“Hmm, I guess I never really got into the swing of things at the Royal Conservatory of Music. It was so far away from anything that was familiar to me.” Octavia said. She and Vinyl Scratch were sitting at their table in The Double-Double, sipping on the smoothies that Arabica Bean had just brought for them. “On top of that,” Octavia continued, “I wasn’t really all that passionate about the music anyway.”

“What?!” exclaimed Vinyl, slamming down her smoothie. “What do you mean you weren’t passionate about music?! That was all you did—and you were always saying how it was the only thing that you were actually any good at!”

The sun had gone down completely, but a few ponies could be seen passing by outside. The town meeting must have finished up, though Vinyl and Octavia were still the only two customers in The Double-Double.

“Yeah, that’s kind of what the problem was, I think,” said Octavia, sighing. “I saw all the other musicians there—musicians who were really, truly passionate about classical music—and I could tell that they were different from me. I began to realize that what I had liked about playing classical music had less to do with classical music and more to do with how it felt like it put me above everypony . . . automatically made me feel superior to them, like it was some higher form of music than all the music that everyone else listened to.” Octavia looked down into her drink. She let out a short, mirthless laugh. “It really sounds terrible when I say it like that, doesn’t it? I guess I was kind of a terrible pony back then.

“And all those things I said the last time we were together!” Octavia’s head snapped up as she said this, looking straight at Vinyl, finally able to look into her eyes now that Vinyl had taken off her glasses. “I’m so sorry, Vinyl Scratch! You have to know, I couldn’t stop thinking about you and how horrible I had been to you! Not even once, the whole time I was gone—”

"Tavy!” Vinyl cut her off. “Why didn’t you bucking just come see me, then?”

“Well, after what—” Octavia began.

“Language, girls!”

“Arabica, you said it yourself, there’s nopony here!” said Octavia, frowning slightly after being twice cut off.

“Ah, well, even after all this time—old habits and all that.” Arabica said, and turned back away from them, where she pretended not to continue listening.

“Anyway—” Octavia turned back towards Vinyl, but didn’t meet her gaze, “after what happened, I didn’t think that you would forgive me,” Octavia said. She shifted as she sat. “Not after what I had said,” she said quietly, looking down. She hesitated a moment, then let it all out in a rush, “I insulted you, your musical ability—I even brought Derpy into that somehow (how is it that I can remember our argument almost word-for-word, but couldn’t remember how to get to the town square?). I said all kinds of things, and I was completely terrible to you. I’m so sorry, Vinyl, I really didn’t mean what I said!” Octavia’s eyes were beginning to tear up.

“What? Dude! It’s okay! Don’t worry about all that! I get it, you were just stressed out and stuff. I can’t believe you were freaking out about that so much!”

Tavy looked up, surprised. “Really? So does that mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

"Tavy.” Vinyl once again put her drink down on the table, though gently this time. “It’s not about those things you said. There’s no way I’d have held something like that against you. Not after all this time. Even though they were really bucking horrible, hateful things to say.” Vinyl said, considering this. “I mean, wow, just so bad. And you were a pretty terrible pony for saying them. And really, you should feel bad because of it—”

“Okay, I think I get it,” said Tavy, evenly.

“Right,” said Vinyl, trying to remember where she had been going with this. “Even though what you said to me was uncalled for, way harsh, and completely awful, it’s not like it was something I could never forgive you for!” Vinyl thought a moment. “Or, at least, it’s not something that would’ve prevented us still being friends, regardless of if I completely forgave you for it or not!” Vinyl finished.

“Vinyl . . . really? That . . . I can’t believe I thought that—”

“Come on. You were like my best friend ever. You’re such a bucking idiot sometimes.”

“Oh, Vinyl . . .” Octavia trailed off. Then something occurred to her. “Wait, so why did you say you still hate me then?”

“Octavia! It’s because you left me for three years without saying a bucking word, and I haven’t seen or heard from you since! How is this still not clear?!” Vinyl turned to her own reflection in the mirrored wall beside them. “Was I not clear? I got nothing. Maybe you want to have a go at this?” Vinyl asked of her likeness.

“I thought it was pretty clear!” said Arabica.

“Wasn’t talking to you!”

“Alright, alright, I get it. I concede that I was Equestria’s biggest clopping idiot and a stupid friend. I’m really sorry . . . I want you to forgive me . . . I want to be friends again. And it’d be great if you didn’t hate me,” Tavy added at the end.

“Well what do you want me to say? ‘I forgive you, let’s be friends again’? Then what? It’s not like the time you were away is going to go anywhere,” said Vinyl, looking down to watch her straw stir around in her drink, enveloped in her magic’s light blue glow. “We’ve changed over that time, neither of us are the same ponies we were back then. Especially you! (And smoking? I’m still geeking out about that!)” Vinyl magically pinched the top of the straw and lifted it out to get at the bit of smoothie now trapped in the length of it. She avoided looking at Octavia. “We can’t just go back to how it was like nothing happened.”

Octavia inspected her own drink, not saying a word. Vinyl sighed and put down her straw. “I do forgive you though. And I probably don’t really hate you that much anymore—it is really good to see you again,” Vinyl said with a bit of a smile.

“Really?” Octavia brightened by a magnitude of about four. “Great!”

“Anyway, you somehow managed to not quite answer my question.” Vinyl pointed her straw at Tavy. “You said you didn’t really like it there right from day one, but didn’t want to go back to Ponyville on account of you getting it in your stupid clopping head that I’d never forgive you—so why suddenly now? What changed?”

Octavia thought about it. “Well, it’s true that I pretty much hated it, but I hadn’t really been able to see an alternative. And, well, I was actually doing alright for myself in Canterlot. I was getting some pretty high profile gigs with various ensembles. I played at the Grand Galloping Gala, did you know that?”

Vinyl’s eyes went a bit wide. “What, really? Wow, that’s pretty something.”

“Yeah,” Octavia laughed a bit. “It was most definitely was . . . something. Anyway, playing music I wasn’t really passionate about was still better than doing lots of other things. Like working retail! Or an office job . . . there is definitely a sliding scale of ‘miserable’, you know?

“But then I somehow ended up playing with this crazy bunch of ponies that were unaffiliated with the RCM,” she continued, “and suddenly I’m playing all these gigs with them! Then, their sax player tells me he’s moving to Ponyville to start up this ‘killer’ ensemble with one of his old friends, and they wanted me to be in it!” Octavia’s eyes were glowing as she told Vinyl this. “Something about having a proper reason to be back in Ponyville . . . all I could think about was seeing you again, and I immediately accepted his offer, dropped out of the RCM, and here I am!”

“Wait,” said Vinyl, clearly unimpressed by this explanation. “You couldn’t stand playing music anymore . . . so you ditched it to go play music? When does this start making sense?”

“No, no, the group I joined is a jazz group! Well, more sort of hard bop—but also kind of modal jazz, actually. You know, if I were going to to be specific. Though, genres of jazz aren’t exactly hard-and-fast rules. See, they’re more—” began Octavia.

“Hang on,” interrupted Vinyl, now doubly unimpressed. “You’re trying to tell me you’re playing a cello in a jazz band? You know I don’t know much about that kind of stuff, but isn’t that kind of weird?”

“Oh, yeah, I actually play the stand-up bass now. Though you’re actually kind of wrong, because a few notable pony’s have used cellos in jazz groups before, so it wouldn’t have been unheard of. No, I wanted to switch instruments, though. That’s another part of what makes it so different for me, now! I just kind of wanted to get away from all that, in a bit more of a . . . concrete way, I think. Well, I do still play the cello, just not—”

“And that’s a big difference, is it? Aren’t the two things just, like, different sizes, or whatever?” asked Vinyl, who never had properly differentiated between the two.

“Huh? No way, you tune them differently! The strings of a cello are tuned to fifths, like a violin, whereas a bass is tuned to fourths, the same as a guitar.” Octavia explained, textbookishly.

“Right. ‘The more you know’—yeah, but actually, what you said means buck all to me.”

“What it means,” Octavia said, bordering upon a glare, “is that I basically had to relearn the instrument. And I wanted to do this so I wouldn’t fall in to my old habits and play like a ‘square’!”

“You? Not being a ‘square’? Hmm, you’re right, I’m starting to see now—that would have been a big switch for you,” said Vinyl, her brow straight.

“Because, jazz is completely different than classical, you know! It’s hard to do coming from a classical background. It’s all about the feel and groove! It’s syncopated and swung, and bop is more-or-less atonal music, what with things like flated ninths and tri-tones! (Tri-tones! ‘Tartarus’s music!’ Ninth chords with sharp elvenths, written right there on my page!)” Octavia said with all the fervour of an enthusiast. “It’s totally insane and wonderful and it couldn’t be more different!”

“Kay, yeah, I get that jazz is different than classical, and that you’re playing bass now,” said Vinyl, “but I don’t see how this was such a complete revelation for you.” Vinyl Scratch couldn’t really get her head around what Octavia was saying. The DJ pony’s passion for music was for music. Sure, she liked electronic music, but that was hardly a definitive genre. She sampled from all types and forms of music. It was music that defined her, not specifically any one genre. And she couldn’t imagine losing her “passion” for any kind of music—she would cease to be Vinyl Scratch. What Octavia was saying didn’t really mean anything to her.

“It’s . . . well,” Octavia began. “Hey! I know! I’m playing with my new band tomorrow night! Why don’t you come see us? I’d be much easier than trying to explain it all. We’re playing at . . . wait, I don’t know where we’re playing at . . . here I got the address . . .” She fumbled around with a piece of paper.

“Hey, hold up a sec, I didn’t say I was going to go, yet.”

“Oh, come on!” exclaimed Arabica.

Tavy looked up at Vinyl, a bit crestfallen. “Oh . . . really? Um, please? I mean, I’d like for you to come.” She fidgeted with the piece of paper. “It doesn’t go that late . . . I thought we could hang out after? Maybe try and be friends again? Because . . . well, I want to be your friend again!” As she began to build momentum, she handled the paper in her hooves more vigorously. “I know it probably won’t ever be the same as it used to be, but it’s great just to be around you again, and also finding out that you don’t hate me anymore is nice! And I still can’t believe I even found you at all! And that I’m talking to you for the first time in three years! Even though it’s my fault its like this . . . I can’t believe I threw away what we had . . . gah, I’m so stupid . . .” she trailed off, slumping down slightly, now crushing the thoroughly marehandled piece of paper.

“Alright, alright,” Vinyl said with a chuckle. “I’ll go. I can’t really say ‘no’ if you ask me like that, can I?” A loud squeal of delight could be heard from the direction of the counter.

Vinyl’s horn lit up, and she replaced her glasses on her face. Vinyl could tell that the classically trained musician had changed, and that it probably went deeper than she had thought at first. The old Octavia used to be so aloof and introverted, she would rarely have put down exactly what she was thinking, like she just had. And if Vinyl was being honest, she would have to say she rather liked this new Tavy—and was more than a bit curious to see this thing that had caused such a huge switch in her.

“So where’s this thing at tomorrow?” Vinyl asked. Tavy looked down at the paper in her hoofs, now crumpled almost beyond recognition. She put it on the table and flattened it out as best she could (which wasn’t very flat at all), putting on a small smile as she gingerly passed it over.

Once they had finished their drinks, they said goodbye until tomorrow, and parted ways.

Upon returning home and attempting to go to bed, Vinyl found that sleeping was not something she could do in her current state. Her mind was quite active to begin with, and it was now on complete overdrive.

Until that evening, Vinyl had thought she lived in a now-Tavy-less universe. Even stray thoughts about that mare had had to be dealt with swiftly and without mercy—and suddenly she was here, and they had a date the very next day. Well, a friend-date. In any case, the fact that Tavy-related thinking was suddenly back in-bounds had caused a sort of a dam to collapse in her mind, and Vinyl found herself slightly overwhelmed with a vague slew of Tavy-thoughts. She tried to focus on something concrete, and her thoughts shifted over to the date tomorrow. The friend-date, tomorrow. Obviously it was a friend-date. It was obvious enough that she shouldn't be clarifying this for herself.

So why was she?

Vinyl could see where this train of thought was headed, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that sleep wasn't happening until she had let it travel for at least a few stations down that track. She only hoped that it wasn’t going to get derailed anywhere along the line.

There had been something that had happened, back before the audition, that neither of them had brought up this evening. Vinyl considered this further. Maybe Tavy had forgotten about it? Put it out of her mind, or whatever? No, judging by the way Octavia had apparently obsessed over their years-past argument (seemingly as much or more than she herself had), Vinyl doubted it.

Her estranged friend must have been thinking about it, and had purposely glossed over any mention of it during her apologies this evening.

There had to be some kind of reason for that. Was she too embarrassed? Or still mad? Or didn’t care? Vinyl thought back to that party—Tavy’s farewell party—which felt like it had happened not three years but a lifetime ago, and the question tore at her: what did that kiss mean to Tavy, now?

Vinyl rolled over and moshed her face in her pillow. And what did that kiss mean to Vinyl?

Though sleep had taken a long time to come to the agitated pony, it took its sweet time leaving her the next day. She got up well after noon—though felt poorly rested and irritable, despite the fact. It was a day off for the DJ, and she had no other plans before Tavy’s performance in the evening, so she groggily loafed around her apartment for the rest of the afternoon. It did little to improve her disposition.

As the time approached to leave for Tavy’s gig, Vinyl felt even worse than she had upon waking. Tossing back a glass of whiskey in an attempt to improve her sour mood, the worse-for-wear DJ pony begrudgingly walked out the door.

Vinyl Scratch tried for the life of her to remember how she had gotten conned into going to this thing. She was pretty sure—at the time—it had seemed like the potential revival of their friendship had hinged upon Vinyl attending this gig of Tavy’s. Upon reflection, Vinyl thought that that pony could have come up with a less bothersome alternative, had she had the desire to. When had Octavia gotten so wiley? And what’s with all her talk of jazz, anyway?

Vinyl made a mental list of everything she knew about jazz. The first thing that came to mind was that sort of classy little ensemble playing background music for a dimly lit, late night soiree. That sounded like it was right down Tavy’s alley . . . but it also sounded very similar to what she had already been doing, and did little to explain this sudden change that had taken place in that classically trained musician. Maybe, instead, she had joined one of those larger groups that play at those retro swing dance things for old ponies? That didn’t make a lot of sense, either. Something cooler, maybe?

The DJ pony knew of jazz influences in electronic music. Acid jazz was known to toss in some pretty tasty—though now fairly dated—synth layers. As well, some forms of house music, most notably deep house, made use of trumpet or sax samples, syncopation, and really jazzy sounding chords. This was starting to sound less and less like Octavia, though.

Vinyl looked down at the nearly-destroyed scrap of paper that was telling her where she was headed. She began to grow uncertain as to whether she was reading this correctly as she came upon the street the venue was supposedly located on. Vinyl couldn’t think of any auditoriums or music halls around this area, although it had been years since she was in the habit of going to that kind of place.

She thought back to when she and Tavy had done this kind of thing frequently. They had perfected a sort of system: they would work out, before hoof, the timing for when Octavia had to be there to set up, and at what time the doors opened for guests to be let in; they would discuss when they’d meet up at The Double-Double, and coordinate when each of them needed to head over; and when the time came to go to the venue, Vinyl would already have her ticket ready to go, and would have been briefed on the dress code and relative fanciness of the whole ordeal. The night would run like clockwork. The DJ pony doubted she would have gone to so many of Tavy’s fancy little performances had it run any differently. Like how it was running now, for instance. All Vinyl had been told was six-ish. Well, she though, it was just about half-past now—did that count?

As Vinyl Scratch approached the building that matched the address, she would have been absolutely convinced that it was the wrong place had she not been able to hear the muted sounds of music coming from it. The unicorn found herself facing a treacherous little stairway down to the basement-entry of a building that she would not otherwise have willingly stopped in front of. It was smokey coloured and in shambles. Descending the stairs to the tattered little door at the bottom gave the impression of approaching a poorly-covered hole in the wall.

“Why the buck am I going to this thing?” a thoroughly put-out Vinyl Scratch demanded of the scrap of paper in her hoof.

“Why the buck are we going to this thing?” Vinyl asked Octavia as they walked down the street, the sun just beginning to set behind the houses of Ponyville.

“Well, isn’t this a switch? Who would ever have thought Octavia would be dragging Vinyl Scratch to a party, hmm?” the classically trained musician said, her nose in the air, giving her friend a sidelong glance. “But that’s beside the point,” she continued. “This is going to be my farewell party!”

“I don’t think it counts if you and I are the only two ponies who know that, Tavy,” Vinyl said, her brow cutting a straight line across her forehead. “And how can this be your farewell party if the audition isn’t for another week? You’re talking like you already made it!”

“Oh, the playing test is more of a formality when you’re as good as I am.”

“Kay, let’s assume it is. Even so—contrary to popular belief, it seems—we’re not going to a party; what we’re doing here is gatecrashing a party. (At least I am, you’re the only one who got invited.)”

“As if the best DJ to ever have attended Ponyville College is going to be turned away at the door to a college party.” Tavy knew that the pony’s ego wouldn’t allow her to contest the point. And it was true that Vinyl Scratch was the best DJ at their college, and at least close to that in all of Ponyville.

Something else occurred to Octavia, and she turned to address Vinyl again. “Part two of that statement: as if you haven’t gatecrashed parties before, Scratch!”

“What? Me? Gatecrash? I’m hurt that you would even suggest that!” Vinyl said, managing almost to appear so. “Wounded, even!”

“Hmm? Then what about that fashionista pony’s party last week? Or the party my pianist threw the week before that?”

“Hey, you said you’re piano player would be cool with it if you brought me as a guest! And how was I supposed to know it was going to be that kind of party, anyway?” Vinyl said, adjusting her glasses. “Also, that party last week was a Pinkie Party! You don’t need to be invited to a Pinkie Party!”

“Well the party tonight is being thrown by Pinkie Pie as well, didn’t you know?”

Vinyl paused for a moment. “Wait, what? Really? Oh. Well maybe this party won’t totally suck then.” She picked up her pace ever so slightly. The unicorn’s comment made Octavia smile—the real reason for the previous reluctance to go to the party now making itself clear.

“Hey!” Vinyl said, stopping short, turning on Octavia. “Why did you get invited and not me?”

Octavia laughed. “Probably because they didn’t think you would attend, even if they had.”

“Yeah, well they got that bit right. Like hay I’d want to go to some lame house party. Probably won’t even have good music. Why are we going to this again?”

They approached the party house and Tavy knocked on the door (more out of propriety, than anything) while Vinyl hung back and tried to make sulking seem as cool as possible. To both of their surprises, the knock on the door seemed to have been heard over the pounding boom of the music coming from inside, as the door was then opened. This initial assumption was quickly discredited, however, as the look of relative shock on the unicorn’s face who had opened the door made it clear that it was a complete coincidence, and that no knock had been heard at all.

“Oh, hey Tavia,” shouted the green mare with a harp for a cutie mark who stood in the doorway, once she had realized who was standing there. “I was just stepping out for some air. Why don’t you go on in!”

“Hello Lyra. Yes, we’ll do that—”

“Hey!” Lyra cut her off. “Vinyl Scratch! I didn’t see you there. The music totally sucks here—we’re saved!” Before either Tavy or Vinyl could say anything, the green unicorn turned back towards the party-in-progress and somehow yelled over top of it all, “Yo! It’s DJ PON-3!”

There was a chorus of shouts and cheers. From the midst of the crowd burst an exploding unit of pink mirth, with an outrageously curly mane that was apparently caught in the very process of the aforementioned exploding.

“DJ PON-3! Woohoo! I thought you would never show up!” the pink pony shouted as they entered into the house, perfectly audible over the deafening noise from the party. “You’re going to DJ for us, right? These ponies here need to PARTY!”

“Actually, Pinkie, I came with—wait, you were expecting me to come but hadn’t invited me?”

A pony Vinyl didn’t know leaned in from the crowd behind Pinkie. “Pretty much!” he said. “She knew inviting Tavia would be the only way to get you out here!”

“Hey!” the pink pony turned on the colt. “That’s a mean jerky-jerk thing to say, you know! That makes it sound like we didn’t really want Tavy here! Which is just crazy—who wouldn’t want such a super great awesome-talented cello-playing pony at their party? I know I sure do!” She turned back to Vinyl and Tavy. “Don’t mind him, he’s just clopped squiffy!” Pinkie paused for half-a-second. “Though he is right, it was the only way to get you here, Scratch!”

Pinkie Pie bounded forward, stopping not quite an inch from Vinyl’s face. “So are you gonna DJ for us? Hey? Hey? Hey?! Areyouareyouareyou?!”

“No, I’m just here because—well, hey, where’s Neon Lights? Isn’t he here? Just get him to do it! He’s almost as good as I am (don’t tell him I said that),” Vinyl said.

“What, MC W1SH? No, he’s off on tour in Canterlot!” said Pinkie.

“Wha—Really?” asked Vinyl. “Wow, good for him, I guess. But, look, I wasn’t really planning on . . .” she trailed off, glancing at Octavia.

“It’s fine,” Octavia said, smiling. “These ponies want you to DJ for them, ‘pone three’! You can’t let them down!” Octavia winked at her.

Vinyl signed, “Tavy, you say it just like ‘pony,’ you don’t say the ‘three’ anywhere in it.” But she smiled, and turned to Pinkie. “Alright, alright, let’s get me to a turntable,” she finally conceded, and there was nearly a pink combustion reaction that took place in front of her, followed by her being lead to Pinkie’s turntable that had been left to itself with a single record spinning on it. “Kay, let’s get me some tracks, and brace for impact, yo!” Vinyl said, switching into character.

Vinyl Scratch took off her large purple shades as she begun to get everything set up. She brought out a mic and proceeded to plug it into the still live sound system.

Plugging the mic in—without muting the channel first—created a loud pop and boom from the speakers, followed by a brief moment of feedback as the jack went in. Having had a fair amount of experience with many of the technical aspects of making noise, she did this knowing full well that it would, in fact, cause the speaker heads to shoot out as far as they could go in the shortest amount of time that they could do it in—potentially causing irreparable damage such as blowing the speakers every time it happened, as well as generally reducing their life-expectancy. Vinyl felt, however, that it was completely worth the risk (doubly so, in this case: they weren’t her speakers): the effect was one of those unmistakable sounds—akin to the cocking of a gun—and signifying something similar.

A hush began to fall; excitement hummed through the party.

Vinyl took this moment to glance through the crown, and spotted Tavy, who had found her way to a couch at the back of the room. She was sipping a drink and talking to no one.

The DJ leaned into the mic, performing her standard sound check before getting started. “Test test. One two . . . testes. Testes, one, two . . . check!” The response was a few inebriated guffaws.

“Yo, this DJ’s got balls!” came a shout from a pony who was clearly one moderately well versed in realm of biological sciences.

“You know it!” Vinyl called back, a wide grin on her face. “And you better believe they’re bigger than yours, chump!” How she loved the pre-show banter. But it was time to get this going.

She leaned further into the mic until her lips were brushing against it, gripping the volume dial in a magic glow and spinning it with force enough for it to reach eleven. “HEY! DJ PON-3 IS IN THE HOUSE!” The room exploded in noise, and she tossed on a nice solid track, all levels down but the bass. She kept it pretty mellow (relatively speaking) so that her voice could still be heard for what she was about to say.

“Now, I’m gonna DJ for all y’all, but that means that this is DJ PON-3’s party now!”

(A pink pony, who was now in the air above the crowd, made clear her protest to this. The DJ caught up a pair of huge purple glasses in her blue magic aura, lifting them up and around with a great flourish, and slapped them down onto her face—following up the gesture with its accompanying response. The pink pony threatened that there would be another party tomorrow if this usurpation were to continue. There was much rejoicing.)

“And now that this is my party,” Vinyl continued, talking over top of any and all other comments from the floor, “I say that it isn’t my party any more, but that it’s a farewell party!” Vinyl loved being in front of a mic. There was no arguing with a pony in front of a mic. “And that this farewell party is a farewell party for Ponyville’s own freakishly talented, extra gorgeous Octavia! Who’s going to rock her audition next week and land a spot in the scary-amazing Royal Conservatory of Music! AEYOW!”

The party ponies turned to look at Octavia and all cheered and yelled.

“Wow, I wish I was banging the DJ!” came a shout from “that pony.” Every party has one.

Not that Vinyl was offended—she and Tavy were more than used to comments like that. (To hay with it: pretty much everypony thought it was the only reasonable explanation for how two ponies so different had become so close.) But they were just friends, and they both knew that. And that’s probably what they always would be.

Especially if Tavy left for Canterlot, Vinyl thought.

“Maybe you’d have half a chance if you were even half as cool as Tavy!” was what she said. The party ponies laughed. “Now shut up and DANCE!”

As Vinyl dropped the bass—which was so absolutely mind-melting and rather destructively powerful that it nearly flattened all the ponies lucky enough to be near the front—she glanced around, noticing a small crowd had formed at the couch at the back of the room. The DJ then had a most peculiar and foreign sensation crawl its way through her: being behind the turntables was not where she most wanted to be at that moment.