Octavia Philarmonica woke up to the vivid scent of baked Colombian coffee reaching her nostrils from the street through the tiny open window, which was concealed beneath the chequered ceiling, tuckered away from the rest of the penthouse. The little window had never been closed, for so long as Octavia could remember: its convenient position gave no rain or grime from the outside and little noise, but gifted the woman with the delicious scents of the street that she admired so much.

And the scents were something to savour indeed: the early-morning green of grass fumed with pasture-level freshness, the midday bakeries of the coffee shops emitted the sickly-sweet smell of cookies and muffins, the pre-afternoon baked apples of winter smelt of sugar and cinnamon; and Octavia surely would not give up the late-evening odour of an after-rain street, saturated deeply with the diamond drops of heavy rain. It was all the stranger that all this wild kaleidoscope of scent and smell reached the penthouse freely, through the twenty-eight floors of spacious, state-of-the-art, ridiculously overfurnished flats. The architect must have been perusing acid with relish, to have designed an under-the-roof apartment like that: a vast, impossibly spacious living room with practically no furniture to fill it with, a tiny library that could barely hold a single bookcase, not to mention Octavia's whole book collection, an obvious kitchen and an even more obvious bathroom - and the ridiculous triangular bedroom with the miniscule window by the ceiling, in which Octavia woke up to a vivid scent of freshly-baked Colombian coffee.

The woman yawned, tears welling in her eyes in the wake, and rolled over, muttering something very dream-related as she snatched the blanket with her knees, tucking it away to cover her bare feet, eager to carry on with the dreamland experience. And, for a moment, she did fall asleep once again, her mind diving back into the blackness of hazy pre-awakening, but the alarm rang mercilessly, blaring away with 1812, the overture that Octavia had always adored - but wished it had never been composed, at mornings like this. The worst thing, she concluded with a deep yawn as she sat in bed, her face flat and achy from the pillow and her eyes closing every other moment, was that she always woke up just a moment before the alarm. The worst thing, she mused as she stood up and stretched, her still-sleepy limbs wailing in protest, was that her mind assured her that there was a whole lot of sleep ahead - and then blam! The alarm rang, and all hopes of sleep vanished at once.

Sleep is for the weak. Octavia took a few steps towards the doorless doorway into the living room, which was also the main room, and pretty much the only inhabitable room of the penthouse. God, okay, I'm weak, let me get my sleep. Octavia shook her head. The way through the living room towards the bathroom was a torture of stupendous proportions: in addition to stubbing her toe against one of the numerous cello cases that littered her flat, the sleepy cellist also managed to stumble over an empty wine bottle. Immediately, upon reaching the sacred shrine of porcelain, she swore to herself to clean up the flat someday. On Saturday. Somewhere, deep inside, she knew it was Satuday already; her sleepy brain just failed to dish out that realisation yet.

Octavia took a look in the mirror. As expected, her face looked like a cut-out from a 'Before' in a lotion ad, and her charcoal-coloured hair was wildly tangled and messed up. The benefits of having long hair, Octavia thought with a sigh, picking up a brush and giving it a test run through the gentle hairs. As expected, the pain of her hairs torn out by the number was no less agonising than it had always been. With a grunt, her teeth clenched tight, Octavia got down to work.

The brush made its painful journey through the cellist's hair slowly, as the raven-haired woman struggled desperately not to fall asleep. Her eyelids were lead, and her head tooted the heavy pipes of late-night insomnia and a very mild hangover. Can't be the wine, Octavia assured herself, placing the brush in its rightful place. Definitely not the wine. The cellist picked up the toothbrush.

The toothpaste defiantly refused to be put onto the toothbrush, instead landing in the sink with a soft splash as it hit the mildly rushing water. Turning off the tap? Sheesh. What are those environmentalists even thinking? The second try was more successful, with half of the intended dosage landing on the brush, and Octavia brought it diligently into her mouth, brushing her teeth in vertical, horizontal, and round motions.

Upon counting to three hundred, Octavia spat, rolling a gulp of water from cheek to cheek with fervour and dedication. Sleep. Octavia staggered out of the bathroom, her disobedient feet guiding her towards the velvet couch by the far wall, so small compared to the whole room, its dark lavender so alluring right now. Sleeeeep. The cellist suddenly found herself faceplanting, the couch meeting her face with the divine touch of velvet. Sleeeee...

Octavia opened her eyes. Just some four-five seconds of sleep, and she was already feeling better. Maybe six. Octavia yawned, getting up. Her body certainly felt less achy, her legs not that heavy and her head not that light any more. Just some six seconds of sleep. The woman stuffed the feeling of lying painfully to herself in the deepest closet-nook of her mind. Just. Six. Seconds. Deliberately slowly, the cellist marched  towards the wardrobe. Just don't look at the clock. Octavia's fingers tickled the suits and dresses and casualwear that was occupying the large wardrobe, filling it up neatly, none of the fabric messy, none of the colours wash-faded, none of the texture unpleasant to the touch.

Fishing out a tailcoat and trousers, Octavia placed them on the couch, avoiding any glances at the clock. I still have a lot of time. I just closed my eyes for a moment and opened them back again. No oversleeping whatsoever. Taking a fresh shirt, the raven-haired woman began with buttoning her collar, her fingers still a little sleepy, even though the obvious six seconds of breezy sleep had done wonders, her mind conjuring up images and sensations of unbuttoning the shirt in the evening with pleasure.

On came the bow tie, Octavia's skilful fingers making up the familiar shape from the pink silk. On came the trousers, then, the zipper moaning with effort as it made its way up. I need to go on a diet, the cellist observed hypocritically as she put on the tailcoat. Now came the final preparations. Averting her eyes from the mirror, Octavia fished out a small brush from the drawer, having no desire to pay a visit to the bathroom, and worked on her hair. Just in case in had got messy from the six seconds of sleep. Off to the door she went, finally taking a look at the clock.

Fuck. Two hours certainly was a far stretch from six seconds. Now, Octavia was blaming herself for being so inconsiderate: had she not taken a glance, she could have kept tricking her mind that she was not late for the rehearsal. Which she was. So totally was.

Quickly deciding on court shoes instead of low-heeled pumps, Octavia checked her look in the mirror, and, grabbing her phone from the top of the drawer, some money, her pass and the keys, stormed out of the flat.

The door swung to a close with a soft thud.

Vincenza Staccato, Vinyl Scratch to her closest friends, DJ-Pon3 to the fans, a DJ with a lot of talent and few musical boundaries, woke up to the soothing tune of Sixteen Tons in Ford's immortal reindition blasting through the speakers of her sound set that gifted the beneath-ceiling space dedicated in her living room, which, if one took a criticial look at the little studio flat, also served as the bedroom, with the couch only slightly stained by months of abuse, the recording room, with equipment taking the better part of the forty square metres, and the library, with cheap paperbacks occupying the shelves, while hardcovers stood primly in the only silvery bookcase.

Vinyl yawned, jumping up and down on the couch to shrug off the sleep. Humming, "Another day older and deeper in debt," the DJ made her way to the kitchen, ruffling up her electric-blue hair without a need for a brush. It's gonna get spiky anyway. And to even think that most of her fans were prone to believing her to use gel!

The DJ opened the fridge, fishing out a loaf of bread and a jar of orange jam mixed with marmalade, traces of peel floating beneath the glass. Vinyl smiled to herself, still humming the song, wordlessly now, and sliced the loaf diagonally, thickly gifting one of the halves with the orange mixture. As she closed the door - the refrigerator hummed with effort - she went on to glance out of the window.

The sounds of the street were music to her ears: the yells of vendors intent on sharing the news of the previous day, and the beeping of cars that rushed through the busy, hectic streets, and the claxon shrieks, and the roaring stomping of thousands of feet, pressing into the asphalt, and the wind whirling, and whirling, and whirling all about. The soft jazz of coffee shops. The ambience of forsaken construction sites. The industrial metal of the sites that were active. The samba of the passers-by. The brass of cars. The opera of tall skyscrapers and chamber music of shorter buildings all about. Munching on her improvised sandwich, Vinyl was once more so immensely glad to have bought a relatively cheap flat that allowed her to feast on the street music.

Every sound, every touch of a shout or a whisper, every tickle, tockle, bickle, bockle, tuggle, wiggle, scratch, scrap, swoosh and swish of the street ended up in her mixes eventually. Each and everyone. While no listener was so avid as to recognise that - not even her manager, Neon - she still prided herself on the fact deeply. The new album she was composing - Sounds of the Street - was bound to become a success. Not just a commercial success, like all her previous albums - she had to owe that to Neon, certainly - but also a success for her, personally. Finally, she was experimenting with new styles, new intruments, new genres. The dub-jazz song, Riding in a Taxi, had already been fully recorded, with the tasty alto sax blending incredibly with the low frequencies of bass, and she was on to the classical trance composition, whose name she did not know yet. What she did know: it was going to be connected to the whispers. The whispers of couples in cinemas, embracing in back rows. The whispers of a husband to his newly-wed wife, promising wealth and glory that they both know they'll never achieve. The whispers of a mother to a child, just before bed, sweet tuneless lullabies. What she also did know: she desperately needed a very good classical cello. Without it, the song would never exist.

What cellist would Neon find, though? Once again, Vinyl found herself at a doubt. He had to be really good. Not just understand and play the melody she'd composed, but also pour his soul into the passage, understand the whole piece, and the cello's place in it, and admit it - and happily embrace it and contribute to the wholeness of the music. Who said it will be a he, though?

Vinyl got up, dumping the knife into the sink, where it met several plates left from the day before. I'll wash them later, Vinyl assured herself as she took a gulp of water, straight from the tap, more to wash her mouth than to drink. On Saturday. Somewhere, deep inside, Vinyl was sure that it was Saturday already. Back in the only room, Vinyl paused before a wardrobe. Given that her breasts were hanging especially beautifully today, she glanced in the mirror to admire them a little before putting on a bra with a hearty laugh. God, I'm so lonely that I'm checking out myself. Having put on the bra successfully, Vinyl reached for the jeans. A lonely lonely lesbian DJ checking out her tits. Mmm. Kinky. On came the jeans, tight and firm on her ass. God, I have a nice butt. The woman slapped her posterior experimentally. A very nice and sexy butt indeed. Shoving away any thoughts of cloning herself and abusing that clone for sexual reasons, Vinyl put on a T-shirt and a leather jacket and reached for her purple-lensed shades. More like violet, though. The DJ held the shades in her hands, taking a new, fresh look at them. Or lavender. Lavender is good.

Suddenly, the DJ remembered that she'd forgotten to brush her teeth. For a moment, she considered skipping that unpleasant and deeply boring part of the day. But what if I meet a sexy girl who'd want to kiss me on the mouth? Vinyl mused with self-mocking laughter. To think about it... The DJ made her way to the bathroom quickly, not even bothering to take off her jacket. Many fans have tried to make out with me. Vinyl took up her toothbrush. 'Tried' was indeed the right word. Ludicrous as it was, especially in the industry she involuntary belonged to, the DJ believed in true love - and yes, she was a virgin, and no, she was not ashamed to admit it publicly; and she would give a kiss only to the woman she truly loved. And she would give her body to the very same woman, and no other person. If I don't rub my vag into nothingness by sheer masturbation by then. Vinyl spat out the paste with a chuckle and rolled a gulp of water in her mouth before spitting it out too. With that, she turned off the tap and returned to the room.

Lingering before her turntables - the desire to create was as unbearable as ever - Vinyl still guided her feet towards the exit. A mind that's a-weak, and a back that's strong~ she sang in her mind as she snatched her phone, the keys and some money.

Vinyl put on her shades. The day had begun.

"Do you think she'll be late again?"

Frederic rubbed his temples at the usual question asked by the usual Harpo in the usual chamber hall where their usual quartet was to hold a usual rehearsal. He unbuttoned his collar, the bow tie springing off cheerfully, free from the grasps of the pianist's sweaty neck. The man looked at his watch. "She's late already, Harpo. Twenty minutes late."

"I dunno." Harpo shrugged, placing his harp on the floor gently, soft wood meeting hard wood. "She's either two hours early or very late." He yawned, stretching his arms in such a manner that, upon descending, one of them crawled its way across the beautiful shoulder of Beatrice Brass, who leaned in to the harpist just a little, laying her head onto Harpo's shoulder. "What do you think, Bea?" Harpo kissed the woman's ear softly. "Do you think we have some time for a quickie?"

Before Beatrice could open her mouth to give an answer, hopefully affirmative to Harpo, Frederic shook his head, tsking his lips comically. "No, you don't. As your manager, I outlaw quickies during rehearsals." The pianist made a motion of hitting a table with a fist. "And so be it."

"Pfft." Harpo waved his hand in the air, his long fingers dancing gaily as he did so. "As if anyone actually listens to you, Freddie." With that, he kissed Beatrice on the cheek. "Right, Bea?"

"Well, you should." Frederic got up and shut his eyes tight, shapes dancing before his eyelids, his back trying to achieve solace in finally being free from the prim pose the pianist held while at the instrument. "I'm your manager, after all."

"Manage my ass," Harpo retorted boldly, kissing his girlfriend on the neck. "I have a nice ass, right, Bea?" The woman noded swiftly, blushing slightly. "See? You can manage my ass just fine."

Frederic had just reached with his hand to give the back of the harpist's head a good slap when Octavia burst into the hall, huffing with effort. The cellists's eyes were tickling with sweat, no blinks able to cure it off, and her heart was leaping up and down in the wake of the long run. Octavia was no marathon runner, but, when she was late, her body awed her at its wondrous hidden ability. "Sorry, everyone," she dropped, coming to a stop by the stage, breathing and breathing and breathing. "Sorry I'm late." The raven-haired woman placed herself on the stool, her cello case tumbling to the floor loudly.

"Oooo~" Harpo made a spooky motion with his hands, flailing them in wavy motions, grinning widely. "That's a sin! Freddie must punish you. Freddie, how about a spanking for our little cellist here?" The harpist wiggled his brow suggestively, immediately receiving a well-placed smack from his girlfriend.

"Har har har." Unwavering, Frederic turned his attention to the just-arrived cellist with a smile. "Now that we've all gathered here..." The man cast a mild glare at Harpo, who'd put on a pseudosombre expression. "I have some spectacular news." Frederic held a thoughtful, serious expression for a moment, before exhaling upon catching the ensemble's sceptic looks and raised brows. "No, really."

Harpo raised his index finger. "Is it about-"

"No, it is not about my landlord lowering the rent." Frederic kept a glare on the harpist, who simply shrugged with a silent-mouthed, No more questions. The pianist straightened himself, beaming proudly. "Remember that concert I promised you?"

Beatrice gasped, immediately clasping her hands over her mouth. Octavia raised a brow, her running-hazed mind still unable to comprehend the implication. Harpo's face just flew off in a goody grin. "Is it good news? You've nailed it?"

"Yes, it's good news." Frederic nodded with a smile. "And no, I haven't nailed it. We're still stuck in this shithole, performing for about thirty people twice a month."

Beatrice's arms fell, limping strangely by her waist, as her eyes widened even more, confused and upset. Octavia just lowered her brow back to its initial place. Harpo frowned deeply. "That's... not very good news, Freddie," the harpist said. "That's crappy news."

Frederic, yet, kept smiling in his usual steadfast manner. "No, it's good news. We're not getting the concert, but..." Frederic stood up, unable to hold the dramatic pause any longer, his face breaking into a large, white-teethed grin. "I met my old friend Neon, and guess what? He works as an agent for DJ Pon-3 herself!"

The pianist stood prim and proud, grinning in silence that enveloped the hall. Beatrice blinked. Octavia cocked her head. Harpo winced. "Is... is that supposed to be good?"

Frederic hmphed indignantly. "Come on, people, don't you know who DJ fucking Pon-3 is?"

Harpo shrugged. "I listen to classical and contemporary jazz."

Beatrice blushed, averting her eyes. "I enjoy a little hip-hop." Harpo cast a highly amused glance at his girfriend, as if seeing her for the first time.

Octavia kept silent. Beauty listening to hip-hop?.. Now that's interesting. Contrary to her two bandmates, she knew a little about DJ Pon-3, if only that the renowned disk spinner was... peculiar, at least for a DJ. For one, she was living in a poor part of town in a single-room apartment when she, according to the journalists' estimations, was at least a millionaire. And that certainly sparked some interest in the young cellist.

"To keep it short, she is the hottest DJ right now." Frederic paused for a second. "In both meanings. What is important is that she is looking - or, rather, Neon is looking - for a cello to record for her new album." The pianist raised his finger in the air meaningfully. "And that means, they are looking for a cellist."

All eyes were immediately drawn to Octavia, who blushed slightly but withstood the sudden attention. "I don't know anything about EDM or whatever she's recording." And I'm too lazy to spend actual time recording a new piece. She was perfectly occupied with learning new compositions rarely, when her quartet - or, rather, Frederic - demanded it. There was simply not enough reasons in the world to sacrifice some of her free time for some recording.

"You'll just have to record the cello," Frederic assured her softly, placing a hand on the cellist's shoulder in a friendly gesture of support. "They'll give you the sheet music, and you'll record it. Neon wouldn't offer a bad deal, Octavia, I assure you. I know him well."

Octavia frowned, chewing in her lower lip. "I'm still not sure it's a good idea." Besides, I'm lazy. And you know it. Suddenly, a strange pop song sprung in her head. I'm lazy and you know it~ The cellist shook her head to get rid of the silly melody.

"Octavia, do you remember the day we formed this quartet; the day when I became our manager?" Frederic wondered with a fatherly smile. The cellist nodded reluctantly. Frederic had simply gathered them and told them to play. And we played. We still do. "You promised me you would trust my judgement. You all did." The pianist glared once more at Harpo sharply. "Besides, Neon has offered you three hundred thousand."

Octavia seemed to have done a spit-take on sheer air. "Three hundred thousand?!" The cellist took a deep breath. "How many homeless puppies do I have to kill?" Immediately, the woman blushed at what she'd blurted out. "I mean... wow." Already, her mind was drafting images of a new flat, not an attic-like penthouse but a real six-room flat - or maybe a house... Three storeys, a garden and a little fountain... A swimming pool, maybe?

"Just record the cello." Frederic smiled. "And you'll be getting half of it, no less! The rest of us will get fifty thousand each." Harpo eeped quietly while Beatrice seemed to fall faint for a moment at such a revelation.

Oh. Of course. They were an ensemble, and it was Frederic's merit, and he had found the deal, and... And I don't really want to share. "What if I take all the money and escape abroad and buy a villa where I'll live happily for the rest of my days?" Octavia suggested in a playful voice, noticing not with a hint of bemused fear just how much truth there actually was to her words.

Frederic laughed softly. "Well, then we'll chase you down and whip you with your cello bow till you give back the money and return to the quartet. Also," Frederic took his seat by the piano again, "it's not that much money. Not enough to buy a villa for sure." He chuckled faintly.

Octavia's hopes faded a little, just like her facial expression, but the woman still nodded in satisfaction. "Okay, I'll try." I did promise to trust his judgement, after all. Besides, what's the worst that can happen because of that little collab?

"Good." Frederic took a deep breath and faced the piano. "Now, let's rehearse." Once more, he was in his element, his face shining with divine light of inspiration, his fingers controlled by the divine, his very existence guided by Heaven itself as he drew a breath, ready to touch the keys. "And one, and two, and one, two, three-" Next Chapter: 2. The Interview Estimated time remaining: 7 Hours, 5 Minutes