Octavia took a sip of coffee, keeping her hands closely embraced about the thick-paper cup - or, rather, a tall plain glass made of corrugated cartonboard. Surely she would opt for a good porcelain mug, or a decent cup, at least; but here, in the little corner-street coffee shop, she simply had no choice. Octavia looked at the dirty-grey clock that was ticking on the wall lively, symbolising the dawn of evening.

Neon wasn't late. She was just early. Octavia took another sip of the sour espresso - terrible, and a double at that - her fingers trembling slightly. The emptiness of the quasicafe was burdening her all the more. It was getting dark, and the sun rolling over the horizon seemed to tell the cellist to go home, and drop the whole thing altogether. Who would have thought I'd have to take a job interview? At least, Octavia was assured that this 'meeting' was definitely an interview. Just this morning, the news of the deal had been dropped on her, and now, on the very same day, she had to take an interview! What's next? Would she have to start work in an hour?

Octavia rubbed her temples with a sigh, feeling a headache crawling towards her still sleepy mind. Maybe it was all a joke, she realised suddenly. Any moment now, Frederic would show up with no Neon ("I'll go catch Neon and you'll have a little talk" my ass, the cellist groaned mentally), and tell her, with that usual dumb smile of his, that it had all been a hoax - all along! Maybe Harpo and Bea are in, too? They would all show up and laugh, and she'd laugh too, but no one would understand just how nervous it had been making her all this time...

Indeed, Frederic showed up, walking into the coffee shop alone, drifting between the pristine metal tables, their round forms letting him towards the cellist longingly, glaring with their salt-and-peppers at the pianist's back. The man's bow tie was off, and his grin was on, as he seated himself opposite the cellist, who, by now, was going insane with worry already. "So?" Octavia demanded, a little louder than she'd expected, making even the shy barista girl, a timid-looking brunette of eighteen, nineteen at most, wince in worry, even though there were no other customers to scare off. "There'll be no Neon, right?" she demanded angrily. "There has never been a Neon, right?" Involuntarily, Octavia grabbed the shocked pianist by the shiny black lapels. "It is all a hoax, am I right?" the woman practically growled in despair.

Frederic's mouth practically fell agape. "Woah, woah, woah!" The tall man freed himself from the cellist's deadly grip, waving his hands in the air. The barista girl all but hid beneath the counter. "Octavia, calm down! Neon is coming in a moment!" He smiled at his friend gently. "You are all worked up, right?"

Octavia took a deep breath and exhaled, leaning back to let her muscles relax a little. "You can't imagine. I'm so nervous." The woman tried to take another gulp of coffee, but there was none left in the improvised mug. The cellist sighed, once again rubbing her temples in soft, round motions, her fingers trembling slightly as she did so.

"Come on, Octavia." Frederic placed his big, sturdy palm on Octavia's shoulder, making the woman feel just a little safer in the wake of her manager's support. "It's not like he's going to interview you or anything of the kind." Frederic's usual warm smile made its way to his handsome face, dancing just around his feline cheekbones. "Just a small talk, to learn what kind of person you are."

Octavia huffed, gaining back a little composure. "Why would he want that?" What if... Octavia suppressed a gulp. What if I'm the wrong type of person? Mountains of money in Octavia's imagination went down the sink, with the cellist clinging at it desperately, bodies of cello-murdered puppies paving the floor. Octavia shook her head to get rid of such a sad and deeply unsettling mental image.

Frederic winced a little as he leant back in the tiny metal chair as well. "Well, you see, as far as I can tell, DJ-Pon3 works only with a few select people. She is very... demanding of whomever performs with her."

Octavia nodded, idly toying with the ex-coffee-mug, rolling it back and forth in her hands. "Skill-wise?"

Another wince from the pianist told her that she was not quite right. "Personality-wise. She is... Again, from what I gather, she is very shy, if not introverted, and easily embarrassed. Self-conscious, too. So, she needs to feel comfortable while working with other people." Frederic let out a sigh, which soon turned into an early yawn. "And that's rarely."

Now it was Octavia's turn to wince. Marvellous. The cellist made an effort to lay her hands on the table, her long, thin fingers calming down reluctantly. "A shy DJ?" Octavia wondered aloud. "That's a rarity."

The glass door opened, and, with a chime of the bell, a peculiar well-dressed man walked in, his ridiculous leather jacket an oddity compared to his state-of-the-art tech watch, the kind that tracks blood pressure and temperature, clinging to the wrist tightly, and his ridiculously glossy shades. His hair was a fair step from normalcy, but a confident grin on his face told Octavia that this man was not concerned with worldly matters, lost in his own world and heeding only his own worldview.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he dropped in a friendly tone, embracing Frederic for a greeting and shaking Octavia's hand politely, yet firmly. "Name's Neon Lights, or just Neon." The barista girl disappeared in the back room, evidently not used to seeing more than two people at once in the miniature establishment. "I just had to pick up that new record by The Expendables. Do you like them?" He asked suddenly, taking a glance at the cellist through those thick shades of his.

Octavia felt a surge of thin, mild panic crawl through her body, seizing it whole for a moment. Unable to see Neon's eyes, the cellist didn't know - and could not know - what to say. He seems to like the band. Why would he stop to buy their album otherwise? "Oh, I'm a fan of their early work," Octavia lied with an easy smile, having not a slightest idea who The Expendables were, and if they were still performing. A perfect answer, the cellist congratulated herself. How many points do I receive?

"Oh. I think it's crap." Neon kept staring at the raven-haired woman with those screaming pools of dark blue mixed with soft violet, those lenses that bore no emotion, made no sense whatsoever. The man's fingers were still, one hand upon the other, a smile steadfast on his round-ish face.

Octavia gulped, sweat covering her brown in a thin layer of film. Dammit! Think think think! This was certainly a test... But what's the right answer? Was there a right answer? "Well, to each their own, I suppose," the cellist replied diplomatically, casting a side glance at Frederic, who traitorously watched the clock, as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

For a while, Neon held a painful, silent pause. Then, he sighed, his smile fading a little. "Octavia. I may call you Octavia, right?" The cellist nodded. "Good. You see, Octavia... For my client, honesty is very important." Another pause. The cellist was practically shivering with sweat by now. God, I should have changed into something more comfortable than this tailcoat. "Please, Octavia. Tell me your opinion on the band. Your honest opinion."

Octavia took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. "You may call me ignorant and narrow-minded, Neon, but I have never heard of that band, nor do I plan to listen to it in the future." Well, that escalated quickly.

To her surprise, Neon merely chuckled, soon erupting into laughter, supported by the traitorous Frederic, who guffawed light-heartedly, looking at Octavia indulgently. As the men's joy subsided, Neon explained with a grin, "There has never been such a band. It's the name of the football team Freddie and I were a part of in college." Frederic nodded in satisfaction upon seeing the cellist's sheer disbelief.

"You... tricked me!" Octavia gasped, pointing a finger at Neon accusingly as she had forgotten about the interview, and the money, and the homeless puppies. "You lied to me deliberately!"

Neon shrugged. "So I did. And I did that because I need to you to be one hundred per cent honest with me. And with Vinyl."

"Vinyl?" Octavia raised her brow questioningly.

"Vincenza's short name." Seeing the cellist's dumbfounded look, Neon elaborated, "DJ-Pon3."

"Oh." Octavia nodded at the explanation slowly. The barista returned to her place, her face still bearing a slightest trace of concern, but her posture more collected and prim. "I see." That's a strange name for a DJ. Or for anybody, for that matter.

"All right." Frederic slammed his palms against his knees and jumped up quickly. "I think I'll leave you two to converse." The man glanced at Octavia, whose expression resembled a perfect blend of unstable fear and terrifying anger at the pianist's sudden betrayal. "You have a day off tomorrow, Octavia." As if a day off can ever clear up what you've done, you sleasy greasy- "Cheers!" With that, the tall man took his leave with haste, the door slamming behind him, scaring the poor barista to no avail.

Octavia groaned mentally, considering all the ways she could physically reprimand the elusive pianist, which included a painful rectal insertion of her bow and an iron maiden form of hour-long torture. "So..." The cellist once more directed her thoughts on the business trail. "Neon." Suddenly, the woman felt very stupid. What do I say now? Octavia looked at Neon, who still seemed to be scrutinising her with his shade-hidden eyes.

"I'm not going to ask you any questions." Neon leaned forward a little, propping his head with neatly-placed elbows. Octavia blinked in lack of understanding. Then again, she had never been to a job interview before... "I don't need to know how many years you've been playing the cello, or the level of your skill, or your aspirations, or what kind of music you like. It's all for Vinyl to ask you. It's all for Vinyl to decide." Octavia felt her knees trembling, her mind occupied by an image of a gigantic DJ-Pon3, aka Vinyl, floating sternly above a pedestal of gold and steel. For some reason, Vinyl was two metres tall, in a crimson cloak, with fangs dripping a thousand cellists' blood. I should stop reading so many vampire novels.

"What I want, instead," Neon continued, "is to give you a few words, and you'll give me your associations." Turning to the barista girl, the man called out, "Earl Grey, please."

They have Earl Grey here? the cellist wondered to herself, casting a sad glance at her ex-coffee. I should've had a cup. The barista nodded and grabbed a teapot with slightly trembling fingers. Octavia sent a wave of pseudotelekinetic sympathy towards her. "Like a psychotherapy session?" she wondered, calming down a little, on one hand (No questions! Yay!), but falling into deeper anxiety, on the other hand. What if my associations are wrong? What if he doesn't like them? Octavia wanted to shout. Apparently, getting a job was not quite as easy as murdering innocent puppies. Aloud, the cellist sighed breezily.

"Not quite." Neon got up, stretching his limbs a little on his way to the counter. "I'll want elaborate associations. What strikes you as an artist when you think of the associations." Neon took his cup, dropping money on the counter. "Thank you, dear." The barista's face tinted with a faint blush as she nodded. Neon grinned and leaned in, whispering something to the girl heatedly. Octavia watched the brunette flush a deeper shade of pink and nod meekly.

"So." Neon returned to the table, sipping his tea as he sat down at the table. Octavia gazed longingly at the obviously delicious hot drink. "A car."

For a moment, Octavia was silent. What?.. The woman's mind reeled, unable to get a grip on a single association. Panic crept over her once again, like a tidal wave of a scary, fervent storm. "What kind of car?" she wondered idly, if only to win some time.

"A sports car," Neon suggested, his chin once again propped on his elbows, his shades staring at the raven-haired woman lifelessly. "A new, shiny sports car."

"A new, shiny sports car," Octavia repeated slowly. "It's expensive. Very beautiful." The cellist paused. "Everyone is envious of me when I drive down the street. It's not just a vehicle. It's a status item." God, now I look like an adman selling a car.

"Uhuh." Neon nodded, straightening in place and sipping tea in silence for half a minute. For the first time in her life, Octavia's shirt itched so very painfully that she wanted to take it off at once and throw it away for good. "A bird."

"A beautiful nightingale," Octavia blurted out immediately. "A singing bird, its beak open in a wonderful song. The melody is calm, and tranquil, and natural," the cellist elaborated, feeling a little more confident. "It's singing a song of freedom. Maybe," she added sheepishly, her cheeks softening with pink a little.

"A street," Neon carried on, visibly unperturbed.

Octavia chewed on her lip, closing her eyes. A street... Indeed, an image of a busy, hectic street appeared right before her, with its delicious scents. Only the smell was not reaching her nose through the window; it was all real. It was all here. She began to describe: "There's a busy street, full of people. All of them go about their business. There are vendors selling baked apples, their sweet, delicious aroma mixing with the caramel of nearby sweet stores. Hints of cinnamon can be traced in the jerky morning air. The sour odour of grime doesn't attract you, but it doesn't push you down: it mixes into the symphony." Octavia smiled as she opened her eyes. Maybe that sounded weird, but it's so true.

For a while, Neon was silent. Then, he took out a piece of paper and scribbled on it. The cellist took it, scrutinising the writing. An address?

"Tomorrow, at seven pm," Neon said simply. "Vinyl will be waiting for you in her flat. Please don't be early. Being late is okay: she likes to work late evening to early night."

Octavia blinked, suspicion commanding her mind steadily. Was 'session cellist' slang for 'courtesan"? "Why the flat?" the cellist wondered, her voice dripping uncertainty.

"Vinyl doesn't like the walls of her studio," Neon explained simply, shrugging his shoulders and downing the tea, the cup ending up on the table sadly, making a lone companion to Octavia's ex-coffee vessel. "They're soundproof."

She has her own studio?! Octavia thought in awe. Aloud, she said, "Isn't that supposed to be good?" She waved her hand in the air in a round motion. "You know, for the recording?"

Neon smiled with a soft shake of his head, his shades firm and neat on his face. "You'll see for youself. Vinyl draws inspiration from the sounds of the street."

Immediately, a realisation dawned upon Octavia. Of course. That was the point of all the questions. To evoke a reaction within her. The right reaction. And she'd failed. But I... succeeded? I won? Clutching the paper, her ticket to wealth, her fame and fortune written in cheap substitute-ink, Octavia released a breath. "I see. Thank you. I'll be there." The woman paused. "I... I may go?" she asked a little more anxiously that's she'd expected.

Neon barked with laughter. "Octavia, that wasn't a Maths test. Of course you can go." He smiled and shook the cellist's hand. "I hope you and Vinyl get along for the recording."

Octavia smiled, standing up. "I am sure of it, Neon." With that, she walked out of the coffee shop, catching, out of the corner of her eye, the sight of Neon walking up to the near-faint barrista. Once outside, the cellist took a deep breath, letting the freshness of the evening wind saturate her lungs. With still-trembling fingers, she fished out her phone and dialed Frederic.

"Yes?" came the pianist's voice on the line.

"Frederic, you're an asshole," Octavia stated plainly, watching a couple - a young man spinning some tales to his infatuated and dreamy-eyed girl - walk by. "I almost had a panic attack."

Frederic's laughter reached Octavia's ears, transmitted well by the mobile network. "But you still love me dearly, Octavia, don't you? Because you nailed it."

The cellist could not help a small smile. "I did. But you're still an asshole."

"See you tomorrow, Octavia. Good luck."

"Thanks, Freddie." Octavia hung up with a sigh. She closed her eyes, rubbing her eyelids softly. Suddenly, just as she opened her eyes and looked around, the world looked just a little brighter in its evening moonlit glory. Octavia laughed and laughed, unable to stop, as she walked up the street.

Home.

"So, how was she?"

Vinyl guided her slipper-adorned feet to the sink, running the tap for a while before filling half of the glass with water. She turned on her feet, watching Neon closely. The man was sitting on the couch, leaning back greatly, his arms unfolded at the back of the couch, his eyes finally un-shaded, for the first time during that evening.

"Vinyl, how many times should I tell you not to drink water from the tap?" the agent chided the disk-spinner lazily. "It's not all that good for your health." The man lit up a cigarette, making the DJ wince in slight disapproval.

Vinyl took a few good gulps of water while walking to get the window. Opening the little stainy-glass structure, she demanded again, "This Octavia. How was she?" The woman sat down on the couch next to Neon, who was puffing out cigarette smoke towards the open window, where it met the chilly evening breeze.

Neon shrugged. "She was okay, I guess. Didn't get the car part, of course." The man chuckled. "Nobody does. The bland answer about the bird. I guess it'll take you a lot of tries to get the music right. She doesn't seem to have the same feeling towards the 'sounds of the street'." Neon's fingers danced in an inverted-commas fashion.

Vinyl put the glass on the little table that stood diligently by the couch, ready to host anything not larger than a sheet of paper. "What about the street? She didn't name any sounds, right." That was a statement, not a question. Vinyl sighed. "She said something about the people and cars and something like this. Right?"

Neon rolled his tongue inside his mouth a little, deciding on the answer. The cigarette made its way out of the window: the non-smoker Vinyl Scratch, naturally, did not have an ashtray. "Not quite," he said finally. "She talked a lot about... smells."

Vinyl looked at her agent strangely. Smells? Her voice echoed her thoughts: "Smells? What do you mean?"

"Well..." Neon shrugged. "It was a bit weird, to tell the truth. She talked about baked apples and caramel and cinnamon and what-not. I guess that's something." Seeing Vinyl's slightly upset impression, the man leant in and placed a hand on the young woman's shoulder. "Listen, Vinyl. I know you're trying to find... something more than a session musician. But you'll find her eventually." Neon smiled. "It can happen any day. So, this girl's not the one. She doesn't feel music the way you feel music. So what? You'll record a song, and off she goes, no strings attached, and you're on to the next one, beautiful and sensitive."

Vinyl chuckled at Neon's encouragement. "You make it sound as if I'm making you do that to find me a girfriend."

Neon wiggled his brow playfully. "Aren't you?" Vinyl slapped his wrist with a laugh. "Sis, listen. Everything will happen in time. You're just twenty-two." Vinyl cleared her throat audibly. "All right, almost twenty-three. Still, you're young. You'll find the right one."

Vinyl winced, leaning into Neon's embrace. "I know, Nini. It's just that... I'm so desperate, you know?" The DJ looked at her agent sadly. "I don't want to sell myself to the first girl I see, but... what if this Octavia, or someone else, is just so beautiful, and she'll say she likes me, and... And she'll dump me?" Tears welled in the spinner's eyes. "After using me?"

Neon grabbed the woman, keeping her close to his chest. "Vinyl. You are my little sister. I will always protect you. If this Octavia, or anyone else, tries to play your feelings and leave you heartbroken, I swear to all gods, I will find her and make her regret that."

Vinyl smiled calmly, leaning in to the embrace, content on laying her head over Neon's shoulder. "Nini, stay overnight, will you?"

Neon tsked and shook his head, making Vinyl's spiked hair bounce off a little. "Sorry, sis. I have a date in a couple hours." Neon ruffled Vinyl's hair and stood up, not without planting a kiss at the DJ's forehead. "I promise I'll see you tomorrow, after you've met up with Octavia." The agent gave his client an exaggerated wink. "And you'll tell me all about her."

Vinyl laughed and launched a pillow at Neon. The laughing man evaded it with ease, raising his hands in defeat. "I yield! I yield!" Still, Vinyl launched herself at the agent, pinning him to the floor and making a show of beating him up with her small, petite knuckles.

"Ow! Ow! Ow!" Neon exlaimed over and over, on in the game, shielding his face dramatically as he rolled back and forth on the soft, utterly dusty blue carpet. "Mercy! I plead mercy!"

With a laugh, Vinyl rolled over and fell off her brother's body with a soft thump, lying next to him on the floor, staring at the ceiling, smiling. "Who's the lucky girl?"

Neon rose on an elbow, staring out of the window dreamily. "She's the one, sis, I'm telling you. She's so beautiful, and so impossibly cute, and have you seen her nose?" Neon sighed in bliss. "She's a barista at a coffee shop. I turned on my charm, and, naturally, she agreed to a date with me."

"I give you two three days," Vinyl said with a chuckle. "That's gonna be a new record for your love affairs."

Neon looked at the DJ with an expression of exaggerated hurt on his face. "I am offended, Vinyl. What if I end up marrying her?"

The DJ laughed. "Do you even know her name?"

Neon shook his head. "No. But I do know her phone number." The man got up, brushing the dust off his clothing. "And, for now, that's enough."

Vinyl smiled, hugging her agent. "Take care."

"Sure." Neon smirked. "I'll be using a condom."

Vinyl blushed fiercely, averting her eyes. Damn, I'm a mature adult. Why can't I just have normal talks about sex without flushing like a schoolgirl? In fact, Vinyl wasn't even sure if modern schoolgirls were that... timid when it came down to that particular topic. "Come on already." she grumbled in embarrassment, with Neon laughing all along.

The man took a theatrical bow and left the flat, shutting the door behind him. Vinyl sighed and reached the door, locking it with diligence. Yawning, she made her way towards the bathroom to deal with natural urges before she could finally go to bed and prepare for whatever the next day held. On her way, Vinyl took the glass to the kitchen, splashing the water away in the sink and filling it with mineral water straight from the fridge.

Staying healthy, Neon. Vinyl smirked as she downed the glass and walked out of the kitchen. Next Chapter: 3. Meeting the Boss Estimated time remaining: 6 Hours, 48 Minutes