Loose strings twanged and amplifiers hissed as they cracked to life, the massive speakers rumbling the small wooden stage. Three ponies, a griffin, and one determined roadie stood upon the stage, the former testing and tuning up before their practice, the latter running wires and cables across, up, and down the stage.
The Rage Cage had swept Equestria by storm. A little known group based in Trottingham, the Rage Cage was the most unorthodox musical group in the nation. Two earth ponies played bass and guitar respectively, their hooves making it tough, but not impossible. The keyboardist was a unicorn, her abilities proved useful in many a show, performing lighting and pinging away on two synthesizers. The drummer was an able-bodied griffin, his forelimbs rippled with muscle, boasting numerous years as a touring artist.
That just left Scootaloo, the mismatched roadie who could fit into small places, and knew a fair amount of licks and songs, in case one member got injured on stage. She had picked up a ticket to a show in Manehattan, going with Dash while she was in town with the 'Bolts. After the show, she and Dash had run into the group backstage, where they offered her the roadie position after a short jam. She was ecstatic, having toured half the country, and tonight would be no different. She wound the cable spool around the stage, making sure to tape down any exposed areas. Soon, the pedals and amplifiers made their way to the stage. Finally, Scootaloo slapped a small list below the mic stand, the small light box showing the words clearly.
Cables were grabbed, beers drunk, and cigarettes extinguished as the feedback filled the room. The amplifiers whined happily when the crunch of the guitar rose above the stage and filled the hall with glorious soundwaves. The bassist tuned up, thumping away on the strings with a barely-restrained smile on his face. The drums pounded and bumped the air, crashes of cymbals punctuating the slam of the bass drum. The song launched into full force, the bassist stepping up to the mic, before opening his mouth and wailing an ear-wrenching cry. Scootaloo's hairs stood on end as the music was making her heart pound away in her chest. The amps screamed pure bliss - until a screech pitched through the system, nearly deafening the entire group.
"Bah, Scoota, baby, what's with the feedback loops?" Wild Style, the bassist remarked, his cultured accent coming out slightly. "We don't need that bad mojo, if you catch my drift, yeah?" He returned to his bass, retuning and adjusting the strap to fit. Golden Chord, the guitarist shrugged, cranking his volume to the max, the hum of the amp rumbling the stage. Soon, the group had restarted the song, Scootaloo twisting dials and flicking knobs in an effort to quell the feedback loop.
Two hours passed by relatively uneventfully. The band rehearsed a few bad takes and called it a night, the clack of the amps being shut off bringing her sweet silence for only a moment, before the raucous party outside made itself known. Grumbling something about stallions and their 'booze-tails', Scootaloo began to disassemble the main props for the stage, unscrewing and untying the fasteners needed to hold it all together. Retuning to the ground floor, she pulled out Clementire, sat down before the amplifiers, and strummed a soulful tune, the bluesy wails bringing a melancholy to the stage.
The cries of her axe muffled the creak of the great dragon's head they topped their ridiculous display with before it came crashing down like moon to planet. Scootaloo saw the shadow before she saw the dragon's maw, inches from her face. She screamed.
A pounding filled her head, eardrums beating furiously as her heart as she slowly sat up. Looking about her, she saw majestic wilderness, with signs of civilization spread near and far. She pinched herself, wincing as the pain shot up her leg. Pain meant alive; alive meant this wasn't Equestria. She sat down, her entire body stumbling backwards into the wall behind her, but it felt...softer than concrete. She turned about, and came face to face with a massive Haysa Boogie amplifier, the structure stretching stories into the sky. She could only wonder at the size of the axe needed to play that amp, until she felt a familiar weight on her back, swinging Clementire around and catching her between hooves.
Raising a child is nothing compared to raising sweet, sweet murmurs from a reliable old girl, and Scootaloo wasted no time in plucking the strings, adjusting the tuning and facing the horizon, where she could make out a small town made of what appeared to be gig cases, guitars, and amplifiers. Leaning back, against the Haysa, she strummed a ditty, its meandering style belying her discomfort at not knowing her location. As soon as she plucked the first string, however, her fretboard began to flash intermittently, the notes appearing as though inviting her to play. She ignored it for a time, but the incessant flashing began to wear on her, and she followed the fretboard's instructions, slamming out a tasty riff. She finished, and the lights disappeared, before her entire field of view was filled with the sight of a massive zeppelin careening toward the ground, flames ravaging its body and the steelwork red hot from friction. A deafening boom filled the land, the ground rumbling as the airship exploded, raining bits of charred fabric and red hot steel onto the ground in front of her.
"Brutal."
Picking up Clementire, she gaped at the immense destruction the zeppelin had caused. She looked back at her axe to find the lights still flashing, but dimmer. She turned about, facing the distant mountains, before laying down the riff once more, the creak of breaking metal and fire crackling roared overhead, toward a mountain with far more guitar-trees than she'd have liked. Luckily, the zeppelin had missed her, the ground littered in the wreckage of the airship, small animals scurrying about the flames.
A loud rumble sounded behind her. "Augh, not again!" She looked down to see her guitar hanging loosely around her neck, then turned to see the source of the rumble: a shiny, black hot-rod racer, flames shooting from the engine that, at three times the size of herself, should have had no right to be under - and through - the hood. The stallion behind the wheel had wild black hair, his eyes donned circular sunglasses that reminded her of Wild Style. He motioned for her to approach, opening the passenger door.
"Come, Brutaloo, your destiny awaits."
Author's Note
I was trying to sleep, but nooo! My brain decided to rhyme things with Scootaloo and made me have to write this. I can't guarantee It'll be a huge thing, maybe a chapter or two more. Dunno.
Silly things. Also, shame if you don't get what it's based on.
