Octavia Philarmonica woke up to a vivid image of burning children. The image lingered in front of her eyes for a moment, creating a horrible double exposure: children playing in the corner of her room, dragging toy trucks, digging holes in the sandbox, building castles, shouting, talking, chirping - and burning, burning in a terrible hellfire that, strangely enough, left them untouched.

Her brain ran frantically through the possibilities: how could she see this horrifying image if she was awake and if the dream she’d just escaped had nothing to do with children, but rather, with adults, consuming insane amounts of alcohol mixed, for some reason, with milk. Her initial fear was that she’d finally slipped far enough into insanity to see hallucinations. Yet, just as the image faded into the morning, the fear dissipated both due to logic (OCD does not lead to hallucinations, you stupid girl) and observation (the song that Octavia used as her alarm told her quite bluntly that Devon wouldn’t go to Heaven, and that she, Octavia, should definitely take her place inside the fire with her).

Almost spitting on the floor in annoyance, the woman rose from the bed quickly and covered the distance to the table, skilfully tapping the screen to kill the alarm. Turning round on her heels in a weird military fashion, she looked at the plush bear, who’d fallen off the bed during the hot, restless night. “Remind me to never, ever, set a metal song as alarm, Mister Tummers, even if I think it will wake me up for sure,” she addressed the bear and placed him in his rightful place on the left pillow. When one pillow ain’t enough, and two is too low…

Octavia yawned and automatically put on the bra and the “casual” T-shirt that had been hanging from the chair - her personal wardrobe. Nothing as convenient as a chair for a wardrobe. The white words on the black T-shirt proclaimed boldly, Punks not dead. Octavia chuckled. Never in her life would she listen to punk rock - or any kind of rock, apart from, maybe, symphonic rock - but the statement seemed to her ironic enough to order a shirt with it plastered upon it. A little imaginary angel on Octavia’s right shoulder nodded approvingly. A little devil on her left shoulder shrugged and went on to the hellish bedroom to shred on her hellish guitar.

The woman waltzed into the bathroom, sniffing at the air unpleasantly. The damn municipal services had been meddling with the piping again, which led to the stale, grimy odour emitting from the bathtub and the washbin, making Octavia spray her perfume around. It didn’t help much, but gave her a feeling of certain satisfaction. She looked at her face, still beautiful, even after an eleven-hour sleep, her dishevelled, yet untangled, raven-black hair. Octavia looked into her own rare lavender eyes. “Another day older and deeper in debt,” she quoted and took up the toothbrush.

There was no debt; but there was no pay either. Okay, no, there was pay, but it was lousy pay, so why not wallow in self-pity and pretend there was no pay at all? Brush brush brush, Octavia chanted in her head as the toothbrush did its job. Brush brush- fuck!

The woman glanced at her T-shirt, watching as the toothpaste stain conquered the whole perimeter of the word “not”, creating an interesting prediction: “Punks dead”. Lacks an apostrophe, though. Frustrated, Octavia turned off the tap and dried her face with a towel, throwing the ruined T-shirt into the washing machine. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have gotten dressed before washing my face. Why do I even do it?

Octavia marched into her bedroom, taking the “formal” T-shirt, the bold letters on which informed: Cellist Pride. Nodding resolutely to herself, the woman carried on with the dressing routine, still mourning the loss of a good ironic shirt. That’s God’s way of punishing you for your sins, the little imaginary angel on her shoulder chided.

“Okay, white or grey?”

Octavia looked at the socks, holding them together, as if she were a meticulous businessman or a lawyer choosing a tie for today. White, the little shoulder angel suggested. Racist! the little devil on the other shoulder accused, pointing her finger at the angel. “What do you think, Mister Tummers?”

The plush bear sat on the pillow, showing no sign of emotion or recognition.

“Right.” Octavia nodded. “Grey.” Having put on the socks, she rose for her trousers and, conquering those with practised ease (despite the trousers being two sizes smaller - or, rather Octavia having grown two sizes bigger), dropped by the kitchen to take her morning pills. Keeping me sane. Or, rather, giving me the degree of sanity enough to assure myself I am sane with grounds for that.

The fridge held nothing that could be reasonably called food. There was almost-food, there was a semblance of food, there was something that, under close inspection, could be qualified as quasifood, but there was no food. Octavia sighed and closed the fridge door, leaving the tiny kitchen altogether.

Back in the bedroom, Octavia glanced at the table conquered by hordes of video game cartridges and disks, as well as numerous portable consoles. The cellist smiled and took up one of the disks. Radioactive Ponies - 6? Damn, Octavia. I thought I had at least some standards…

Gently, lovingly, Octavia took up her cello from its postament and sat with it on the bed. She took up the bow and, closing her eyes, almost gave in to the music she was about to play. But the music was preceded by a strange, out-of-place percussion breaking the symphony that had already surfaced in Octavia’s mind. Little droplets of rain hitting wood.

The cellist opened her eyes and saw that it was, indeed, not rain, but rather her own sweat forming upon her forehead and neck and dripping onto the wood of the cello. Only now did the woman remember that it was summer, that this summer was especially hot, painfully, unbearably hot - so maybe her dreams of fire did have some reason behind them.

Octavia sighed and packed the cello carefully into the case. The instrument slid into the velvet opening obediently, and the lid clacked with practised ease. Its mistress rose from the bed, feeling her underwear clinging to her pants from the heat. With a groan, Octavia plugged in the fan and turned it on. Great, Miss Sweaty-bum. When your parents offered to invest into AC, you chose a new audio device. And where is it now? Angel Octavia peeked curiously from the shoulder: Well, it’s in the living room, gathering dust and- Devil Octavia hissed violently: Not. Helping.

Fighting the desire to just sit in front of the fan forever, Octavia rose, feeling the unbearable heat return the moment she turned off the fan, and, taking up the cello case, went into the corridor. Upon the usual routine of putting in her pockets her ID, phone, some money - and taking up the keys, she used the said keys to lock the door behind her without looking in the mirror.

In a few moments, Octavia walked into the fire.

***

“Okay, ladies, that’s enough.”

Octavia placed her bow down with a heavy sigh of relief and lifted her eyes up to the conductor. The tall, bald black man rubbed the wings of his nose thoughtfully and finally opened his eyes.

“Mr Horoshevski,” he addressed the pianist, who’d turned on his stool diligently to face the boss. So eager to work in Catcher’s cotton field. ...Wait, that came out wrong. “Your performance was spotless, as usual.”

The pianist bowed his head slightly in appreciation, giving that tiny noble smile that Octavia both loved and hated so much. “Thank you, Mr Catcher. I’m trying.”

“Seriously, Frederic.” The conductor leant against the wall of the small chamber hall, taking a good look at his quintet. “You really should apply for that Best Young Musician contest. You are the best in Manehattan.”

Octavia opened her mouth in shock at the blatancy. Oh really? What about quintets working together and what-not? Hell, you are our violinist, Catcher!

“Thank you, Sebastian,” the pianist took a handkerchief out of his jacket’s pocket (Wearing suits? In such heat?) and ran it through his bright blonde hair, mostly for shows, for, surprisingly, there was not a drop of sweat on the young musician. “But I believe I only excel within the quintet. Without your violin - and your guidance; without Octavia’s cello-”

“Without my natural talent for jokes,” the harpist, a tall Indian man with a wide smile full of brilliant white teeth, added in a jocular voice, glancing at the tuba player, who seemed lost in thought, her blue eyes fixed on the floor of the stage. By now, Octavia smiled, everyone in the quintet seems to know Harpo likes Beatrice. Apart from Beatrice herself.

“Nonsense.” Catcher shook his head and pointed his finger at the blonde man. “You. You, Frederic, are the next Manehattan’s Best Young Musician. As I was once. But,” he smiled without showing his teeth, which gave his full lips an expression of wild hunger, “until you are, stick to Mr Catcher, not Sebastian. Now,” he carried on without listening to Frederic’s mumbled apology, “Miss Brass.” He paused and chuckled. “I’ve always wondered why your surname fits your instrument, but now I know. Your tuba work is impeccable. I am really glad our quintet is standing out because of you. You complemented Miss Philarmonica’s work brilliantly.” Beatrice nodded without lifting her head. “But your performance today seems… troubled. Is anything wrong, Bea?”

“No.” Beatrice touched the top of her head, as if checking whether her chestnut hair was still there, attached to the scalp. Judging by how many different hairstyles she changes over a month, it would be no wonder if- “Nothing at all, Mr Catcher.”

The black man shrugged. “Now, Mr Nadermane.”

The harpist groaned. “Harpo. Please. Puh-leese. Can you just call me Harpo, like everybody else does, Mr Catcher?” Harpo drew his hands into a praying steeple. “Pretty please with cherry on top?”

“Mr Parish Nadermane.” Catcher’s voice was steely and stern, enough for Octavia to sigh in disapproval. Harpo doesn’t deserve all the hate he’s getting. Sure, he might be not as skilful as the rest of us, but he has a good heart, and it’s in the right place. “As usual, you were not on my tempo. This seems to be a tradition of sorts.”

“I’m sooorry, Catch,” Harpo drawled, using his fascinating skill of impersonating every accent he’d ever heard, this time adopting the South-Manehattan drawl, a little different from Appleloosan, but still hilarious, considering that he was, well, fully Indian. “It’s jus’ that, you and me know-”

“Call me ‘Catch’ once again.” The violinist advanced on the young musician, glaring daggers at him. “One. More. Time. And they will never find your body.” Harpo gulped. Catcher’s voice brightened up a little. “Now. Can you tell me your mistake, Mr Nadermane? Were you rushing or were you dragging?”

“Erm…” Harpo shrugged, but not before casting a quick glance at Bea. “I was a Russian dragon?” He grinned, expecting an ovation, no doubt, but all he received was a chuckle from Octavia and an dispassionate smile from Frederic. “I am afraid I can’t answer your question, Mr Catcher,” he concluded earnestly.

“Okay, well.” Catcher turned towards Octavia, smiling at the cellist. “Now, Octavia. Your rhythm is always on-spot, so of course you can answer the question?”

Octavia would say that she was sweating profusely from nervousness, but she was already sweating from the heat - and she had no idea whether Harpo had been rushing or dragging or whatever else, simply because she had become so lost in the music, so aware of its existence as a whole, that every touch of it had been right: Bea’s elongated toots, Frederic’s nervous lip-licking, her own sweat hitting the floor, Harpo’s rushing - or dragging, Catcher’s slight tapping of the foot against the stage - an old habit from playing jazz: all of it was a symphony. All of it contributed to the completeness of the melody. “Erm… Rushing?” Octavia suggested, looking at the conductor hopefully.

Catcher sighed and waved his hand in the air dismissively. “You are out of your element, Octavia. All right.” He clapped his hands together. “That’s it for now, pick up your instruments - apart from you, Frederic - and let’s call this a day.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh, still morning. Eleven-forty-five. Nice!”

Octavia stood up, trying to make her way to the exit as swiftly as possible. The outdoors wouldn’t grant her chill, but at least there would be wind, not like in this cardboard box of a hall. So they turn on the conditioning for visitors but don’t let us musicians use it for practice. Business at its finest.

Quickly, Octavia glanced at Beatrice, who was taking just a bit more time packing. She made a motion to reach her, then saw Harpo lingering next to the woman. Okay, maybe he’ll find out what’s wrong. Deep inside, Octavia knew this was an excuse to get to the outside faster - but time was dragging on especially slowly today.

The outside greeted her with scorching sun and no wind whatsoever. As Octavia walked down the street, dragging her cello case, she felt just how badly perspiring she had been all morning: sweat was permeating the clothes behind her knees, formed under her breasts, drenched her neck. A cold shower would be to kill for.

“Fuck!”

A car rushing past splashed something that felt like water on her feet. Quickly realising that there had been no rain, Octavia looked at her feet with dread. Then looked ahead. Road works. And motor oil. A whole damn puddle of motor oil on the asphalt. And some fucker had slid through it, splashing motor oil at her moccasins!

Octavia groaned and tapped her foot against the hot asphalt. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!” She clenched her teeth in frustration and punched the air. Looking around, she spotted a small coffee shop, one without a loud brand name to it.

Okay, she concluded. They must have some paper towels to clean the oil off… Devil Octavia rounded the cellist’s neck from behind: You sure that would really- The cellist gave the little devil a mighty slap on the butt.

“Good morning!” Octavia tried to muster all her pleasantness despite the roaring heat and the motor oil. The barista, a young man with an unusually pale face and hair as dark as her own, muttered something and kept doing something in the back. Rearranging coffee? “Excuse me, but do you have some paper towels?” Octavia pointed at her feet, immediately realising that the barista couldn’t see the damage. “I was drenched in motor oil.”

The barista didn’t even look, uttering emotionlessly, “Only if you buy coffee.”

Octavia smiled charmingly, all while wondering whether the barista was secretly a vampire. Or non-secretly. “Oh, I would love a glass of lemonade. I understand your desire for customers.” You capitalist pig, she added mentally.

“Coffee.” The barista looked at the cellist lifelessly. “We sell coffee. You buy coffee, I give you paper towels.”

Octavia’s eye twitched. Yet, she calmed herself, knowing that this was by far the only establishment in the neighbourhood, and, if she wanted to avoid permanent damage to her moccasins - or, rather, if she wanted to believe that such damage would be avoided - she needed those damn paper towels. “Tea?” she suggested. “Surely you have some nice green tea for such heat.”

“Coffee.” The barista stood in place, his arms hanging perpendicularly to the counter. “We sell coffee.”

“Iced coffee, maybe?” Octavia proposed with her never-wavering smile while her eyelids were doing the cha-cha-cha.

“Coffee. Hot, steamy coffee.”

Octavia groaned inwardly, but, in reality, she approached the counter and laid out the money. The barista began making the coffee while Octavia debated whether to murder him a lot or just a little. Devil Octavia peeked out of the hellish bedroom: Please? Just a little?

Finally, the coffee made its way to the customer, and Octavia tapped the counter impatiently. The barista floated to the back and took out a roll of paper towels. Octavia grabbed the roll, leaving the coffee, and rushed to the table by the window - not because there were no other empty tables (in fact, the establishment was completely empty, and Octavia did have a notion why that was so), but because of her usual habit of watching the city live outside the window.

For now, though, there was only scrubbing, and then a sinking realisation that the moccasins were forever ruined. Octavia let go of the breath she’d been holding and looked out of the window. The workers patched the road loudly, and, surprisingly, there weren’t enough people in the streets. There was a hectic businessman - or, perhaps, a lawyer - rushing across the street, and a woman, a very weird woman with blue spiky hair and headphones, walking down the street by the shop, ready to cross the road, and crossing the road, and-

“Shit!”

The truck came all too suddenly. It all seemed like a movie. A badly-written movie at that. The woman flew like a ragdoll, landing on the street, dripping blood from her crushed head and neck. Octavia had never seen death before so she was frozen, her hand strangely extended towards the window. Then, a little blue fire appeared in her palm, a fire that didn’t hurt, didn’t burn, nor was it pleasantly cold… It was just a little blue fire, glowing redder and redder-

“Call me ‘Catch’ once again. One. More. Time. And they will never find your body.”

Octavia blinked, breathing heavily. What’s going on here? She looked around, and, indeed, there were the two rows, here was the stage, and the musicians, their quintet…

“Now. Can you tell me your mistake, Mr Nadermane? Were you rushing or were you dragging?”

But… I’ve already heard this. At first, Octavia had thought all of that had been a dream, but here she was, having already heard all these words, seen all these gestures… As if I… Teleported to the past? No, no, this was ridiculous, simply ridiculous…

“Erm…” Harpo shrugged, just as he’d shrugged before - but not before casting a quick glance at Bea, a glance he was supposed to cast. “I was a Russian dragon?”

Now, Octavia couldn’t even chuckle. Wild thoughts were rushing through her brain. Not a dream. Not deja vu. Everything was too vivid - and too prolonged. The only reasonable explanation was… It’s not “reasonable”. Time travel is… Ugh! Sure, the cellist had read somewhere that it was possible, scientifically, but she, Octavia, surely she couldn’t have...

 “Now, Octavia. Your rhythm is always on-spot, so of course you can answer the question?”

Octavia looked up at Catcher slowly, still not believing anything. “Dragging?” she suggested timidly.

“Bingo!” Catcher snapped his fingers with a victorious grin. “Seems you’re on top of your game, Octavia! All right.” The conductor clapped his hands together. The sound was ominous for Octavia, who was slowly coming to realise that she had, indeed, travelled back in time, albeit not so far back.

“That’s it for now, pick up your instruments - apart from you, Frederic - and let’s call this a day.” Catcher glanced at his watch, but Octavia already knew the time. “Oh, still morning. Eleven-forty-five. Nice!”

Okay, Octavia concluded, this is insane. Maybe she was dreaming now? She’d fallen asleep in the coffee shop, and, and- But how could she fall asleep upon seeing that horrific event? The cellist walked past Bea, then stopped. With a smile, she put her hand on Bea’s shoulder and said consolingly, “Bea, always remember that you have friends. We are all by your side.” The tuba player looked up in weak surprise. “Also,” Octavia smiled, thinking that, if this was a dream, she might as well make the best of it, “Harpo likes you. A lot.”

Giggling, the cellist tiptoed outside. “Okay,” she said to herself quietly upon half a minute of walking. “This is the spot. If at this precise moment, that car-”

Indeed, there swished the car, and here was the motor oil on Octavia’s moccasins. The cellist took a deep breath. Okay, this is real. I travelled back in time. But… how did I do that? Octavia looked at her hands. I concentrated on the heat in my hands and…

The blue fire ignited in her hand, glowing redder and redder-

There she was, just outside the concert hall, her moccasins unspoilt. Okay. Octavia nodded to herself. I can rewind time now. Octavia concentrated again, but there was no blue fire in her hand. And, apparently, it only works either just several minutes back or a couple actions back. I see. She closed her eyes. It’s either that, or I’m going insane. Perhaps, I have already gone insane.

But, if she did possess this power now… Surely, just to test it… There was one thing that she could do…

“Excuse me?”

The vampire barista turned towards the source of the voice. Upon seeing Octavia, he sighed. “Hello, Ma’am. What would you like to order?” Oh, I know exactly what I want to order...

“Oh, a coffee.” Octavia grinned. “A hot, steaming coffee.” That’s evil, Octavia! the little devil on her shoulder shook her head disapprovingly. Even by my standards. Angel Octavia added: You’ll burn in hell for this. You don’t want to burn, right? Octavia shrugged. In weather like this, I’m already burning.

Upon receiving the coffee, the cellist looked very attentively at the barista’s face. Only now he did look less like a vampire and more like a distraught, troubled teenager. Octavia opened the coffee and prepared to splash. The barista’s dull eyes bore no emotion. Perhaps he was taking drugs. Or was he on medication? Just like she was?

Octavia lowered the cup and the coffee splashed onto the counter, without damaging the barista in the slightest. “Oops.” Octavia smiled and lifted her hand. The little blue fire danced, turning redder and redder-

“Hello, Ma’am. What would you like to order?”

“I’m sorry.” Octavia stormed out of the establishment, breathing heavily. Okay. Okay. I see. This is real. This must be a dream, but since I’m not waking up, it’s real. Angel Octavia noted: If you’ve been given such a power, it falls on you not to use it lightly. Devil Octavia smirked. Are you kidding? You can do anything now! Let’s go rob some orphanages!

Octavia promptly told both fragments of her imagination to shut up, and followed with her eyes the figure of the lawyer-or-businessman. All right. So this guy passes, and then there should be this weird woman who-

And indeed, there was that weird woman, a short-sleeved shirt instead of a T-shirt, thin summer jeans, ridiculous blue spiky hair. Moving in her direction. Her headphones on her head, covering her ears tight. Almost walking onto the road now.

And then Octavia heard the truck.

She tried to grab the woman, but there was nothing to cling to apart from the shirt that would certainly be torn apart at the slightest gesture. So, instead, she pushed the woman out of harm’s way, back on the sidewalk, tripping and pinning her to the ground.

Octavia blushed immediately at being so over-dramatic, but, as soon as she heard the truck swoosh by, her heart leapt to her throat. So, she had just saved this woman - who pushed her off and got up, shaking her head disapprovingly. Then crossed the street safely.

The cellist let out a breath of relief and sat on the dusty, heated street. She closed her eyes and began to rub her temples. Okay. Apparently, she was able to go back in time. Just a little. And it didn’t affect her. Well, sometimes it did. When she did the… “rewind” the first time, she’d physically teleported back to the steps of the concert hall. But when she did the rewind in the coffee shop, she remained standing there, while the barista and the bar counter and the coffee all slipped back in time.

Octavia looked at her hands. This power is a lot to take in. And, moreover, she had to learn how to use it. And use it wisely. Unless this was all a dream. Or unless she’d gone completely insane.

The woman got up and looked at the phone. Midday? Only fifteen minutes had passed? Octavia pondered whether it was too early for a beer. She looked at her left shoulder. It’s never too early for a beer! Devil Octavia assured her. Octavia looked at the other shoulder. Angel Octavia shrugged. What she said.

Octavia nodded resolutely to herself. It’s settled then.

***

“And then I said, ‘Oatmeal, are you-’”

“Yes, yes.” The bartender sighed and placed another beer on the counter. “That is the third time you’re telling me this story in the last five hours. Honestly,” he remarked, “I have no idea how someone can babble for five hours straight, but, since you seem to have endless money, the beers are yours, and I’ll lend you my ears.”

“Did I tell you that I can turn back time now?” Octavia slurred, leaning over the counter, her head dizzy. “You see, I can drink all these beers, then rewind, then drink them all again and get ssssooo drunk.”

“I don’t think you need time-travel to do that.”

Octavia tried to turn her head sharply, but her vision became blurry in an instant, and she barely recognised the blue-haired woman from earlier today. “You!” Octavia tried to point her finger at the stranger, but her finger ended up touching her breast. Nice! Devil Octavia cheered from the shoulder. “S-sorry. You are the woman I-”

“Yes, yes, Octavia, I am.” The woman sighed. “And it pains me that you don’t remember me.”

“D-do you know me?” Octavia tried to remember, but failed miserably.

“Yes, Octavia, I remember you because you never changed.” The woman looked into Octavia’s eyes and the cellist saw it immediately: reddish magenta, which could only belong to…

“Vincenza?” Octavia whispered, extending her hand towards the blue-haired woman. “Vincenza Staccato?”

“Bingo!” the woman chuckled. “But I go by the name Vinyl Scratch now. Top DJ in Manehattan, Canterlot and Los Pegasus.” She patted her chest proudly. “But… Of course you wouldn’t know it.”

“Vincen- Vinyl…” Octavia rolled the name on her tongue, and, maybe this was the alcohol talking, but she liked the new name. Dammit, Vincenza! She has changed so, so much! “I, I am sorry I didn’t recognise you, but, when we went to music school in Ponyville-”

“When we went to music school in Ponyville,” Vinyl interrupted, “I wanted to become a world-class violinist. Now I am a kickin’ DJ with an attitude. Which one is better?”

“I. Uh.” Octavia looked down on her hands. “If I give the wrong answer, I can rewind time anyway…”

“What the hell are you blabbering about?” Vinyl demanded rather sternly, motioning for a beer. “Nobody can rewind time.” She took the cold bottle and pressed it against her forehead. “Aah. So cold. So pleasant.”

“Well, I can.” Octavia pushed her beer towards Vinyl, feeling that she full to the brim. “I saw the truck hit you, and, and…” She gulped, closing her eyes, still half-believing this all to be a dream. “Then I found out I was in the concert hall again, and all the events, everything happened again, and, and it enabled me to save you.”

Vinyl chugged on her beer for a moment. Then laughed. “Okay. This is bizarre. You leave Ponyville to go to uni and don’t write a word. No.” She lifted a stop-hand before Octavia could say anything. “Don’t apologise. I’m just stating the facts. I leave Ponyville too, go to Canterlot, make a name, grow a style, take Los Pegasus by surprise, and, half a year after I’ve moved to Manehattan, I run into you. Like this.” The DJ rubbed her chin, taking Octavia’s beer. “Okay, this so fucked up. But you saved me. I didn’t realise it at first, but then I put two and two and the truck together, and... You saved my life. You somehow predicted… Or foresaw… So I’m ready to believe you can rewind time.” Vinyl placed her chin on her hands in a bad-villain fashion. “But you have to prove it.”

“How should I prove it?” Octavia replied with drunken eagerness. Still, this was most certainly a dream. A weird, bizarre dream. She reuniting with her childhood friend. She gaining powers to rewind time and using said powers to save the aforementioned friend. This was all wild.

“Let’s play a little game.” Vinyl grinned devilishly. Oh, I like her! Devil Octavia assured. “I take out what’s in my pockets right now. You take a look at that. Then you rewind time to this exact moment. Then you tell me what’s in my pockets.”

Octavia sighed and attempted a shrug. “My observation powers aren’t that great. Especially when I’m ineb- inber- okay, my talking powers aren’t that good either.”

“It’s your super time-rewinding powers that matter,” Vinyl retorted and began emptying the pockets of her summer jeans.

Octavia concentrated on the items before her, thankfully, there were three, four… She lifted her hand, palm-up, and concentrated once again. A little blue fire appeared in her palm.

“Wha-” Vinyl pointed at the little flames glowing redder and redder. “What is-”

“Then you tell me what’s in my pockets.” Vinyl grinned smugly and reached for her summer jeans.

“No need,” Octavia said confidently. It seemed that the rewind had taken some alcohol out of her blood. “I have already seen it. You’ve already done it. And I have rewound time.”

“Oh really?” Vinyl smirked. “Well, what’s in my pockets then?”

“A pack of cigarettes,” Octavia began.

“Good guess.” Vinyl yawned. “Okay, I’ve picked up smoking. What type of cigarettes?”

“Equestria the Beautiful. You have six cigarettes left in the pack.”

Interest appeared on Vinyl’s face. “Carry on. What else do I have on me?”

“Surprisingly, you don’t have any cash,” Octavia said, “but you do have a credit card. Los Pegasus bank, and do you really want me to say your account number aloud?”

“Wow.” Now there was genuine surprise in the DJ’s voice. “So you could frame me and I wouldn’t even know it!”

“You also have your keys, and…” Octavia paused. Vinyl gulped, as if she had realised this was no longer a game. “Vinyl, there’s a photo signed, Love, Dad. I… I remember…”

“I believe you,” the blue-haired woman interrupted abruptly, putting her hand on top of Octavia’s hand. “Damn. You really do have the power. Holy fucking shit. Okay.” The woman stood up and took out the credit card, paying for the beer. “Okay. This is a lot to take in. I think you and me should go to my place and talk it over.”

“Sure.” Octavia yawned. “If you can get me there…”

“I only have one bed, though.” Vinyl paused. “Like all those old sleepovers, eh?”

“Vinyl…” Octavia yawned again. “Will you… take advantage of me cause I’m drunk?”

For a while, the blue-haired woman just stared at her old friend, then shook her head. “Octavia, you are officially a perv.” She stretched her limbs and literally picked up Octavia from her stool. “Her beers are on me,” she told the bartender who groaned, having to use the card again. Grabbing the card, Vinyl put it back in her pocket, letting Octavia lean on her a little as the two women made their way out into the hot summer evening.