Anarchy in the Equestrian Nation

The sky was exactly the color of sky that the high-noon sky never was. The sun was beginning to drop below the horizon, its warm light partially masked by the mountains surrounding the Ponyville area. Vagabond, Manga, Turntable, Red Tear, Pitch-Perfect, and myself sat at the edge of the stage, all of us staring up at the clear golden-orange expanses above us as the Muffin Factory's employees, decked out in Ravine Cafe T-shirts, set to work putting together the outdoor buffet. An hour until the concert that may or may not save the Ravine. I thought, before taking a quick look at my friends and rising to my hooves, calling attention to myself.

"As all of you know, us and several other bands are the only things standing between our favorite cafe and its bankruptcy. In times like these, we all need somepony to lean on, and if I was able to pick anypony for that job, it'd be all of you. You've been nothing but supportive of me, Pitch, and Red, and I don't think it's possible for me to be any more thankful than I already am for you guys, for giving us friends to lean on. Now, we need to be the ones leaned upon. To say Espresso is going through a rough patch involving this would be a severe understatement, and we need to be there for him. He's depending on us above all others. Our philosophy is that no Outcast is truly alone, and this is our chance to show that that extends to everypony. Our chance to make a difference, to be remembered, and most importantly to show that we care." I finished my speech, the rousing words met with vigorous stomping from Outcasts and bystanders alike. I drew my friends into a group hug. "Now, who's ready to go out and kick some flank!?"

"WE ARE!" they roared in unison, the deafening shout raising my spirits, that little nagging doubt that we wouldn't earn enough to keep the Ravine from going out of business vanquished by my newfound courage and vigor. With friends like them, there was just no losing.

The party dining room served as a makeshift backstage area for us and our fellow bands, a cunning visual pun cast by the green light thrown about the room by lamps with green paper shades. A literal green room. Clever. I thought, chuckling. Six-String had added more tables to the already-huge square of surfaces the bands seated themselves at, multiple variety platters of muffins before them for their perusal and inevitable munching. The Chiptones sat nearer to us, dressed casually and sitting in a rather odd manner, slouching in their chairs a bit. Celestians 28, in comparison, looked far stuffier, dressed in fine white suits and sitting normally, bodies perfectly poised. Kind of hard to believe they're a rock band. I silently remarked, looking once more at my friends and remembering something important.

"Wait a minute guys, I knew I missed something. Be back in a few minutes." I darted away from the table, vanishing into the kitchen, where Muffin Top waited, telekinetic grip holding up a large box. "Thanks, MT. Getting Rarity to design these must have been tough." He nodded, chuckling a bit.

Against my own curiosity, I decided not to peek at the jackets inside, but rather simply carried it to the table. I set it upon the polished hardwood and flipped the lid open. Inside sat a stack of what appeared to be meticulously folded squares of black cloth, but upon unfolding the first, I was entranced by what it really was.

The black track jacket that was held before my eyes was so much more than I'd expected. I'd thought that as busy as Rarity was that maybe she'd just embroidered the jackets or even just ironed-on some designs, but no. In front of me, beautifully rendered in miniscule gemstones and high-quality thread upon the back of the coat, was our logo. I was struck speechless, and cast my current coat upon the chair.

"Well, I recently put in an order for some custom jackets from Rarity, but I didn't expect this." I stated blankly as I unpacked the other jackets, all bearing the same logo upon the back in the same gemstone patterns. Vagabond and Red Tear donned theirs in turn, wide grins across their faces.

"Now, who's ready to go save a cafe?" I asked my friends and the other bands, smirking.

"WE ARE!" was the collective roared (or in Celestians 28's case, firmly stated) response.

I stood behind the curtain, grinning like a madstallion, Rickenbucker slung around my chest and hooves frantically pawing at the ground in excitement. "I can't believe it, guys. Our first real gig. The talent show was chicken scratch compared  to this. This. Will. Be. AWESOME." Night had since fallen, and the moon was just cresting over the mountains to the west, a perfect backdrop for the rock that would soon commence. I took a peek at the setlist and stepped forth from behind the curtains, the stage lights not yet on but the kerosene lamps from below illuminating the crowd well enough. Ponies of all three species, not to mention a few griffins and donkeys, even a buffalo. It extended far beyond the courtyard well into Mane Street and even to the next few shops over. Didn't expect this kind of turnout. I remarked in my mind. Six-String tapped my shoulder with a hoof, and I craned my neck around to face the kindly white pegasus, who held in his other wing a beaten five-string bass guitar.

"Take this. It plays well, but it's old. Do what you please with it." He winked during the last part of the phrase as I set the Ric upon the stand it usually sat upon and took up the five-string, slinging the weathered and worn strap around my withers before making a cautious step upon the stage.