Pants will be calling you to his office. There will be a problem. You will tell Fancy Pants about meeting me here because of how suspicious it may seem. Give him that card.”

Harpo looked down at the scrap of paper. He nearly snorted. “Why should I listen to you? You hold the largest company in the music industry; why are you approaching me if you already have everything you want.”

“Because, Mister Nadermane, I don’t have everything I want. Nopony does. But if you take this card I assure you that both of us, and both of our companies, will serve to benefit.”

Harpo paused for a few minutes, staring into Hoity Toity’s eyes. Then he took the card. “I’ll tell Fancy Pants.”

“Good,” replied Hoity Toity. “Please don’t forget. I’d rather that your anger will be directed to the proper pony. Farewell, Mister Nadermane. My regards to Miss Philharmonica. And congratulations on Syncopated Records’ first actual show.”

“Pardon?” asked Harpo.

“Congratulations, I said,” said the business pony. “Your company has performed its first show and seems to have been a success. Congratulations.”

Harpo nodded and his eyes followed Hoity Toity as the business pony walked down the street.

“Congratulations?” repeated Harpo. “Since when does Hoity Toity give out congratulations?”

A few minutes passed as the composer considered the implications, turning the card over and over again.

Then a new notion popped into Harpo’s mind; one that had been sparked by a slight slip of Hoity Toity’s tongue.

“Syncopated Records?”
> The Problem
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vinyl Scratch found this day rather boring. She had walked around her apartment, had tried to write music, had stared through the window, she had done everything in her power to occupy her time.

And it was pointless!

There was simply nothing to do; everything seemed boring when compared to the helter-skelter last few days. The funniest part was that she had run out of energy. She had spent the last week pulling all-nighters and stressing out over the music. The DJ couldn’t even count how many corrections she had made! But now, when she had the time to work and was fully caught up on sleep, Vinyl couldn’t even convince herself to get out and head to SunBucks.

If there was one word to describe her current state, Vinyl decided that it would be bleh.

The only option was to lie down on the couch in front of her speakers and crank her music. Landlord probably won’t like it, thought Vinyl hesitantly. She shrugged. Whatever, he’s a dick anyway.

Throb went the bass. Wub wub went the rest of the music. Vinyl felt the couch shake under her, she knew that the walls were probably shaking and her neighbors were reaching for their earplugs. She snorted. I pay as much rent as they do. If I have to put up with their crappy-ass singing, they have to put up with dubstep.

And then there was another rhythm. It was wooden and rapid, not quite mixing in with the rest of the song. Vinyl’s face scrunched up slightly; she didn’t know whether she liked the new direction that this producer was going.

It’s not too bad, she thought to herself. It sounds kinda like knocking though. How awkward would it be if I opened my door because I thought somepony was knocking? she thought with a laugh.

The music, much to the relief of Vinyl’s neighbors, quieted to a lull. The knocking, however, was as insistent and annoying as ever.

With a sigh, the DJ clicked off her music and walked to the door, swinging it open to reveal a rather grim-faced composer.

“Harpo?” asked Vinyl uneasily. “What’s up?”

“Spokes is outside. Fancy Pants wants us to meet up.  Let’s go.” Harpo turned around and trotted towards the street. Vinyl hesitated, off-put by the unusually serious composer.

“Hey, Harpo?” called the DJ.

The stallion turned with a slight frown.

“You’re scaring me, dude. What happened?”

Harpo sighed and kneaded his eyes with his hoof. “A problem. I’ll tell you on the way.”
 

***


Despite his promise, Harpo didn’t begin to explain as the carriage glided through the streets of Canterlot, opting instead to stare through the window and scowl at the general expanse of the city.

And so, Vinyl’s mind was left to wander. Under normal circumstances this is not a good thing; the DJ had a very curious mind that enjoyed lighting things on fire as it wandered. As a general rule, Vinyl’s mind is to be preoccupied at all times unless the building she is currently in has taken out insurance on damage caused by either fire or very loud, foundation-shaking dubstep.

Luckily, there were no readily accessible matches or speakers. Unfortunately this meant that Vinyl was left to imagine all of the possible reasons for Fancy Pants’s call for a meeting.

Okay, she thought, this could easily be a good thing! We could already have our next gig or Fancy Pants wants to give us our pay and treat us to dinner for the great job we did!

There was a gentle thud as Harpo pressed his head against the glass.

… So probably not a good thing, continued Vinyl’s internal monologue. Is Fancy Pants firing us? Did we mess up? Oh Celestia, we totally bucked something up didn’t we? Nah, that can’t be it; we rocked the Lighthouse last night! So what’s happening? And why won’t Harpo explain anything? Damn it Harpo, start explaining something!

Vinyl tried to stare a hole into Harpo’s head. The composer turned to look at her, a cold expression on his face.

“What is it, Vinyl?”

“Harpo, what the buck is going on? I’m freaking out over here and you’re being all, ‘Oh, I’m a troubled artist who stares out windows.’  What the hell is happening?!”

The composer’s frown twitched slightly and a glint of his former perpetual amusement returned to his eyes. And then it was gone, replaced by the cold gaze. “I’m angry, Vinyl. I haven’t been angry in a long time.”

The DJ arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you could get mad.”

“Clearly.”

A few moments of silence. Then Vinyl spoke again. “Well, are you going to tell me what’s pissing you off?”

In response, Harpo reached into a small compartment by his seat and pulled out what seemed to be a business card.

“This is part of it,” he said, offering the bit of paper to Vinyl.

The card in and of itself was simple, yet there was a richness to its simplicity. It was obviously printed on fine paper and its message was written in gold ink.

‘Meet at the restaurant. 12: pm. I’d recommend the dandelion salad.’ – Hoity Toity.

Vinyl nodded, returning the card to Harpo. The composer took it gingerly, wrinkling his muzzle slightly as he returned it to its compartment.

“And we know where this restaurant is?” asked Vinyl.

“Fancy Pants does.”

The carriage turned onto a side street. The DJ looked through the window at a slightly unfamiliar side of Canterlot.

“Hey, I think the carriage made a wrong turn.”

Harpo shook his head. “No mansion, no studio. The media is swarming around there.”

“Wait, what?” asked Vinyl. “Just for a meeting with Hoity Toity?!”

The composer knit his eyebrows together, completely focusing on Vinyl for the first time that day. “No. Of course not. You don’t know?”

“No! Because you won’t tell me!”

Harpo sighed and rubbed his eyes again. “This would be entertaining if it weren’t such an annoyance.”


***


Vinyl burst through the doors of Harpo’s home; the impromptu meeting place for the band of musicians. Fancy Pants and Octavia were already there, the latter looking rather frazzled and the former just polishing off a glass of brandy.

“Fancy Pants!” called Vinyl. “I’ve only been up for a few hours and I already have no idea what the buck is going on! Harpo doesn’t want to explain and I’m tired of not knowing!”

Fancy Pants refilled his tumbler as Vinyl complained. He took a sip and looked up at the DJ. “Are you quite done?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” The stallion gestured toward a nearby coffee table topped by a folded newspaper. “Read that. Front page, you can’t miss it.”

Vinyl scowled slightly and levitated the newspaper over. She stared at the image. She knew exactly what it was, but Vinyl had no idea how to accept it.

“Well… shit,” seemed like the most appropriate response.

Right on the front page of the newspaper was a picture of Octavia and Vinyl, both clearly intoxicated, both hanging from each other’s shoulders. The mare in the image were obviously having a good time, laughing drunkenly as they exited the club from two nights ago. A closer look revealed a smiling and tipsy-looking Harpo following close behind Octavia and Vinyl.

The headline read “Fancy Pants’s Big Investment: Three Drunken Musicians.” The DJ quickly scanned through the article. She only picked up on keywords. ‘Drunk’ and ‘drinking’ popped up a lot, as did ‘Fancy Pants,’ ‘disgrace,’ and ‘Syncopated Records.’

“Syncopated Records?” asked Vinyl.

“Our recording studio’s name,” replied Fancy Pants.

The DJ nodded, slightly surprised that she had never asked for the company’s name before. And then that rather useless thought was brushed aside by the more pressing issue at hoof.

“Well… shit,” repeated Vinyl as she floated the newspaper back to the table.

Fancy Pants nodded. “That’s as good an assessment as any. Although Octavia had a far more… colorful opinion on the matter.”

The cellist grimaced and held her head in her hooves. “That was such a mistake. I don’t know why I ever agreed to do it.”

Vinyl felt a twinge at that. It didn’t seem as though anypony else noticed.

Fancy Pants shook his head. “It doesn’t matter why; the deed has already been done. Although I have to question the thought process that decided that attending a nightclub on the very night before the first public show was a good idea.”

The DJ felt a slight blush come over her face.

“But,” continued Fancy Pants, “as I’ve said before, the deed is done.”

“Alright,” said Vinyl, “so I made a mistake when I told everypony else to head to the club with me. But what’s next?”

Harpo stepped forward, twirling Hoity Toity’s card between his hooves. “We go to our meeting and we answer two questions: ‘Who took the photo?’ and ‘Who paid to have the photo taken?’”

Octavia raised her head slightly. “Paid?” she asked.

Fancy Pants nodded. “That’s my largest suspicion. News like this does not belong on the front page; it would most likely be found in the Business or Entertainment section, but not as a lead article. This reeks of the more unsavory side of wealth.” His muzzle wrinkled slightly, as though there really was an odor in the air.

Vinyl got to her hooves. “So restaurant? Have a nice meal, kick Hoity Toity’s ass, and then call it a day?”

The elder stallion chuckled. “Indeed, we’ll all be going to the restaurant. There will be no kicking of anyone’s ass, however. Fleur is taking care of the media and we needn’t worry about any reporters knocking on your days as I’ve made sure to keep your living arrangements confidential. We’ll be leaving unless there are any immediate pressing issues.”

Three heads shook. Fancy Pants drained his tumbler.

“Then we’re off.”
 

***


Hoity Toity sat alone. He had chosen a table that was out of the way, placed in such a way that none of the other diners would be able to hear his meeting with Fancy Pants’s company. He had been sitting patiently for the past five or so minutes, politely declining offers of breadsticks and the mint-green unicorn who would ask for his order. He had merely opted to drink water.

This was, after all, proper business etiquette.

A timid mare approached his table. The poor dear glanced from side to side, nearly shaking from her nerves. Hoity Toity gestured towards a chair by his side.

“Please, Miss Script,” he said, “sit down.”

“I—I can’t,” stuttered Trans Script. She paced back and forth in front of the table. “I feel so nervous. Oh, Fancy Pants will be so angry at me.”

“Well, would you please try, Miss Script? Your nervous pacing will drive me to anxiety.”

Trans Script paused slightly. She nodded and took the offered seat.

“Thank you,” said Hoity Toity. He glanced up at a clock. Two minute until noon. “It won’t be long now.”

The mare fidgeted in her seat. The stallion sat serenely, idly flipping through the pages of his menu. I wonder what I’ll order. I haven’t actually sat down to eat in ages. Perhaps a fruit salad today?

The restaurant’s doors swung open and a group of four ponies marched in. Fancy Pants gave a cursory glance around the restaurant before his eyes settled on Hoity Toity’s table. He frowned slightly upon noticing Trans Script. Then a look of realization and a fair amount of hurt flashed across his face. It was, however, quickly masked.

The four made to way to the table, Octavia shrinking back from what she thought were the stares of other ponies. Vinyl walked normally. Harpo maintained his farce of impassivity.

Four chairs scraped slightly as the members of Syncopated Records took their seats. The clock struck noon.

Hoity Toity looked around with a smile. “I’m so glad you could make it. I trust that Mister Nadermane informed you of our meeting yesterday?”

Fancy Pants nodded. “Yes, on the way here.”

“Good,” replied the other businesspony, “that saves me a bit of trouble. I must register my regret on your predicament.”

Vinyl snorted.

Hoity Toity turned to her with an arched eyebrow. “Something to say?”

The DJ’s lips shifted into something midway between a grimace and a smirk. “Yeah, I do! We know that it’d take a lot of money to pull something like this off and who here has enough money to actually do it? Well, let’s do a head count! There’s Fancy Pants and there’s… Oh! You!”

“That’s enough, Vinyl,” interjected Fancy Pants firmly.

Hoity Toity narrowed his eyes. “And why, pray tell, would I release a picture to the media when there are so many other ways to get rid of you?”

Vinyl took off her glasses and looked directly at Hoity Toity. “Is that a threat?” she practically hissed.

“No, it’s an example. There are so many other ways to go about accomplishing what I wish to do; it would be pointless to stoop to something as crass as the media.”

Fancy Pants held a hoof out towards Vinyl. “You are not allowed to respond to that. Is that clear?”

The DJ scowled at Hoity Toity for a few more moments before nodding and bringing her shades back into place.

Hoity Toity looked on with pronounced disdain. “Honestly Fancy Pants, I would have assumed that you’d be in better company by now. Not ponies like this.”

Vinyl felt her jaw strain against her will. Just one good offensive word and I’d be good for the rest of the week.

A soft voice hissed across the table. “I’d appreciate, Mister Toity, if you never referred to Vinyl in that way again.” Octavia bristled in her seat, staring at Hoity Toity with evident anger. She held his gaze, trying to convey all of the offense she had taken from those few words in that look. Nopony, not Fancy Pants, not Fleur, not the Princesses, and certainly not Hoity Toity, would ever be allowed to address Vinyl like that. “Lest I cannot be held responsible for my actions,” finished the cellist.

Octavia felt the entire attention of the table shift onto her. She kept her ground, never breaking her eye contact with Hoity Toity.

Fancy Pants rapped his hoof on the tabletop. He glanced from pony to pony with slight disappointment. “We will not allow emotions to get the better of us. If you are unable to maintain an outburst then you will not be allowed to stay at this table.” He locked eyes with his musicians. “Is that clear?”

They nodded.

The waitress chose that moment to take their orders. The six at the table were able to collect their thoughts, but poor Lyra Heartstrings had to wade through the oppressive atmosphere that surrounded that group.

Their orders placed, the conversation resumed.

Hoity Toity was the first to speak. “You all seem to have a very negative opinion of me.”

Octavia nodded. Vinyl barely held back a snort. Harpo raised an eyebrow and said, “I think that’s an understatement.”

“Indeed,” agreed Hoity Toity. “I hope to remedy that.”

“And how the buck are you gonna do that?” asked Vinyl with incredulity.

Hoity Toity sighed. “You’ve been highly oppositional ever since you first sat down. Care to explain why?”

Vinyl opened her mouth, but Fancy Pants caught her eye. The elder stallion was looking very grim as he stared at the DJ. There are very few who could say that they have seen that look and even fewer that admit that it was directed towards them

Vinyl shook her head and adjusted her seating.

The other business pony allowed a half-smile. “Yes, sit down. This is not your domain, Miss Scratch; you would do better far and away from places like this.”

Octavia had learned something in this short encounter with Hoity Toity. It occurred to her that the picture was embarrassing, especially because of the uncouth position it had found her in. But that wasn’t a problem, that could be dealt with. The media, which would no doubt be swarming to her home in due time, could also be handled. In fact, they would be handled calmly.

But these insults, the superior tone Hoity Toity took when he addressed Vinyl; that could not be handled with impassivity.

The cellist felt herself bristle. “Tell me, Mr. Toity; what gives you the right to so easily judge Vinyl?”

Hoity Toity raised a slightly amused eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“What’s so difficult to understand?” Octavia was powerless against her own anger. She felt her voice rise as she went on. “Do you not understand how hard she has worked, how much time and effort she puts into her work, how exhausted she must have been after each and every sleepless night?!”

Fancy Pants sighed and leaned back slightly. He put a hoof to his temple. Well, I suppose it’s best that they get it out of their system.

Hoity Toity narrowed his eyes. “Is that a serious question? Do you really know nothing about me? You go on and on about effort; I’ve been doing that for years. I started off with nothing of my own; a poor colt from the middle of nowhere. Have you not heard my name? Hoity Toity. It’s a joke! Something that ponies from my hometown used to describe those most snobbish of Canterlotian ponies. I was hated, simply because of my more refined tastes. Do you know how difficult it was to get to where I am?” The stallion put his hooves onto the table, leaning forward and towards the cellist. “I slaved day after day; I paid my own train fare here and I made a name for myself. It is you, Miss Philharmonica, who does not understand.”

Octavia felt her anger deflate. She sat down again, hardly realizing that she had gotten to her hooves. “I—I’m sorry.”

Fancy Pants sighed again. “Lesson number one.”

A slight smile grew on Hoity Toity’s face. “Never judge a businesspony by his reputation.”

“Exactly,” replied Fancy Pants.

The group lapsed into silence. The food was served.

“Well,” said Fancy Pants, “we’ve successfully broken the ice. I believe that we should actually get to the reason why we’re here.”

Hoity Toity nodded, having just taken a forkful of his salad. He gestured towards Harpo.

The composer knit his eyebrows together. “Do you want me to say something?”

Hoity Toity nodded again.

Harpo sighed. “Hoity Toity and I spoke last night. He approached me and gave me the card that I’ve shown all of you. He said that there would be ‘a problem’ and that Fancy Pants would call a meeting. I woke up the next day, found the newspaper and our ‘problem’ and ran over to Fancy Pants’s house.”

“You’re missing something key,” said Hoity Toity. “I said that I didn’t want your anger directed at the wrong pony. In this case, I am the wrong pony. I came here to offer a sort of olive branch.”

“After you’ve been taking company secrets?” asked Fancy Pants.

Trans Script, who had remained silent throughout the conversation, slid slowly downwards.

Hoity Toity waved a hoof. “That’s espionage. This entire matter with the media is far too uncouth for my tastes. And as for Trans Script, I have offered her a job as she is no doubt no longer welcomed at Syncopated Records.”

Fancy Pants shook his head with a sad frown. “I’m afraid not, though it pains me to say it. We must find a new secretary.”

Trans Script felt her lower lip begin to shake.

A certain mint-green waitress who had been passing by with a tray of drinks perked up her ears slightly.

“But,” continued Hoity Toity, “I hope that we can begin this newfound relationship with a clean slate.”

Vinyl, Octavia, and Harpo were hardly able to contain what would have been an impressive simultaneous snort.

Fancy Pants nodded. “Seems… plausible… I suppose. But if you truly want a clean slate, I have to ask for more information.”

Hoity Toity smiled. “What do you want to know?”

“If you didn’t publish the image, then who did?”

The other businesspony chuckled. “Is that a serious question? Think about it Fancy Pants; there are only three major recording labels in modern music. Two of the owners are sitting at this table. The other isn’t. Two plus two equals?”

Harpo let out a breath. “Prince Blueblood.”

Hoity Toity grinned. “No, it equals four. And yes, Prince Blueblood."
> The Next Assignment
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The meal had come to a close. The food, at least the portions that the ponies remembered eating, was delectable. But it had left a definite bad taste in each mouth. Hoity Toity offered to pay. Nopony particularly cared enough to argue.

The restaurant had been slowly filling up as the meal ticked by. Octavia had never really taken the time to appreciate how large a restaurant really was until it seemed as though every patron was staring at her. She straightened her bowtie, trying desperately to appear nonchalant. Vinyl never left her side, her defiant stare more than making up for Octavia’s attempts to avoid eye-contact.

Fancy Pants walked just behind them, going over the new information. Particularly how he could possibly turn this situation around. There had to be a way to do so; after all, no publicity is bad publicity. All this had really done was to draw attention to Syncopated Records. And he could work with attention. The question was how to—

“Fancy Pants?” asked a timid voice.

The business pony turned and found Trans Script, looking very ashamedly towards the floor.

“Miss Script,” he said calmly.

“I’m sorry Fancy Pants, I’m so sorry.” The former secretary felt her eyes well-up with tears. I can’t cry now. There’s no point in crying now. I already messed everything up.

“You should have come to me.”

“I know,” whispered Trans Script.

“I could have helped. I could have done something.”

“I know.” A few rebellious tears found their way down Trans Script’s face. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

“I’m sorry Miss Script,” said Fancy Pants.

The mare’s head snapped up. “Y—you don’t have to apologize! It’s my fault! I was the one acting like a selfish foal, I should have do—” Fancy Pants cut her off with a swift movement of his hoof.

“You didn’t trust me. I hired you but I never instilled the trust necessary to be your employer. For that reason I am sorry. You are not absolved of what you have done, but I realize the part that I played.” Fancy Pants offered a small smile. “Both of us will be better for what we have learned.”

Trans Script was sobbing now, trying to hold back her tears and failing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

Fancy Pants nodded. “I know. I wish you luck in your future endeavours, Miss Script.”

Trans Script stopped walking, allowing Fancy Pants to pull ahead. She knew that she had been dismissed. There was no point hanging around, especially when Fancy Pants had never once used the word ‘forgiven.’ I swear, thought Trans Script, if there’s ever any way I can make it up to them, I will.


***


The members of Syncopated Records gathered outside of the restaurant. Fancy Pants hung back, allowing the musicians to enter the carriage as he had a conversation with Spokes.

“Terrible thing, takin’ pleasure out of the personal life of others like that,” said Spokes with a shake of his head. “Private things should stay private.”

Fancy Pants sighed. “It’s simply the fashion these days. Know everything about everypony, especially the bad things.”

Spokes shook his head in disapproval. They exchanged a few more words over the general decadence of society before Fancy Pants walked back to enter the carriage.

“Wait! Wait up!” cried a voice. A mint-green unicorn stumbled out of the restaurant, her uniform slightly disheveled. Fancy Pants stopped obligingly, waiting for her at the foot of the carriage.

“Our waitress,” remarked Fancy Pants when she had trotted close enough. “Lyra Heartstrings, was it?”

“Yeah! That’s me. Lyra Heartstrings,” she said, holding out her hoof.

“A pleasure, Miss Heartstrings. How can I help you?”

Lyra fidgeted slightly. “Well,er, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop or anything, but I heard that you just let somepony off?”

Fancy Pants was barely able to hold back a wince. He was able to cover it with a smile. “Yes, that did just happen.”

“Great!” Lyra breathed a sigh of relief. And then she realized what she said. “Wait, not great! That’s bad, very bad! Wait, no it’s not very bad! I mean, it’s bad but I don’t think it’s very bad. What I mean to say is...” Lyra struggled with her words for a few more moments. He shoulders sagged. “You know what? Never mind. Have a nice night, sir.”

Fancy Pants smiled good-naturedly. “Miss Heartstrings, I can’t offer you a job, but I would be more than happy to offer you an interview.”

Lyra’s head snapped up. “What?”

“An interview,” replied the businesspony. He tilted his head slightly. “Unless that’s not what you were asking for?”

“No! I mean, yes! Yes! Please! I’d be more than happy to go in for an interview! I’d gotten so bored of working at the restaurant; I never got a chance to write my songs or anything. I’d love to be able to work for a music company!”

“Wonderful enthusiasm,” said Fancy Pants with a nod. “I’ll schedule the interview for some time Wednesday afternoon. Is that fine?”

“Yes, it’s perfect!” Lyra grinned widely. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

Fancy Pants nodded and climbed into the carriage. “Wednesday of next week. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t! Thank you again!”

The carriage pulled away, leaving behind a very pleased Lyra Heartstrings. Her grin hadn’t faded in the slightest.

“This,” said the unicorn, “is gonna be so awesome!”


***


The members of Syncopated Records sat in their carriage, each of them preoccupied with their own thoughts. Three of them had their eyes glued to their windows, watching the streets of Canterlot pass by without really noticing anything. One pair of eyes, hidden behind bright purple shades, were glued to Octavia Philharmonica.

Has this changed anything? wondered Vinyl. I really, really hope not. But she was so nervous in the restaurant; so self-conscious about whether or not anypony was staring at her. And then there’s that whole thing about a mistake!

Vinyl watched Octavia, the slight scrunch in the cellist’s muzzle as she was lost in her own thoughts, the way her satin hair fell, her perfect violet eyes reflected in the window pane.

The DJ blinked. Woah, she thought to herself, I really do like this mare. Which would only make it hurt all the more if Octavia was having second thoughts. I need to speak to her.

“That’s it!” shouted Fancy Pants.

“Shit!” shouted Harpo as he jumped. The other two gave a slightly smaller start.

The businesspony brought a hoof to his forehead. “How could I have been so stupid! It’s such a simple idea, I won’t even have to change much!” He turned towards the musicians. “Tell me, why didn’t I think of it sooner?”

“... Pardon?” said Octavia.

The carriage glided to a stop at the foot of Fancy Pants’s manor. The elder stallion practically vaulted out.

“Great job as always, Spokes!” called Fancy Pants. “Expect a pay raise soon!” He bounded through the doorway, calling for Fleur de Lis all the while.

Spokes glanced at the three musicians, who had only just filed out of the carriage. “What got into him?”

All three of them shrugged.

Spokes shrugged in return. “Whatever. If it gets me a raise, then I ain’t complainin’.” He signaled to the other stallions and they drove off.

Harpo and Octavia stepped towards the manor. Vinyl reached out a hoof, lightly grabbing onto the grey mare’s tail.

“Octy,” she said quietly, “do you mind waiting for a bit?”

Octavia looked worriedly at the DJ. She glanced at Harpo. The composer’s ‘cute moment’ sensors [Patent Pending] were going off at full alarm. It was a real struggle for him to shrug and enter the mansion, but he managed to do so. If only to sit at a window and make sure that nothing went wrong.

“Vinyl, what’s wrong?” asked Octavia.

The DJ scuffed at the ground, looking everywhere but at the cellist. “So... pretty crazy thing with the newspaper, isn’t it?”

“Mortifying.”

“... That means bad, right?”

Octavia couldn’t help the smallest of smiles as she sighed exasperatedly. “Yes, Vinyl. Bad. It’s very bad. As in, it will be difficult for me to show my face in public. For years.”

Vinyl felt a twinge of doubt. She tried to play it off with a laugh. “Yeah, it really was a mistake, wasn’t it? Stupid of us to go out.”

Octavia looked closely at the DJ. “Vinyl, are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Nothing! I’m fine, Tavi, I swear.”

“I’m not buying it.”

Vinyl looked up at the mare before her. She took off her shades and fiddled with them. “It’s just... I’m worried.”

“Worried? Over what?”

“Well, over us! I mean, you’re going on about your mistake, there’s a picture of us together, you can’t seem to handle being looked at... it just threw me for a loop.” She paused for a moment. “Tavi, what does this change? I doubt that we were getting somewhere and then...” The statement trailed off.

Octavia sighed and hugged Vinyl. Admittedly, it was a very awkward hug given the cellist’s limited hugging experience, but it was the thought that counted. “Vinyl, don’t be such an idiot.”

“... What?”

“It would take more than this to make me decide to stop seeing you. After all, we haven’t even been on a proper date.”

Vinyl chuckled slightly. “So first the date, then you’ll dump me?”

“Possibly.”

“Thanks. That really helps out my confidence.”

“Oh, be quiet Vinyl.” Neither of them moved to break the hug.

“Well, maybe if you kissed me.”

“Are you still on that?”

“Octy, you’ll never get me to stop saying it. Now pucker up.” Vinyl made obnoxious kissing noises. Octavia sharply hit her on the nose.

The DJ sighed as she pulled away. “Well, I guess that that part of us isn’t gonna change because of some newspaper.”

The cellist raised an eyebrow. “I still don’t see what that has to do with our... relationship.”

“Tavi, what the hell are you talking about? A picture of us was printed on pretty much every newspaper in Canterlot. That’s a lot of missed jobs just because we’re fillyfoolers.”

Realization dawned on Octavia. “Vinyl, that doesn’t matter... as in it doesn’t matter at all.”

“... What?”

The cellist patted her favorite DJ’s shoulder. “Vinyl, this is Canterlot. Princess Celestia and Princess Luna, the two most benevolent, loving, caring, accepting, and powerful living beings in Equestria live about 3 miles away. For that reason, the Canterlot elite has become rather progressive in some regards.”

A moment passed. Another moment. Vinyl blinked. “You’re saying... that we were worrying... for nothing?”

“Not nothing exactly,” replied Octavia. “Sexuality is not much of a cause for discrimination, though some ponies do consider it thus. However, ‘class’ and ‘image’,” Octavia said the words with evident distaste, “is a completely different matter.”

Fancy Pants poked his head through the doorway. “Hey! You two! Get in here! I am being very excitable, theatrical, and clever and I’m missing two of my musicians!” The businesspony disappeared back into his manor.

Vinyl grinned. “Boss is calling.”

“‘Twould be best to follow his heeds,” replied Octavia.

“... That means go inside, right?”

“Yes, you lovable dolt. It means that we should go inside.”

Vinyl grinned and stuck her tongue out. The two walked into the manor side by side.


***


“Now, I will begin my ideas from the point where I realized that two of my musicians were outside having a little lovers’ conversation.” Fancy Pants stood in front of a large wooden table. The musicians and Fleur de Lis were seated, watching the pacing businesspony.

Vinyl leaned over towards Harpo. “How long did it take him to realize?” she whispered.

“About five minutes,” responded the composer. “It was really funny.”

Fleur caught their eye and smiled, nodding her agreement. The three had a fit of barely stifled laughter.

“Hey!” said Fancy Pants. “You three, calm down or I’ll have you in detention.”

The three lapsed into an amused silence.

“Thank you.” Fancy Pants coughed into a hoof. “Now my dear musicians, you had a rather great success with your first performance. The Lighthouse Cafe contacted me and told me to pass on their complements, and to make sure that they maintained a connection with Syncopated Records. Job well done to you. However, this is only a part of what I want to accomplish.”

Fancy Pants paced to the side, years of giving speeches with movement kicking in. He continued speaking as he walked. “There is a particular reason behind the name of Syncopated Records. Syncopation, as you know, refers to an emphasis that falls in between beats in order to avoid having a static piece of music. It keeps things alive, prevents uniformity and is an idea maintained in every musical genre. The recording label that takes its name from syncopation should do the same.” He turned excitedly towards the table. “We will exist in most every music genre known to ponies; we will play at concert halls and jazz clubs and nightclubs alike. This is what I set out to do.”

“And Blueblood attempted to throw a wrench in that plan,” added Fleur.

“Exactly,” responded Fancy Pants. A grin spread across his face. “He has failed. Indeed, he has failed spectacularly.”

The musicians had the same look of confusion.

Fancy Pants leaned forward slightly, resting his hooves on the table. “You three have proven that you can thrive within the more niche jazz clubs. The night before that you proved that you could meld within a nightclub. You have done exactly what I wanted to; you are appealing to two very distinct groups.” A malicious glint colored Fancy Pants’s gaze. “Prince Blueblood only served to spread that word. And now we only have to prove that you can conduct yourself with poise in the company of the canterlot elite.”

Harpo raised his hoof.

“Yes, Harpo?” asked Fancy Pants.

“How exactly will we prove that? Blueblood basically blacklisted us with his little expose.”

“Because, Harpo, I have already made arrangements. And our hosts are not likely to break this arrangement.”

“Hosts?” asked Vinyl.

A touch of manic glee could be seen in Fancy Pants’s grin. “Yes, hosts. You see, I have already taken the liberty of arranging your next assignment! Don’t worry, it’s a rather simple one. All you three have to do is make a positive impression at a party being held by some of the Canterlot elite. Your first public social appearance! Isn’t it exciting?” He looked around, evidently pleased with himself.

The other three musicians were not so enthused.

Fancy Pants waved a hoof at them. “Oh, you three are no fun! This is our best chance, really! Prince Blueblood wanted others to believe that you were not ‘fit’ for Canterlot life, what better way is there to prove him wrong?”

Vinyl raised a hoof. “Isn’t there a better way to get back at him? Like kicking in his teeth or something?”

Harpo nodded in agreement.

Fancy Pants hid his amusement behind a bemused stare. “No. And you only have three days to prepare yourself for the gathering. I expect each of you to be on your best behavior.” He kept his eyes on Vinyl the entire time.

“What, you don’t think I can handle myself at a fancy party?” Vinyl put a hoof to her chest. “I’m offended!”

“It’s not a matter of handling yourself, Vinyl,” replied Fancy Pants. “You have to make a good impression. All of you do. That means observing the classic structure of attending a party.”

Octavia caught her breath and threw a sideways look at Vinyl. “As in, greetings and small talk and... manners?”

Vinyl sneezed loudly into her hoof before wiping it on the table. “I have manners!”

Fancy Pants nodded. “Yes, Octavia. Everything befitting a pony of wealth.”

“Oh, dear,” muttered Octavia. “How long did you say we had until the party?”

“Four days. You have the rest of today and the next two to prepare yourselves.”

Vinyl shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Oh, dear,” repeated the cellist. “We’ll have to do everything?”

“Yes,” replied Fancy Pants. “Which reminds me, you’ll need proper attire. There is a wonderful designer visiting Canterlot at the moment. Fleur, would you be able to introduce these three to Miss Rarity?”

“Of course, dear.”

“Fantastic,” said Fancy Pants. “Preparations must begin immediately. Off you go.”
> The Attire
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Good afternoon and welcome to the Magnifique Boutique, Miss de Lis.” A light purple unicorn with a yellow mane stood behind a counter. “How can I be of service today?”

“Hello, Pearl. I’ve heard that Rarity is in town.”

“I assure you, Miss de Lis, you would be the first to know if such a thing were to occur.” Pearl cast a wary eye around the shop, focusing briefly against each of the other customers.

“And I assure you,” responded Fleur lightly, “nopony besides us knows.” She tilted her head slightly to include Harpo, Vinyl, and Octavia in her statement.

Harpo gave an attempt at a debonair wink, hoping to help their cause. Pearl held back a grimace with a forced smile. The mare looked around once more before nodding. “She’s in the back room.”

Fleur de Lis smiled, sliding a golden bit over the counter. “Thank you, Pearl.”

The four made their way deeper into the boutique. Fleur led the way, marching past rows upon rows of fabric and thread and needle. Every once in awhile she would stop and inspect a particular material. The musicians would spend these moments attempting to look as socially adept as possible, but only succeeding in being awkward. And then Fleur de Lis would continue onwards, sometimes armed with a swatch of color, sometimes not taking anything at all. They made constant progress to a grubby door. It looked like a maintenance entrance.

Octavia trotted up next to Fleur de Lis. “Fleur, may I ask who it is we’re meeting?”

“Of course you may. Her name is Rarity, an up and coming designer from Ponyville who made quite the name for herself some months ago.”

The cellist vaguely recalled the name. Apparently, this designer had had the Canterlot elite eating out of her hoof after only a few days. Rarity had even taken Blueblood’s place at an airship launching ceremony.

The Prince was not very happy about this.

Well, thought Octavia. Anyone who can anger Blueblood is a friend of mine.

“But,” continue Fleur, “Miss Rarity is one of the Elements of Harmony. This status, when coupled with her own talents have placed her in high demand among Canterlot. Which is why we must keep this meeting very hush-hush.” The unicorn glanced from side to side before putting a hoof on her lips. She winked conspiratorially.

I think, thought Octavia with a smile, that Fancy Pants had a greater influence on her than either of them realize.

Fleur opened the grubby door with a push of her magic. The four slipped inside, trying to seem inconspicuous and being very suspicious in the process. By sheer fortune, nopony in the shop seemed to notice them.

The back room was immaculate. The walls were no longer walls per say; they consisted of shelves upon shelves of multi-colored fabrics. Mannequins for every shape and size were gathered in a corner, a desk topped with a sewing machine dominated another. The ceiling seemed to be made of glass and it cast a glow on the largely empty center of the room and the white unicorn who stood therein.

Rarity, as the three musicians correctly presumed, was surrounded by her materials, each roll of fabric suspended by the same light blue glow. She had a look of utter concentration on her face as she sampled different color combinations, wrapped fabrics around mannequins, floated two rolls over to the sewing machines, and carefully used her scissors to work out the kinks. Everything was in a constant motion that none of the four intruders wanted to interrupt.

Fleur sighed and gestured towards a nearby couch. “This may take a while.” They sat.

Rarity hardly seemed to notice. She was far too busy with her work, muttering to herself as bits of cloth danced around her.

Harpo leaned over towards Vinyl. “A relative of yours?” he asked with a nod towards Rarity.

“What?” responded the DJ.

“Well, you look rather similar. You know, like a marshmallow.”

Vinyl narrowed her eyes behind her brightly colored shades. “You callin’ me fat, Harpbutt?” she said in a cold, silent voice.

“I—I’ll just shut up now.”

“That’d be a good idea. Anyway, I’d hope she’s not a relative. Kinda cute.”

Harpo nodded. Octavia looked at Vinyl out of the corner of her eye. The DJ noticed.

“Oh, well not as cute as you, Tavi! Nopony could do that,” said Vinyl, trying to cover her tracks.

“Hmmmmm,” responded the cellist.

Vinyl turned around and hit Harpo.

“Ow!” cried the composer. “What the buck was that for?!”

“Look what you did Harpo! You made Octy angry at me!” The DJ hit the stallion again.

“Stop hitting me! And I wasn’t the one staring!” Harpo glanced back at Rarity with a sly smile. “Well, not in this case.”

Octavia reached past Vinyl and hit Harpo.

“Ow!” repeated the composer. “What was that for?!”

The cellist snorted. “For acting like such a male.”

“Vinyl was doing it too!”

“Don’t bring me into this!”

“Yes, and Vinyl will be punished for it.”

“What’d I do?!” said Vinyl indignantly. Kinky, she thought to herself.

Octavia raised a sharp eyebrow.

“Now, now, dear children,” cut in Fleur’s serene voice with a slight giggle. “We must make a good impression on Rarity; we want to make sure that she will be willing to work with us.”

“Honestly, Fleur de Lis, why in heavens would I not be willing to work with you?” Rarity strode across the workshop floor, stopping in front of the elder unicorn and kissing both of her cheeks. “It’s been far too long; how go your endeavours?”

“Better than either I or Fancy Pants dared to hope,” replied Fleur with a smile. “These are, in fact, our musicians. Vinyl Scratch, Octavia Philharmonica, and Harpo Parish Nadermane.”

“Musicians?” squeaked Rarity. “How wonderful! Musicians are very in this season.” She kissed Octavia and Vinyl on their cheeks and glanced at Harpo. The composer leaned in. Rarity shook his hoof.

“In what?” asked Vinyl.

“Why darling, not in in the literal sense. You’re simply in. Do you understand?” Rarity gave a polite smile.

Vinyl nodded slowly. “I guess.”

“She means that musicians have become very fashionable as of late,” cut in Fleur de Lis. “And nopony knows fashion like Miss Rarity.”

The designer put a hoof to her chest. “You flatter me,” she said. “Now, to what do I owe this immense pleasure?”

“We’ll be placing an order,” responded Fleur de Lis.

Rarity conjured a pencil and a notepad out of seemingly empty space. “Wonderful! Three new outfits? Or perhaps you’d like multiple?”

“Just one for each of them should be fine.”

The designer nodded, scribbling furiously. She had reentered her working mode. Fabrics of various colors began to float around the room. “And what is the occasion?”

“A social gathering for some of the Canterlot elite,” replied Fleur. Rarity made another note.

“Also,” added the elder unicorn, “it will be their first public appearance.”

There was an audible clatter as Rarity’s pen fell to the floor. “Their—Their first public appearance you say?” There seemed to be an audible squeak as the designer grinned brightly. “Oh, this is a very special occasion. And how much time will I have to work on this formal attire?”

“About two days.”

“Then we must waste no time!” Rarity grabbed Octavia’s shoulders. “Come along, darling; I’m feeling particularly inspired by your color.” She pulled the cellist to her hooves, dragging her deeper into the workshop.

The cellist looked back at Fleur. The pink unicorn smiled in an amused manner, waving a hoof at the cellist that seemed to suggest complete trust in Rarity. Octavia looked back at the designer who was mumbling to herself and scribbling notes on her pad of paper. Bits of fabric were still flying around, often zipping past half an inch from Octavia’s face.

Well, thought the cellist hesitantly, if Fleur trusts her...

Rarity opened another door, this one far more well-maintained than the entrance to the main workshop. This room was just as filled with materials. The key difference was that this smaller room contained a small stage. The designer gestured to the platform. “Please stand there for a moment, darling; I have to work out a few of the final kinks.”

The cellist stepped onto the stage. Rarity trotted over to a small desk, opening up a drawer and drawing out her measuring tape, a roll of thread, and a needle. Octavia watched her, more out of a desire to occupy her time than out of curiosity. But something on the desk caught the grey mare’s eye.

It was a copy of the newspaper from the day before. A copy with its front page pointing directly upwards and spotted with coffee stains.

Of course, thought Octavia.

Rarity immediately set to work, taking her measurements and scribbling them down. Octavia stood still, keeping her gaze even, hoping that the designer wouldn’t broach the subject. But the cellist knew that it was a losing battle. That type of pony was only interested in gossip.

“Miss Philharmonica?” asked Rarity.

Octavia shifted her gaze to the designer.

“I’ve finished taking the measurements. Would you like to the see this initial design?”

The cellist blinked, her eyebrows knitting together slightly. “Pardon?”

“The dress, Miss Philharmonica,” replied Rarity with a smile. “I’d rather not create a dress that dissatisfies a customer.” She paused, as though remembering something. “Of course, I will have to take most suggestions into consideration before actually implementing them.”

Octavia nodded and trotted over to the desk. Rarity presented her sketch with a flourish. The dress was long and flowing, and rather simple in its overall design. There were no flashy decorations; in fact, practically the only embellishments were a treble clef over where Octavia’s cutie mark would be and a stream of music notes on the edge of the dress’ train.

“Do you like it?” asked Rarity with the slightest tinge of concern.

“It’s—It’s wonderful.”

The designer knit her eyebrows, levitating her sketch and glancing between it and Octavia. “Are you sure?”

“Pardon?”

“Well, it certainly is a rather nice dress, but there will be quite a lot of rather nice dresses. No, no, no, there is something missing; something... more, you understand.” Rarity placed a thoughtful hoof to her chin.

Octavia craned her neck to catch a better glimpse of the drawing. No, she didn’t understand.  The dress looked fine to her.

“Maybe it’s the color?” asked Rarity, more to herself than to the cellist. “That may be it. I’d imagine a violet dress, but maybe a lighter color would better suit your matte coat. A light blue perhaps? Rather like Miss Scratch’s lighter mane color. But I wouldn’t want to completely be rid of the violet.” The designer added something to her sketch. “Oh yes, I quite like that.” Some more scribbling. “Oh yes, I quite like that!”

The cellist shifted her weight nervously. “Ummmm, pardon me, but...”

The designer looked up. It took a moment for her to completely refocus on Octavia. “Oh! My apologies; I simply got ahead of myself. Look it this new design and tell me what you think of it, if you don’t mind.” Rarity floated the sketch over to Octavia.

The simple, flowing dress had been replaced by a more ornate, flowing dress. The solid dark purple had been offset by a light, electric blue exactly the shade of Vinyl’s mane. The music notes on the train had received the same treatment, alternating between shades of dark blue and light blue and varying in their size.

“This... this would look incredible,” stuttered Octavia.

Rarity smiled warmly. “This will look incredible, darling. The design is always the hardest part; it will only take a few minutes to whip up the full dress.” Her horn began to shimmer, and rolls of fabric the very same hue as the drawing floated over to her desk. “Magic is very useful in that regard.”

Octavia nodded.”Thank you.”

Rarity waved a hoof. “Think nothing of it! I’m always happy to help a friend.”

The cellist nodded again, looking at Rarity through new eyes. “That’s a rather unique viewpoint coming from a Canterlotian.”

The designer froze. She seemed to be thinking something over. Then her face positively brightened; Octavia could have sworn that stars appeared in her eyes. “A Canterlotian? Moi? Oh, it’s very kind of you to think so and I suppose that, yes, with my mannerisms I can see where you’d make that distinction. And I am so very flattered that you believed that I come from such a wonderful city, but I come from the rather quaint town of Ponyville.”

“Really? I never would have guessed.”

Rarity’s grin grew wider. “You flatter me! But while I am not a Canterlot pony by the strictest means, I am most certainly one in mind.”

Octavia gave a wan smile. “I rather hope not.”

The designer glanced at the newspaper. “Ah, I see.”

The cellist nodded.

“But not all from Canterlot are like that, are they?” asked Rarity. “Fancy Pants, Fleur de Lis, yourself, Miss Scratch, Mister Nadermane, Hoity Toity. You all are nothing like say, Blueblood.” There was an obvious venom in Rarity’s voice that Octavia understood immediately.

But there was something that the cellist could not understand. “Hoity... Toity?”

“Yes, darling; he gave me my first real exposure to working in Canterlot. Admittedly, he was rather difficult to work with at first, but he understands when he has some talent with him.”

“... Hoity Toity?”

Rarity hid a giggle behind her hoof. “Yes, it may seem rather hard to believe, but I assure you that it is true.”

Octavia chose to nod.

“Well,” continued the designer, “that will be all for your dress. It should be ready by tomorrow. Please send Miss Scratch in next.”


***


Four ponies exited the Magnifique Boutique only forty five minutes later.

“It’s incredible how quickly she works,” admired Harpo.

“She is a very talented mare,” asserted Fleur. “I cannot wait to see what she grows into.”

An admirer of Canterlot society, thought Octavia. What a rarity. She blinked as she realized her own pun.

“You know,” said Vinyl, “Harpo has a crush on her.”

“She’s cute,” said Harpo. “Scary intuition, though.”

“Whatever you say, Sergeant Obvious.”

“Oh, shut up! I’m not one of the two who bought matching outfits!”

“Don’t tell me to shut up! You shut up, Harpbutt!”

Fleur sighed, rubbing at her temple with a hoof. “Sometimes I feel like the mother of two very young foals. I don’t think I enjoy this feeling.”

They lapsed into a content silence.

However, Vinyl Scratch is never content with silence. “So, what are we doing now?”

“Now,” replied Fleur de Lis, “we continue to prepare you for your appearance. Your attire is well taken care of; behavior follows.”

“Fun,” said Vinyl without enthusiasm.

Fleur ignored her. “That includes greetings, proper procedure during the meal, and dancing.”

Vinyl scratched the back of her head. “Yeah, cool, fine. I’m hungry. Is there like a Maredonalds around here?”

The elder unicorn shook her head. “Octavia, you’ll be in charge of training these two for the next few days.”

“What do you mean ‘these two’?” aske Harpo indignantly. “I can handle myself!”

Fleur de Lis and Octavia glanced at Harpo, then at each other.

“I’ll ask Miss Rarity for some help,” said the cellist.

“That would be a good idea.”

“I can take care of myself!” asserted the composer.

“Come on guys, I’m really hungry!” said Vinyl.

Octavia rubbed her eyes. “This is going to cause me physical pain.”

Fleur smiled. “It is your duty as the big sister of our family. Besides, I won’t be able to accompany you. In fact, I must get going now. Everything else will be left to your discretion. See you in a few days!” The unicorn trotted off happily, looking forward to what the days would bring.

Vinyl tugged on Octavia. “Tavi, I’m hungry.”

The cellist looked down with a bemused look.

The DJ took off her glasses, trying to put her puppy dog eyes on full blast.

“If you keep doing that, I’ll build up an immunity to it,” said Octavia weakly.

“Are you immune now?”

The cellist looked at Vinyl, directly into her scarlet eyes. Something within Octavia melted at the sight.

The grey mare sighed. “Curse you and your eyes,” she muttered to herself. “Follow me, I’ll cook something and we’ll begin our etiquette lessons.”

Vinyl pumped her hoof in the air. “Yes! Awesome!” She leaned forward and quickly pecked Octavia on the cheek. “Thank you, Tavi,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

Octavia grew slightly pink as she turned towards her home. But even she couldn’t hide the light spring in her step.

Harpo watched with a mix of amusement and borderline envy. “Fine. I’ll just roll along. As the third wheel.” He chuckled slightly. “Rolling third wheel. I’m funny.” He looked back towards the boutique and ran a hoof through his mane. He hit himself lightly and put on a grin. “Well, there’s no use for that.”

He trotted off towards the retreating mares.
> The Past
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“No, Vinyl.”

“Is it this one?”

“No, Vinyl.”

“What about this one?”

“Vinyl, that’s a spork. Where did you even find that?”

Vinyl Scratch gave Octavia a sideways glance. “Octy, what kind of pony doesn’t carry a spork?”

Harpo spoke up from his place in the corner. “What are we, barbarians?”

The cellist turned and pointed sharply at the composer. “You still aren’t allowed to speak! Eyes forward, keep looking at the wall.”

“I don’t even know what I did!” protested the stallion.

“You tried to convince Vinyl that we are supposed to eat soup with a fork!”

“Tried,” answered Harpo, “is the key word there.”

“Just for the record, I totally knew that we ate soup with a spoon. Not a fork.” Vinyl held up her plastic spork. “But this wonderful invention solves that problem! And it can be yours for three easy payments of two bits.”

Harpo sniggered to the wall.

Octavia snatched the spork away.

“No! Sporky!” Vinyl looked up at the cellist with a shaking lip. “... Why?”

“Would you two please take this seriously?!”

“We are taking it seriously,” responded Harpo. He leaned forward slightly, squinting at the wall. “Octavia, have you thought about repainting? Purple would be a rather nice color. I could tag along and you wouldn’t even need a swatch!”

Vinyl was balancing a spork on her upper lip. “Yeah Tavi, we’re being seriously serious! And I kinda like your place the way it is... Can I move in? My place is crappy compared to this.”

The cellist snatched the spork away. “Where do you keep finding these?! I know for a fact that I don’t buy them!”

Vinyl shrugged. “I don’t know where I got half of the crap I have.”

“Well I don’t remember where I got three-quarters of the crap I have,” input Harpo.

Octavia rubbed at her temples, letting out a steady breath. “I feel a migraine coming on.”

Vinyl grinned. Harpo turned in his seat and opened his mouth to say something; probably some form of snide remark.

The cellist cut him off with another sharp point. “Eyes toward wall. I swear to Celestia, I’ll make you wear a dunce cap if you say a single word. And then I’ll make you sit outside with that dunce cap.”

The composer mimed zipping up his lips. “Got it.”

Octavia let out another sigh and walked out of the room.


***


“Can I just say that this was definitely worth the awkward glances I’m getting from the ponies passing by?” asked Harpo from his place outside of Octavia’s home. He slightly shifted the paper cone on his head. “I rather like the dunce cap. Very fashionable.”

Octavia locked the door from the inside, making her way back to the dining room. Vinyl was practically laying on top of the table. Her glasses were off and her eyes were closed.

“Tavi,” said Vinyl when she heard the cellist’s hoofsteps, “do you think we’re too mean to Harpo?”

The grey mare considered this. “I think that he has yet to outgrow his more childish tendencies. I’m beginning to think that he never will.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Octavia knit her eyebrows together. “What brought this about?”

Vinyl traced a circle on the table. “Nothing. Guess I’m tired or something. I ask things when I’m tired.”

“Vinyl, we can take a rest if you’re not feeling up to it.”

The DJ waved a hoof in Octavia’s general direction. “Nah, it’ll be fine. I’ve gotten used to working without a break... Do you have any coffee?”

The cellist shook her head. “I don’t drink it very often. I’m sorry.”

“It’s cool. Anyway, we should get back to that manner stuff. Pretty sure I can’t just put my head down on a table, can I?” Vinyl lifted her head with a gargantuan effort.

Octavia looked on with worry. The way she works, it’s easy to forget just how much of a toll it takes on her. The DJ shook slightly under the force of a yawn. The cellist frowned.

“Vinyl, I’d feel far more comfortable if you’d rest.”

“I appreciate it, but I’m telling you that I’ll be fine. I can keep going.” Vinyl blindly picked up a utensil, glancing at it briefly. “Soup spoon!”

“That’s the sugar spoon. And you’re not helping your case.”

“That’s the point!” said Vinyl loudly. “I have no idea what all this crap is! That’s a fork, that’s a spoon, that’s a plate,” she held up the objects as she named them, “and look! Another bucking spoon!” The DJ put her head on the table again. “I don’t get it.”

Octavia was slightly taken aback. She considered Vinyl for a moment before walking back to the front door. She opened it slightly and stuck her head through. Harpo was still sitting outside, looking around as the sun set behind Canterlot Palace. The composer took a moment to wave at a few ponies who were walking up the street.

“Harpo,” said Octavia.

The stallion turned. He smiled slightly and took off his cap. “My lady?”

“You can come back inside if you go and buy coffee.”

“From the SunBucks?”

“Yes. Tell them that you’re picking up a drink for Vinyl; they probably know the order by heart.”

Harpo tilted his head slightly. “Octavia, is everything okay? You seem serious... well, slightly more serious than normal.”

The cellist managed a smile. “Vinyl’s a bit off-kilter. Though it may simply be the lack of caffeine coursing through her veins.”

The composer nodded and hopped off of his stool. “Done! Am I buying you something?”

“A chai tea would be nice.”

“Right. One chai tea and one monstrosity of a caffeinated beverage coming up.” Harpo turned around, adjusting his dunce cap.

“Harpo?” asked Octavia.

The stallion turned around.

“Whatever happened to being an introvert?”

Harpo grinned jovially, taking the dunce cap in his hooves. He twirled it for a moment before putting it back on. “There’s no need for it. I think I’ve outgrown being serious. Now I’m just waiting for you to grow up, Octavia.”

The cellist put a hoof on her chest. “You’re waiting for me to grow up?”

Harpo laughed and walked away. I hope that sounded cryptic, he thought to himself. I’ve always wanted to sound cryptic.

Octavia watched as the composer trotted down the street. She turned back into her home, shaking her head slightly. Vinyl hadn’t moved an inch.

The grey mare sat near the DJ. “Okay Vinyl. There’s no chance of anypony overhearing. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Octavia stared at Vinyl. A few moments passed.

“What?” asked the DJ. “Are you just gonna stare at me until I start talking?”

“Yes.”

“... Dammit, Harpo did the same thing.”

“After the first argument?”

“Yeah.”

“Did it work?” asked Octavia.

“Yeah. The bastard.”

“Is it going to work now?”

Vinyl looked up, looking into the cellist’s eyes. Why does she have to be so adorable? “Yeah,” replied the DJ sullenly. “Yeah, it probably will.”

Octavia sat still. Vinyl would begin when she was ready.

“I’ve never talked to you about myself, have I Octy?”

The cellist shook her head.

“Yeah, there’s a reason for that. I don’t like the past. The past is stupid. And smelly. It’s stupid and smelly.”

Octavia gave her a small, encouraging smile.

Vinyl sighed and ran a hoof through her mane. “Well, you know I was born in Manehattan, right?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Well, my family didn’t always live in Manehattan. The way my parents tell it, we came out of Canterlot and they were one of the,” Vinyl took on a more refined accent, “‘most influential and esteemed’ of the Canterlotian nobles. And then shit went down and my family lost everything.”

Octavia nodded; it was a common story.

“Yeah, but my parents never started thinking differently. They always thought about their money and all the crap that they had bought, they never moved on! Not even when they moved into this run-down apartment in Manehattan. And then they had me.” Vinyl shook her head. “You think that would’ve made them rethink their priorities; that they’d start carin’ ‘bout their little filly, ya know? Fuck that noise. They ain’t doin’ shit differently.”

Vinyl was silent for a moment. She closed her eyes, trying to regain her composure. Calm down, Vinyl. Before you get pissed and take it out on Octy. A few more calming breaths.

The DJ opened her eyes to a worried Octavia. “They didn’t care about me.” The certainty in Vinyl’s voice made the cellist shiver.

The unicorn barked out a laugh. “I ain’t messin’ with ya. They didn’t give a shit about me. I wasn’t a kid to them; I was a way back to their old life. They pulled a few strings; taught me how to play and compose music because they figure that that was the quickest way to get back in favor with the rich ponies. Every day was school, music, manners, sleep for a few hours and get up to the same fuckin’ thing the next day.” Vinyl felt a few stray tears in her eyes. “I tried to get them to stop; I told them that I didn’t like doing any of the things they made me do, that I was tired all the time, that the tutors that were doing them favors didn’t give a crap about what they taught, that I wanted to live a normal life... They yelled at me. Said that the only way I could be anything was to get them back up to where they were.” The DJ chuckled darkly. “No shit; those were their exact fuckin’ words.

“And that’s not all,” continued Vinyl. “Remember when I told you how I got my cutie mark? I started messing with music, right? Parents, tutors, nopony around me really liked that. They tried to get me to stop.” She smiled. “Tried, ya know? Didn’t work out. I had started doing my own thing and there was no way in all of Tartarus that I was gonna stop. Buck that. Nah, I kept rebelling. And then I dropped out of high school. Just to spite them. Next thing I knew, I was kicked out of the house. No backward glances, not good-byes. Just ‘you have ten minutes to get your crap in a suitcase and get out’.”

Vinyl went silent again. Octavia sat silently, as still as a statue. There was nothing to say. What were you even supposed to say when you hear something like that? What can you say when somepony who’s always happy, bouncing around, grinning, making jokes, somepony who’s always having a good time, tells you that they had to struggle to get all of their happiness?

Octavia couldn’t say anything. Instead, she stood up, trotted over to Vinyl’s seat, and hugged her. The cellist held her as closely as she could. The DJ stiffened slightly. And then she relaxed.

“Ya know,” said Vinyl. “I haven’t told anypony else about this. I met Doc while I was homeless so he knows, and Fancy Pants helped me get on my hooves, but I never told anypony just how I got out on the street.”

“What makes me so special?” asked Octavia. Her voice was quiet, hushed by Vinyl’s story.

The DJ wrapped her hooves around the cellist, holding her just as tightly as Octavia held her. “Because you’re different. Because you’re so much better than anypony else I’ve met. Because you’re beautiful and talented and perfect and your muzzle scrunches just a little bit when you’re angry and I have to try so hard to keep myself from just staring at you all the time and I can still picture you after that first argument, when I showed up at your house and you had just gotten up and you had that piece of candy stuck in your mane and all I could think was how awesome it would be if I got to see that every day. It’s because you’re you, Tavi.”

Octavia melted. She felt her cheeks burn up but instead of that urge to run and hide, the extra blood in her face was a pleasant tingle. She kissed Vinyl’s cheek. “You think I’m perfect?” Another kiss. “You’ve been through so much more but you’ve been this beacon, this shining ball of happiness that illuminates everything around you.” Another kiss, this one on the forehead. Octavia leaned forward, resting her forehead against the DJ’s, making sure to avoid her horn. “Vinyl, you’re the most wonderful mare I’ve ever met.”

They kissed. A real kiss. Not the pecks and brushes that they had shared before, but something deeper, something far more real.

A kiss that made a promise.

They pulled away, both of them taking a deep breath as they did so. They held each other’s gaze, violet meeting a bright red. It felt as though an eternity passed between them.

“Whoah,” said Vinyl.

That broke their trance. Octavia let out a giggle. Vinyl grinned. Octavia laughed at how stunned and euphoric the DJ looked. Vinyl laughed because Octavia was laughing. Before long, the two of them were in stitches, clutching their sides and gasping for air. A few minutes later, they settled down. They sat against each other, a few stray giggles rocking their frame every once in awhile.

“Tavi?” asked Vinyl.

“Hmmm?” responded Octavia.

“Will you be my marefriend?”

“Only if you’ll be mine.”

“Well, duh.”

The cellist turned and smiled at the DJ. She held out her hoof. Vinyl smiled back and took it. The two sat like this for a time, simply basking in their mutual presence.

“We really should get back to etiquette,” said Octavia weakly.

“Don’t need to.”

“What?”

Vinyl levitated the utensils. “Soup spoon, sugar spoon, dessert spoon, salad fork, butter knife,” on and on she named the eating implements.

Octavia shook her head. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

Vinyl shrugged.

“Though it does beg the question as to why you didn’t do that earlier?”

Vinyl shrugged again. “It’s fun to mess with you, you’re muzzle scrunches up and you turn a little pink. It’s adorable. Plus, I had a spork so every other fork, spoon, or knife was kinda useless.”

Octavia sighed.

The DJ pointed with her free hoof. “See! Adorable.”


***


Harpo walked into SunBucks, holding his dunce cap in order to keep it from flying off from the late afternoon wind. A few of the patrons stared. The composer greeted them with a nod. The patrons were satisfied by that; they had seen stranger things than a stallion with a cone on his head.

The line was nothing special; about what one would expect at that time of day. Harpo occupied his time by singing a song in his head. He didn’t even notice when it was his turn.

You take the good, sang Harpo, you take the bad, you mix them all and there you have—

“Sir?” asked Carrot Top from behind the counter. “I’m afraid that you’re holding up the line.”

“Oh!” said Harpo. “Pardon me, I was a bit preoccupied with my thoughts.”

“Not a problem,” smiled the mare. “What can I get for you?”

“A grande chai tea with skim milk and whatever monstrosity of a beverage Vinyl Scratch orders.”

“That’s why you look familiar! You were in here with Vinyl a few days ago, weren’t you? You and that cellist, right?”

Harpo nodded. “Good memory.”

“Thank you. It’s all in the eyes. I’m kinda proud of my eyesight. Anyway, that’ll be ten bits. Can I get your name?”

The composer briefly considered ‘Woobie, Destroyer of Worlds,’ but decided that nopony in the immediate vicinity would understand the reference. “Harpo.”

Carrot Top scribbled the name down. “Alright Harpo, your order will be up in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” said Harpo as he trotted off towards an empty seat. He quickly took it.

What are Octavia and Vinyl doing? wondered Harpo. Probably something adorable... Not that I’m jealous or anything! I’m sure that I’d find the right mare once given the chance. Harpo frowned imperceptibly. Well, at least I’m pretty sure I would. Rarity was a fine mare. Not sure if we’re entirely compatible, though. The composer shrugged. Eh, it’ll probably work itself out.

He went back to singing. In fact, he was so engrossed in his old theme song sing along that he didn’t notice the mare glancing at him from across the room. Nor did he notice that said mare had gotten to her hooves and was trotting over to him.

We’re tiny, we’re toony, we’re all a little loony. And in this—

“Harpo? Harpo Nadermane? It is you, right?”

Harpo glanced up, slightly irked that he had been interrupted. He froze at the blue coat and light brown mane.

“It is you!” said the mare loudly. “I thought it would be, but I was really worried that it wasn’t. That would have been really embarrassing. How have you been?”

“H-Hello, Beauty. I-I’ve been fine.”

Beauty Brass smiled broadly. “I’m glad to hear that. Do you mind if I take a seat?”

Harpo shook his head.

The mare sat. “So, anything special happening with you?”

The composer shook his head. “Not really.”

Beauty smiled again. “I see you’re still a bit quiet.”

Harpo returned the smile, giving it a slightly awkward twist.

“It’s a shame, too. You’re very charming when you speak.”

The stallion let out a quick laugh. “You’re probably the only one who thinks so.”

“Really?”

Harpo gave a wry, half-smile. “You say charming. Witty is a bit more like it. And witty can be pretty bad.”

“Beauty Brass!” called a barista.

Beauty trotted over to pick up her drink. She sat down again. “Are you in much of a hurry?” she asked. “I’m dealing with this musical composition and I could really use another set of eyes. Preferably ones that actually know what they’re talking about.”

Harpo locked eyes with Beauty. “Of course. By the time we’re done, I may even say more that two sentences at a time.”

The mare laughed. “See? What did I say about the charm?”

Harpo shrugged. Beauty giggled again and dug through her pack, pulling out a packet of sheet music.

“It may be a bit much,” she said apologetically.

“Harpo!” called a barista.

The composer glanced at the two drinks, then back at the sheet music and Beauty Brass. His head repeated this motion a few times.

They’re going to be so pissed.


***


Harpo carefully pushed open the door to Octavia’s home. It was normally locked, but the composer knew where the grey mare kept her spare key. The door gave a shrill squeak as it opened, causing Harpo to wince.

The sun had set fully. The stallion had simply lost track of time while working with Beauty. The only reason that he left at all was due to the baristas’ occasional glances. They weren’t particularly dirty glances, but it was enough to make Harpo feel like a hindrance.

Besides, Beauty had something else to do. The composer smiled to himself. He hadn’t just let her walk away after that; he had specifically asked her out to dinner, under the guise of helping her with her piece.

Harpo crashed into a chair, stubbing his hoof and biting on his lip to keep from crying out. He brought his hoof to his mane as the pain coursed through him. Something fell off of his head. Harpo turned as white as a sheet.

The dunce cap rolled in a circle a few feet away.

I... I was wearing that... the entire time that I spoke to Beauty. Harpo placed his head on the table with a small thunk. I am the dumbest stallion in all of Equestria.

He pulled himself up, poking his head through the other rooms of the home, expecting at every moment for an angry Octavia and a coffee-deprived Vinyl to tear him into pieces. But it never came. Finally, he got to Octavia’s bedroom.

They were both there, fast asleep, wrapped in each other’s hooves. For a moment, Harpo was sure that they were even breathing in tandem.

Harpo smiled, closing the door softly behind him. He wore that smile as he made his way to the linen closet and pulled out an extra blanket and pillow and settled himself on the couch.

Lucky devils.
> The Preparations
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Octavia woke up first. Vinyl was breathing evenly, her muzzle mere inches away from the cellist. The DJ’s normally unkempt, disheveled mane was even more wild in her sleep, forming a vaguely circular crown around her head. The cellist quickly decided that if angels ever came to Equestria, they would look like that. Octavia briefly wondered whether watching somepony else sleep was overly creepy

The angel snorted, slowly chewing some dreamt up pastry. The grey mare smiled, brushing back a stray strand of electric blue mane.

I don’t think it really matters, thought Octavia.

Vinyl took a deep breath, her eyes fluttering open. She stretched slightly, looked up at the cellist and smiled. “Hey there,” she said softly.

“Good morning. Have a nice rest?”

“It was awesome.”

“Should we get up?”

“Nah. Harpo’ll probably knock on the door in a little bit.” Having said that, Vinyl nuzzled closer to the cellist.

Octavia smiled. “Then we should enjoy this while it lasts.”

“Yup.” The DJ paused, considering something. “Can I throw something at Harpo when he comes in?”

“And why would you do that?”

Vinyl shrugged, humming to the cadence of ‘I don’t know.’ “Seems like fun?”

The cellist chuckled slightly. “I don’t think so. Whatever happened to him last night?”

The DJ shrugged again. “Maybe he found a mare.”

Another laugh. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

They lapsed into silence. Vinyl had her head against Octavia’s chest, the cellist’s heartbeat slowly lulling the unicorn back to sleep. The DJ had to fight back a yawn.

“Still sleepy?” asked Octavia with a smile.

“You’re too comfortable.” Vinyl poked the cellist’s stomach. “And soft.”

A second’s pause.

Oh, shit, thought Vinyl Scratch.

“Oh really?” said Octavia. “Too soft, you say?”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Vinyl backed away to her end of the bed. “Oh Celestia, please don’t kill me!”

The cellist slowly crawled along the bed, getting a step closer with each word. She spoke quietly, pointedly, her eyes never leaving the DJ’s. “Am I the soft one, Vinyl? Perhaps you think I’ve developed some kind of obsession with cake?”

The unicorn shook her head wildly. “No Octy, I would never. I mean, you’re beautiful, the prettiest mare I’ve ever seen, definitely not soft or fat or anything.”

Another second ticked past.

Damn, I really need to learn how to shut my buckin’ mou—

Octavia pounced without warning, driving her hooves into Vinyl’s sides. The DJ fell, lying prone on the bed as her marefriend attacked.

“I’m soft?” asked Octavia. “Darling, I can’t help but notice just how soft you are.”

“T—Tavi!” gasped Vinyl. “Stop! … Stomach! .. Can’t breathe!” she choked out in between gales of debilitating laughter.

“Stop?” asked the cellist, her faux-anger slipping into giggles. “Never!” She redoubled her efforts.

The DJ couldn’t even form words. Every breath she could take was instantly expelled by her laughs. Not that it mattered anymore. All that was left was the burning of her lungs, the feeling of Octavia’s hooves at her side, and the need, the ever-present need for escape.

Vinyl acted on that need, rolling right off the side of the bed and landing with a thump. Her laughs were instantly silenced.

The cellist hurried to the edge and peeked over. “Vinyl? Vinyl, are you okay?” she asked urgently.

Vinyl Scratch lay stretched out on the carpet, her eyes slightly defocused. Octavia was deathly worried for a heart-wrenching moment.

And then the DJ began to laugh again. “Oh Luna,” she said, “I think I lost like 20 pounds. And I can’t feel my ribs. Or my lungs.” She breathed in slightly, wincing as her lungs expanded. “Wait no, there they are. It hurts like a bitch.”

The cellist gave a relieved sigh. “You deserved it.”

The DJ threw up her hooves. She instantly regretted it as her sore sides stretched. “I didn’t mean it like that! I was talking about your coat! Soft coat!”

“Uh-huh,” replied Octavia, unconvinced.

Vinyl put her forehooves on top of the bed. She poked the cellist’s side. “See?” Another poke. Octavia jumped slightly.

“Soft coat.” Vinyl kept poking, slowly driving the cellist backwards. Before long, the DJ was back on the bed. “Oh, and this is revenge!” At the last word, Vinyl pushed a bit harder and Octavia fell. The unicorn moved with her, quickly swinging one of her back hooves over so that she was straddling the cellist.

Revenge was sweet, but it was far too short.

There was a knock on the door. Vinyl and Octavia both looked up. The DJ was still straddling the cellist.

Harpo took one glance inside and immediately turned around and shut the door. The mares inside of the room glanced at each other, then back at the door. Vinyl saw a scrap of paper slide through the crack in the doorway, then the sound of a composer’s mad laughter and the clattering of his hooves. One magical levitation later and the DJ held it in her hooves. Octavia was looking at the back of the note, all of the color under her coat slowly draining away.

It read, in Harpo’s hoofwriting, “Lock your door next time. And be safe.” An arrow was drawn next to the words. Vinyl braced herself for the worst and flipped the note over.

A condom had been taped to the back.

As Harpo ran across the streets of Canterlot, utterly convinced that moving to Baltimare was entirely worth the joke he had just played, Octavia placed her head in her hooves.

“That’s it,” said the cellist. “We’ll have to kill him.”


***


“There will be no killing of any members of Syncopated Records.” The Doctor sat in Octavia’s living room, trying desperately to stay in between the two rabid mares and the suicidal composer. “That was an express order from Fancy Pants!”

“Really?” asked Vinyl. Octavia was glaring a lioness’ glare at Harpo.

“Well, no,” conceded the Doctor, “but that can’t be good for publicity! Besides, it took a lot of effort to convince him to come back!”

“By the way, where’s that lollipop you promised me, Doctor?” asked Harpo.

The Doctor pulled a giant, multi-colored lollipop from his saddlebags and hoofed it over to the composer. “What did you even do?”

“What did he do?” asked Octavia. “I’ll tell you what he did.” The cellist did exactly that.

At the end of the rather brief tale, the Doctor turned towards Harpo. “Are you suicidal or something?!”

Harpo shrugged, moving his lollipop in vague circles. “I’m a composer. ’Suicidal’ is pretty much a requirement.”

“Where did you even find one of those around here?” asked Vinyl, mostly out of curiosity.

Octavia grimaced. “I’d rather not know.”

Harpo grinned.

“Riiiiight,” droned the Doctor. “Well, you all can discuss this later in an area not so close to sharp, pointy objects.” He glanced towards the kitchen meaningfully.

Octavia also glanced towards the kitchen, wondering how far away her knife stand actually was.

“Besides,” continued the Doctor, “we’re rather far away from my reason for being here in the first place.” He reached into his saddlebags again, suddenly pulling out three garment bags.

Harpo jumped slightly. “Witchcraft!” he cried.

The Doctor chuckled, laying the garment bags on a nearby couch. “Not exactly. They’re just bigger on the inside. Anyway, Miss Rarity has fully finished your formal attire.”

“In a single day?” asked Octavia incredulously.

“Yes,” said the Doctor with a slight smile. “And she sends her apologies for, ‘the dreadful wait’.”

The musicians took up their formal wear, ten-times more elegant in the flesh than it had been on paper. They flowed and glittered, the colors of every portion of clothes mixing perfectly.

“They’re gorgeous,” said Octavia breathlessly.

“Miss Rarity has asked you to try them on. Just to make sure that everything fits perfectly,” said the Doctor.

The musicians agreed, swiftly retiring to various rooms of Octavia’s home to try out their clothes. Vinyl tried to follow the cellist into the master bedroom, but was quickly stopped by a slamming door. She had to make due with the guest bedroom.

A few minutes later they reconvened, dressed, as the expression goes, to the nines. Octavia’s dress was exactly as Rarity had drawn it; various, glimmering shades of a royal violet mixing with a large swath of electric blue. A bow, slightly larger than the bowtie she normally wore, adorned the front of the dress.

Vinyl’s dress was shorter than Octavia’s, but had that same effect that marked it as one of Rarity’s works. Pink and purple dotted across a black background. The lower portion was a charcoal grey, adorned in the same fashion as Octavia’s dress. A clasp on the front of the dress was shaped like Vinyl’s cutie mark. She wasn’t wearing her shades.

Harpo, as males tend to, wore a comparatively simple suit. His red bowtie had been swapped out for a mauve one, which matched his vest and jacket.

The focus was, of course, on the mares.

“So, can I pass on your approval to Miss Rarity?” asked the Doctor.

Neither Vinyl nor Octavia knew quite what to say.

Harpo rolled his eyes. “Yes, our approval and our thanks, Doctor. Tell her that those two were drooling over each other.”

The other colt chuckled. Octavia’s head snapped towards the composer, trying to glare him to death. Vinyl spared another appreciative glance at Octavia before joining in the glare. Harpo shrugged it off and went back to his lollipop.

“Well, that’s about all I had to do,” said the Doctor. “I’ll be taking my leave now.” He made for the doorway.

“You seem to do that quite a bit,” said Octavia. “Without sounding too cross, where have you been these past few days?”

The Doctor wave his hoof in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, out and about. I was doing various, vague things about... vagueness.”

The cellist gave him a flat look.

“Trust me,” said the Doctor, “you wouldn’t believe me if I told you everything. But I will say that I wasn’t completely away from Syncopated Records during my absence.”

“Care to be any vaguer?” said Octavia.

The Doctor grinned. “I might. Maybe.” And with that, the Doctor walked right back out of the room.

The musicians were on their own once again, wearing what could have been the finest clothes they’d ever worn. Somehow, the combined effect of her own dress and Vinyl wearing a dress had robbed Octavia of her murderous intent.

She would have to settle with maiming rather than killing.

“Ow!” cried the composer. Octavia hit him again.

“OW! Dammit Octavia, you’re a lot stronger than you think you are!”

The cellist hit him one more time. “I know exactly how strong I am! It’s the only reason that I’m not allowing myself to beat you to a pulp.”

“Your strength and my incredible charm, right?”

Thwack.

“Ow! That one really hurt!”


***


“Fancy Pants! Fleur! What a pleasant surprise!” Marcato Philharmonica held the door open, allowing his friends into his manor.

“Forgive us for dropping by so suddenly,” said Fancy Pants. Fleur de Lis nodded in agreement.

“Not a problem. Legato and I required a second opinion anyway.” The stallion trotted over to a nearby table and held up a single streamer. “Is this blue or purple?”

“I’d say blue,” said Fancy Pants.

Marcato turned slightly. “See?! Fancy Pants thinks it’s blue too!” he shouted up the stairs behind him.

A voice floated down. “Tell him that you’re both going senile and blind!”

“She says that we’re both going senile and blind,” relayed Marcato.

Fancy Pants chuckled slightly.

“She’s right, you know,” said Fleur. “You’re both senile and blind, and that streamer is clearly purple.”

“Oh, sure,” said Marcato dramatically. “Leave it to the mares to team up on us.”

A pillow sped down the stairs, making heavy contact with the back of Marcato’s head. The stallion barely even flinched.

“It was a lot more fun when you’d react to that,” said Legato with a slight pout.

“Darling, how many years have you been throwing things at me? At this point, I just take it as an ‘I love you,’ in the form of a pillow. Or a vase.”

“I haven’t thrown a vase at you.”

“Hearth’s Warming Eve, two years after we started dating.”

“You remember that?” asked Legato sheepishly.

“Yes, and I have the scar to prove it.” Marcato turned towards Fancy Pants and Fleur de Lis, lifting back his mane to reveal a tiny discolored line.

“We’ve seen the scar,” said an amused Fancy Pants. “Multiple times.”

“Nearly every time we’ve visited and Legato threw something at you,” added Fleur de Lis. A few seconds pause, then, “Well, I suppose that’s every time we’ve visited.”

Marcato brought his hoof down, smoothing his mane again. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

There was a dull thud as pillow collided with skull.

“Or my wife’s aim any less accurate.”

Legato stepped forward, gently leading Fancy Pants and Fleur de Lis to the dining room. “Care for something to drink?”

“Just a cup of water if you don’t mind,” said Fleur de Lis.

“I’ll take the same please,” said Fancy Pants.

Legato trotted off to complete the most basic of social rituals.

“They’re adorable, aren’t they?” said Fleur.

“Quite. The classic loving old couple,” replied the stallion with a smile.

“I heard that,” said Marcato as he walked into the dining room. “We’re not that old. Give it a few more years. We’ll be outside in rocking chairs, yelling at inanimate objects.”

“Honey, you already do that,” laughed Legato, holding two glasses of water.

“Not in a rocking chair!... Legato, I think we should buy a rocking chair.”

As per usual, Legato ignored her husband. “Now, to what do we owe this visit, Fancy Pants?”

“Just a customary check-up. Fleur and I wanted to make sure that everything was running smoothly.” The businesspony took a sip of his water.

Legato gave a half-smile. “Only as well as could be hoped.”

Fleur de Lis raised an eyebrow, but Marcato preempted any questions.

“Blueblood has been fighting us every step of the way,” said the stallion in an exasperated tone. “He’s paid off quite a few ponies in an attempt to keep them from working with us.”

“Unsuccessfully?” asked Fancy Pants.

“Only slightly. Idiot that he is, Her Highness’s nephew is not without his own power.” Marcato put a hoof to his temple. “Your Doctor has proven indispensable in finding replacements. Can we keep him?”

Fleur laughed gently. “Only if you can convince him to stay in one place.”

Marcato grunted. “That’s a no, then.”

“So we don’t have to worry?” asked Fancy Pants.

“Of course not!” answered Legato. “We’re grown ponies, Fancy Pants; we understand how to handle ourselves.” She glanced at her husband. “One of us knows how to handle ourselves.”

“Do you see how she treats me?” protested Marcato.

“Well excuse me for your tendency to act like a foal!”

Marcato crossed his hooves. “I’m wonderful,” he asserted.

Thud.

“Pillow’s back,” noted Fleur.

“Indeed,” said Fancy Pants.

Legato cleared her voice. “In any case, you needn’t worry about things on our end. It is far more important that your little musicians behave themselves.”

“That shouldn’t be... too much of a problem,” said Fancy Pants hesitantly.

“You don’t sound totally convinced,” said Legato.

“Well,” replied the businesspony, “it’s not as though I don’t trust my musicians. But...”

“They’re young,” finished Fleur.

“Oh,” said Marcato. “Yes, that is a problem.”

The four elder ponies nodded sagely, sipping at their drinks and trying to figure out how exactly they would be able to save the younger ponies’ flanks when they inevitably bucked something up.


***


Octavia fell for the umpteenth time. Her flank was beginning to hurt. “Harpo, I think it’s your turn now.”

Harpo was laying on the couch, a bag of ice balanced on his hoof. “Hey, she’s your marefriend!”

“It’s this bucking dress!” said a highly frustrated Vinyl Scratch. “I can’t dance in this thing!”

The cellist sighed. “It’s not that, Vinyl. You just haven’t had enough time to practice. Don’t worry, we’ll fix that.”

Harpo snorted. “And then we’ll take a trip to the hospital so that they can fix us.”

Vinyl turned a bright shade of red.

Octavia hit the composer’s aching hoof, making Harpo cry out in pain and fall to the floor.

“Don’t worry, Vinyl,” said the cellist as Harpo writhed in pain, “practice makes perfect. Just remember that you’re going to begin with your right hoof. Your partner will be leading with their left.”

The DJ nodded glumly. Octavia stepped up again, smiling at the inevitable pain.

“This may be easier if I knew what song we were dancing to,” Vinyl said weakly.

“It’s a waltz,” said Harpo from his place on the floor. “Fancy dancing is boring. It’s pretty much the same for every song in a certain style of music. A waltz is a waltz is a waltz is a polka after one too many drinks.” The composer laughed at his own joke.

Octavia gave an encouraging smile. “Let’s try one more time, Vinyl.”

The DJ sighed, counting to three over and over again. “You know, you’d think that my cash-obsessed parents would have given me some dancing lessons. But nope.”

“Well, you’re not doing badly right now,” said Octavia.

Vinyl smiled and misstepped, her hoof tangling in the cellist’s. Both of them were sent crashing to the floor. The DJ sighed.

Octavia patted the back of Vinyl’s head. “It’s alright.”

“That was your fault, Octavia,” said Harpo.

“What?”

“You completely jinxed it.”

The cellist shook her head, climbing to her hooves and helping Vinyl to her own.

“One more time,” said Octavia, “from the top.”

“Oh, Princess Celestia, don’t let me break a hoof,” said Vinyl.
> The Changes
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“See, you’re getting better already!”

Slip. Thud.

“Octavia, for the umpteenth time, don’t jinx it!”

The mares untangled themselves, Vinyl shone a particularly bright red. Octavia rounded on the composer. “But she is improving! Simply pointing it out does not change the fact!”

Harpo tilted his head slightly, giving Octavia a sage look. “Never underestimate a jinx.”

“It’s just so slow!” said Vinyl, stamping at the ground. “What kind of pony dances like this?!”

“The ponies that we’ll be consorting with in two days,” replied Harpo with a deadpan expression.

The DJ grimaced and coughed into a hoof. “I think I feel a cold coming on.”

“If she gets to take the day off by pretending to be sick, so do I!” Harpo dramatically swooned onto the couch. “My athlete’s hoof is acting up. I can’t feel my eyeballs!”

“Keep that up and I’ll give you something to complain about,” threatened Octavia through gritted teeth.

Harpo considered this. “On second thought, I feel fine. It’s a miracle!”

“Perfect, because it’s your turn,” said the cellist with a snide smile.

Harpo groaned, dragging himself to his hooves. “Who knows, maybe I won’t have to go afterall. Vinyl will probably break my hoof and then I can stay in bed all day!”

The DJ scowled, throwing a dirty glare at Harpo that, for the first time in a long time, was not covered by bright purple shades.

The composer stuck his tongue out at her.

The cellist, for the first time in the last three seconds, wondered whether her friends had lied about their age when Fancy Pants hired them.

“Can I at least get some music?” whined Vinyl. “I can’t just stand here and dance; it feels stupid.”

“Vinyl,” replied Octavia, “I assure you that this is the fastest way to learn the steps. You just have to keep the beat in your head.”

“But numbers are boring!” cried Vinyl, throwing up her hooves. “One two three. One two three. One two three. It’s like I’m back in magic kindergarten!”

“Oh, give her the music, Octavia,” said Harpo. “It may help. And then she won’t, you know, leave me broken in a hospital.”

The DJ punched the composer. Hard. “Don’t tempt me, Harpbutt.”

The composer rubbed at the newest of his collection of bruises. “Octavia? The music?”

Octavia nodded and trotted over to a closet. The door creaked open, revealing row upon row of neatly organized records, stretching from the closet floor and up towards the ceiling. Octavia had added shelves to the other side of the door and the closet walls. Those too were filled to bursting with records and each one was in pristine condition, still in the original cardboard sheets that the cellist had bought them in. It seemed as though every piece of music written in recent memory could be found within that single closet

Vinyl gaped, running her eyes over, well, the vinyls. “Tavi, can I borrow some of those?”

“Not if you’re going to use them in your shows, Vinyl Scratch.”

“But… but I love you.” Vinyl prepared herself, gathering energy for the most powerful puppy dog eyes she had ever given.

Octavia’s eyes widened. Her hoof darted into the closet, deftly picking out a record before slamming the door shut and locking it.

The DJ’s puppy dog eyes turned into a pout. “Do… do you not trust me?”

“Not with my records.” Octavia trotted over to her gramophone. “As much as I love you, I will be keeping my collection under lock and key.”

“Lame!” protested Vinyl. “So lame!”

The cellist rolled her eyes as she gingerly lowered the record into place. She cranked the gramophone a few times. “Harpo, make sure that that record doesn’t scratch.”

The composer looked over his shoulder, locking eyes with the cellist. Octavia looked back at him and nodded slightly. Harpo shrugged. “Fine by me. I rather enjoy having feeling in my hooves.” The stallion flopped back onto the couch, giving the record a cursory glance. He smiled to himself and  lowered the needle. 

A piano sounded from the machine. The notes seemed to slowly float downwards, like a leaf caught in the wind, as the mares squared off again.

“Nice song,” said Vinyl.

“One of my favorites,” agreed Octavia. “Remember, I’m leading.”

The DJ nodded, her head tilting to one side as the piano shifted from its downward sways. The music kept its dream-like quality. “We’re not supposed to dance to this part, right?”

“We can.”

“But we’re not?”

Octavia shook her head as a lone violin gave a plaintive call. “No, but we do dance to this.”

The waltz began in full force. Octavia took a step forward, Vinyl took a step back. The mares swayed to the side. The DJ’s brow was furrowed in concentration; her dancing was stiff and choppy. Even then, she was doing far better than she had done previously.

The music’s main theme returned, swelling louder. Octavia was barely able to stifle a giggle as Vinyl stumbled slightly.

“Loosen up!” called Harpo from the sidelines.

“Shut… up… Harpo!” retorted Vinyl, her eyes firmly locked onto her hooves. The composer chuckled and wondered whether popcorn was an option.

“Vinyl,” said Octavia quietly, “try looking up.”

The DJ glanced upwards quickly, before staring back down at her treacherous hooves.

The cellist rolled her eyes. “All the way up.”

“I’m kinda… busy!”

Octavia sighed and swooped in, taking Vinyls forehooves in her own and making them rear up. The DJ made the most adorable squeaking sound and squirmed slightly in the cellist’s grip.

“Harpo, start the record again. Carefully.”

The composer rolled his eyes and, with exaggerated slowness, took the record off the gramophone, giving the machine a few cranks for good measure.

The drifting piano notes resounded through the room. Vinyl had stopped squirming, a sheepish grin grew across her face, masking her embarrassment. “I’m really bad at this.”

Octavia smiled softly. “Terrible is a bit closer.” She thought for a few moments. “Though ‘disastrous’ is probably the closest.”

Vinyl gave an embarrassed bark of a laugh.

“Now,” said Octavia, “forget all about that and dance with me.”

Harpo gave a quick, “Awwwww,” from his place on the couch. Octavia glanced at him, but the composer preempted his punishment by putting the dunce cap on his own head.

The violin gave its cry. A moment of quiet. And then the waltz began again. Octavia took a step forward, balancing against Vinyl in the same way she balances against her cello. The DJ was forced to take a step back, tottering dangerously on her hind hooves. But Octavia stalwartly held onto Vinyl’s fore hooves, sweeping her back and forth to the music.

Vinyl wasn’t quite able to bend her head downwards, making sure that her hooves stayed beneath her; Octavia was pressed a tad bit too closely to allow that. The DJ was suddenly very aware just how close the cellist, her marefriend, actually was.

“So,” said the DJ, “this is… nice.”

Octavia smiled. “Yes, it is.”

They kept up their dance. Vinyl stumbled a few times, but Octavia kept her from falling and ending their waltz.

“This is kinda like music, isn’t it?” asked the DJ.

The cellist arched an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You know, it just kinda… is.”

Octavia gave a small smile. “You have a wonderful way with words.”

Vinyl stuck her tongue out, stumbling slightly. But only slightly. “You know what I mean!”

The cellist considered this for a moment, her own hooves never faltering for a moment. “I suppose so. You must get a bit lost in the music to get it right.” Octavia lifted her hoof, giving the DJ a sudden twirl.

Vinyl let out another squeak but somehow, miraculously, kept her balance. She looked at Octavia with a wide grin. 

The music drew slightly distorted. Somehow, the DJ was able to work through that. And then the main theme returned again, not as swooping as before, a bit bouncier. Vinyl added a spring to her steps without really thinking about it.

Octavia grinned, one mirrored by the white unicorn before her. On the couch, Harpo swayed from side to side, humming along to the tune.

The mares danced until the final note tapered out. Octavia and Vinyl fell back onto their hooves. The cellist’s grin hadn’t subsided in the slightest. “And then you bow to your partner and the dance is over. The grey mare’s head dipped slightly.

Vinyl laughed and exaggerated her own bow. “My thanks, dearest Tavi, for sharing this dance with me. Now, I have heard that thou hast in thine possession the finest records in the land.”

“No,” said Octavia.

“But I danced!” whined Vinyl.

“No.”

“And I bowed and everything!”

“No.”

Vinyl pouted. “Well… then what are we supposed to do?”

“We make sure that you’re prepared for the dance,” said Octavia.

“Oh come on, Octy!” groaned the DJ. “I didn’t even fall that time!”

“‘That time’ is the keyword in that sentence,” said the cellist with an adamant expression. “We should make sure that you can maintain your balance.”

“You just want to dance with me again.” Vinyl waggled her eyebrows.

Octavia turned slightly pink. “Fine… we’ll take a break.”

“Hey!” protested the unicorn. “I didn’t say that that was a bad thing! I mean, it’s understandable.” She put on a cocky grin. “Who wouldn’t want to dance with me?”

Harpo raised a hoof. His head snapped back as a pillow wrapped in Vinyl’s aura sped across the room. The composer still had his eyes towards the ceiling as he said, “SunBucks?”

Vinyl shrugged. “Sounds good.”


***




“— And so I said, what do I look like, a pineapple?!” Vinyl burst out laughing. Octavia and Harpo smiled politely.

“Did you get any of that?” whispered Harpo to the cellist.

“Not a bit.”

The DJ had her eyes set on the coffee house doors. “I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve had coffee. Two days? Day and a half? Celestia, I don’t know how I’m functioning!”

The trio had reached the glass doors of SunBucks. Octavia and Harpo held back, expecting Vinyl to rocket into the coffee house and, possibly, tumble over the counter.

Whether they were looking forward to this possibility or worried about it was still up for debate.

But Vinyl didn’t rocket. In fact, she didn’t even slam the door open and her usual war cry was replaced with a far calmer, “‘Sup, Berry?”

Octavia and Harpo shared a look.

The purple mare looked up, then glanced at the clock. “You’re off time.”

The DJ shrugged. “I’ve been busy. Can you whip something up for me?”

“The usual?”

“Nah,” replied Vinyl, staring at the menu. “Something cold this time. Oh! Could you mix one of those cookie things into the drink?”

“A buscotti?” asked Berry Punch.

“Yeah, cookie thing!”

Harpo and Octavia shared another look. This time, however, Vinyl caught it.

“What?” she said. “I drink things other than the Hyped-Up DJ.”

Octavia blinked. “Hyped-Up DJ?” 

Berry Punch looked up from a blender filled with coffee and cookies. “Three guesses as to where the name came from.”

Harpo laughed. “I like this place more every time I come here!”

“That’s the goal,” said the barista with a smile. “And can I get you the usual too, Miss Octavia?”

The cellist rapidly shook her head. “No! No thank you; I rather like being able to sit still.”

Berry looked a bit confused. “I didn’t think chai tea had that effect.”

Octavia blinked. “Chai tea?”

“That’s what you normally order, isn’t it? Or at least, what other ponies order when they’re bringing it to you. Chai tea with skim milk.”

Vinyl grinned brightly and threw a hoof over the cellist. “Look at that! Tavi’s got a usual!” She wiped a pretended tear from her eye. “They grow up so fast!”

“Mmmmmhmmm,” said Berry Punch in agreement. “Give it a little more and she’ll be a usual.” She smiled a knowing smile at Octavia. “Anyway, you’re drink’s ready, Vinyl.”

“Thanks Berry,” said the DJ, throwing a hoofful of bits onto the counter. “You’re a doll. Harpo, let’s go get a table.” She trotted off, closely followed by the composer.

“So,” said the barista when they had left earshot, “how’s insanity treating you?”

“You remember that, do you?” said Octavia sheepishly.

“I have a good memory. And a bit of a sense for these things.”

“What… things?”

Berry grinned. “These things.” She winked. “You two are cute together. I knew you would, ever since you first came in here with those papers.”

Octavia thought back. She clearly remembered being quite prepared to run a hoof through Vinyl’s face. Nervousness had that effect on the cellist. “I certainly didn’t.”

“That’s the thing about these things,” said the other mare with a shrug. “You never it coming.”

Octavia craned her neck over her shoulder. Vinyl and Harpo had taken a table in the corner. The DJ was balancing a spork on her upper lip. The composer was desperately fighting the urge to knock it off.

“No,” said the cellist. “You certainly don’t.”

… Where does she keep finding those?


***


Fancy Pants cradled his head in one of his hooves. “And there’s nothing more?”

“No. Prince Blueblood has gone to extra efforts to ensure that his secrets remain secret.” Hoity Toity took a sip of his cognac.

The eldest stallion sighed. “Doctor?”

The Doctor unstuck two jelly babies, popping a red one into his mouth which was closely followed by a green one. “No idea. The most specific information I’ve managed to get is that he’s gotten a few ponies added to the guest list. I couldn’t find the names, but I’ve heard that it’s only two or three.”

Fancy Pants frowned. “With what intent?”

Hoity Toity raised an eyebrow. “Does it matter? It’s clearly something meant to break apart Syncopated Records. That should be enough.”

The Doctor chuckled. “A few days ago, you would have been enough.”

“I don’t want to break apart Syncopated Records,” said Hoity Toity.

“Anymore,” added the brown stallion. “Care for a Jelly Baby?”

“No… thank you.”

Fancy Pants rubbed at his eyes. “For now, I am more than willing to assume that Hoity Toity has put aside any devious intentions.”

“I’m flattered,” deadpanned the designer.

The elder stallion looked up, greeting Hoity Toity with a sheepish smile. “Don’t take offense to that, Hoitoi.”

Hoity Toity’s left eye twitched slightly. He took a sip of his cognac. “I’d ask you to not be so familiar with me, but that would be rather rude, wouldn’t it?”

Fancy Pants grinned. “Yes, it would. Good thing that you’re not suggesting anything.”

The Doctor watched the exchange with a bit more than a touch of amusement.

The elder businesspony sighed again. He’d been doing that quite a lot recently. “I suppose that the next logical step would be to speak to Marcato and Legato.”

The other two nodded.

“Still,” pondered Fancy Pants, “what possesses Blueblood? Why does he feel the need to come after us.”

Hoity Toity snorted. “Prince Blueblood? There’s no logic to that foal’s logic.”

The Doctor rubbed at his neck. “I wonder about that.”

The two stallions of wealth turned to the Doctor, eyebrows raised.

“What I mean is,” continued the Doctor, “he’s clearly somewhat capable. Blueblood isn’t terribly dangerous, but he’s good at being annoying. Not many ponies could be such a good thorn in our sides.”

“He’s a colt trying to play a businesspony’s game,” asserted Hoity Toity. “He started cheating when he realized that he is not good enough to play.”

Fancy Pants smiled. When the stallion normally did this, every pony in the immediate vicinity felt that they had received their father’s approval. This time, the smile was ice cold. “It’s always been a game for you, hasn’t it, Mr. Toity?”

Hoity Toity met the smile with his own cool gaze. “Only so long as it’s worth playing.”

The elder businesspony took a deep breath. His smile thawed slightly. “I’d rather that you didn’t refer to my problems as a ‘game.’” He turned to the other stallion. “Doctor, contact the Philharmonicas and continue your search for information. Thank you for your continuing services.”

The brown stallion saluted and marched through the doorway.

Fancy Pants turned towards Hoity Toity. “I trust you know what to do.”

“Of course.” He drained the rest of his cognac. “I can handle this. I’m not what I was before.”

“I know.” There was a note of sadness in his voice. Sadness counterpointed with the slightest pride. “Goodbye Hoitoi.”

Hoity Toity twitched once again before nodding to Fancy Pants. He walked back outside, already planning his meeting with Prince Blueblood.

> The Day Before
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Octavia awoke smoothly. At least, as smoothly as a living being can actually wake up. Which isn’t saying much.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, casting a murky look around her room. Vinyl was nowhere in sight. 

I guess there’s no spider this morning, thought Octavia groggily.

The cellist sighed slightly and stretched, forcing herself to swing onto her hooves. She swayed dangerously, her body threatening to simply fall back into bed, before taking the tottering steps into her bathroom.

She wiped the steam from her mirror with a hoof, simultaneously reaching for her toothbrush. There was a steady pounding in her head, rapid dots falling through space. A strange sensation, especially as Octavia couldn’t remember drinking the night before.

She shrugged it off, putting a single pea-sized drop of toothpaste into place. Octavia wiped the mirror again.

There was a strange blue smudge on the glass. Octavia squinted slightly. The smudge stayed as mysterious as before, the cellist’s squinting counteracted by the rapidly re-fogging mirror. Still brushing her teeth, Octavia moved her hoof in wide circles, cleaning off the majority of the mirror.

The unicorn in the mirror grinned, poking a hoof away from the shower curtain and waving merrily. The cellist felt her toothbrush clatter to the sink.

“Mornin’,” said Vinyl. “Gonna take a shower?” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“I’m so sorry!” sputtered Octavia, her mouth still filled with toothpaste. “I didn’t… The door… Lock… Couldn’t hear the water!” The cellist backed towards the door as she spoke, wrenching at a knob which had, quite literally, magically locked.

“Vinyl, open the door!”

“Octy, I think that this is an important step towards improving our relationship.” The DJ was trying desperately to keep a straight face. Not that Octavia noticed. She was far too busy covering her eyes to focus on Vinyl’s face.

The cellist turned a bright pink. “I’m not going to shower with you!” she shouted. Her voice cracked just the slightest bit.

“Are you sure?” purred Vinyl. “I’m sure it would be fun.”

Octavia felt her vision blur. More blood than she thought she had in her entire body had suddenly pooled in her head at Vinyl’s suggestion. A suggestion which wasn’t entirely unwelc—

The cellist stomped one hoof down on the other, squeaking slightly at the pain.. Bad brain! Stop that!

“Hey, you okay there Tavi?” asked a worried Vinyl.

Octavia looked up. And was filled with a strange mixture of regret and that feeling that could only be described as—

“... Damn.”

The shower had straightened Vinyl’s mane. A stray strand hung just over a magenta eye. The effect on Octavia was immediate. The cellist turned towards the door, hooves frantically searching for the way to unlock it.

“Hey Octy, you okay?” The DJ’s amusement was tinted with worry.

“Vinyl, open this door or I swear that you’re walking out of this bathroom with a bright red hoofmark adorning your face!”

Vinyl grinned cheekily. “As kinky as that sounds, I can’t just go opening doors. I’m showering! What if somepony walked in?!”

Octavia thumped her head against the door.

“And,” continued Vinyl, “I don’t see what the big deal is. You see me naked on a daily basis! Hell, everypony does!” The DJ’s voice grew husky. “But you get to see me in the shower. Aren’t you lucky?”

The cellist sighed, her head pressed firmly against the door. “Just unlock this damn piece of wood, Vinyl.”

There was a slight click as Vinyl’s aura wrapped the doorknob and quickly dissipated. The cellist breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Octavia jumped as she felt the press of lips on her cheek. Her mane and part of her coat were quickly drenched. The DJ could be remarkably quiet when she wanted to be, even when climbing out of a shower.

“No problem,” said Vinyl. She hit the cellist’s flank, quickly pushing her outside and re-locking the door. “Now get out, ya perv! I’m showering!”

Octavia’s eyes widened. She turned, repeatedly pounding on the door with her hoof. “Vinyl! Open this door so I can hit you!”

“Can’t hear you!” came the DJ’s muffled reply. “I’m in the shower!”

They kept up this exchange for a few minutes. Harpo had plenty of time to slip into the run, serenely sipping on a cup of coffee while the mares had their quarrel.

Octavia turned, finding the composer in mid-sip. Harpo held up a hoof, finishing his sip as quickly as he could before looking at the cellist.

“Is it physically impossible for you two to have a normal morning?”

“Apparently.”


***


Vinyl had finished her shower. Octavia had promptly smacked the back of the DJ’s head. Harpo was eating breakfast. Everypony was happy and a silence had fallen onto the room.

Harpo absentmindedly stirred his cornflakes. “I haven’t been in my own home in days.”

Vinyl nodded. “Work does that.”

“Or at least this work does,” added Octavia.

The other two nodded in agreement, munching at their cereal.

“Speaking of work,” said the DJ, “where did you disappear to, Harpo?”

“I disappeared?”

“Indeed,” said Octavia brightly. “Late last night when Vinyl’s movements began to vaguely resemble dancing.”

“I take offense to that,” said the DJ.

“Good,” replied the cellist. The mares turned expectantly turned towards Harpo.

“Look at the time!” he exclaimed. “Fancy Pants wants to see us. In fact, we should get going right now. No time to talk!”

“Harpo Parish Nadermane, explain yourself!” said Octavia. But the composer, with years of practice behind him, had managed to escape.

Vinyl gave a low, impressed whistle. “He moves fast when he wants to.”


***


The walk to Fancy Pants’s home was uneventful. At least, not taking into account Harpo’s skillful dodging around explaining where he had gone the previous night. Now they sat in the familiar manor, the mares sitting together, the composer sitting in a chair of his own. A slightly haggard looking Fancy Pants sat before them, deftly mixing drinks.

“Are you three ready for tomorrow?” he asked politely.

The musicians nodded.

“No problems? Everypony fully understands what will be expected of them?”

The musicians nodded.

The businesspony breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s one thing going for us.”

“What’s up boss?” asked Vinyl.

Fancy Pants smiled, magically patting the DJ’s head. “Nothing you need to worry about. Let the grown-ups handle things.”

“I’m over 20!” protested Vinyl, her head dodging and weaving in an unsuccessful attempt to avoid the magic.

The businesspony snorted. “You’re still a filly; I’m more than twice your age. In any case, Fleur and the Doctor are out in the field, covering their respective duties. They’re more than enough to handle this.”

“Handle what?” asked Harpo.

Fancy Pants raised an eyebrow. “Nothing you’ll need to worry about.”

“Blueblood, most likely,” said Octavia.

“Octavia!” whined the venerable stallion. “I said that you needn’t concern yourself!”

“Then it is Blueblood,” said Harpo.

Fancy Pants blinked. “Now, I never said that.”

Vinyl pointed at the stallion. “I know that face, boss! That’s your lying face! It means that you’re lying!”

“Really?” said Harpo sarcastically. “A lying face means that he’s lying? I never would have guessed.”

“Shut up, Harpbutt.”

Fancy Pants sighed. He’d been doing that quite often in recent weeks. “Okay, fine. Yes, it’s Blueblood. None of you are allowed to help, though we do appreciate the offer. All you have to do is ensure that you’re ready for tomorrow. Then this whole business will be over and done with. In fact, we’re lucky that it hasn’t been blown out of proportion already. Not that the Prince hasn’t been trying.”

“Wait, what’s been going on?” asked Harpo.

“The media,” replied the other stallion with evident disdain. “Snap Shot has been particularly horrid, constantly poking his nose into places it shouldn’t be. Thank Celestia for Fleur de Lis and her social skills.” He leaned forward slightly, speaking clearly. “That’s another thing. There will likely be some form of reporter at tomorrow’s party. Watch what you do and if you see a dark blue stallion with a flashing camera cutie mark, run. If he’s with Quick Quill, run and hide.”

The musicians nodded. Everypony in Canterlot knew to be on their best behavior when Snap Shot and his writer Quick Quill were around or risk being ostracized from high society. Together, they had a greater law-keeping effect than a troop of the Royal Guard.

Octavia raised her hoof, a thoughtful look on her face.

Fancy Pants gave an amused smile. “Yes, Miss Philharmonica?”

“Why?” asked the cellist. “Why does Prince Blueblood go out of his way to get in our way? What does Blueblood stand to gain from bothering us and taking photos of rather…. embarrassing moments?”

“Because he’s a dick?” offered Vinyl. “A self-obsessed, elitist prick?”

“Language, Vinyl,” said the elder stallion with little conviction.

“But seriously,” said the DJ, “even my parents complained about him! And they’re self-obsessed, elitist pricks, too!”

“He’s also Princess Celestia’s nephew,” said Harpo. “Nopony’s willing to confront him about his attitude. At least, nopony who’s seen past that ‘Prince Charming’ crap he’s been trying to put out.”

“Indeed,” said Fancy Pants. He glanced at Octavia “Well, Marcato Philharmonica has expressed a few… colorful phrases about the Prince.”

Octavia smiled slightly. “If anypony were to say it to Blueblood himself, it would be Father.”

The businesspony returned the smile. “No doubt.” He got to his hooves, the drink he was mixing untouched on the table. “In any case, I called you here to check in on your progress. But it seems as though you don’t really need my help.” An ironic smile twisted his lips. “As per usual.” The stallion waved a hoof in the air. “Take the rest of the day as you need it. Just be ready for tomorrow.”


***


“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last recorded syllable of time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.”

Hoity Toity and Blueblood sat in the earth pony’s mansion. The day had been uneventful, the sun had already set. The Prince had shown up unannounced, quickly strolling in and ordering one of the many maids to bring him something to drink.

Little wonder that a play centering on murder was dancing through Hoity Toity’s mind.

“Very nice,” deadpanned Prince Blueblood.

“It’s from Mare Beth,” said Hoity Toity. “It seems appropriate.”

“I know where it’s from,” snapped the other. “Don’t insult me.”

“I would never.”

Blueblood gave a dismissive hmmmph. “Of course you wouldn’t. But you don’t show even the slightest gratitude when I would come all the way here to grace you with my presence.”

Hoity Toity felt a vein in his neck twitch. It was strange how, of all ponies, Blueblood seemed to irritate him the most. “And to what do I owe this great pleasure?”

“I’ve been hearing rumors, Hoity Toity.”

“Yes,” replied the producer with only the slightest bit of sarcasm, “there are quite a lot of those floating around Canterlot.”

A butler stepped forward, carefully placing a cup of auburn liquid in front of the Prince. Blueblood sniffed at the drink, casting a critical eye over every aspect.

He set it aside, his face twisted in a grimace. “I don’t drink alcohol. And most definitely not this dribble. I need a properly steeped tea.” Blueblood waved a dismissive hoof at the butler. The Prince turned back towards Hoity Toity. “Here’s something from your playwright. ‘O Celestia, that ponies should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains.’ I can’t believe that some ponies are willing to poison themselves like that.”

Prince Blueblood seemed perfectly content to take a superior attitude.

Hoity Toity gestured towards the drink. A unicorn butler floated the drink over to his employer.

“I’ll drink to that.”

Blueblood scowled. “But as I was saying. There have been rumors flying about, Hoity Toity. Rumors about you.”

Hoity Toity took a sip from his drink. “Pray tell.”

“An associate of mine saw you leave Fancy Pants’s mansion sometime this week.”

“And is this ‘associate’ trustworthy?”

The Prince raised an eyebrow. “As trustworthy as you are, it seems.”

“Are you suggesting,” asked Hoity Toity, putting his drink down, “that I would deign to work with the pony who is currently shaping up to become my greatest rival? By the Princesses, it’s Fancy Pants we’re speaking about. He has a hoofhold in any industry you’d care to name. There’s hardly a need for me to work with him.”

The butler returned, this time with a teacup. He placed the meticulously made tea beside the Prince. Blueblood hardly spared it a glance.

“Yes,” said Blueblood. “I suppose that’s true. But I’ve done some digging of my own, Hoity Toity. I had no idea that you and Fancy Pants had such a history.”

“Once you’ve spent enough time in Canterlot, you’ll find that all ponies have a history with one another.”

“But your former employer?” Blueblood laughed. “You used to work for Fancy Pants! One of the designers for his fashion line, weren’t you? He gave you the contacts required to start your own business. Are you sure that there’s no gratitude,” he said the word as though it were a curse, “towards Fancy Pants.”

“Everything I owe him, I’ve already payed back in full.” Hoity Toity reached for his drink, but retracted his hoof at the last moment.

“But is that true? Hmmmm, Hoitoi?” The Prince smiled tauntingly.

The other stallion felt his eye twitched. He’d always hated that name. But it seemed so much worse when Blueblood used it. “You’ll find out tomorrow,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, I think I’m already well aware of what I’ll find tomorrow.” Blueblood got to his hooves, walking across the table, stopping a few feet away from Hoity Toity. “You said that Fancy Pants would be your greatest rival. You’re wrong. It’s me, you idiot. I’ll work with you only until Syncopated Records is no more. It only makes sense to break the weakest link first. But then, Hoitoi. Then I’ll make sure that my company, that Blueblood Studios, is the only company.”

Hoity Toity didn’t even blink. “How long have you been rehearsing that speech, Blueblood?”

The Prince scowled, turning away with a huff. He walked towards the door.

“Oh, and Blueblood!” called Hoity Toity.

The unicorn turned with a grimace.

“You’re an idiot. A self-absorbed, egotistical idiot who honestly think that everything will go his way, who thinks that he can do no wrong and that he has an incredible talent. But you’re a foal. And no foul play, no idiotic threats or constant annoyances can make up for what experience adds. You think that you can just horn Fancy Pants out of the way. Worse that that, you’ve threatened my company in my presence.” 

Hoity Toity laughed. “Honestly, Prince, that’s just fucking stupid. Yes, I’ve been working with Fancy Pants. Yes, he’s the greater threat, but I just don’t like you. Scratch that, I really don’t like you. Which is why I want to get you as far away from my industry as possible.”

Blueblood turned red. “You plebeian! How dare you speak to me like that?! This is my industry, this is where I make my stand to you plebeian who think yourself superior to me! You call me a foal, but you’re just too old, too caught up in your dementia to reali—”

“Get out of my house,” said Hoity Toity with a wave of his hoof. “Your temper tantrums bore me. Consider our agreement terminated.”

The Prince turned redder still, a strand of his blonde mane falling in front of his face. “Terminated?! Of course it’s terminated but not because you say so! I say that it’s terminated! And another thi—”

“Get out. Of. My. House.”

Blueblood scowled again. He marched towards the door, throwing it open with his magic and slamming it shut for good measure. A vase standing on a pedestal wobbled dangerously. A unicorn maid quickly wrapped it in a sheath of magic.

The butler stepped forward, taking up Blueblood’s untouched tea. “Forgive me for saying, sir,” he said in a very proper tone, “but that was not one of your more diplomatic moments.”

Hoity Toity downed the rest of his drink in a single movement. “He had it coming, Worth. You saw that.”

Penny Worth nodded. “I’m not saying that you were in the wrong. The little bastard deserved that and more.”

The employer started, throwing an incredulous look at the prim and proper butler. Penny Worth shrugged, reaching over and taking Hoity Toity’s now empty glass.

The producer laughed, shaking his head slightly as he got to his hooves. “I’ll be retiring for the night, Penny Worth. Tomorrow’s an important day.”

“Of course, sir.”

Hoity Toity walked towards the master bedroom. “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.” He turned off the lanterns as he passed them. “Out, out, brief candle. Life’s but a walking shadow.” The stallion reached his bedroom. He winced slightly as he replayed a bit of his conversation with Blueblood.

A slow smile grew across his face. “An idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Hoity Toity climbed into bed. “And he doesn’t even drink.”
> The Dance
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Repeat that again for me. Slowly.”

“I essentially told Prince Blueblood to, if you’ll pardon the language, sit on a horn and spin.”

Fancy Pants put his head in his hooves. “I thought you said that you could handle it.”

“And I did,” replied Hoity Toity. “I think I handled it quite well.”

The businesspony looked up, giving his former employee a sharp look. “Quite well? Have you completely reverted yourself, Hoitoi? Have you forgotten everything I ever told you? We can’t simply tell somepony, any pony, to ‘sit on a horn and spin’! That’s not how business works! That’s not how anything works!”

“Indeed. I lost my head. I apologize.” Hoity Toity didn’t look very apologetic. Fancy Pants said as much.

“I assure you,” said the earth pony, “I was not in my right mind when I said that. It was an idiotic move.”

“It put you on his level.”

“I had never meant to stoop so low.”

Fancy Pants regarded the producer for a few moments. This didn’t make sense. Hoity Toity was completely out of character. He wasn’t so new in the business; there’s no way he’d easily succumb to his dislike of Blueblood so suddenly. But what good would it do?

Fleur de Lis walked down the stairs, smiling a greeting to the stallions sitting in the dining room. The mare wore a simple, leaf-green dress. “Fancy Pants, are you ready?” she called.

Her husband nodded and got to his hooves. “I don’t suppose you’d like to join us?” she asked Hoity Toity.

“Thank you for the offer. I decline.” Hoity Toity stood and nodded his goodbyes. “I’ll see you two at the gathering. Again, I’m sorry.” The door shut quietly behind him.

“He’s not sorry,” said Fleur as she trotted to her husband’s side.

Fancy Pants raised an eyebrow. “You were listening in?”

Fleur hit him softly. “What do you take me for?”

“So you weren’t?”

“Now, I never said that.”

Fancy Pants chuckled, nuzzling against his wife. His unease towards Hoity Toity, however, didn’t quite vanish. “What’s he playing at?”

“I don’t know. Unless he cut ties with Blueblood in an effort to completely associate himself with us.”

The businesspony snorted. “Wouldn’t that be nice.”

Fleur smiled lightly. “But let’s not get too caught up in that. We have musicians to pick up and a party to attend. We’ll have enough troubles without having to overthink things.”

“Of course dear. You’re right.”

“As per usual,” said Fleur de Lis with a giggle.

“As per usual,” agreed Fancy Pants. They walked out of their manor, tails intertwined. Spokes was already outside. Employee and employer exchanged a few words. Then the businesspony climbed into the carriage and they headed out.


***


“Hey, Boss.” Vinyl climbed into the carriage, trying not to wrinkle her new dress. Octavia would probably kill her.

“Afternoon, Vinyl,” greeted Fancy Pants. Fleur smiled.

“So now we’re gonna go pick up Tavi and Harpo?” asked the DJ.

The businesspony nodded before lapsing into silence.

Vinyl felt herself give a half-grimace. “C’mon Boss. It’s never a good thing when you’re quiet like that. What’s wrong?”

Fancy Pants was barely able to open his mouth before Vinyl cut in.

“And don’t give me that crap about it not being my problem. It’s way too early for that.”

“Vinyl, it’s half past two,” said Fleur.

“Exactly!”

Fancy Pants smiled thinly but genuinely. “There’s nothing you have to worry about.”

Vinyl facehoofed, a task made much easier as she wasn’t wearing her shades. Fancy Pants cut off any complaints with a raised hoof.

“Nothing you need to worry about yet. I’m sure it will come back to haunt us in the future, but my dear wife has suggested that we focus on today. And that is what we shall do.”

Vinyl nodded, then turned towards Fleur. “Blueblood?”

“Hoity Toity, actually,” she responded.

The DJ nodded and turned to look through her window. Fancy Pants shook his head. “Mares,” he cursed under his breath.

“What was that, darling husband?”

“Nothing, oh beloved and beautiful wife of mine.”

The carriage rolled to a stop again. Octavia and Harpo were already outside, loitering awkwardly in their more formal attire. Vinyl swung the door open and the other musicians climbed in.

“Hoity Toity’s done something and Fancy Pants doesn’t wanna tell me what it is!” whined Vinyl as soon as the door had closed.

The businesspony facehoofed. Fleur covered her mouth with a hoof as she giggled. It was going to be a long carriage ride.


***


“Octavia, you have to go inside!”

“No I most certainly do not! I am quite content out here and away from… there!”

Harpo shook his head. Vinyl glanced over her shoulder towards the mansion teeming with well-dressed ponies. Fancy Pants and Fleur de Lis were somewhere among them, they were whisked away as soon as the carriage doors had opened.

“I don’t get it,” said Vinyl. “It’s a nice place.”

“It’s her parent’s home,” explained Harpo.

“Oh! … I don’t get it.”

Octavia gave her a dark look. “Mother and Father live there. I used to live there. Mother and Father have a tendency of reminding myself and everypony in the immediate vicinity that I once lived there.”

“Ooooooh.” Vinyl nodded her head.

Harpo looked at the DJ. “You don’t get it.”

“No clue.”

The cellist sighed. “They have… physical evidence of my presence. Photographic evidence.”

“Foal photos?” asked Vinyl.

Octavia cringed. “Yes. Those.”

“Tavi, it’s a party for a bunch of snooty rich ponies. I don’t think your parents will be taking out the photo album.”

Harpo gave a bark of laughter. Vinyl stared at him. The composer shrugged apologetically but couldn’t quite wipe his smile away.

Octavia was shaking her head. “You, Vinyl Scratch, have not met Mother or Father.”

“They brought those ‘photo albums’ to our dear cellist’s high school graduation,” said Harpo with a chuckle.

“They brought those photo albums to my first day at the Conservatory. Luckily, they only showed those to the professors.” Octavia shivered. “Celestia knows that Father would have happily shown them to the other students.”

“It is a father’s duty to embarrass his children.” Marcato Philharmonica materialized suddenly. Vinyl and Harpo jumped, the latter barely stifling a yelp. The former pianist could be deathly silent.

Marcato regarded the two with unconcealed amusement before rushing forward and hugging Octavia. “My beautiful little octave, where have you been?!” he cried. “I haven’t seen you in years! What, you go to some fancy school and you’re suddenly too good for your father? You don’t even care anymore, do you?”

“Father, I was here not two weeks ago.”

Marcato held Octavia at hoof’s length. “Do you not understand what two weeks do to these old bones? No, of course you don’t! You young ponies have no sense of time!” He glanced up at the sun. “Speaking of time, look at the time! It’s time you went inside!” Marcato made his way towards the manor, pulling the cellist along. “There’s so much to do! You two come along too!”

Harpo held back a chuckle, quickly following. “Yessir, Mister Philharmonica, sir.”

“Don’t give me any of that fake respect crap, Harpo!” scolded Marcato over his daughter’s attempts at reasoning herself out of the party. It was a futile effort anyway.

Vinyl trotted up to the still-laughing composer. “This is Tavi’s dad?” she asked in an incredulous lilt.

“This isn’t anything,” assured Harpo. “It can, and probably will, get much worse.”

Marcato burst through the main entrance of his home, Octavia in tow. Harpo and Vinyl were close behind, peering nervously at the room of well-dressed, well-to-do ponies. These already colorful, expensive ponies were wearing equally colorful, expensive clothing. The musicians, at that moment, felt incredibly grateful to Rarity and her talent.

The elder Philharmonica was leading them to a table. Octavia could have sworn that she saw Fancy Pants and Fleur already sitting there.

A blue pegasus wearing a fedora intercepted Marcato. The camera slung around his neck was a perfect match to his cutie mark. “Afternoon Marcato!” he greeted cheerfully. “Nice party ya got goin’ here. Is this your daughter?” He extended a hoof towards Octavia. “Name’s Snap Shot, ma’am. Photographer extraordinaire.” His grin was nearly blinding.

The cellist smiled and took the offered hoof. “Octavia Philharmonica.” Harpo and Vinyl stopped by their friend. They shared a look, immediately reaching the same conclusion.

This could easily go very badly.

“Come now, Snap,” said Marcato warmly, “you can’t say that you didn’t already know her name. Not with your network.”

Snap Shot shrugged. “Don’t hurt to play nice.” He turned towards the two other musicians, shaking hooves with them. “Name’s Snap Shot.”

Harpo and Vinyl introduced themselves.

“See what I mean?” asked Snap Shot. “Playin’ nice. That’s kinda important in this business.” The last statement was directed at the musicians.

“You from Manehattan, Snap Shot?” asked Vinyl.

The pegasus’ eyes lit up. “Yes ma’am. Best city in the world, right after Cloudsdale! Ya tell by the accent?”

The DJ nodded, letting her own voice slip back into the Manehattan tone. “Ain’t too bad or nothin’ but it’s still there. An’ I know that accent.”

Snap Shot grinned. “Small world. Scratch, right? DJ-PON3?”

“Heard of me?”

“Ya can say that.” He glanced around. “Watch yourself today, alright? Don’t do nothin’ stupid when me and Quick Quill are around.”

Vinyl knit her eyebrows together. “What’s that mean?”

Snap Shot nickered. “Just… watch yourself. Nice party, Marcato.” The pegasus nodded his goodbyes and trotted away.

Marcato glanced at the DJ. “Well handled,” he said.

“Nothin’ to handle,” murmured the DJ. “He didn’t seem like a bad pony.” Her thoughts were obviously elsewhere.

The elder stallion seemed to appraise the unicorn. “There are worse ponies. Snap Shot is just... very thorough with what he does. Quick Quill even more so.”

Vinyl nodded.

Marcato turned towards his daughter. “You make good friends, Octavia.”

“Bit more than friends,” said Harpo. The cellist’s eyes widened and she dug a hoof into Harpo’s side.

“No kidding?” replied the other stallion noncommittally. “It’s about time.”


***


“Tavi, just kill me. Buck me right here.” Vinyl tapped her temple. “Make it quick.”

“Vinyl, you’re doing wonderfully. Stop overreacting.”

“Says Miss Foal Photos,” snarked Harpo.

The three musicians had been escorted throughout the party, sometimes by one of the Philharmonicas, sometimes by Fancy Pants or Fleur de Lis. They had shaken hooves with dozens of well-to-do ponies, a few of which had barely been able to contain a scoff when they saw the DJ. Octavia and Harpo were doing most of the talking. 

Yet, everything was going far better than could be expected. Of course Vinyl didn’t quite fit in; she was not a born and bred Canterlot pony, no matter how her parents had tried to mold her as such. But she had maintained her composure, had done nothing to damage the reputation of Syncopated Records. Which was more than many ponies attending the party had thought possible.

“Pardon me.” A sweet voice resounded through the room. Legato Philharmonica stood toward the back of the festivities on a makeshift stage. A piano stood off to the side.“Thank you so much for attending this gathering,” said Legato into a microphone, “it’s simply a joy to see so many of you and I hope that you’ve been enjoying yourself. But the evening has gone incomplete for far too long.”

Marcato joined her onstage, carrying a microphone of his own. “Incomplete,” he said, “because not a single Philharmonica within the Philharmonica manor has been harmonic all day.” He seated himself at the piano. “I mean that in the musical sense, of course. My wife and daughter would maim me if I thought of them as anything less than the very embodiments of harmony.”

The ponies in the audience laughed lightly.

The pianist coaxed a few arpeggios from the keys. “In any case, Legato and I would very much appreciate the chance to play a song for you.” He got to his hooves and stretched. “But I am old, decrepit, and I have yet to hear my daughter play professionally.” His eyes seemed to twinkle. “Or, for that matter, her marefriend, Miss Vinyl Scratch. And Maestro Nadermane as well.”

Legato smiled, trotting off the stage, the crowd parting before her as she made her way to three stunned musicians.

“You’re kidding,” said Octavia. Her head swiveled from side to side, stopping on two familiar unicorns. “She’s kidding,” the cellist mouthed to Fancy Pants and Fleur de Lis.

Fancy Pants gave an encouraging smile. Fleur waved her on with a hoof.

“They’re not kidding,” said Harpo.

Vinyl nodded.

First public appearance, remembered the cellist. We’re representing Syncopated Records. Of course we’d be asked to play. She looked up at her mother.

“Of course,” said Legato, “your father and I could always ground you if you don’t decide to play.”

Octavia sighed and glanced at her friends. With a resigned nod, they quickly trotted up to the stage, Vinyl carrying the microphone in her magic.

A harp had been set up in those few moments where Legato had walked through the crowed. Harpo quickly cantered there and took his seat, his back ramrod straight, his eyes forward, practically exuding formality. Octavia and Vinyl exchanged a glance. The DJ nodded slightly, understanding without words. She trotted to the piano.

Octavia Philharmonica took center stage. Marcato returned from wherever he had disappeared to, carrying a large, black case.

The cellist stood in awe as her father opened the case, revealing a perfectly polished, lovingly crafted cello. A few tears welled in Octavia’s eyes. She quickly wiped them away, giving her father a brief but heartfelt hug.

Marcato walked off stage. Octavia placed the microphone on a stand before situating herself against her cello. “My apologies,” she said. “This… this is the cello that Mother and Father bought me when I first entered Canterlot Conservatory.” The cellist smiled, wiping away more tears. “Her name is Presto,” she added in a quiet voice.

Vinyl grinned. That was kinda adorable. She quickly straightened up. Wait, no. Remember what Octy said… or what her look said… or something. This is a fancy party. So I have to play fancy. Formal. Proper. Whatever the buck you want to call it. That crap my parents wanted me to do.

She glanced up at her marefriend. But I’ll do it for her.

“We will begin with a song for Princess Luna. A Moonlight Serenade.” That was it. No more preparation than that. There could be no excuses of ‘no time for rehearsal.’ Not from Syncopated Records, and certainly not from Octavia Philharmonica.

The cellist twitched her bow slightly, from side to side, marking time. Harpo and Vinyl kept the time in their head.

Octavia kicked off the song, playing a swaying, dreamy figure. Harpo joined in a beat afterwards, plucking at his harp strings, adding a steady beat to the music, like the ticking of a clock. Then it was Vinyl’s turn, her hooves lightly, almost lazily, tapping against the keys.

The music had a soothing effect. Conversations lazed aways, lapsing into a silence filled by three musicians. Within a few minutes, the chatter of the party had died away, swallowed up by the music.

Octavia allowed one longer note to fade into silence. Everypony in the room heard the thunk of a pen hitting the floor. Vinyl took control of the melody, the cello and the harp clearly following into line behind the piano.

The DJ turned pianist was the center of the piece.

Some in the audience began to speak among themselves, serenely munching on whatever complimentary food happened to be passing by. Most were quite content to simply eat as they listened to the music.

The song came to a close. The crowd clapped their hooves politely. The musicians took their bows. Vinyl was a bit disappointed with the reaction, as used as she was to raucous cries and chants.

They quickly trotted offstage. Another group of musicians, the group that the Philharmonicas had actually hired for the party, took their places.

“It’s always a pleasure to hear you play,” said Fleur de Lis as the musicians approached their table.

‘Wonderfully done,” said Fancy Pants, getting to his hooves and offering his seat to one of the mares. Octavia took the offer and found herself seated between her parents. Marcato and Legato smiled proudly at their daughter.

Hoity Toity had found his way to the table, a half-empty glass of amber liquid standing in front of him. He nodded his greeting.

Marcato leaned forward slightly, resting his hooves on the table as Vinyl pulled up a chair. “What intentions do you have with my daughter, Miss Scratch?” Everypony at the table froze up momentarily.

Legato glanced at her husband. “Did you really just ask that?”

“It’s my right as a father! Besides, how many chances have I had at saying that line before today? None, that’s how many.”

“None?!” asked a very surprised Vinyl Scratch. Every pony at the table turned to stare at her. Well, every pony except Octavia, whose head had, at this point, made full contact with the table.

The DJ felt her cheeks heat up. “Sorry. It’s just… well, she’s Octy!”

Marcato knit his eyebrows together. “And what does that mean?”

Harpo laughed lightly. “That Vinyl thinks that Octavia’s perfect.”

“Not perfect!” protested the DJ. “But… okay, yeah, perfect. Or pretty much perfect. I mean, I would’ve thought that a mare like her would’ve… I don’t know,” she said lamely. It felt like her brain was overheating; she knew that her white coat might as well be scarlet at that point. “Hey Hoity, where’d you get that drink?”

Legato reached across the table with the lightning speed of a mother. She pinched Vinyl’s cheek, shaking her hoof slightly from side to side. “Awwww, that’s adorable! Reminds me of me and Marcato. I thought that he was perfect at first.” She glanced at her husband. “Don’t worry, they’re quick to prove you wrong.”

Marcato stuck out his tongue in reply.

A quill scratched against a notepad. The ponies turned again. A bright green unicorn stood near the table, a pad of paper and an acid green quill floating in front of him. He wore a fedora nearly identical to the one Snap Shot wore. 

“So it’s official?” he asked. “I thought as much from the picture Snap took, but it’s always best not to assume.”

“Enjoying the festivities, Quick Quill?” asked Fancy Pants politely.

“Yes indeed,” responded the reporter. He turned to the musicians. “I saw you guys at the Lighthouse Cafe too. You’re not bad.” His eyes fixed on Vinyl. “You especially. There aren’t many ponies who could keep up with musicians who went through as much formal training as these two.”

The DJ nodded in thanks.

“Scratch,” said Quick Quill. “Vinyl Scratch.” He flipped his notebook shut. “Don’t do anything stupid tonight. Least, not in front of me.”

“Funny. Your partner said the same thing to Marcato and the musicians,” said Legato with a smile. “Any particular reason?”

The reporter returned the smile and adjusted his fedora slightly. “Just playing nice. Now if you’ll excuse me, I see a platter of quiche with my name on it.” The unicorn walked away.

“Reporters,” cursed Marcato. “They never tell you anything.”


***


Vinyl and Octavia returned to their table, sweating slightly. It had taken every ounce of the cellist’s diplomatic skills to convince her marefriend but it had worked out in the end. Vinyl had promised a single dance. And then another and then another. Hours after the first dance, the two mares collapsed onto their seats, immensely grateful that their drinks hadn’t been moved.

“Well,” said Vinyl, “it’s not the dancing I’m used to, but it hits the same way.” She threw her drink back.

“Those were waltzes.” replied Octavia. “Just be glad we didn’t have time to learn anything more complicated.”

Vinyl nearly choked. “There’re more complicated dances out there?!”

The cellist lifted an eyebrow. “Honestly, Vinyl?”

Harpo dropped heavily into his seat at the table. He was slightly flushed and grinning like a lunatic. “You two finished already?”

“Wiped,” responded Vinyl.

“Exhausted,” said Octavia.

The composer waggled a hoof at them. “You youngins.” He grasped at his own drink, emptying the glass within three gulps. “Though a break sounds really good right about now.”

The mares nodded tiredly. They sat comfortably, the music providing a background for their thoughts.

“Tavi, we really need to go on a date,” said Vinyl.

Octavia lazily turned towards the DJ. “What prompted that?”

The other mare shrugged. “Well, it’s because we’re official. But…”

“But what?” asked the cellist worriedly. 

“But I feel like I should do some big ol’ romantic thing. And I haven’t done it and I really really want to!”

Octavia smiled. “And when would this happen?”

“Tomorrow,” replied Vinyl with determination.

The cellist blinked.

“Well, why put it off?” Vinyl grinned. “And I get to be all romantic and crap. It’ll be awesome!”

“I’m sure,” replied Octavia with a smile.

Off in the corner, when he was sure one of the mares would notice, Harpo pretended to throw up.

“Shut up, Harpo,” said the mares in unison.

“I wasn’t doing anything! Honestly, you two are so quick to judge my ac—”

“Vinell!” said a mare’s voice. She had a Canterlot accent. A highly practiced accent.

“Where, where is she?” asked a stallion. Another accent that sounded far to Canterlotian to be from Canterlot.

Vinyl felt a chill come over her. There was a strange pressure in the back of her head. Blueblood got two ponies invited to the party.

“No,” whispered the DJ to herself. “Please. Celestia, Luna, whatever’s out there. Please.”

“Vinyl?” asked Octavia. She rested a worried hoof on the unicorn. “Vinyl, are you okay?” But Vinyl Scratch was shaking. This was not okay.

A cerulean earth pony trotted into view. Everything about her, from the sequined blue dress she wore to the long, dangling silver earrings, screamed excessiveness. A darker blue unicorn followed close behind her, his own clothes kept in perfect order. He was consistently using his magic to fix his mane.

“There you are, darling,” said the mare in that grating accent. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Why didn’t you come and greet us?”

The stallion was preoccupied with his mane.

Vinyl looked up. She felt herself shaking. “Mom. Dad.”
> The Mistake
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m sorry — I’m so, so sorry.”

“Shhh Tavi. It’s okay.”

Octavia shook her head, tears still streaming from her face. Vinyl stroked her marefriend’s mane, made her shushing noises, trying to reassure the cellist.

“It’s not okay,” sobbed Octavia. “It was stupid. Such a stupid, stupid mistake! I—I should have known better; I should have controlled myself.”

The DJ held the cellist, adjusting the pillow they rested against. Vinyl couldn’t remember the last time she had tried to comfort anypony. She looked around Octavia’s room, looking for something, anything, that could cheer up the cellist.

Octavia sobbed into her marefriend’s coat.

“It’s okay Tavi, it’s okay. You were very brave. Nopony will say you weren’t.”

Her words fell on deaf ears.

“I’m sorry, Vinyl. I’m so, so sorry.”

Vinyl ran a hoof through a curtain of charcoal. “It’s alright, Tavi. It’s alright.”


***


“How is she?” asked Harpo. All of Syncopated Records, sans-cellist, had gathered in Fancy Pants’s home. A black cloud hung over the room. Fancy Pants’s alcohol collection was untouched.

“Asleep,” responded the DJ. “It took a long time.” She flopped into an empty seat right next to Harpo.

The Doctor nodded. “That’s only proper.”

A few more nods from various other ponies. Then silence. A couple of the ponies looked around the room. A few stared at a single point on the ground.

“Now what?” asked Fleur de Lis in a steady voice. The other turned to look at her. “We can’t simply mope around, we have to do something.”

“The problem is,” said Fancy Pants, “I don’t know what we can do.”

“There’s always something,” asserted the Doctor.

The businesspony rounded on the technician. “Of course there’s something! That statement doesn’t help unless we know what that something actually is!”

The Doctor, to his credit, didn’t even flinch. He simply nodded, conceding the point.

Fancy Pants rubbed at his temples. “Forgive me, Doctor. That was uncalled for. I apologize.”

“No damage done. And there was plenty calling for it, Fancy Pants. I’d be utterly surprised if you hadn’t gone on a slight tirade. Slightly worried, too.” The brown stallion flashed a reassuring grin.

Fancy Pants returned a weak smile. He looked up towards the ceiling and blew out a steady breath. “Let’s get our facts straight,” he said, mostly for his own benefit. “One: It’ll definitely be in the papers sometime this week. Snap Shot and Quick Quill were right there. Not tomorrow; it’s too late for that. Perhaps the day after tomorrow, if Blueblood exerts his influence again.” The businesspony looked around for confirmation.

There were tired nods from every head.

“Two,” continued Fancy Pants, “Octavia will be at the center of all of this. We have to protect her from the media.” He turned towards his wife. “I’ll take care of that this time Celestia knows you’ve interacted with them long enough.” Fleur de Lis nuzzled him appreciatively.

“Three,” said the businesspony, breaking the nuzzle, “this is not a good thing. Not for anypony in this room. And four, it really is quite late and today was quite… eventful. I’d suggest that we retire. We’ll meet again in the morning, after we’ve had some more time to think. Good night, everypony.”

The other disbursed amid muttered ‘good nights.’

“I’ll walk you home,” said Harpo to Vinyl.

“Not too out of your way, is it?”

“A bit,” admitted the composer, “but I’d rather not leave somepony to walk home in the dark alone.”

Vinyl pushed Harpo playfully. “Who says chivalry’s dead?”

“Oh, it’s dead,” responded the stallion by habit, “and you mares killed it.”

The DJ gave a half-smile, shoving Harpo again, this time without the playfulness. The two walked out into the streets. The sun had set, the streetlamps were alight.

“How was she?” asked the composer.

Vinyl kicked at a loose bit of litter. “Bad, Harpo. Crying. At least until she fell asleep.”

The stallion nodded. “And she’s at your place?”

“Yeah. It was the closest place—”

“To Marcato and Legato’s home,” finished the composer. “Yes, I know.”

The DJ kicked the piece of litter, first with one hoof and then the other. She’d made the trek between her home and Fancy Pants’s home dozens of time before. She had the route memorized.

“I hope that wasn’t too abrupt,” said Harpo. “It’s just been—”

“A tiring day,” finished the DJ. “Yes, I know.”

The composer smile wryly. “Exactly.”

Silence fell between the two again. Vinyl played with her piece of litter. They turned a corner.

“You know,” said Harpo, “I’ve known Octavia for years at this point.”

Vinyl looked up at the composer, tilting her head slightly.

“Yup,” continued the composer, “upwards of four years at this point. I have never once seen her cry. In fact, I haven’t even heard rumors of her crying.” Harpo smiled down at the DJ. “And yet, here you are, about a week after meeting Octavia for the first time, and she fell asleep after crying in your hooves.”

Vinyl snorted. “That’s not a good thing. Octy crying could never be a good thing.”

Harpo nudged the DJ, laughing slightly. “I hope you two never change.”

They had arrived. The pair exchanged goodbyes. Vinyl climbed the stairs into her apartment building, Harpo trotted off towards his own home.

The cellist was still sleeping, but it was a fitful sleep. Even as Vinyl watched, Octavia kicked out with a backhoof, sending an unfortunate pillow flying across the already untidy room. The DJ sighed.

Well, at least she’s still asleep.

She climbed into bed, pulling the sheets around her.

Luna’s Night, it’s cold. Heater’s broken… again. At least, that’s what Vinyl told herself as she carefully snuggled closer to the twitching cellist. Octavia drew a slightly deeper breath as the DJ wrapped a hesitant hoof around her. Vinyl pulled her closer, trying to find a comfortable position. Octavia’s head rested against Vinyl’s chest. The DJ nestled her head in Octavia’s mane, completely comfortable as strands of hair threatened to tickle her nose.

Vinyl kissed the top of Octavia’s head. “Sleep tight, beautiful. Don’t worry about something stupid getting in your way. Not while I’m here.”

The cellist murmured something incomprehensible, her breathing settling into a steady pace as the night wore on.


***


“DON’T YOU EVER SPEAK ABOUT HER LIKE THAT AGAIN!” Octavia’s voice tore through the room, overpowering the musicians and the idle chatter. She looked down at the cerulean mare, watching even as a pink, hoof-shaped welt appeared on Ms. Scratch’s cheek.

If she had cared to check, Octavia would have seen her hoof gain the same pink tinge. But she didn’t. She didn’t even feel the stinging in her hoof. She didn’t notice the flash of a camera or the blue pegasus flitting from place to place.

“You… you hit me,” said the mare incredulously.

“Octavia!” cried an indistinct voice. The cellist heard it as little more than a buzzing.

The enraged mare rounded on Vinyl’s father. “You have no idea,” she yelled, “no idea how difficult she’s had to work, how difficult she has worked ever since you two kicked her out of her own home!”

The stallion was cowering, a strand of his mane fell across his face. His magic flared reflexively, brushing the strand back into place.

Octavia brought her hoof back. “You care more about your mane than you do about your daughter!” Something caught her hoof before she could bring it down.

“Octavia! Octavia dear, listen to me!” Another buzzing, higher pitched, right by the cellist’s ear. It didn’t matter, not when these creatures, these pretenders to the titles of Mother and Father stood before her.

“I’ll press charges!” threatened the cerulean mare.

Octavia tried to charge forward, but found herself held tight. A grey stallion forced himself into the cellist’s line of sight. He threw his hooves around Octavia.

“Octavia,” said Legato, standing behind Marcato, “my dear, sweet, Octavia. Please stop.”

The cellist blinked, a haze of anger slowly ebbing away. The scene changed.

Octavia watched Vinyl. The DJ was shaking, trembling as her mother and father approached. The elder pair said something. Something terrible, condescending, pompous. Neither of them noticed how terrible they were, how they suggested that their daughter was nothing more than a way back to the Canterlot elite.

A dark shape watched from a silent corner.

Vinyl just sat there, trying to shrug everything off. The shaking intensified. The world snapped into vivid detail.

“Manehattan was such a terribly uncouth place,” the cerulean mare was saying, “your Father and I are so relieved that you finally got your act together.”

“Admittedly,” interjected the stallion, “we were not expecting such an unrefined job as a musician, but at least you’re doing something, right?”

The two guffawed.

The dark shape shifted its head.

“Honestly,” continued Vinyl’s mother, “we figured that we’d never hear from you again after you left the house. Why did you never send a letter?”

“I—” Vinyl’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat, then continued in a hoarse whisper, “I didn’t leave, you forced me out.”

“Well, what would you expect, darling?” replied the mare, unabated. “You were pursuing such an unrefined interest. Your ‘dubtrot’ or whatever it is. How else were we supposed to react when you refused to listen to us?”

“There was no alternative,” affirmed the stallion.

“No alternative!” continued the mare. “There was nothing else we could do. It was our duty as parents to punish you. We expected you to come crawling back to us anyway.”

Vinyl slammed her drink down onto the table, getting to her hooves and marching towards her parents. “Your duty? No alternative? What the fuck is wrong with your heads?! What kind of fucked up minds do ya have to think dat anything ya’ve done would make me wanna go back after I’d left?!” The DJ’s voice grew louder as she speak. Ponies were turning to see the disturbance.

The dark shape continued to watch.

“Fuck you two,” continued Vinyl through gritted teeth. “Ya ain’t worth shit. Ya don’ deserve ta be my parents. Ya don’ deserve nothin’. Now get the hell away from me before I do somethin’ that I really regret.” The DJ turned sharply and made her way back to her table.

“How dare you speak to your Mother and Father like that?” hissed the mare. “Get back here!”

Vinyl sat down and pointedly took a drink.

The cerulean mare marched over. “You drunk. You conniving little idiot. How dare you be anything but grateful for what your Father and I have done for you?”

The DJ was trembling again. But this was a different kind of trembling.

“Look at me!” continued the mare. “You have to respect me! Look at me you junkie! You whore! You—”

Octavia felt herself snap. A blind rage washed over her. Her hoof darted out faster than she could think, catching the mare on the cheek.

“DON’T YOU EVER SPEAK ABOUT HER LIKE THAT AGAIN!”


***


Octavia woke with a start. She could feel a few stray tears dotting her cheeks.

“Hey now,” came Vinyl’s voice. She wiped away the tears with a hoof. “No crying. You never want to wake up crying. Everything should be started with a smile. Fleur de Lis loves saying that.”

The cellist held onto the DJ’s hoof. “Vinyl…”

“I know. I know.” She draped a hoof over Octavia. “But first a smile. Wanna give me a smile?”

“No.” Octavia most firmly did not want to give her a smile.

“Just a tiny one? Doesn’t have to be a grin. A smirk? A half-smile? One of those sad smiles?”

The cellist shook her head.

Vinyl pouted slightly and kissed Octavia. “I’m sorry Tavi.”

“Why?” asked the cellist quietly.

“What kind of marefriend am I if I can’t even make my marefriend smile?”

Octavia felt a fresh batch of tears threaten to spill over.

Vinyl kissed her again. “No! None of that. Or I swear to Celestia, I’ll kiss you until you can’t do anything but smile.”

The cellist’s lips curled up against her will.

“See?” said the DJ. “Amazing.” Kiss. “Beautiful.” Kiss. “Perfect.” Kiss.

“Get off of me,” said Octavia with a laugh, placing a hoof on Vinyl’s chest.

“C’mon gorgeous,” replied the DJ, “pucker up.” She made obnoxious kissing motions with her lips.

Octavia relented, planting a kiss on Vinyl. The cellist laid her head against her marefriend. The room was still dark. “Vinyl?” she asked.

“Yes Octobutt?”

The cellist made a mental note to punish Vinyl. “What time is it?”

“‘Bout two in the morning.”

“T—two? What are you still doing awake?”

Vinyl knit her eyebrows together. “Making sure you don’t wake up alone. Go back to sleep.”

The cellist looked into her marefriend’s eyes. They were slightly bloodshot, slightly discolored bags had begun to form. “Vinyl, please don’t push yourself. Not for my sake.”

“Don’t worry Octy. I’ll be heading off to sleep right when you do.”


***


“Are you still awake?” asked Fleur de Lis. “It’s almost two o’clock.”

Fancy Pants sat in his lounge, wrapped in a robe with a cup of hot chocolate before him. “We made such a mistake today Fleur,” he said, “and I have no idea how to fix it.”

“Weren’t you the one who told everypony to get some sleep? Something about getting enough rest to solve this problem?”

“Sleep is for the weak.”

“No, sleep is for the week. Which includes today. Finish your hot chocolate and come to bed.”

Fancy Pants sighed and threw back the last gulp of his drink. “It was getting cold anyway.” Fleur smiled and kissed him on the cheek. They left the lounge, climbing the staircase that led to their bedroom.

“We played right into his hooves, Fleur.”

“Blueblood’s?”

“Who else?”

“Perhaps. But we’ve been in worse situations. Admittedly, not much worse, but worse nonetheless.”

Fancy Pants seemed lost in his thoughts. “Media, threat of being sued, other businessponies, the fallout damage to our reputation.”

“There were other ponies there. They can attest to how horrible Vinyl’s parents were being.”

“Did you ever catch their names?”

“No, and if I knew them I would promptly cast those words out of our household.” Fleur laid down on the bed, crossing her hooves. “Honestly, the nerve, the absolute nerve, of those ponies.”

“Horrid,” agreed Fancy Pants.

“But nothing we can’t handle.”

“But nothing we can’t handle. Come hell or high water, we’ll find a way to weather this storm.”
> The Counter
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Octavia awoke comfortably, her eyes opening smoothly, her body feeling fully rested, if a bit worn by the previous night. It was a strange feeling, to say the least, a feeling made all the stranger by the lack of a DJ nuzzling into the cellist’s mane.

The cellist looked around the room. Random bits of trash, candy wrappers mostly, a bowl or two on a desk, a lamp, a carpet that needed a good wash. No Vinyl Scratch. Octavia Philharmonica shivered, drawing the blanket up to her chin.

“What got into me last night?” she whispered to the air. “That… shouldn’t have happened.” They were being horrid. But if Vinyl was able to withstand it-- Vinyl had no reason to do so! She should have yelled, she should have been the one to lash out like that; Celestia knows that she had every right to! And it’s hard to believe that Vinyl Scratch, of all ponies, would simply sit there and listen. Whatever happened to diving over counters in search of coffee?

There was a knock at the door. “Hey Tavi, you decent in there?” Vinyl came through the door, an apron that read ‘Wub the Cook’ wrapped around her and a breakfast-in-bed table floating in a pearl white aura. “Awww, you are. Damn.”

“Good morning, Vinyl.”

“Hey there sweet cheeks, have a nice sleep?” She trotted forward, planting a kiss on her marefriend’s brow before setting the plate down.

Octavia looked down at the bowl, an eyebrow arched of its own volition. “Really, Vinyl?”

“What? You don’t like Lucky Charms? I know, not enough marshmallows, but it’s still pretty good!”

The cellist gave her a bemused look.

“Hey!” protested Vinyl. “At least I tried!”

“That you did, Vinyl.” Octavia scooped up a spoonful of brightly colored cereal. “Thank you. It’s wonderful.”

The DJ knit her brow. Then she laughed. “The hell are you talking about? That’s pretty freaking terrible. I mean seriously, cereal?” There was a slight pause and a moment of revelation. Vinyl’s face lit up with a grin. “Cereally?”

Octavia put her spoon down and groaned in pain.

“Tavi? You alright?” There was a genuine worry in her voice.

“That remark caused physical damage. I could feel how bad that was.”

“Haha, Tavi. Hardy-har-har. Don’t mind me, I just stayed up with you last night and got up this morning to make you breakfast which is, by the way, a very nice cereal! What do you have to say to that?” Vinyl crossed her hooves.

“I say you’ve been spending too much time around Harpo.”

The DJ froze for a few seconds. Octavia scooped up a few more spoonfuls of marshmallows.

“But I like Harpo!” protested Vinyl. “He’s funny! An ass, but funny. So that makes it okay to be an ass.”

“Flawless logic.”

Vinyl let out a whistle, starting off on a high pitch and letting it get lower. She thumped a hoof against the bed.“Hear that, Tavi? That’s you falling down the sar-chasm.”

The cellist rolled her eyes, rhythmically chewing her cereal.

There was a knock at the door.

“I got it,” said Vinyl with a wave of her hoof. She cantered off, down a small hallway, through the living room. Another knock. “Yeah yeah, I’m coming!” She flung open the door.

Flash. Pop. Blinding lights coming from scores of different bulbs. Dozens of voices speaking over each other.

“Is it true that you assaulted y--”

“Were those ponies your par--”

“Have you heard of the--”

“What does Fancy Pants have to sa--”

“Prince Blueblood is calling it the ‘abomination of the--”

Vinyl slammed the door shut again, locking it, chaining it, her gaze darting around the room looking for something that could act as a barricade.

“There aren’t any--” began Quick Quill

“--bookcases,” finished Snap Shot. “That would have worked perfectly.”

The DJ let out a shout, magically throwing a candy wrapper at one of the reporters. The wrapper, a gold color with the word ‘Twixie’ printed on it, pathetically floated towards the floor.

“Terrifying,” said Quick Quill.

“Absolutely terrifying,” agreed Snap Shot. “Of all the things to attack us with.”

“We’ve never been attacked with a candy wrapper.”

“Well, there was that time with the jelly doughnut.”

“Ah yes. In Canterlot Castle. Good times.”

“How the hell did you two get in here?!” Vinyl breathing came rapidly, her heart still thudding against her chest.

Quick Quill smirked. “A reporter reports.”

“Reports must be reported,” added Snap Shot.

“That cannot be stopped. Not by doors--”

“--or windows--”

“--or locks--”

“--or distance--”

“--or--”

“Shut up!” shouted Vinyl. “Seriously. It messes with my head when you keep changing like that.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” said Snap Shot sincerely. “Partners. Kinda gets into your head when you hang out with the same pony for enough time.”

“Cute,” responded the DJ. “Now seriously, how the buck did you get in here?”

Quick Quill put a hoof to his chest. “Why Miss Scratch! What happened to the thoughtfulness from last night?”

“You were a pleasure,” continued Snap Shot. “So much of a change between then and now!”

“Suppose that she’s angry?”

“I do suppose that she’s angry.”

Quick Quill shrugged. “Well, I suppose that it’s her right.”

“Yes, you should be right to suppose such a thi--”

“Damn right I’m angry!” broke in Vinyl Scratch. “What the hell was that, takin’ a picture of Tavi and my parents?! The buck are you two playin’ at?!”

Snap Shot tutted softly. “Temper temper, Vinyl. Your accent’s comin’ through.”

“Nothing good can come of that,” added the writer.

“Quick’s right. Ain’t nothin’ good from losin’ your temper. We got some proof of that last night.”

Vinyl felt herself scowl. She would have growled if it were any other ponies. “Fine. What do you want?”

The reporters looked at each other. A few moments passed, filled with no words but plenty of minute facial movements between the two. They nodded, turning back to Vinyl. “Nothing,” they said in unison.

The DJ’s scowl turned into a look of confusion. “What?”

“Nothing,” repeated Snap Shot.

“Nada.”

“Zilch.”

“Zero.”

“Zip.”

“I got that part!” Vinyl rubbed a hoof on the bridge of her nose. “Now I know how Tavi feels.”

“In all honesty, I think you and Harpo are worse.” Octavia appeared in the doorway, clutching an empty bowl. “Good morning, Quick Quill, Snap Shot.”

“Miss Philharmonica,” replied the reporters, inclining their heads slightly.

“Tavi, I got this.”

“Vinyl, I was angry last night, not deathly ill. There’s no need to worry about me today.” Octavia turned towards the reporters. “To what do we owe this pleasure? I think that you already have your story.”

“Such poison in your tone!” sighed Quick Quill.

“Suppose that she’s angry too?” asked the pegasus.

“I’d suppose so.”

“You’d suppose correctly,” cut in Octavia. Her grip on the bowl tightened by the slightest amount. “And I’d suggest that you get on with it before I personally toss you out in front of all of your peers.”

Snap Shot held up his hooves. “Nothin’ but hostility! And after we came to explain ourselves.”

“It’s the closest thing we’ve come to an apology,” added Quick Quill.”

“Yes it is! Apologizing isn’t a common thing with reporters.”

Octavia gestured toward a table. The four sat down, each pair facing the other. The bowl stayed right by the cellist’s hoof. It would make a good projectile.

Octavia Philharmonica crossed her hooves. “Then I suppose you should begin your explanation.”

“I suppose so,” agreed Snap Shot regretfully. “We’ll begin at the beginning. Quick Quill and I, as you know, are reporters.”

“As reporters,” cut in Quick Quill, “it is our duty to report on anything that could possibly be reported. No matter what it might be--”

“--no matter where it might be--”

“--no matter when it might be.” To prove his point, Quick Quill plucked the feather he wore in his fedora. He held it up to the mares. The feather was a finely sharpened quill, one of the new models where the ink flowed from the quill itself. As the same time, Snap Shot reached into his own fedora, producing a small camera.

“It’s our job,” said the reporters proudly. “We don’t apologize for our job.”

“Very impressive,” deadpanned Octavia.

“Now, why the buck are you here?” asked Vinyl with not a little venom.

Snap Shot shrugged. “Moral issues.”

“You two made a good impression last night,” lamented Quick Quill.

“And we were there at the Lighthouse Cafe. We enjoyed it immensely.”

“Best part of that date.”

Octavia blanched. “Beg pardon?” Vinyl was busy trying to reattach her lower jaw.

Quick Quill shrugged, an exact mirror to Snap Shot’s earlier move. “Partners. You spend enough time with somepony, you learn to love them.”

“They tend to rub off on you,” added the pegasus.

Vinyl held up a hoof. “Dude. TMI.”

Snap Shot blinked once. A smirk spread across his face as he opened his mouth. A green hoof stuffed itself into his maw.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Quick Quill. “Stop thinking it.”

The other reporter rolled his eyes and pushed the hoof away. The smirk returned. “Well, as long as you’re thinking it too.”

Octavia coughed into her hoof. “We may be getting off-topic.”

“Quite right, said Quick Quill as the faintest tinge of pink colored his face. “Our point is that we actually like you two.”

“And Syncopated Records in general, actually.” Snap Shot looked to his partner.

“Exactly. Our employer for last night, however… That’s an entirely different matter.”

“Blueblood.” asked Vinyl. “You were working for Blueblood, weren’t you?” Her jaw strained as her teeth ground against each other. Octavia said nothing, but she took up her bowl again.

“Yes,” said the reporters.

“We’re freelancers!” added Snap Shot quickly.

“We take employment as it comes!”

“And it came from Blueblood this time,” said Octavia.

Sullen nods from the couple across the table.

“But what do you want now?” continued the cellist. “If you want forgiveness…”

“No!” said the couple quickly. “We don’t apologize for our work.”

“This is just to show that we’re on your side,” said Snap Shot. “If anypony asks us, we’ll tell them the truth. As we saw it.” Quick Quill nodded in affirmation.

“And your article?” asked Octavia.

“That’s… more complicated,” admitted the writer. “Blueblood insists on approving the work. And if he doesn’t like it, then we’re not paid.”

“So nothing’s changed,” said Vinyl. “Good talk. You can see yourself out, right?”

The reporters nodded sullenly.

Octavia looked at the reporters steadily. “Thank you. For the support. It is appreciated.”

There was a knock on the door. Not from the front door, where the reporters still occasionally tried for the musician’s attention, but from the back door.

Vinyl got to her hooves, levitating the bowl with her. “I swear to Celestia, if any of them are trespassing, I’m gonna beat the crap out of them.” She trotted out of sight.

The reporters stood up as well.

“We’ll be taking our leave, then,” said Quick Quill.

“Thank you for your time,” added Snap Shot.

Octavia nodded. The stallions began their walk to the door.

“Please don’t do that. It would be such a pain to find you afterwards.” Harpo stood in the back of the room, Vinyl following close after. The DJ looked down at her bowl, silently lamenting that she wasn’t able to hit anypony with it.

The composer glanced back at the DJ. Particularly at the frilly pink apron she still wore. “Nic apron, by the way.”

Thwack.

“That’s a lot better,” said Vinyl happily. She turned towards the three already in the room. “Fancy Pants wants to see us. Those two too.”

The reporters shared a nervous glance.

Harpo rubbed at his head. But he caught the glance. “Yes, I suppose that Fancy Pants has that intimidating effect on ponies, but he didn’t seem particularly angry when I spoke to him. Of course, that could mean that he’s actually terrifyingly angry and is simply trying to keep his temper under control.”

Snap Shot and Quick Quill swallowed in tandem. “Sounds great! Lead the way.”

“How are we getting past the reporters?” asked Octavia.

“Same way I did,” said Harpo with a grin. “Climb a tree, hop a fence, probably cut and scrape yourself a few times.” He held up a hoof, showing off a brand new red welt.


***


“But seriously?! Not one of you actually got hurt!” The group of five walked up towards Fancy Pants’s mansion. Harpo was sporting another red line, a few leaves were tangled in his mane that nopony had cared to point out to him. The others were perfectly fine.

“Not our fault that you can’t hop a fence,” said Vinyl.

“Neither can Octavia! And you actually lifted her up and over the fence.”

“Yeah, because I actually like Octy.”

Harpo rubbed at his wounds. “That’s cold, Vinyl Scratch. That’s cold.” They entered Fancy Pants’s manor. The master of the house sat in his living room, sipping some amber liquid. Fleur de Lis sat next to him, a teacup levitated in front of her.

Fancy Pants looked up at their entrance. The beginnings of shadows had formed under his eyes, but his smile was genuine. He gestured towards a bottle before him. “Help yourselves.”

Harpo obliged, speedily taking up a highball glass. The others refrained from drinking. The mares simply didn’t feel like it. The stallions, sans-Harpo, were currently scared out of their wits and wanted to ensure that they could make a quick and sober getaway if they had to.

Fancy Pants surveyed the reporters. “Has your deal with Prince Blueblood come to a close?”

They nodded.

“Good.” The elder stallion took a sip of his drink. “I’d rather not have to act upon my immediate urge of clobbering you two, as they say, ‘upside the head’. Though it certainly helps that you’re no longer connected to the Prince. But only slightly.” He smiled a predator’s smile.

“Yes, Fancy Pants, sir,” said Quick Quill.

“Thank you, Fancy Pants, sir,” added Snap Shot.

Fleur de Lis smacked her husband. “You’re terrifying the poor dears!”

A chuckle from Fancy Pants. “Quite. Forgive me, just having a bit of fun.” He turned towards his musicians. “I’ve decided on our mode of counterattack,” he said as he forced himself to his hooves.

Fancy Pants paced back and forth. “The immediate reaction to something like this is to go into hiding, to wait for everything to blow over. As most immediate actions are, this is incorrect. We have to prove that the public’s vision of us is wrong, much as we did with our earlier problem. Or, rather, as we attempted to do.”

Fleur took control from there. “Canterlot is abuzz. Many ponies amid the elite believe that their doubts have been confirmed.” She smiled slightly. “Funnily enough, the approval rates for Syncopated Records among young groups and the middle class have skyrocketed. And so, we’ve decided that the best way to rebuild our reputation is to continue onwards.”

“We make music,” said Fancy Pants, “we hold concerts, and we agree to interviews.” His glance fell upon the reporters. “Which is why you two are here. We’re offering an exclusive interview with Syncopated Records, the very same recording group that your article will know doubt lampoon to high heaven.”

“And that’s the plan?” asked Vinyl.

“Most of it,” said Fancy Pants hesitantly.

Fleur de Lis rolled her eyes. “It’s not going to be a solo interview. That would do next to nothing for our reputation; it would be seen as an attempt to cover our tracks.”

Octavia knit her eyebrows. “Then what are we doing?”

“It,” began Fancy Pants. “There will be three parties in the interview. You and Vinyl, Snap Shot and Quick Quill and… Vinyl’s parents. High and Mighty Scratch.”

Harpo let out a barking laugh. “Your parents are High and Mighty?”

“Yup,” replied the DJ. “In lots of ways.”

Octavia fidgeted in her seat.

“I’m sorry,” said Fancy Pants, his gaze set firmly on the cellist. “This is non-negotiable. It will happen, you two will be civil. By the time this is over, everything should be settled. That is all.”


***


Snip. Thud.

A brief pause.

Snip. Thud.

A brief pause. Octavia shifted the shears slightly.

“Not there, dear,” said Fleur de Lis from her place by the roses. “Over slightly. Yes, that branch.”

Snip. Thud.

The cellist let out a deep breath, gazing up at the apple tree. She plucked a particularly red one, and wiped it on her coat. Fleur had given Octavia express permission to eat whatever fruit looked appetizing. The cellist had thought it unnecessary, but gardening had turned out to be rather arduous work.

“Thank you Octavia, it’s always nice to have an extra set of hooves.” Fleur de Lis plucked another apple with her magic, floating it to herself and taking a dainty bite. “Especially as summer comes to a close.”

“It’s my pleasure, Fleur.” Octavia glanced over her shoulder. Vinyl was off to the side, comfortably napping. Harpo was working on another plant. But the cellist’s gaze passed over both of them, focusing on the mansion behind them.

“Something wrong?” asked the unicorn.

Octavia shook her head in response. “No. I have full faith in Fancy Pants. And I think that Snap Shot and Quick Quill are willing to help us.”

Fleur took a bite of her apple. “But?”

“No buts,” said the other quietly.

Fleur de Lis smiled softly, quickly trotting over and hugging the cellist. “Of course not, dear. Just remember, that faith you have in Fancy Pants and our dear reporters isn’t a one-way street. We all have that same confidence in you.”

Octavia nodded. You shouldn’t, she thought to herself. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

The elder mare held the cellist at hooves’ length. “Look at me, Octavia.” Her own eyes bored into the younger mare’s. “I spoke to your parents last night, after the argument. We all agree that what you did was unexpected, but most certainly not unwarranted. You were not in the wrong. We can handle anything thrown our way, and I won’t have anypony sulking around over a single, fixable mistake. Is that clear?”

Octavia nodded furiously, her eyes widening slightly at Fleur’s insistence.

“Good,” said the unicorn, her customary kind smile quickly returning. “Now, we’ll be moving on to weeding. I feel like I should warn you, this is far worse than pruning.”

The cellist rubbed her hoof lightly, feeling the places where the shears’ rubber handles had ground into her. Any more and she’d be blistered. Her hooves ached, the sun beat down on her, she was all too tempted to simply lay down next to Vinyl and take a nap.

“Perfect. Lead the way.”
> The Filler
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Savagery has found its way into our fair Canterlot! Two nights ago, during a ball held at the home of the highly respected Marcato and Legato Philharmonica, two highly esteemed guests were viciously struck down. High and Mighty Scratch, an originally Canterlotian family that has recently fallen on hard times, were having a slight disagreement with their estranged daughter, Vinyl Scratch, one of the members of Fancy Pants’s newest project: Syncopated Records. The conversation grew heated but remained restrained until Octavia Philharmonica, daughter of the illustrious hosts and another member of Syncopated Records, leapt to her hooves, striking High Scratch with such force that the poor mare was sent sprawling to the floor before Miss Philharmonica advanced on Mighty Scratch.
Prince Blueblood, who had graciously extended an invitation to the Scratches, has called the event an “abomination within the otherwise gleaming city of Canterlot,” and adds, with tears in his eyes, his lamentations towards “the breakdown of the wonderful relationship that exists between parents and their children.” The Prince is offering aid to Mr. and Mrs. Scratch should they choose to press charges.
Mr. Scratch asserts that the cellist would have beaten him to a pulp if her parents had not come to his aid. Mrs. Scratch bemoans the damage to her newest dress and the perversion of an otherwise wonderful evening.

Hoity Toity threw the tabloid onto a desk. A photograph of Octavia, rage in her eyes and her hoof outstretched, towering over Mrs. Scratch, adorned the cover. Mr. Scratch cowered off to the side, hardly even in the shot.

“Impressive. You actually won a round.”

Prince Blueblood snorted. “What do you want, Hoity Toity?”

“To talk,” replied the other with a smile.

There was a pause. Blueblood stared incredulously. “Really? You expect to negotiate after our last meeting?” He broke down into guffaws. “How much of an idiot are you?”

“Not negotiating. Talking.” Hoity Toity’s smile hadn’t slipped in the slightest. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

Blueblood got to his hooves. “You, plebian, are lucky to even be in my presence! Suggesting this meeting after such an affront to myself, you’re lucky I didn’t have the guards take you in!” He turned sharply, marching towards the door.

The door swung open. Trans Script trotted in, pushing a cart topped with a rather simple tea set. “Good morning, Prince,” she greeted amiably.

“This is my assistant,” explained Hoity Toity from his seat, “bringing along what is sure to be a wonderfully brewed tea.”

“Flattering,” said Trans Script. She poured the tea and set it in front of her employer.

 Hoity Toity sipped at his drink. “Care to join me for a cup, Blueblood?”

“Prince Blueblood,” hissed the other stallion.

Hoity Toity gestured towards the chair across from him, his infuriating smile not dampening in the slightest.

Blueblood scowled. He turned sharply, huffing out his disdain for the world in general, and resumed his march towards the door.

“Then not a talk,” said Hoity Toity quickly. “Merely a few words.”

The prince kept walking, swinging the door open with his magic.

“Fancy Pants is not one to take things lying down. He has an answer for every question and a question for every answer.”

Blueblood hesitated slightly, his ears turning towards the other stallion’s voice.

“He’s better than you,” continued Hoity Toity. “More experienced, more talented, more connected, more appreciated by the public. It will be a miracle if you’re able to strike another blow against him. You will lose to him.”

Prince Blueblood turned a shade of red. He turned his neck slightly, taking a deep breath, grasping for the proper words to shout out. Nothing came. He quickly cantered through the door.

Hoity Toity allowed a few seconds to pass. He brought his teacup to his lips with a chuckle.

“Was that the best course of action, Mr. Toity?” asked Trans Script.

“It’s not your place to question what I’m doing.” Hoity Toity smirked. “Not that that could prevent you from doing so.”

There was a slight pause.

“Honestly, my dear, it’s a rather simple premise. Blueblood is still a colt, hot-tempered, blind in his anger, but not ineffective in his methods. He’s out to prove a point.” Hoity Toity smiled and took another drink of his tea, leaving a thin layer of liquid over the remaining tea leaves. “How do you do this again, Trans Script?”

“Swirl the tea three times, dump the remains into a saucer. Wait for some moments, then turn the cup over again.”

Hoity Toity swirled his tea three teams. He glanced at the nearby saucer before drinking the last dregs of his tea.

“Bah. I don’t leave things to leaves.”


***


“Tass-what-now?”

“Tasseography, Vinyl.” Fleur de Lis swirled her teacup three times. “Fortune telling from tea dregs. Hardly accurate, but an interesting thing to know.” She turned over the cup, holding it over the saucer for a few moments before turning it back over. “And there are times that make you wonder.”

They were back in the recording studio. Fancy Pants had insisted that their first order of business was to record more music and nopony was particularly inclined towards challenging Fancy Pants. The recording had gone off without a hitch. Of course, they were nowhere near completing their next album but they had certainly made some headway.

Octavia stared into her own cup, the dregs still hidden behind a layer of the steaming drink. “It’s a matter of finding symbols within the tea, isn’t it?”

“Among other things,” replied Fleur, twirling her cup in a circle.. “There’s a certain procedure you have to follow. The teacup must be held with your off-hoof and steeped with an empty mind.” She held the teacup towards Vinyl. “Does this look like a smiley face to you? Or a rainbow, perhaps?”

“... Yeah? I guess?”

Fleur rolled her eyes. “Thank you for that. Very informative.”

“It looks like a bunch of wet leaves!” protested Vinyl. “Except for that. That looks like a speaker. And look, a smiley face!” She took the cup, turning it back and forth. “And that looks like a dog.”

Fleur de Lis’s face fell. “A-are you sure?”

“Wait, no. That’s a robot. Definitely a robot. That has to be a good thing.”

“Debatable point.” A door shut. Two stallions, one brown and one purple, trotted in. Harpo greeted everyone with a weary nod and flopped into a seat.

The Doctor grinned widely. “It rather depends on the type of robot.” He peeked into the cup. “Does that look like a robot hell-bent on taking control of all ponykind to you?”

“Yup!” said Vinyl happily. “I think I’ll name him Squishy. And he will be Sporky’s life-long friend.”

Fleur turned towards Octavia, an eyebrow raised.

“Sometimes it’s better not to ask.”

Fleur de Lis smiled. She turned towards the Doctor, interrupting a conversation over the benefits of various robotic forms. “Have you and Harpo finished editing?”

A purple hoof waved dismissively. “It’s not fun. These two play what I write which, of course, makes their music absolutely incredible. All we had to do was clean up the audio a bit and sync everything together. Boring.”

“He says that,” snickered the Doctor, “but he spent the better part of the last few hours meticulously finetuning their songs. Went crosseyed for a few minutes.”

“You have no proof of that!” cut in the composer resolutely. His face tinged with the slightest bit of green and his head thumped onto the back of his seat. “Urgh. Everything’s gone all fuzzy.”

Fleur smiled. “Not exactly the best state of mind to be in right now, is it?”

“What are you talking about? I love the feeling of bile rising in my throat.” Harpo kept his eyes closed, his head leaning fully against the headrest. “Reminds me of my eighteenth birthday.”

“How old are you, Harpo?” asked Vinyl.

“Three hundred and fourteen, give or take. Why do you ask?”

“You’re still a youngster,” interrupted the Doctor. “You have a whole lifetime ahead of you.”

“Just wondering,” said the DJ. “Seriously though, how old?”

Harpo took a moment to think, his eyes still firmly closed. “Twenty three, I think. At least physically.”

Octavia smirked. “Divide that by three to get his mental age.”

“Laugh it up, female. I’ll have you know that I am a very mentally sound teenager and I will be referred to as such.” 

That got a smile out of everypony.

Fleur de Lis glanced up towards the clock. “She’ll be arriving any moment. I hope that you’ll be able to keep your mind under control.”

“Who’s arriving where now?” asked Vinyl.

“Miss Lyra Heartstrings.” Fleur de Lis was met with largely blank stares. “You remember. Green unicorn, spoke to Fancy Pants after our dinner meeting with Hoity Toity. She’s coming in for the interview today.”

“She was one of our classmates at the Conservatory, Fleur,” said Octavia. “Harpo is rather… acquainted with Lyra and her marefriend.”

The composer held his head in his hooves. “She’s going to snap my spine if I get anywhere near Bon Bon again.”

“Well that’s rather harsh of you to say!” said Fleur.

“Merely repeating what she told me. Or at least what I think she told me. It is kinda hard to make it out as I was being repeatedly bucked into the air.”

“And you were plastered,” added Vinyl.

“And I was plastered,” agreed the composer. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go back into the editing room, curl up, and cower in fear until Miss Heartstrings leaves the building. Sounds like a plan!” Harpo struggled to his hooves. A sharp tug on his tail forced him back down. The barest hint of pink dissipated into the air.

Fleur de Lis smiled kindly. “Forgive me Harpo.”

“You’re going to make me give the interview, aren’t you?”

“Yup.”

Harpo rubbed at his eyelids. “It’s shaping up to be a beautiful day.”


***


“What did you agree to, you bumbling, absolutely asinine, braindead, pair of idiots?” Blueblood sat behind his desk. High and Mighty Scratch were standing on the other side, looking decidedly uncomfortable. And terrified. Completely terrified.

“Speak now!”

Mighty Scratch let out a squeak. “Er, well, you see, we were supposed to have a--”

“Shut up!” interrupted the Prince. “I know what you were doing, you buffoon! How dare you agree to it without consulting me?!”

“Y-you told us to avoid being seen with you whenev--”

“Shut up! I know what I said! But what part of that told you to agree to anything that Fancy Pants suggested?!”

High Scratch spoke this time. “W-we didn’t know! We t-thought that Quick Quill and Snap Shot were--”

“Of course they didn’t! It was Fancy Pants’s idea! It’s always Fancy Pants’s idea!” Blueblood took a moment to compose himself, dragging a hoof through his mane in an effort to get it back into place. “You’re going to go back to Quick Quill and Snap Shot. You’re going to reject their interview. Say something about it being too terrible to see your attacker so soon after the event.”

"But--"

“DON’T YOU DARE!” Blueblood leaned forward, over his desk. “Don’t you dare. Cut off your interview before you ruin everything.”


***


“Just who the hell does he think he is?!” Mrs. Scratch kicked at a trashbin, sending it halfway across the rather ritzy hotel room. “Trying to tell me what to do! What gives him the authority to take away my chance at exposure?!”

“Money?” suggested her husband, tugging at his mane with a hoof. “Status? The fact that he’s already paid us for attending that dreadful gathering?”

High Scratch winced. “And a fair lot that did for me. I was left with a bruise the size of Fillydelphia and a tear in my brand new dress!”

“Yes. Quite the shame.”

The wife threw a dirty glare at the husband.

Mighty Scratch, meanwhile, had moved from grooming his mane to filing his hooves. “Allow me to repeat myself. The fact that he’s already paid us.” He looked up at his wife with a sly look. “What more can we expect to receive from the Prince?”

High Scratch gaped slightly.

Mighty smirked. “Nothing, my dear. The answer is absolutely nothing.”
> The Addition
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harpo was not a particularly happy pony at the moment. Which isn’t to say that he is a particularly happy pony at most moments. At least, he would never say so. No, Harpo rather enjoyed playing the role of the suffering composer, the aloof artist who holds others at hoof’s length while he works in peace. Harpo was content with his title of ‘Sergeant,’ as useless as it had been ever since he left the Conservatory.

Yes, Harpo Parish Nadermane played his role. He played it rather well, too. As it stood, Harpo believed that there were say, six ponies, not counting close relatives, in all of Equestria who knew that he was a bumbling, sarcastic, drunkard of a pony who truly felt that he would do anything for his friends, albeit complaining all the while, and had Octavia not stepped in and smacked that ghastly mare, it would have been Harpo adorning that morning’s tabloids. Only six ponies were aware that he was not a detached composer.

And four of those six ponies were sitting in his immediate proximity.

But that was almost normal for Harpo. After all, he had a firm belief that the only ponies worth calling ‘friend’ were those who had seen past his facade. No, what was currently bothering our beloved composer was the fact that one of those ponies sitting in his immediate vicinity had seen Harpo in the most unflattering position.

Namely, making out with that pony’s marefriend.

Of course, Lyra Heartstrings had dished out appropriate punishment. And then some. Repeatedly. But, that hardly made Harpo’s position any less awkward. Rather, the opposite was true. It was awkward as all hell.

Lyra Heartstrings, for her part, felt even worse. She was sitting in a single chair. A coffee table was all that stood between her, Octavia, Vinyl, Harpo, and Fleur de Lis. Four ponies, two of which had been her classmates, one white unicorn who was tapping out a rhythm with a plastic spork, and a serenely smiling pink unicorn.

It was utterly terrifying.

Where to begin? Miss Philharmonica, pride of the Canterlot Conservatory. The cellist was as distant now as she had ever been. Octavia Philharmonica was unapproachable, perfect, a pinnacle one was to live up to. In fact, Lyra would be surprised if Octavia even knew her name. Lyra had never seen her make a mistake. Lyra had never seen her arrive tardy to a class. Lyra had never seen her smile. Lyra had, only hours before, read about how this grey earth pony had savagely struck down a down-on-her-luck mare.

That mare had, apparently, been Vinyl Scratch’s mother. Lyra felt her eyes subconsciously shift to the DJ. No read there. Vinyl seemed completely lost in her rhythm, her head bobbing slightly to the beat, beating out a drumline on the couch with what looked like a white, plastic spork, not paying any mind to the sweating green unicorn. Or maybe Vinyl was staring right into her eyes. It was impossible to tell with those purple lenses. Fleur de Lis reached out a gentle hoof, laying it on Vinyl’s foreleg. The spork stopped immediately.

Fleur de Lis. Fancy Pants’s wife and, if talk around the restaurant was anything to go by, just as influential as her husband. Lyra remembered the last media incident surrounding these ponies. Miss Philharmonica and Miss Scratch had been caught coming out of some sort of club. Word had buzzed through Canterlot for a while and then… nothing. Sure, a few random ponies would discuss it over lunch, during a lull in the conversation but… that was it. No follow-up stories, no outraged Canterlotian nobles writing in to Equestria Daily in an effort to get their protests in the newspaper. Fleur de Lis had handled the media then.

Fleur noticed the look Lyra was giving her and smiled encouragingly.

Lyra almost jumped out of her hooves. But she was able to contain herself as her eyes slid over to Harpo.

Yeah, that was a lost cause. Harpo was looking everywhere but at Lyra. He probably remembered what happened at that party. Lyra winced slightly. Damn it. Hopefully Harpo wasn’t the type to hold grudges.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Heartstrings.” Fleur’s smile hadn’t slipped in the slightest.

Lyra nearly jumped out of her seat. “I-I wouldn’t miss it. Thank you for having me.”

Fleur de Lis nodded and glanced over at Harpo.

The composer cleared his throat. “Right, well, we’re going to ask you a few questions Ly-- Miss Heartstrings.”

Lyra nodded. Her posture straightened uncomfortably as she tried to appear as comfortable as possible.

“What’s your name?” asked Vinyl Scratch suddenly. Every eye in the room instantly fell on her. “It’s a valid question!”

Octavia rolled her eyes. Harpo was hardly able to keep his hoof from slamming into his forehead. Fleur’s smile seemed to widen slightly.

“Ly--” Lyra’s voice cracked, “Lyra Heartstrings.”

“Lyra, huh?” said Vinyl. “Then you’re a lyrist?”

“Well, partly. I play lyre and I compose. I also really enjoy writing songs.”

“Really? That’s cool. I tried writing lyrics before, couldn’t really get the hang of it. How do you do it?”

A half-smile formed on Lyra’s face. “I’m not really sure. It just kinda comes to me. Sometimes a melody will work it’s way into my head and the word will come later, sometimes the words come first. There was one time where I woke up humming a tune.”

“Awesome!” said Vinyl.

Lyra grinned. “It was kinda creepy, really.” She shifted slightly in her chair, settling into a more comfortable position.

Fleur de Lis smiled. Miss Heartstrings had been rather awkward ever since she trotted into the recording studio. Yet, after a few words from Vinyl, Lyra was almost talking like a normal pony. Vinyl certainly does have a certain talent with ponies.

“You went to the Conservatory with these two?” Vinyl’s voice brought Fleur out of her stupor.

Lyra nodded. “Though, in all honesty, I’d be surprised if they even remember me.” Her eyes seemed to linger on Octavia’s for a bit.

The cellist looked back cooly.

“Lyra Heartstrings,” said Harpo with a smile. “Of course we’d remember.” Somehow, that simple statement brought back fresh memories of Harpo being bounced back and forth, held by an emerald green magical aura.

Vinyl’s eyes narrowed slightly behind her purple glasses. Then a lightbulb went off. “Oh Celestia, this is the mare who kicked your flank, isn’t it Harpo?!” A horrifyingly wide grin split Vinyl’s mouth as she dissolved into laughter. “Oh! Oh, this is so awesome!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Harpo. “Laugh it up. Drinking inhibits decision making, Harpo enjoys drinking, Harpo is completely capable of doing stupid things and then proceeds to make the mistake of telling his friends about those stupid things. Hardy-har-har.”

Lyra had, by this point, turned a rather nice shade of red. “I’m really sorry about that,” she said sincerely.

Harpo waved a dismissive hoof. “It’s in the past. But, on that note, I dismiss myself from this interview on the basis that I hold a grudge against the interviewee and can, therefore, not be impartial. Ipso Facto, I’m going to leave now.” Harpo rose from his seat.

“Sit down, Harpo.”

“Yes, Fleur.” Harpo fell back into his seat.

Fleur turned back towards Lyra. “As you can see, Miss Heartstrings, this venture is quite unlike any other. It is a very tightly-knit group; more like family than employees.”

Lyra nodded, unsure of what to say.

“But this uniqueness,” continued Fleur de Lis, “has come at a price. I’m sure that you’ve read about it? Either in this morning’s tabloids or in the newspaper from some days ago.”

Another nod.

“Of course you have.” Fleur paused slightly, glancing over at her musicians. “Miss Heartstrings, the normal pony would not want to join a company that finds itself in such a precarious position. Saying that we have opposition within our business is an understatement. We have enemies who are quite willing to manipulate one’s image in an effort to strike at Syncopated Records.” She turned towards Lyra. The smile was gone, replaced by a dangerous glint of steel, a hint at the force that had quieted Canterlot’s media mills. “My question to you, Miss Heartstrings. Why do you want to join?”

The room went silent. Lyra cast her eyes onto the floor. Seconds ticked past.

“Because,” began Lyra without lifting her heads, “I feel like it’s the right thing to do. I wasn’t the best student at the Conservatory. Hell, I barely even got into the Conservatory. And then I graduated, thinking that I’d be able to get a job as a songwriter or something, maybe audition for some kind of orchestra or something. I ended up at a restaurant, serving dishes.” Her eyes her still fixed to the floor, her voice gradually picking up speed as she went on. “I get up every day at the same time, put on the same uniform, head out, deal with the dumbest, nit-pickiest things! ‘Waitress, the peas were touching the mash potatoes, take it back.’ ‘Waitress, the unsalted green peas I ordered don’t have any salt.’ It’s not for me, it’s not what I’m supposed to do, and I just can’t do it anymore.” She looked up, her golden eyes shimmering slightly. “I’m not a waitress. I’m a musician.”

The interviewers’ faces remained neutral.

“Octavia,” said Fleur de Lis, “you’ve been rather quiet through this interview.”

Octavia touched a hoof to her lips. “I am… not the best judge of other ponies. I don’t know Miss Heartstrings.” Violet eyes met golden. “I never spoke to you. I never spoke to anypony besides Harpo… And if your best reason for wanting to be a part of Syncopated Records is that you’re tired of your old job, well, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that.”

“Th-that’s not what I meant! I-It’s just that…” Lyra’s voice trailed off.

Harpo stayed quiet. He pulled at a strand of his mane.

“Here’s another question,” said Fleur. “Why do you think Fancy Pants decided to start up this company?”

Lyra thought for some moments, thought as hard as she could. “I… I don’t know.”

“A valid answer,” replied Fleur de Lis. “Most of Canterlot doesn’t know. I suspect that there are days where Fancy Pants himself doesn’t know.Syncopated Records is meant to bring music from all walks of life to all walks of life. It’s meant to prove that Canterlot is more than just Bluebloods and Hoity Toities. This means bringing things into Canterlot that some ponies believe should stay far, far away.”

Lyra nodded. There was really nothing to say.

“I don’t say this to completely dissuade you, Miss Heartstrings,” explained Fleur. “I do it so that you know what you’re getting into.”

“Getting into?” asked Lyra hesitantly.

Fleur smiled. “Yes, actually. I’m willing to offer Trans Script’s old position. That is, as a receptionist.”

Lyra seemed to deflate slightly, but the grin on her face was genuine. “Oh! Thank you! I can’t wait to work with you all!”

Vinyl reached out a hoof. “Welcome to the club, filly. Rule number one: Nopony likes Harpo.”

“Thank for that, Vinyl,” remarked Harpo.

Vinyl lowered her glasses slightly, a smile spreading on her face. “Rule number two: Nopony like Harpo.”


***


“Bit harsh back there, weren’t you Tavi?”

Octavia lowered her book, an absolutely riveting biography on Felix Maredelshoe. The interview was long over. Fleur de Lis had gone to meet Fancy Pants. Nopony was quite sure where the Doctor had disappeared to.

“How so?” asked the cellist.

“In the interview? The whole ‘leaving your job isn’t a good reason’ thing.”

Octavia knit her brow slightly. “Perhaps. But I stand by my statement.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like you had a much better reason when you joined!” protested Vinyl.

“This isn’t the same situation. Syncopated Records is not the same company. It is currently being scrutinized by most of the Canterlot elite. Anyone working with us must be willing to put their career on the line.”

“You’ve only been working here for a few weeks! It’s not that bad!”

“Oh don’t you two start arguing!” Harpo rolled his eyes. “Honestly, I’d think that you were married and not just dating.”

“Shut up, Harpo!” shouted the mares.

“Quite,” said the composer. “Anyway, Lyra’s a good pony. Definitely worth having her on the team. Hard worker, talented, all that jazz.”

“Jazz? What jazz? I love jazz!” came a bright voice from behind Harpo.

Harpo nearly jumped off of the couch. “Damn it Doctor.”

“You really should be used to that by now.” The Doctor vaulted over the couch, ending up in a seat by Harpo. “So, how long was I gone?”

“About an hour,” answered Vinyl. “Where’d you go this time?”

“Oh, just out and about. We have a new employee, yes?”

“Lyra Heartstrings,” said Octavia.

“Oooo, I quite like Lyra. At least, Bon Bon likes Lyra, and Bon Bon gives me candy, so I absolutely adore Bon Bon, which means that I like Lyra too. And what did you all think of her?”

Vinyl rolled her eyes. “Octy’s being all introverted about it.”

Octavia smacked Vinyl’s leg.

“Ah, she’ll be fine,” said the Doctor with a dismissive gesture. “I’m sure that it’ll work once Lyra spends enough time here. Anyway, there is a tentative date set for the interview with High and Mighty.”

The musicians perked up immediately.

The Doctor smirked. “Right, that got your attention. Four days. Just enough time for Quick Quill and Snap Shot to set everything up with their newspaper. And, if my informants are anything to go by, Prince Blueblood is absolutely livid.”

“Of course he is,” said Harpo. “He doesn’t want word to get out.”

“Exactly,” agreed the Doctor.

“So what’s the plan?” asked Vinyl.

Doctor Whooves smiled. “Expose your parents for the horrible ponies that they are. Of course, you should try to be as non-aggressive as possible. The goal is to get them to break first, to have them go on a tirade about something just like before. This time, however, it will be recorded and published for all of Canterlot to see.”

“So we’re not doing anything special.”

“Exactly!” replied the Doctor brightly.


***


Blueblood paced his office. Of course. Of course High and Mighty would keep the interview. What was he expecting? Anytime he made a plan, anytime he wanted to prove that he wasn’t just a colt, all of Equestria would turn against him. And this would have worked! He would have dealt with Fancy Pants and would have been able to deal with Hoity Toity in time.

But now… something else was required. He hadn’t lost yet. No, there was still something he could do to further consolidate his hold over his industry, over his last chance. Cancel the interview? No, no; that wouldn’t work. Not after Quick Quill and Snap Shot had painted High and Mighty as victims. Word would leak out that Blueblood had cancelled the interview and ponies would begin to talk.

Yes, the interview itself was set in stone. As were the participants. An idea struck Blueblood. Every participant was merely a common pony. And common ponies were simple. Prince Blueblood could handle common ponies.

He trotted out of his office towards his secretary, a mare whose name he had never bothered to learn. The Prince wouldn’t be able to contact the pair in person, that would draw too much attention. 

But a letter would be more than enough.
> The Break
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lyra Heartstrings had spent the better part of the last hour walking through the halls of Syncopated Records. It was a surprisingly unassuming place. She was expecting… well, she wasn’t entirely sure what she was expecting. Maybe a room that held vast amounts of instruments or a storage closet of nothing but sheet music or an opulent office where Fancy Pants would sit and look over towers upon towers of paper.

But no, Syncopated Records was none of that. The squat, largely concrete building that gave off an air of serious business seemed to contain only four important rooms.The lobby, with the receptionist’s desk -- now Lyra’s desk -- standing against the wall; the recording studio, which also served as Harpo’s editing room; that break room where Lyra’s interview had taken place, and a surprisingly tidy office that seemed to have never been used. The rest were an assortment of closets and restrooms.

Lyra was beginning to regret showing up so early.

Yes, it was important to make a good first impression, yes it would be impressive to be the first pony to show up, especially when it was her first day on the job, but it was boring. Especially since office hours hadn’t even begun yet.

And so, Lyra Heartstrings found herself in a poignantly empty break room, splayed out on a couch, her lyre floating before her. She had brought her instrument on the off-chance that she’d be given a chance to play and, while Lyra wasn’t exactly in the recording studio, she figured that now was as good of a time as any.

Lyra ran her hooves over the strings, coaxing out notes, following the musical patterns that years at the Conservatory had burned into her mind. Consonance, to dissonance, and back to consonance. Lyra marshaled the music into order, her eyes fluttering to a close.

Her hoof slipped, and a single harsh note sounded out. Lyra started, nearly slamming her head into her lyre. She let out a rattling breath, turning slightly towards the clock. About ten minutes had passed. Lyra settled back into her position with a sigh, readjusting her lyre. She played that note again - properly this time. Her hooves shifted to a second note. Then a third. Then she played them again, moving through the familiar tune. It was a song she had taught herself a while ago. The kind of song that she wouldn’t have even realized she remembered if she hadn’t begun to play it.

 


The leading lights of the age all wondered amongst themselves what I would do next.


After all that I’d found in my travels around the world


Was there anything left?


“Gentlecolts,” I said, “I’ve studied the maps and if what I’m thinking is right;


There’s another new world at the top of the world for the first one that breaks through the ice.”

 
Lyra paused for a moment, her hooves subconsciously repeating the last notes as her mind searched out the next verse. She knit her brow slightly, then:
 

And I looked ‘round the room


In that way I once had and I saw that they wanted belief.


So I said, “All I’ve got are my guts and my God,” then I paused.


“And the Ana Belle Lee.”

 
Lyra jumped, her head making full contact with her instrument, as another voice joined her for the last line. The aura surrounding her lyre sputtered and died. Only Harpo’s hoof kept it aloft.
 
The composer’s mane was messy, his eyes blurry. He yawned slightly, and offered the lyre to its owner. “Is my singing really that awful?” he asked, scratching at his ribs. “I mean, I know that I don’t get as much practice as Vinyl or Octavia, but it certainly doesn’t warrant throwing your instrument to the ground… I think.”
 
Lyra snatched her lyre out of his hooves, holding it close to her. “Harpo! You scared the Tartarus out of me!”
 
Harpo yawned again, walking backwards and falling ungracefully into his accustomed seat. “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
 
Lyra gave him a look. Harpo grinned sleepily.
 
“Don’t worry, Miss Heartstrings. You’re not a bad singer. Or a bad lyrist.” Harpo glanced around slightly, eyes locking on the coffee pot they kept in the break room. “Do you mind levitating that to me? Just woke up.”
 
“You’d trust me with a burning hot liquid?”
 
“‘Course not. Coffee’s probably cold by now. Feel free to throw it at me, just make sure most of it lands in my mouth.” Harpo opened his mouth as wide as it could go.
 
Lyra passed over the coffee pot with a slight laugh.
 
“Cup too,” said Harpo. “Chop, chop, newbie.”
 
A styrofoam cup followed the coffee pot, flying straight at Harpo’s head. It fell short.
 
The composer snorted lightly, an amused glint shining through his bleary eyes. “Ask Vinyl to give you lessons. She likes throwing things at me. Octavia’s more of a physical contact beater.”
 
Silence fell on the room, broken only by the sound of cold coffee being poured into a slightly crumpled cup.
 
“So,” said Harpo, “you’re here a bit early.”
 
Lyra shrugged, looking down slightly. “Not as early as you.”
 
“Gah. Disgusting.” Harpo pulled a face at his coffee. “It’s not good enough to be drunk cold.” He took another sip, and pulled the same face. “As for the being early thing, that doesn’t really count. I’ve been here all night.”
 
“Really?”
 
Harpo shrugged. “Part of the job description. Stay up into the wee hours of the morning, tweaking melodies and harmonies and other kinds of –ies.” He took another sipped. “Not thinking to making more coffee.”
 
Lyra rolled her eyes.
 
“See, you think I’m exaggerating, but this is some absolutely terrible coffee. Want to try it?”
 
“No. Thank you.”
 
Another shrug from the composer. “Your loss. Coffee like this comes once in a lifetime. Anyway, we’ve established why I’m here so early. What about yourself, Miss Lyra Heartstrings?” Harpo grinned. “Or are you just here to rock out by yourself?”

Lyra grimaced slightly. “First impressions are important.”

“Mmmmm. Yes, showing up early does make a good first impression. Are you sure you don’t want any coffee? Horrid thing, really. Hardly deserves to be called coffee.”

“No Harpo,” replied Lyra with the slightest tinge of annoyance.

Harpo smirked. “Already getting under your coat, am I?” He swirled his liquid mud slightly. “I’m amazing.”

The unicorn rolled her eyes. “Have you always been this way?”

“Cynical, sarcastic, more concerned with his coffee than serious talk, a jerk who values his own entertainment above most other things?”

“Yup.”

“Yes, of course I have,” replied Harpo. He ran a hoof through his mane and waggled his eyebrows. “Also devilishly handsome. We can’t forget that.”

Lyra laughed, the bright sound carrying throughout the room. “And this is why everypony hates you?”

“My dear Miss Heartstrings, nopony hates me. Even the ones that don’t like me love me! I’m unhateable! You nearly broke my spine and you don’t hate me!”

“Give it some time! I’ll get there eventually.”

“Good luck with that.” Harpo lifted his cup towards his companion in salute, then drank the rest of his drink in one fluid movement.

Lyra raised an eyebrow, awaiting the inevitable tirade against the abomination that dared to call itself coffee.

“Well, I should be going.” Harpo placed his mug on the coffee table and got to his hooves. “The Doctor should be in later on. Octavia and Vinyl won’t be in; they’re on a date.”

Lyra nodded. She paused as the realization hit her. “Wait, they’re what?”

“I know!” replied Harpo with a grin. “An actual date! About time, too.”

“They’re… they’re a thing?”

“Oh yes!” Harpo’s grin faltered a bit. “I didn’t really have much to do with it, unfortunately. Bit of a shame. I wanted to poke a bit more fun at their expense.” He shrugged slightly.

Lyra blinked a few times. “And they’re… a thing?”

“A couple, to be exact,” replied Harpo with a smirk. He glanced up at the clock. “Now, while I’d love to stay and gossip, I really must be going.”

“Alright. Going anyplace in particular?”

Haro smiled nervously. “Oh, you know, just out and about. I have to see a pony about a thing. The usual.” He fidgeted slightly. The door was so close.

“Harpo,” began Lyra in a suspicious tone. Harpo hated that tone.

“I’m sorry Lyra, I’d love to talk, but I have to go now, bye!” The door shut solidly, muffling the sound of Harpo’s hooves on the hallway floor.

Lyra was alone again, watching the door with a pensive look. She played a quick, ominous tune on her lyre, then returned to her previous position on the couch. A half-smile touched her lips.

A styrofoam cup and the coffee pot were enveloped in an emerald sheen. The coffee poured itself. Lyra stared down at the dark liquid.

“It can’t be that bad,” she muttered to herself.

Lyra took a sip.


***


Harpo could hear the hacking and coughing from the lobby. He smirked in satisfaction as he marched towards the street.

Right, he thought to himself. Mane only slightly messy, bowtie as pristine as ever, running on time. Not bad for yourself, Maestro Nadermane.

He ran a nervous hoof through his mane and picked up his pace by the slightest bit. His mind wandered to random places. Time passed strangely, as it tends to do when one is traveling. By the time Harpo arrived at Canterlot Park, he could only remember brief flashes of scenery.

The composer trotted over to an empty bench, the one they had agreed on. She wasn’t there yet. Harpo smirked; he was still leading in points.

“I don’t think that one should count,” came a clear, musical voice.

Harpo grinned and turned. “Think what you’d like. It completely counts.”

Beauty Brass sat next to the composer. “But I saw you take your seat! That’s not early enough to warrant earning a point.”

“That’s not what we agreed on. From my point of view, it’s been a terrible wait. I had to spend a whole few seconds without you here! Do you have any idea what a torture that is to me?” Harpo made his lower lip shake slightly.

Beauty rolled her eyes, but couldn’t quite hide her blush. “How much time do we have?”

“Quite a bit, actually. Seems that we’ll have to enjoy each other’s presence before we head out to breakfast.”

“Great!” said Beauty brightly. She dug into her saddlebags and pulled out some sheets of music. “We have time to talk about a piece I’m writing!”

Harpo raised an eyebrow. “You’re just using me for my talents.”

“And your dashing good looks,” replied the other with a sultry smile.

The stallion squeaked slightly in response, turned slightly pink, cleared his throat, then turned even redder as Beauty Brass giggled at him.

“Oh, be quiet and let me see the music,” mumbled Harpo.


***


Hoity Toity sighed. He sat in his office, a comfortable affair, normally perfectly maintained, with a wide window that overlooked Canterlot Park. Not that he took many peeks through that window. Or any at all, these days.

The stallion took off his glasses, revealing eyes that had sunken by the slightest bit. He sighed again, regretting his decision to cancel his visit to the spa.

He shook his head. No time for that. There were more important things than his appearance. Not many, but some things certainly took precedence.

And there were currently three folders on his desk that had that precedence.

Blueblood had continued to worm his way against Fancy Pants. To be honest, Hoity Toity was impressed. The Prince had a terribly annoying persistence. Especially in matters that threatened his “position.” Hoity Toity snorted. Position. Hardly.

Yet, the fact remained that Blueblood was still very much in the game. Which was perfectly fine by Hoity Toity. He could already see Blueblood’s Game Over. After all, the pompous ass only had three choices left to him.

Hoity Toity batted the files lazily. Not the first. Or the second. Blueblood couldn’t get through to them; they were cast in stone. But the third pair… they were different. They were a bit more susceptible to being swayed.

There was a knock at the office door.

“Enter,” said Hoity Toity, his hooves neatly stacking the files, obscuring the names printed on them.

A light blue earth pony, her white hair, offsetting her black dress, strode into the room. “Herr Toity! I, Photo Finish,” the pony paused. “Have returned!”

“I’ve noticed. I trust that everything went well.”

Photo Finish looked up dramatically, accenting every other word with a flourish. “I, Photo Finish, have searched far and wide and wide and far in my search to make… ze magicks!” She put a hoof to her forehead. “But I, Photo Finish, have failed you, Herr Toity!”

Hoity Toity raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes! I, Photo Finish, have not found--”

A few moments of silence passed.

“-- Ze magicks!” She stepped forward, placing an envelope on Hoity Toity’s desk. “This is Photo Finish’s two week notice.”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” said Hoity Toity as he placed the envelope in a drawer marked Photo Finish’s Two Week Notices. “I trust that you didn’t come back empty-hoofed.”

Photo Finish gasped. “Of course not! I, Photo Finish, took hundreds of photos of beautiful ponies! But none of them were… perfect!”

“I see. Well, give them to your assistant to dispose of, as per usual. You’re free to leave. Will you be in tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course! Now,” she paused, her hoof pointing straight at the office door. “I go!”

Hoity Toity watched with the slightest amusement. Hmmmm… that’s another option now that she’s back. He turned back to his files.

Those two were the weakest links. Blueblood would go after them, if he hadn’t already done so. The question is whether they would break.

Snap Shot and Quick Quill were reporters after all. And who could predict what a reporter would do?
> The Date
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Octavia worked her jaw, feeling a slight strain in her neck as she chewed through her salad. Vinyl reached a hoof across the table, her red eyes meeting Octavia’s violet, wordlessly trying to calm her marefriend.

It wasn’t working.

Octavia had heard the whispers, snippets of conversation ever since she and Vinyl had walked into the restaurant. Every once in a while, she’d catch somepony glancing over at their table. Octavia would stare them down, the other pony would glance away. It was infuriating.

Vinyl rubbed Octavia’s hoof slightly. “It’s alright, Tavi. Just let it roll over you. They don’t know anything.”

The cellist breathed in deeply, allowing her eyes to close for a few moments.

There was a snicker, right at the edge of her hearing, probably not even directed towards her. Octavia’s eyes snapped open and she turned towards the laugh, only barely keeping a snarl off of her face.

Vinyl pulled slightly on Octavia’s hoof, shaking her head.

Octavia’s eyes widened slightly as she glared directly at Vinyl. There was something in the DJ’s eyes that Octavia couldn’t quite read.

“Waiter,” said Vinyl, holding up her hoof as a well-dressed stallion walked by. “Ya mind gettin’ us the check?”

The waiter nodded politely, reaching into a pocket and producing a scrap of paper.

“Thanks guy,” said Vinyl, barely even glancing at the check before pouring out a few bits onto the table. “Whatever doesn’t pay the bill’s yours.” She pushed out of her chair. “Come on, Octy.”

Octavia followed after her marefriend, noting the sudden quiet that would pass over a table as they passed by. The cellist set her jaw again, her steps slightly tense and awkward as she made her way to the door.

The fresh air, or what qualified for fresh in Canterlot, was a marked relief. Octavia glanced back at the restaurant. A less refined pony would spit in its direction. Octavia cursed under her breath, shaking her head and turning away from the building.

“Honestly, Vinyl,” she said. “The nerve of some ponies. It’s infuriating.” Octavia blinked, her head turning up and down the street. “Vinyl?”

Vinyl was back at the entrance, scrutinizing the restaurant’s entrance. She let out a long breath.

Bang!

The DJ felt herself shake with the force of her buck. Her breath came out in sharp bursts as she stared up towards the restaurant. “Fucking place,” she spat out.

Octavia watched nervously as Vinyl turned away from the restaurant, her legs shaking slightly. Vinyl tried for a smile, but ended up with more of a grimace.

“So,” began Vinyl, “that was nice.”

“Not particularly.”

“Well, the bread was good. And we barely got any food, so I didn’t have to pay that much. That’s a plus.” Vinyl couldn’t quite keep a note of bitterness out of her voice, which she quickly tried to cover up with a smile.

The pair wandered up the street.

Octavia glanced worriedly at her marefriend. “Vinyl, are you alright?”

“Peachy. Can’t feel my back legs, but other than that, perfectly fine. And how are you this fine day, Lady Tavi?”

“I’ll be fine if you stop saying ‘fine’, Vinyl.”

Vinyl shrugged. “That’s fine with me.”

Octavia raised an eyebrow.

A pause. “I said it again, didn’t I?” Vinyl kicked at a loose pebble. “Alright, so I wasn’t fine. I was pissed. I kinda kicked a wall.”

“Oh, really?” deadpanned Octavia.

“I just kicked it a little!”

“You can’t walk.”

Vinyl smirked and waggled her eyebrows, putting more innuendo into that movement than any words could. “Neither would you, if you’d give me the chance.” Of course, words wouldn’t hurt her effort.

Though, with Octavia, they normally did.

Octavia’s hoof twitched slightly, lifting off the ground. Vinyl closed her eyes, expecting a flash of pain.

Which didn’t come.

Vinyl opened her eyes again, half-expecting Octavia to be standing over her, waiting until the DJ was able to see the pain coming for her before actually striking. Instead, she saw the cellist, burning red, staring at the ground.

“Can,” began Octavia, “can we not talk about… that in public.”

Vinyl’s eyes widened. “Y-yeah,” she stammered. “Yeah. ‘Course. Sorry.”

Octavia nodded a silent thank you. They walked on quietly. Octavia glanced up and down the street, anywhere but at her marefriend. Her cheeks still hadn’t fully cooled down.

Vinyl was doing the exact opposite. She could feel blood rush into her face, making the sunny Canterlot day that much more uncomfortable. She scratched at her mane slightly, trying to focus straight ahead. But her eyes were subconsciously drawn back to Octavia. Her marefriend. Charcoal black mane, soft, grey fur, who could be sweet or embarrassed or angry or sarcastic at the drop of a hat. Her marefriend, who was so talented but still got nervous at the prospect of playing in front of a crowd and never thought that she had to skip practice, even after she had learned a song three times over. Her marefriend, who was still flushed, who was walking a bit stiffly, unaware that her cutie mark was swinging side to side hypnotically. Side to side. Side to side.

“Vinyl?”

“I wasn’t staring at your flank!” shouted Vinyl in a high-pitched voice.

Octavia’s mouth hung open.

Vinyl stared at Octavia blankly.

Octavia blinked.

A passing mare, pushing a stroller in front of her, stared at the couple.

Octavia quickly reddened, her head snapping up and down the street, trying not to make eye contact with the walking mother. The cellist grabbed Vinyl’s hoof, pulling her into a side street before the DJ could react.

“Vinyl, I’m going to kill you,” growled the cellist.

“With sexytimes?” The words were out before Vinyl was able to think.

Octavia raised a hoof.

“Wait, no!” Vinyl waved her hooves. “Not the face! For the love of Celestia, not the face!”

Octavia’s muzzle scrunched slightly. She lowered her hoof again and stepped away from Vinyl. “And this is supposed to be a date?”

Oh, thank you sweet Princesses, thought Vinyl. “Yeah. Is it not? I’m having fun. I mean, besides the whole restaurant thing.”

“Right. The restaurant thing.” Octavia seemed to deflate slightly.

Vinyl threw a hoof over her marefriend. “Hey now, Tavi, don’t get like that. We’ve got the whole day ahead of us… Minus the food.” A pause. “I’m hungry. Can we go eat something?”

“Yes, because it went so well last time.”

“Hey.” Vinyl leaned toward Octavia. “Octy, no. You’re not allowed to think like that. Every next thing is gonna be better than the last thing. We went to a fancy restaurant because I thought you’d like it and it sounded like a good idea. It was a bad idea. But now we’re going to go to a crappy restaurant because it sounds like a bad idea, which means that it’ll be a good idea! We’ll eat food that’s terrible for us but tastes amazing without caring what other ponies think of us” She beamed, lightly smacking Octavia’s side. “Sound good?”

“That… actually does,” admitted Octavia.

“Right! Follow me, cutie, I’ll lead the way.” Vinyl struck a pose, pointing dramatically forward, then turning around completely and marching the other way. Octavia gave a half-smile, trotting quickly to catch up to her marefriend.

“Wait, Vinyl!”

Vinyl turned around.

Octavia’s hoof connected sharply with Vinyl’s side. The DJ winced, doubling over in reflex.

“There,” said Octavia with a smile, “now all is right in the world.”


***


“You’re back, huh?” An stallion, weathered by age, stood over Vinyl and Octavia’s table. He worked his jaw, as though he was chewing and kept a cool gaze.

“Ma’s working the kitchen today, Pa?” asked Vinyl.

Pa nodded.

“Good. You can’t cook worth two bits.”

Octavia threw a look at her marefriend.

Pa’s stony visage cracked slightly. “Keep talkin’, Scratch,” he growled, “and I’ll add twenty bits to your bill.”

“Speaking of twenty bits, you catch that hoofball match a few nights ago? Which team did ya bet on again?”

“By all the… I’m out working counter one day and you’ve gotta be the one to walk in.” He produced a notepad and a pen. “What’re ya ordering, then?” Pa couldn’t quite keep a hint of amusement out of his voice.

The mares placed their orders. Pa made a show about how much work they were putting him through as he flipped his notebook shut. He locked eyes with Octavia.

Octavia gave a tight, slightly awkward smile.

Pa’s eyes seemed to shine slightly and his mouth twitched into the closest thing to a smile that Octavia had seen on his face. He turned towards Vinyl and nodded, quickly wiping the smile from his face. “I’ll get Ma out here; she’ll want to say hi to ya. Don’t know why she’d bother.”

Vinyl stuck out her tongue. Pa, to Octavia’s surprise, reciprocated the gesture before trotting back towards the kitchen.

Vinyl settled into her seat slightly. “I love Pa. He’s awesome.”

“The elder stallion that you just insulted?”

“Ah, he’s a big colt. He can take it. And that’s just us! There’s nothing bad behind it.” Vinyl sipped at the water that Pa had left them. “It’s like with Harpo.”

“Yes, but Harpo is Harpo.”

Vinyl rolled her eyes. “Come on, Tavi. You know what I mean. Me and Harpo and Pa have our own thing. We don’t really care what anybody says about us. Pa’s too old to care and Harpo’s too busy amusing himself to care.”

“And what about you?” asked Octavia.

Vinyl swirled her cup slightly, watching the water spin around itself. “I lived with High and Mighty Scratch. I heard crap from them all day. Then, when I got kicked out, I heard pity from every pony that passed me. Well, the ones that bothered looking.”

Octavia’s brow furrowed. “Kicked out?”

“Yup,” said Vinyl with a nod. “Back when I stopped trying to do what they wanted me to. I dropped out of school, stopped listening to those ponies my parents hired. And I was out on the streets about a week later. I guess that they thought that I’d come back or something, promise to do everything they said.” Vinyl grinned, touching the glass of water to her lips. “But nope.”

“You were homeless? Did your parents never try to help?” Octavia’s voice raised slightly towards the end of her questions.

Vinyl raised an eyebrow. “Tavi, you’ve met High and Mighty. Hell, listen to their names! Are they the kind of ponies that would say that they’ve made a mistake and try to help?”

Octavia ground her teeth together. “The more I learn about them…” Her voice trailed off slightly.

“Try living with them. Actually, don’t do that. You’d probably kill them and I’d have to wait for those conjugate visits.”

“Conjugal,” corrected Octavia on reflex.

“Yeah, those things.” Vinyl stared off into the distance. “That would be pretty hot, though. Not being able to see each other for months, having just a few hours to--”

Crack!

“Ow!”

“Now, I ain’t havin’ none o’ that talk in my diner, ya hear?” Ma stood over the table, a fierce motherly look on her face and a wooden spoon that struck with the force of justice itself in her hoof.

Vinyl rubbed at her stinging hoof. “Hi, Ma.”

“Hello, darling,” greeted Ma with a warm smile. She turned towards Octavia. “I remember you! Miss Octavia, if I’m not mistaken. Pa said you were here. This one,” she gestured towards Vinyl, “ain’t scared ya off yet, then?”

“No ma’am,” said Octavia.

“None of that ma’am stuff in here, filly. Call me Ma. It’s my name and it’s what ponies’ll remember me by when I’m nothin’ but dust.”

“You, dead?” asked Vinyl. “Ain’t never gonna happen, Ma.”

“That’s sweet, dear. A filthy lie, but sweet.” She turned back towards Octavia. “How’s she been treating you, sugarcube?”

“Sugarcube,” mouthed Vinyl from behind Ma’s back. “It means she likes you!”

“Fine, Miss Ma,” said Octavia quietly.

“None of that Miss stuff, either. ‘Specially if you’re here with Vinyl.” Ma rounded on the DJ, smacking her repeatedly with the spoon. “And what’s she sayin’ just ‘Fine’ for? Ya better be treatin’ this filly like she’s got horns and wings!”

Vinyl curled up slightly, weakly batting at the swinging spoon. “I am! I swear! She’s a Princess for me, Ma! Stop hitting me with a spoon!”

Ma stopped swinging, straightening up with a snort. “Ya better. Pa and I didn’t take you in so you could treat another filly just ‘fine’.”

“Alright, Ma, alright! I got it! I’ll wait on her, mane and tail, and all those other things you and Pa keep telling me.”

Ma smiled. “‘Course you will, sweetie.” She turned again. “And you, sugarcube, you gotta make sure that she stays in line. Hit her with a spoon if ya gotta, just keep her in line. This one here needs a bit of discipline.”

“Oh sure,” muttered Vinyl over the top of her glass. “I can’t say anything, then you go and set me up like that.”

Ma rapped Vinyl’s hoof with her smiting wooden spoon. “What’d I say about talkin’ like that?”

“I didn’t say anything!”

Ma gave her a disbelieving look. A bell sounded and she trotted away, allowing only enough time for Vinyl to pointedly roll her eyes at Octavia before returning with a set of plates carefully balanced in her hoof.

“Here ya are, girls,” she said, distributing the food and ending with a large, steaming apple pie that was about as big as the serving plates. “I know ya didn’t order the pie, but I figured that the occasion warrants it. Hope y’all enjoy.”

Vinyl grinned up at the older mare. “Aw, Ma! You’re too good to me.”

“I know, dear. Now, you make sure you come ‘round to the kitchen and say your good-byes when y’all are about to leave. Ya hear?”

“‘Course, Ma. Scout’s honor.”

Ma trotted off.

Octavia watched her for a few moments, before turning back towards Vinyl. “They… took you in?”

Vinyl held up a hoof, choking down the rather large bite of food that she had just taken. “Yeah, back when I first came up to Canterlot. When I’d left High and Mighty’s house. Ma and Pa gave me a job and let me rent out a place for me to stay.” She glanced towards the counter. “Eat your food, I think Ma’s looking over here. You don’t want her to catch you not eating her food.”

Octavia glanced over towards the counter, just in time to watch Ma turn away. The cellist took a bite of her own food, then another. She chewed daintily. “Vinyl?”

“Mmmmm?” A few leaves of lettuce stuck out of the DJ’s mouth.

“How did you, if you don’t mind my asking, how did you end up with Ma and Pa.”

Vinyl giggled slightly. “‘Ma and Pa.’ It sounds funny when you say it.”

Octavia gave a deadpan expression.

“But nah, I don’t really mind. Doc was the one who introduced me to them.”

“The Doctor?” asked Octavia.

“Yeah, that guy.” Vinyl glanced up towards the ceiling, trying to straighten her story. “I had already been here, in Canterlot, for a bit, wandering around, trying to find a job, that kind of thing. It… wasn’t the best time in my life. I hadn’t slept inside a house in weeks.” Her voice trailed off and she cleared her throat. “Anyway, I had just been through a really bad day. Like, I had spent weeks trying to save up enough to rent out a hotel room for a few days until somepony stole my bits. I spent a couple of hours trying to gather enough money for a train ticket to Manhattan. But then I heard this sobbing coming from an alley. So I went to check it out, and there was this pony standing there, his head against a wall, just crying.” Vinyl took a sip from her water.

“The Doctor?” asked Octavia. “Really?”

Vinyl nodded. “Yeah. I never found out why. But he was. And I asked him if he needed any help and he gave me this look of just… anger. And then it was gone and I asked if he needed any help again. He said something like, ‘I have no idea where I am.’ So I sat him down and tried to talk him through life in Canterlot and things like that. Then he disappeared and showed up again a few days later, all smiles and telling me how he had found me a place to work and stay. And that’s how I ended up with Ma and Pa.”

“And you didn’t question it or anything?”

“I was being offered a job and a place to stay,” said Vinyl with a shrug. “Not exactly my place to question.”

Octavia nodded in understanding. Silence fell on the table as the two picked at their plates.

“Anything else you wanna ask, Tavi?”

“Pardon?”

“Well, this is technically our first date. It’s where we get to know each other, right? Ask questions and things?”

“I suppose so,” said Octavia hesitantly.

Silence again.

Then: “Vinyl, how did you end up working for Fancy Pants?”

“That was Doc again. Fancy Pants hired him first as a technician. Then the Doctor recommended me as a musician. Fancy Pants interviewed me, had me write some music, talked to me about different musical styles.” Vinyl shrugged. “That’s about it, really. A couple of other ponies did the same thing, but Fancy Pants didn’t like them for some reason or another. Until you and Harpo.” She grinned.

“How many other ponies? Just out of curiosity.”

“A lot. There was always something wrong with them. They had the talent, but there was something missing. And there’s the part about a few of ‘em not wanting to work with me.”

Octavia felt the slightest flare of anger at that statement. The idea that anyone would look down on Vinyl. She hated it.

“You alright, Octy?”

“Yes, of course. Just fine.” Octavia snapped back towards her food.

Vinyl speared a bit of lettuce with her fork. “You know, I never thought that I’d be the calm one in this relationship.”

“I’d like to think that I’m rather calm.”

Vinyl snorted. “Yeah, because you totally haven’t knocked ponies down.”

“There was a very good reason for it!” protested Octavia. “They were insulting you.”


***


“Alright, your turn.”

Octavia thought for a moment. She hummed out a few notes, quick and sharp, like falling rain.

“The Pastoral Symphony. Thunderstorm/Storm.”

“By?”

“Beethoofen. Seriously Tavi, what do you take me for?”

Octavia smiled, her hoof absentmindedly stroking Vinyl’s mane. “Your turn.”

Vinyl hummed her notes, upbeat and swinging. Her hoof tapped slightly to the beat.

“Dippermouth Blues. By Joking Olive.”

“Yup.” A pause. “What kind of a name is Joking Olive?”

Octavia shrugged, turning slightly to find a more comfortable position against her couch and her marefriend. “Is there still pie left.”

“Yeah. You still hungry?”

“Celestia, no. I’m just wondering how much I’ll be eating as leftovers.”

“Say what you want about Ma, she’ll never let a pony go hungry.”

Octavia nodded in agreement. Silence permeated the room, broken only by the sound of Octavia’s hoof against Vinyl’s mane.

“Who’s turn is it?” asked Vinyl.

“Mine, I believe.” She hummed a few bars of a song that most ponies learned in kindergarten.

“The Alphabet song. I’ll be seriously impressed if you know who wrote it.”

Octavia shook her head. “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

“That’s not fair! They sound exactly the same when you don’t say the words!”

“The rules we decided on didn’t mention anything like that,” said Octavia with a shrug.

“Cheater!”

“I am not!”

Vinyl turned quickly with a lascivious grin, pushing Octavia over onto her back, and straddling her. “Are too,” she said.

Octavia struggled weakly. “I did not break any rules, Vinyl! Get off of me!”

“Mmmmm, nah.” She leaned forward, laying down on her marefriend and smiling up at her. “You broke the rules. Now I have to think up a punishment game.”

“We never discussed this!”

Vinyl grinned. “It’s not about discussing. It’s about taking things one at a time, as they come.” She paused. “Actually, that gives me an idea for a punishment.”
> The Interview
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Remember what you have to do.” Fancy Pants paced the room, his face a perfect mask of serenity. “High and Mighty will want to do most of the talking and you should let them, just to make sure the public fully understands them, but you cannot allow them to dominate the conversation.”

Octavia nodded. Vinyl suppressed a yawn.

“The reporters,” continued Fancy Pants, “Quick Quill and Snap Shot, are on our side, but they will not be able to show any partiality during the interview itself. In fact, it may be best to act as though you’ve never had contact beyond seeing each other at the party. Though I’m not quite sure if the reporters have divulged their presence there to the public. Which shouldn’t particularly matter, but you never can be too careful. Especially with the media; there’s never any certainty to how they’ll react to--”

Fleur de Lis placed a hoof on his shoulder. “Deep breaths, love. I don’t think your heart can take it.”

Fancy Pants paused, locking eyes with his wife. Fleur exaggerated breathing in, then let out the breath slowly. The stallion rolled his eyes, but mimicked the gesture before turning back towards the musicians.

“Just… be yourselves. You can do that, can’t you?”

Vinyl grinned. “I don’t know how to do anything else, Boss.”

Octavia nodded. “Don’t worry, Fancy Pants. I’m sure that we’ll be fine.”

Fancy Pants smiled weakly, stealing a glance at the clock on the wall. “Thirty minutes until the interview. You two should leave now. Spokes will be waiting outside. Just remember to—“

Fleur threw him a look.

A sigh escaped the stallion’s lips. “Right. I’ll be quiet now. Get out of here before you give me an ulcer.”

Vinyl jumped off of her seat, her customary grin never slipping. “Alright. We’ll be back in a few hours. Don’t wait up.” She trotted off towards the door, closely followed by Octavia.

“Octavia. Can you hold back for a moment?”

The cellist paused, glancing at her marefriend. Vinyl shrugged and headed outside.

Fancy Pants’ gaze stayed firmly on the wall behind the Octavia, a worried, fatherly expression on his face. “I feel terrible for having to ask this, Octavia, but will you be able to handle yourself in this interview?”

Octavia blanched. “Handle myself?”

“Your previous outburst worries me, Miss Philharmonica.” Fancy Pants’ eyes fell onto Octavia. “I have to know whether I have reason to worry or not.”

“You can hardly blame me,” replied Octavia defensively. “The things they were saying, the way they were acti—”

“They are not good ponies, Miss Philharmonica. Mr. and Mrs. Scratch are the Canterlot that you have not often come into contact to. They are the image of Canterlotians that I and Fleur and your parents have attempted to disprove for the longest amount of time.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in. “That will not change in the short time since you have seen them. They will be just as repugnant as they have ever been. In a different manner, perhaps, but just as terrible. I ask again, Miss Philharmonica: Will you be able to handle yourself?”

Octavia paused. “I-I think so, Fancy Pants.”

“Good. Thank you.” He smiled. “You should get going. Vinyl will be waiting.”

Octavia nodded, saying her goodbyes and stepping through the door.

Fleur de Lis trotted over to the now vacated seats. “You shouldn’t have done that. It will be weighing on her mind for the entire interview.”

“I know. Hopefully, it will weigh enough to keep her from jumping out of her seat and over the table.” Fancy Pants scowled, his words colored with the lightest bit of bitterness. “Hopefully it will be heavy enough to weigh down her hooves.”

A pause, then: “You’re tired.”

Fancy Pants let out a breath. “Yes. Very much so.”

Fleur patted the seat next to her. “Come sit down.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Oh, stop being a child.”

Fancy Pants dragged his hooves over to the seat, flopping unceremoniously onto the cushion. 

“What do you want?”

Fleur de Lis hugged Fancy Pants, holding him in a slightly uncomfortable position. “It’ll be fine.”

“Of course it will.”

“No, I need you to say it. It will be fine.”

“Honestly, Fleur—”

“It will be fine.”

Fancy Pants grumbled slightly.

“It will be fine.”




***




“No, send Photo Finish to see her. She and Sapphire Shores have a bit of a history.”

“Are you sure?”

Hoity Toity shuffled the papers on his desk. “Yes, I’m sure. Tell them that I have some business to attend to, but will join them later.”

Trans Script took a note, but glanced up uncertainly at her boss.

Hoity Toity met her gaze. “It will be fine.” He got out of his chair, wandering around the room, wading through multiple files to get to a filing cabinet filled to the brim with carefully arranged papers.

“Is that all, Mister Toity?”

“Yes.” He pulled out a file, bringing down his slightly smeared glasses in order to see it better. “No. Almost. Give me a quick status report on the negotiations.”

“Which ones?”

“Whichever is most convenient for you to report.”

Trans Script quickly flicked through a few files. “Sapphire Shores is in her final stages. She has not conveyed any problems with the contract that we have offered her and her prior contract expires soon. This is the basic trend in the negotiations with few abnormalities from artist to artist.”

“Few?” asked Hoity Toity. He threw the paper aside and dove back into the filing cabinet.

“Nothing that requires your immediate attention.”

“Miss Script.”

Trans Script let out a sigh. “‘Everything requires your immediate attention.’”

“Quite so. Especially now. This is delicate, Miss Script; we need those contracts out now, before the end of the day if possible.”

“It’s possible.”

Hoity Toity extracted two folders of papers, leaving them on top of the cabinet. He took off his glasses, running a fine rag over them until they gleamed. He ran a hoof through his mane before producing a comb from one of his pockets and forcing a few stray strands into place.

 “It’s not just possible, Miss Script. It’s happening.”




***


“We’re here to see Quick Quill and Snap Shot.”

“Of course. Two floors up, it will be room 314. The stairs are just over there.” The receptionist flashed them a smile, waving vaguely towards the corner of the room.

Octavia and Vinyl nodded their thanks, following the gesture through a door and into a stairwell. Vinyl grinned nervously, nudging into Octavia.

“You excited, Octy?”

Octavia glanced at Vinyl. “Is that a joke?”

“A bit. Just to make sure we’re not too uptight during the interview. That’d be bad.”

They rounded the first flight of stairs.

“So, how are you feeling?” asked Vinyl.

“Fine.”

Vinyl began to say something, but stopped herself. She nodded a few times, more for her own benefit than Octavia’s.

They pushed their way out of the stairwell, out into a very business-oriented hallway complete with landscape paintings at regular interval. Their heads swung from side to side, quietly watching the numbers tick onwards. The mares stopped before room 314.

“Ready, Tavi?”

Octavia raised a hoof to the door. “Ready or not, Vinyl, it’s happening.” She knocked, three times, concise and measured.

“Enter,” spoke two voices from the other side of the door.

Octavia pushed the door open and she and Vinyl entered. The room was spacious, far more so than the building’s design had suggested. A large window afforded a view of some of Canterlot and bookcases, filled to the brim with books that seemed like they had never been touched, line the walls. In the middle of the room stood six chairs, two pairs facing each other and the last pair sitting just off-center. Snap Shot and Quick Quill sat in the last pair, both reporters glancing upwards and breaking into grins at the sight of the mares.

“Miss Philharmonica!” said one.

“Miss Scratch!” said the other.

“Such a pleasure to see the both of you!” said both.

Octavia and Vinyl greeted the reporters.

Snap Shot waved a hoof towards one pair of chairs. “Why don’t ya have a seat? The other two haven’t shown up yet.”

Vinyl rolled her eyes, trotting over to the chairs, closely followed by her marefriend. “‘Course they haven’t.”

Quick Quill’s magic flared reflexively, his quill dipping towards a notepad before he realized what he was doing. “Try not to do that during the actual interview, Vinyl,” he said, floating his quill back into his hat’s band. “My pen has a mind of its own.”

Vinyl gave him a curious look. Quick Quill’s face was completely serious. A faint wisp of green still covered his quill, ready to pull it out at a moment’s notice. Vinyl nodded.

“Speakin’ of the interview,” cut in Snap Shot. “How are you two feelin’? Excited? Worried?”

Vinyl rocked her head from side to side, looking up towards the ceiling. “I’m not sure if those are the right words. It’s more like… Tavi, mind helping me out here?”

“Glad that we get to give our own side of the story?”

Snap Shot nodded. “Nice. That’s a good way to head into an interview. Keep that thought in your head.” He tapped his temple with a hoof and gave them a smile.

A slightly awkward silence fell on the room. Vinyl and Octavia glanced around the room and the reporters were quite content to busy themselves with the final preparations for the interview proper.

“How much longer until the interview?” asked Octavia.

Snap Shot glanced up at a clock. “‘’Bout ten minutes. Assuming the other two actually decide to show up.”

“They’ll be here,” said Vinyl resolutely. She tapped out a rhythm with a hoof, a quick, measured beat, glancing nervously at the door. “They wouldn’t miss it.”

Octavia reached over, resting a hoof on Vinyl’s. The DJ turned with a slight start, but quickly masked her surprise as she caught Octavia’s eye. The cellist offered a tight smile and pretended not to notice the way Vinyl’s hoof was shaking.

Octavia wanted to say something, to whisper assurances to Vinyl, have her understand that nothing could go wrong, that she, Octavia, would not allow anyone to sabotage their time together. No matter how terrible or selfish they were. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t find the words. Octavia leaned forward, brushing her lips against Vinyl’s cheek. A peck, playful. Like the kisses from when they had first started dating. A reminder.

Vinyl stopped shaking.

There was a knock on the door, two quick raps before it swung open to reveal two grinning unicorns dressed in their finest clothes.

“Mr. Scratch!” greeted a reporter.

“Mrs. Scratch!” greeted the other.

“We’re so glad that you could join us!” they said in tandem.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” screeched High Scratch. She glanced at the other pair, her eyes pointedly skipping over Octavia and settling on her daughter. “Vinyl.”

She said it with a short ‘i.’  Every single time. A short ‘i.’ That simple, pompous detail that just… Calm down, Octavia. Deep breaths.

“High.” Vinyl’s face remained neutral, expressionless. A look only compounded by the fact that no one in the room could see her eyes. Purple lenses turned towards the other stallion. “Mighty.”

Snap Shot’s lips twitched up the slightest bit. “So, you’re all acquainted. We’ll begin shortly. Mr. and Mrs. Scratch, if you don’t mind taking a seat?”

They trotted around the room, trying to take their seats with as much grace as possible.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Snap Shot. “Water? Tea? We have oolong, lemon, chamomile, Earl Grey, and dozens of other types that Quick Quill has spent hundreds of bits collecting.”

“And that Snap Shot has repeatedly incorrectly steeped, forcing me to spend even more bits replacing the leaves.” Two inkwells floated forward, wrapped in an acid green aura. They came to rest on a small coffee table in front of the center pair of chairs.

“Nothing for me,” said High Scratch. Mighty nodded.

“Oolong tea, if it isn’t too much of a hassle,” Octavia said politely. They turned towards Vinyl.

“I don’t drink a lot of hot leaf juice.” Vinyl said with a shrug. “I’ll take whatever Tavi says is good.”

“Hot… leaf juice,” said Quick Quill disbelievingly.

“Two oolong, then,” said Snap Shot. He glanced at Vinyl again. “One that’s been drowned in sugar.”

Vinyl grinned. “That’s the only way to drink it.”

“Damn straight.”

“Blasphemers,” muttered Quick Quill. “Heathens against a proper cuppa.” A tea kettle off in the corner of the room was enveloped in a green aura. It filled with water and set itself to boil.

Snap Shot settled into his chair. “Now, Mr. and Mrs. Scratch, how are we feeling today?”

“Wonderful!” replied the mare with measured enthusiasm. “My face was rather swollen for a time, but it has healed up nicely.”

“Glad to hear it.” Snap Shot offered a grin. “And how are you feeling about the interview?”

“My wife and I,” came Mighty’s stereotypical haughty voice, “are very thankful for this opportunity to clear the air between ourselves and our daughter.” He paused slightly and cleared. “And Miss Philharmonica, of course.”

Octavia nodded. Mighty suddenly became very interested in the floor.

A high-pitched whine crescendoed from the corner of the room. A green aura sprouted around the kettle, lifting it up and pouring a bit of boiling water into the teapot.

Snap Shot watched the floating tea set with mild interest. “I don’t know why you put so much effort into your hot leaf juice.”

“Tea,” insisted Quick Quill, “must be done right or else it shouldn’t be done at all.”

“And that’d be a shame, a right crying shame, wouldn’t it?” Snap Shot’s mouth curled up into a smirk. “Imagine a world without hot leaf juice.”

Quick Quill dumped out the water in the teapot and added a few loose tea leaves. “Oh, shut up.” He poured most of the kettle’s water into the pot. “There. The tea will be ready in a few minutes. Shall we begin the interview?”

Two pairs of heads nodded, settling back into their seats slightly.

Quick Quill floated out his pen and paper. Snap Shot lifted his camera and quickly took a few photos, flashing a quick smile around the room. He put his camera down and closed his eyes slightly.

“Good afternoon, fillies and gentlecolts,” Snap Shot began in a business-like voice. A quill scratched against the pad of paper. “Today we are joined by four ponies who have been the talk of Canterlot for some days now. High, Mighty, Vinyl, Octavia, thank you so much for accepting our interview request. We are very proud to have you here today.”

“Thank you for having us,” replied the four, almost in tandem.

Snap Shot nodded, then continued. “Now, I’m sure that you’re all very busy and I’d hate to keep you from your lives for longer than I must, so we will jump directly into the first question. Regarding the incident some nights ago: Octavia, why did you lash out at High and Mighty Scratch?”

Octavia blinked. “Has nopony told you what they were saying?”

“There have been rumors,” replied Snap Shot, “but I think that our readers would appreciate a response directly from the involved parties.”

“They had insulted Vinyl.” Octavia’s eyes turned towards the Scratches, glaring in accusation. “Saying terrible things about their own daughter. About my musical partner. I was not going to take that in silence.”

“I see,” said Snap Shot. “Mr. and Mrs. Scratch, do you have anything you’d like to say?”

High Scratch straightened slightly. “While it is true that I said some things that I regret immensely, Miss Philharmonica has taken my words out of context. Mighty and I were attempting to make amends with our Vinyl.”

Our ‘Vinall.’ Octavia felt her eye twitch. She’s not yours. And she’s not ‘Vinell.’

“You see,” continued the mare, “our daughter had gone through quite the rebellious phase; it’s the reason why she ended up in Canterlot after our move to Manehattan.” Her head drooped and she allowed the slightest shake to enter her voice. “We were worried sick about her but she had disappeared from the face of Equestria! We had no idea that she was even in Canterlot until we saw the article in Equestria Daily and we hardly had a chance to see her until the gathering.” She looked up and met Vinyl’s gaze. “We missed you so much, darling.”

Snap Shot smiled sadly. “Tragic. Absolutely tragic. It’s wonderful that you were able to reunite again.”

“Thank you,” said Mighty Scratch.

“Of course.” Snap Shot offered another smile before turning away. “Vinyl, would you mind adding your own thoughts to the matter?”

“I-” Vinyl’s voice came out dry. She cleared her throat. A cup of tea, enveloped in a green aura, floated to a stop before her. Vinyl nodded her thanks and took a sip. Her voice was shaking when she spoke again. “Ah… I’m trying so hard right now. To come up with the ‘right’’ way ta-- to-- respond. Ah’d -- I’d -- be amazed if High and Mighty ever looked for me.” She turned away, taking a few calming breaths. “They’re lying.”

“Vinyl,” said Snap Shot, “do you need a moment?”

Vinyl nodded.

“Of course.” The reporter turned towards High and Mighty. “Your daughter doesn’t seem to agree with you.”

“It’s saddening,” said Mighty with a frown. “Incredibly saddening. This is the same way she responded at the party. She simply does not want to forgive us.”

“We’ve made mistakes,” cut in his wife, “but we want to fix those mistakes. Vinyl--”

Vinall.

“-- could you find it in your heart to leave the past behind you?”

Vinyl let out a laugh. She added a cube of sugar to her tea, then another, then another, before tossing it back and draining half of it. “No. I can’t. You ‘have no daughter’, remember? Or I don’ know, maybe ya don’t! But I remember, High and Mighty, I remember every damn day since Ah decided ta stop listenin’ to ya, since I decided ta become who I wanted to be instead of what ya wanted me ta be. I remember comin’ back from school, tellin’ ya that I dropped out and you two tellin’ me that I had ten minutes ta pack my things and get out of your house. 

“I remember comin’ to Canterlot and meeting ponies, decent ponies, that actually wanted to help me.” Vinyl finished the rest of her tea. “You’re not my parents anymore and you’re telling these decent ponies nothin’ but bullshit.”

High and Mighty stared at their daughter blankly, their jaws hanging slack.

Octavia was doing all she could to keep a cheer back. She placed a hoof on Vinyl’s, then leaned over and kissed her cheek. A reminder. Vinyl smiled tightly.

“I see,” said Snap Shot. “That’s quite the accusation. Mr. and Mrs. Scratch?”

Mrs. Scratch gulped, trying to clear her throat. “We-we’re shocked that our daughter has such ire towards us--”

“She’s not your daughter, High Scratch,” cut in Octavia. “Vinyl just told us that you stripped her of that privilege.” The last word dripped with irony.

“Do not interrupt me!” snapped the mare. She glanced at Quick Quill, who was still scratching away at his pad of paper. “It was a moment of anger, hardly worth taking seriously. We still love Vinyl.”

Vinyl snorted, but didn’t say anything more.

Mrs. Scratch’s face tinged with pink. “In any case, it doesn’t change the fact that I was struck, quite savagely, by Miss Philharmonica.” She almost hissed the name.

“Indeed, it doesn’t.” Snap Shot turned again. “It was, for all intents and purposes, assault. Octavia, what do you have to say?”

Octavia stared straight across, into the eyes of the two Scratches. “I lost my head. I should not have struck you as I did. It terrified my family and my friends. I myself am terrified by the idea that the idea of ‘a red mist clouding a pony’s vision’ is an entirely accurate description. But if anypony insults any of those I hold dear, if they had say anything half as bad as what you said to my marefriend.” She tightened her grip on Vinyl’s hoof. “I would not hesitate to do it again.” She turned towards Snap Shot. “That’s what I have to say.”

Snap Shot nodded. “I would do the same. Now, I believe that this interview has run long enough, but I will ask one more question. High and Mighty Scratch, you two traveled from Manehattan to Canterlot to attend the gathering at the Philharmonica’s. May I ask who sent you the invitation?”

The Scratches had deflated immensely. Mighty Scratch was back to pawing at his hair and High Scratch was suddenly fascinated by the floor.

“Prince Blueblood,” said the mare sullenly, “one of the few friends that our family still has within Canterlot.”

“I see. Well, that wraps up our interview for this afternoon. Thank you, High, Mighty, Octavia, and Vinyl for giving us this opportunity. And I’d like to thank our readers who peruse this interview. It’s been a pleasure.”


***


Blueblood put down the magazine, right next to the other file. He was alone, in his office. No, not his office. Not anymore. This was it. He had reached rock bottom and there simply wasn’t a way out.

“Knock, knock,” came a voice from the door. “May I come in?”

Blueblood glanced up just as Hoity Toity trotted in. The Prince snarled. “Come to gloat, you peasant?”

“Hardly a need for it.” He trotted around the office, inspecting it as though it were his. “I’d like to think that I take my victories in stride.”

“Get out. It sickens me to even think of you.”

“Come now, Blueblood. I had warned you. I said that your Game Over was near. You should have heeded my warnings.”

“You knew that I wouldn’t.”

“Indeed.”

Blueblood flipped through the folder once more. Resignation after resignation. Surely, somewhere in Hoity Toity’s office lay an exact opposite to these files. “You distracted me.”

“With Fancy Pants, yes. Business lesson, Blueblood. You ignored those beneath you, discounted them. What loyalty could they hold to you when a promising new position was held right before them?”

Prince Blueblood flipped through the files one more time. “You took all of them. Every pony whose contract was coming to an end or was waiting to be renewed. And those who still have some time left agreed to sign with you upon the contract’s termination.”

“Yes, I was running around like a mad mare. You should have seen the state of my mane.”

The file scattered around the room in a burst of golden magic. “You ruined me!”

Hoity Toity shrugged. “It’s business, Blueblood. A businesspony’s game that you weren’t prepared for. Take from this experience, learn from it and rid yourself of your horrid sense of self-entitlement.”

“You… You bastard.”

Hoity Toity trotted towards the doorway. “Businesspony, Blueblood. Merely a businesspony.”
> An End
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Well,” said Fancy Pants, “I wished for a bit more tact in your answers, but it certainly proved effective.” He folded his newspaper, stowing it away. I wonder how much a good frame for the article would cost, he wondered silently.

“Hey, there was plenty of tact!” answered Vinyl. “Tavi, didn’t beat anypony or anything!”

Smack.

Vinyl’s head reeled forward. “Alright,” she said, rubbing at the back of her head, “Tavi didn’t beat anypony during the actual interview.”

Octavia pulled her hoof back threateningly. Vinyl flinched and stuck out her tongue.

“She doesn’t beat ponies,” said Fleur de Lis with a smile. “I consider it more like she’s doling out justice.”

“Painful, bone-breaking, justice,” snarked Harpo.

“Precisely.”

Octavia threw a look at the composer. “I’ve never broken a bone!”

Harpo giggled lightly. “You said bone.” A pause. Harpo cleared his throat. “Right, well, that’s actually not true. I’ve broken at least three bones as a direct result of your actions.”

“When was this?” challenged Octavia.

“Oooo, story time! Who has the popcorn?” Vinyl scanned the room excitedly.

“No, not story,” said Harpo, “I’m a bit too lazy for that at the moment. Maybe some other time.”

“Lame!”

“I’ll tell you later, Vinyl.”

“You certainly won’t!” protested Octavia.

Harpo held up his hooves in defeat, waiting until the cellist had turned away with a huff before turning towards Vinyl and mouthing the word, “Later.”

Vinyl grinned and nodded.

“In any case,” broke in Fancy Pants, “I highly doubt that we’ll be bothered by High and Mighty.”

“What about Blueblood?” asked Harpo.

“Snap Shot and Quick Quill went out of their way to associate him with a highly publicized faux pas,” said Fancy Pants with only the slightest hesitation. “He’ll be out of our manes for a bit of time, trying to piece his image back together. However, I don’t know how long Blueblood will be too preoccupied to work against us.”

“I hope it’s a long time,” said Vinyl. Harpo nodded his agreement.

“Certainly long enough to offer a slight respite,” said Fleur de Lis.

Fancy Pants glanced at his wife. They locked eyes for a moment, sharing a conversation that nopony else could hear. Fancy Pants broke away with a nod. “Quite right. A vacation is in order.”

Vinyl raised her hooves. “YES! I love not doing things!”

Fancy Pants smiled in amusement. “But it will be a working vacation, Vinyl.”

The DJ lowered her hooves. “I don’t like working.”

“Haven’t you worked so hard that you passed out?” asked Octavia.

“Doesn’t mean I like it.”

“What do you mean by working vacation?” asked Harpo.

“Thank you, Maestro Nadermane. What I mean is that I’m going to have you all travel.” Fancy Pants smiled as the musicians immediately shot to attention. “Yes, you will all be leaving Canterlot for a time. I rather believe that it will be beneficial to the company if we spread you across more of Equestria. I have made all of the proper preparations, I only have to wait for your agreement.”

“Traveling,” said Octavia hesitantly.

Harpo shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind. Especially if one of our stops happens to be Scoltland. Proper scotch has been so difficult to find lately.”

Vinyl grinned. “I’d love to head out. Canterlot’s been getting a bit stuffy anyway.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Fancy Pants with a nod. “Your first stop if Fillydelphia; a friend of mine is the coordinator of the Philharmonic there and she has agreed to have you as guest performers. You’ll be leaving in a little over a week, about enough time to arrange everything for your departure.”

“Fillydelphia?” asked Harpo worriedly.

The others turned towards him.

“I mean. Fillydelphia.” Harpo ran a hoof through his mane. “Of course. There are a lot of bars there. Should be fun!”

“Something we should know, Harpo?”

“No, nothing,” said the composer quickly. “Nothing important, at least.”

The other ponies stared at him suspiciously.

“It’s nothing! I know a pony in Fillydelphia that I have a bit of a… history with. It shouldn’t be important.” Harpo nodded resolutely. “It will be fine.”

“If you’re sure,” said Fancy Pants.

“I am.”

“Very well then. I’ll trust you in this.” Fancy Pants cast an eye over the rest of the room. “You’ve all done an exceptional job, given the rather difficult time we’ve had recently. I, personally, want to thank you for your dedication.”

“Aw shucks, Boss,” said Vinyl, “you’re making me blush.”

Fancy Pants smiled. “Take ten days off. Meet back here with your luggage and you all will depart from Canterlot Station then.”

“You all?” asked Octavia. “Are you two not coming with us?”

“I will,” said Fleur with a smile. “As a representative of the management of Syncopated Records and to greet Monsieur Key. Fancy Pants will be…”

“Busy,” finished Fancy Pants. “Very busy. I doubt that I will be able to join you before you leave Fillydelphia, but I will certainly venture out as soon as I can. Until then, you all will be in Fleur’s care.”

Octavia nodded her understanding.

“That’s about all I have to say,” said Fancy Pants, “prepare yourselves, my dear ponies. We’re heading out of Canterlot.”


***


“So, what’s up with Fillydelphia?” asked Vinyl. The trio of musicians had left the studio together. The sun was still high in the sky, it just didn’t seem right for them to leave each others’ company so early in the day. Now they sat in SunBucks, sipping their drinks and getting the occasional stare from the patrons.

“It’s nothing,” insisted Harpo. “Hardly worth mentioning!”

“Then why’d ya mention it?”

“I heard the city name and suddenly felt nostalgic, that’s all.” Harpo took a swig of his coffee, promptly scalding his tongue.

“It’s Frederic, isn’t it?” Octavia looked straight into her tea, absentmindedly stirring it in a circle. Harpo stayed silent, his tongue slightly hanging from his mouth.

“Who’s Frederic?” asked Vinyl.

“The pony I talked about,” answered Harpo. “Somepony Octavia and I knew from our Conservatory days. He graduated one year before we did. Frederic should be somewhere in Fillydelphia now.”

Vinyl’s eyes darted between the two ponies. Both of them had their eyes fixed firmly on their drinks. “You’re not telling me something.”

Octavia kept her silence. Harpo shrugged.

“Alright, fine, don’t tell me.” Vinyl pushed up from the table. “I’m gonna buy a cookie.” She trotted off towards the counter.

Octavia watched her go. “She’s angry.”

“She’s female,” said Harpo, “aren’t they always?”

The cellist threw him a look.

Harpo swirled his coffee. “It doesn’t matter. You can tell her if you want. Your decision.”

“We both know that it’s not.”

Harpo shrugged.

Vinyl trotted back to the table, chewing on a chocolate chip cookie. “Alright, I feel a bit better. I think that I was just hungry.”

Octavia nodded. The three sat in silence, occasionally sipping their drinks or chewing their pastries.

“I’m sorry, Vinyl,” said Harpo slowly.

Vinyl’s mouth hung open. She lowered her glasses slightly, blinking at Harpo. “Wha’?”

Harpo furrowed his brow. “I’m… sorry?”

“I-I think that’s the first time you’ve ever apologized.”

“Well, excuse me, Princess!” Harpo rolled his eyes. “I thought that I should apologize; I didn’t know that it would be such a foreign concept.”

“There’s Harpo,” said Vinyl with a smirk. She took a sip of her drink. “Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. It’s personal stuff, isn’t it?”

Harpo nodded.

“Then don’t worry about it. I understand personal stuff.”


***


Canterlot Station was, as always, a complete mess. Ponies ran to and fro, coming onto trains and stepping off of them, heading to the food court, stopping to speak to friends, waving teary-eyed farewells. Six ponies stood on the train platform, five of them paced down with luggage. The train to Fillydelphia would be leaving soon.

“Do you all have everything you need?” asked Fancy Pants worriedly. “Your proper attire? Toothbrushes? Your allotment of money?”

Fleur de Lis smiled. “We’re fine, dear. Honestly, you’re ruining your public image.” She glanced meaningfully at a small crowd of ponies that had gathered around, whispering excitedly.

Fancy Pants smiled sheepishly. “You know how I get.” He swept his gaze over his employees. “Just, do be careful, won’t you? Don’t do anything that I can’t fix from here in Canterlot.”

Fleur walked forward quickly, kissing her husband’s cheek and quickly mumbling, “No promises for anypony else.”

“Lyra,” said Fancy Pants uneasily, “I hope that you’ll help Fleur keep the others in line?”

Lyra Heartstrings saluted. “Of course! I’ll make sure of it.”

“We’re big ponies, Boss,” said Vinyl, “we can take care of ourselves.”

Harpo and Octavia nodded.

Fancy Pants smiled proudly. “I know it.” He looked over at Fleur. “The Doctor will be along in a few days, but I’m afraid that I’m going to have to keep him from you for a while.”

The 12:30 to Fillydelphia is now arriving at Platform Five. Please step away from the platform as the train draws to its arrival.

Fleur placed a hoof on her husband’s chest. “We’ll see you soon, Fancy.”

The train slid to a surprisingly quiet stop.

The 12:30 to Fillydelphia has arrived at Platform Five. Please calmly board the train and take your seats.

The ponies grabbed their luggage. Fancy Pants smiled down at his wife and kissed her lightly.

“I’ll see you soon, dear.”


***


Fancy Pants watched the train pull away until it was just a speck in the distance. Then he watched the horizon for a few moments more.

“Chin up, Fancy Pants,” said a cheery voice, “you’re acting like it’s the end of the world.”

The businesspony turned to find Doctor Whooves standing at his shoulder.

“You could have said goodbye,” said Fancy Pants.

“Well, it’s not really goodbye, is it?” asked the Doctor with a shrug. “Besides, I’ve never been good at farewells. They tend to get bit… sad.”

“That they do.” Fancy Pants turned with a sigh and began to walk out of Canterlot Station, the Doctor keeping pace with him. “Have you gathered everything?”

“I have.” The Doctor reached into his saddlebags and offered a purple folder, which Fancy Pants quickly took with his magic.

The businesspony flicked through the pages, only really catching the important words. Contract. Termination. Reevaluation. Hoity Toity. Fancy Pants floated the papers back into place. “It’s confirmed, then?”

“Blueblood’s out,” said the Doctor with a nod. “Hoity Toity’s company is stronger than ever.”

“Did he take all of them?”

“Most of them. Sapphire Shores, Lyrica Lilac, Dominant Seventh, Triad, Whole Tone, High Hats, the entirety of Mareosmith, Bass Line, and quite a few others on top of that.”

“He has quite a few chips on his side of the table.”

“I can think of quite a few that he doesn’t have,” said the Doctor with a smile.

“Who?”

The colt smirked. “Syncopated Records.”