'Crossroads'
Night in the city of Manehatten. The small hours, with little darkness still left before the sun rises. The scene: a narrow intersection, the kind that doesn't see many carriages coming down either street. There's a dented trashcan and a streetlight covered in posters and information about ponies looking for roommates. On the four corners are a deli (closed), a barber shop (closed), the entrance to a stack of brick apartments (locked), and the place where the action is, the loading entrance to a dance club. The rolling door is open and light spills on to the street and a waiting carriage. Voices come from inside the entrance.
A white unicorn emerges, pushing a speaker almost as tall as she is on a rolling bed with four small wheels. Her trademark goggles are up on her forehead. With them, she is DJ PON-3; without, plain Vinyl Scratch.
She loads the speaker into the back of the carriage, which is half-full of Vinyl's gear. The other half has yet to emerge from the back of the club. Unseen by Vinyl, the streetlight across the intersection flickers. The streets are dark for a moment, and when they light again, a pony stands there where there was none before. He is a deep red in color and keeps his goatee tapering down to a point. His back is to the streetlight, his face in shadow.
"Vinyl Scratch," he says, his voice warm and deep like a crackling fire.
Vinyl's head pokes around the side of the carriage. "Huh?"
"You are Vinyl Scratch, yes?" The red pony approaches, crossing both streets. "Or would you prefer DJ PON-3?"
"Vinyl's fine, dude." She leans against the carriage. "Did you want like an autograph, or...?"
"Oh, no, no, no..." He chuckles. The sound is like the popping of wood. "I wanted to offer something to you."
"If this is another one of those fliers with the cheap drinks on Thursdays, I already got like three of--"
"Absolutely not." The red stranger with the darkened face is close enough to Vinyl now to reach out and touch her. If he wanted. "This is something far more important than cheap drinks."
"What, then?"
"How would you like to be a great musician?" he asks.
Vinyl raises an eyebrow. "No offense, dude, but I already am a great musician."
"Oh, you're good, there's no doubt," he says with a polite smirk, "but you could be great." His words are clipped, all business. His tone is even, but a fervor beneath the surface pushes them out in a torrent. "You play a club here in Manehatten and there in Canterlot, but how many ponies will remember you from any other DJ at the turntables? You have the potential to be better than that, to not just fade away the moment the night is over. You could be famous the world over, your name synonymous with the genre of music you create. You could be a legend."
"And... you'd help me with that?"
"It would be my pleasure." He smiles with too many teeth. "Are you... interested?"
"Sure! Let's do this."
The stranger cocks his head. "There is just one thing I would ask in return. Just a tiny payment, in exchange."
Vinyl sucks in breath. "Yeah, buddy, I don't really have all that much cash right now..."
"Oh, this isn't a monetary payment. It's just a small token. More symbolic than anything, really."
"Huh? So I have to... give you something?"
He purses his lips. "You could say that. It's not a thing you would miss."
"What?"
A voice comes from inside the loading bay. "Vinyl, who are you talking to?"
Vinyl turns her head back to the light. "Oh, just this guy!" She swivels back. "Hey, could you make my friend a legend too? She's a musician, she plays the cello."
"Of course. It's an easy process. It's as good as done."
A greyscale mare emerges from the loading bay with the other half of the music gear. Octavia. Vinyl rushes over to her.
"'Tavi! You gotta come talk to this guy! He says he can totally kickstart my music career, and yours too!"
Octavia peers around Vinyl to look at the red stranger. A strange look is in his eyes for a brief second: a flash of recognition?
"Vinyl," she says, her voice flat, staring at the stranger, "we should go."
"But... but..."
"Now." She pushes the bed laden with turntables and a mixing deck over to the carriage.
Vinyl stares in disbelief. "But... aren't you even going to...?"
"No." She starts loading equipment. "You shouldn't speak with that pony."
"Why not?"
"Because he's the Devil, Vinyl."
Vinyl looks over her shoulder. The red stranger steps into the light, revealing his cloven hooves and stubby horns emerging from his temples. He is smiling again. His teeth are sharp.
"You are correct, Octavia," he says, "and your friend and I were conducting business."
"What?" Vinyl exclaims, taking a step back. "No way, buddy! Whatever you're selling, I don't want any of it!"
"But," the Devil says, "you did agree to the exchange of prodigious musical talent for your soul."
Octavia silently mouths the word 'soul' and stares at Vinyl. Vinyl's eyes go wide.
"Soul? Dude, you never said anything about souls!"
The Devil shrugs. "Caveat emptor."
"Whazzat?"
Octavia pushes past Vinyl to stand muzzle to muzzle with the Devil. "Now see here," she says, "you can't have ponies entering into contracts without their full knowledge of the terms. You have a hoofshake agreement, at best. Nothing official."
"Well, we'll decide that when Vinyl here dies." He flashes the stunned unicorn a grin. "I'll let you keep your soul until then."
"No, not good enough." Octavia pokes the Devil's chest with a hoof. "I challenge you for our souls back. If I win, you release any lien you have over either of our souls and you go back to Tartarus. If I lose, you can take both our souls with you right now."
"Hey!" Vinyl exclaims, but she is ignored.
The Devil considers. "Very well," he says with narrowed eyes. "Name your arena."
Octavia pushes back her mane. "Music, of course."
"Then so be it!"
Smoke billows from beneath the Devil's hooves. He disappears, engulfed in the blackened cloud. Lights flash from within. Growls, hissing. When the smoke clears, the Devil no longer takes the form of a pony, but a mythic wicked horned beast, with claws and fangs and a serpentine tongue. He holds an electric guitar, a fat axe connected to a gargantuan amp upon which he stands. He holds his pick to the sky, a scale plucked from the hide of an elder dragon. It shines with black malevolence in the darkness.
And then he begins to play.
His claws fly over the fretboard. Notes fly in a barrage. The trashcan jumps from the sheer force of sound. A wave of noise blankets the crossroads but it is only heard by the two ponies and the Prince of Darkness. It is a virtuoso performance, the most metal thing to have ever occurred in the history of creation. Vinyl's ears ring as the Devil holds his weapon aloft to sustain the final note. He then smashes it against the amp in a shower of sparks and flames. Were her soul not on the line, she would have flicked open her lighter.
Octavia is unfazed.
Calmly, she unloads her cello case from the carriage and opens it in the street. She does not hurry. The Devil watches her with his black eyes. A bead of sweat runs down his forehead; from exertion, or from fear?
The first note is long and hauntingly beautiful. As Octavia plays, a tale forms in the music, a formless narrative of love unrealized and lost. She sways as she draws the bow across the strings, her eyes closed, her body at one with the sound. Her mane whips with the sharp sudden notes. Her song is a great lament, the howl of a broken spirit, the cries of an infinity of lonely lovers, the despair of motherless children. It leaves wounds in the heart deep enough to warrant physical pain. The clouds part. The sun rises in the sky. A heavenly choir sings. A single glistening tear rolls down the Horned One's cheek.
Octavia gently places her instrument back in its case. She snaps the lid shut. The sound sound is coarse and vulgar when compared with the divine symphony that has just occurred.
"Go back to Hell where you belong," she whispers.
Flames erupt beneath the Devil. He gives an incoherent roar as he is sucked back to the depths.
Meanwhile, Vinyl's mouth is hanging open. Literally. "How..." She fumbles for words. "Where did you learn to play like that?"
"It's not important." Octavia loads her cello into the back of the carriage once more.
"Uh, yeah, it kinda is. Seriously, what's the deal?"
"You can figure it out on your own, if you put your mind to it."
She turns to Vinyl.
"Besides, I wasn't about to let the Devil take your soul."
Octavia kisses her on the cheek.
"Everypony knows that belongs to me already."
Author's Note
"Crossroads" by Cream/Eric Clapton is a cover of "Cross Road Blues" by blues musician Robert Johnson, who supposedly sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for his legendary guitar skills.
