Mixed Upby Overlord PonyChaptersIIIIIIIVVEpilogueIA small cloud of moths danced around a streetlight outside the shop, appearing as white specks and vanishing into shadows as they fluttered. Mixtape liked watching the moths and the shadows of ponies trotting past the windows of his store. They kept him from looking elsewhere, like at the empty shelves and the "Everything Must Go!" signs taped to the boxes scattered across the floor. "Damn," a mare's voice from behind him said, "the store's lookin' bleak." The mare, Threadbare, was chewing gum so loudly that Mixtape felt his ears swivel to catch the noise. He turned toward her after watching a silhouetted couple walk past on the other side of the street. He looked beyond the cyan unicorn at the empty, gray shelving units covered in dust. The dirt throughout the store was illuminated in unearthly clarity under the florescent light, especially in the grout of the white tiled floor. At least in the day, he could pretend the shadows of his store didn't exist. "Yeah," he said, finally looking to Threadbare. Her eyebrows, pierced with sparkling gems, were drawn down, and her dark eyes were staring him down with such an intensity that the words he had prepared to say stuck in his throat. "So, you gonna retire?" she asked between chewing. Mixtape felt his heart drop and an artificial chill settle in his chest. He nodded but didn't meet Threadbare's eyes. "Life is going to be tough without this place, though," he said. "You're broke," she said. The words, harsh and staccato, hung in the air. She had stopped chewing. Mixtape shifted his weight. "I—" He looked down; the silence was heavy for a moment. "Yes." "I told you years ago, Mixxy." She had. Threadbare had been a regular since the beginning, back when eight-tracks had just gone out of style and cassette tapes were the next best thing. Back then, they had probably been too friendly, attending parties together and getting themselves into trouble, but that was just how Mixtape interacted with his customers-- at least back then. Relationships were much more casual twenty years in the past; that's why when CDs first hit the market, she was comfortable enough to tell him that he had to make a change, that his business would come to ruin. If only he had listened... and listened again when she said that the store was done two years later. He would have bits; not many, but enough to live modestly in some nowhere town. As it stood, his small retirement had dwindled into one month's worth of funds for housing and food. His eyes burned as he nodded his solemn recognition. Threadbare sighed and reached a hoof across the dingy counter, brushing his shirt. He looked to her, aware of his downturned lips. "What do you have left that I will like?" she asked. Things she would like—music, in particular. His job; the livelihood he had built around himself. There was still some work— not much –for a few more days. Inventory needed cleared out and throwing it away would be not only wasteful, but add to the heartbreak of closing. While he knew Threadbare didn't actually want or need anything from the store, she had offered him the opportunity to pretend, one last time. He straightened his posture and took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he did so. Tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes before were loosened and fell down his cheeks when he reopened them. "What have you been interested in lately?" he asked, feeling some of the cold void that had settled inside his chest leave his body as he slipped into a role he had rarely been able to play in recent moons. Threadbare smiled, her ears swiveling forward as she brought a hoof under her chin in mock thought. Her lips screwed to the side, then she said, "Y'know, I recently heard a song from one of my dad's old records by Flank Zippa? I don't remember what it was called, but, you know, it went like this—" She proceeded to hum a vague melody that was common of music from Flank Zippa's era, something simultaneously complex and generic. Mixtape nodded along, then said, "Ah yes, the one about swans. I know just the thing." He turned toward the bead curtain that led to his office, took a step, then said, "I'll be right back. You hang out right there." Threadbare gave the affirmative as Mixtape stepped away, past the strings of yellowed plastic disks that shielded his office view. As soon as the beads parted around him and he took in the mess of boxes—mostly filled with overstuffed manila folders—piled on every available surface of his office, a deep sadness began to crush him. The sensation became all-consuming as he failed to find a place to look in the room that did not hold memories. Every box, every folder, every decoration—all had an emotion imprinted on his mind that only caused the deep despair to crush him further. It was over. The days of sneaking into his office with customers in the night hours to hit his bong, the one he sold weeks ago as an "antique vase," were over. The ponies he had held close through his store were gone, either through death, disinterest or relocation. The storefront that had been home to Mix's Tapes would never again be frequented by creatures in brightly colored clothes with too-loud boomboxes on their withers. Never again would he have to settle a dispute between music tastes or fix a broken tape deck. There was a purity, an innocence, to the times before, when his shelves had been full, not dusty. It felt innocent like the foals that had played chase through the aisles in the best of days. The same kind of laughter could, perhaps, grace whatever business took over the space after he vacated, but it would not be the same. Something about modern times was corrupted and cruel. The pressure of sadness was suffocating, and he found himself anchored in place in an office that suddenly felt alien. Nothing was as it once was; there was a deep veil of loss that had settled into the shadows of the room. "You see a ghost?" Threadbare asked. Her voice, close, felt so distant. "No," he said. He was only partially aware of the hollowness in his tone, but Threadbare's comment had reminded him of what he was supposed to be doing: work. On top of a filing cabinet by the door, there was an oblong box of cassette and vinyl albums containing some of his favorite music, Flank Zippa included. The spot had always been home to a collection of his favorite inventory. He grasped the box in his yellow magic and walked back out to the counter, setting it near Threadbare. "Ghost gotcha good," she said. "You're looking a bit warped!" The attempt at continuing their little roleplay did little to lift Mixtape's spirits, but he put on a fake smile as he pulled several items from the box. None were particularly valuable, but the sentimental value behind the plastic cases and record sleeves had largely been why they became favorites. He laid them all out to face Threadbare, colorful artwork on display and memories running in the back of Mixtape's mind as his thoughts reminded him of why he had kept each item in the box. Until closing, Mixtape pretended to pretend. He talked about each album at length, allowing himself to indulge in the bittersweet memories surrounding each one. For a moment, he was transported back to warm concerts in fields outside of major cities, the humid nights' air and creatures abound, their touch, the scent—it had all been so perfect. He would get lost in those thoughts until Threadbare gently brought him back, asking to compare the music to her fake Zippa melody. Reminded so suddenly of the world, Mixtape would step back into his old persona, comparing the music and explaining why he thought each album was a good fit. Threadbare would ask questions at appropriate intervals and chew her gum loudly as he answered—the only sign of her disinterest. Mixtape wanted to tell her that it wasn't working, that he was feeling more and more exhausted each time she brought him back to earth. All he really wanted was to close the store early, to think about the times before, but Threadbare had three foals and the time she spent with Mixtape—thirty minutes on Sunday evenings—was the only time she had away from home and work. Even though he knew her well, their friendship had dissolved into warm acquaintance over the years as she had settled into her life. She decided to buy two cassettes and two records—the only music Mixtape had had time to talk about before she had to leave. "Keep the change," Threadbare said, pushing a small cloth bag of bits across the counter. She pulled the bag of albums into her white magic aura as she stepped away from the counter to leave, then paused and looked over her shoulder. Their eyes met for a long moment. "Goodnight, Mixxy." She had stopped chewing gum. He felt the sadness squeezing his lungs as it bore down on his chest, harder than before. For a moment—a long one—his goodbye caught in his throat. "Goodnight, Threadbare," he finally said. His voice cracked. Her smile was tight-lipped. Normally, their goodbye had a timeframe, almost always "next Sunday." Their interaction had been routine. "Take care of yourself," she said, then turned away and trotted out the door. The bells mounted on the doorframe jingled as it closed, then the incessant buzz of the overhead lights-- unheard while he was focused on Threadbare --took over the silence. II"So, this is it," Starry Step said. The key to the shop hovered between them, encased in Mixtape's yellow magic. He couldn't bring himself to speak. Instead, he gave a curt nod. His landlord, a stout mare who had owned the storefront for the entirety of its life, took the key in her dark blue magic. The absence of feeling as she took the key from him, that slight weight change from holding something to not holding anything at all, made him wince. He closed his eyes tight, fighting back tears as Starry Step's hooves echoed on the dirty tile. "Are you giving me all this stuff?" she asked. Mixtape hadn't been able to find anypony to buy most of his excess inventory, and he had nowhere to put most of the boxes piled in his office—not that their contents were necessarily important. "I thought it could cover cleaning costs," he said, opening his eyes; tears fell down his nose and dripped to his hooves. "An auction house might want it." "Nopony wants your files, Mixxy." She sounded so tired. He looked up, finally, to see her standing at the doorway of his office. She was older than Mixtape's parents when he had started renting the space, and age was catching up to her. "I'll throw them out," he said. Starry Step frowned. The wrinkles on her face deepened. His eyes darted to the empty shelves to his side. "Don't worry about it," she said. There was a pause and hoofsteps, then, "I think this is important." Mixtape looked back toward her. She was out of sight in his office. He walked back to his old workspace and poked his head through the beads. The box of his favorites levitated just above its spot on the cabinet, illuminated by her blue magic. She was looking toward his desk. He quickly took the box in his own magic and pulled it close to him. "That is where you keep your favorite junk, right?" she asked. He almost nodded, but realized she was still turned away from him. He cleared his throat, then said, "Yeah." "Glad I didn't let you leave without it, then." "Thanks." His lips twitched, almost into a smile. Starry Step had always been a good landlord, and she had once even frequented the store as a customer. The part of Manehattan that the store was in had been a very up-and-coming, artsy place when Mix's Tapes opened. Starry Step had always been out-of-place in the youthful community. She only shopped for music from her own time, but the elderly mare had always seemed to enjoy the energy of the neighborhood. It had since matured as the ponies who were painting murals and holding dancing contests began their true journeys into adulthood, and Starry Step, while her music taste never changed, stopped coming when the area became overrun with restaurants instead of artsy shops. He stepped out of his old office and looked out the window. In the mornings, most businesses on the street were closed. The ponies they catered to worked long hours, and it wasn't economical for most of the stores to be open until lunchtime or later. One stallion strolled by wearing a tuxedo, but the noises from the city felt distant in their quiet part of town. "I'm going to miss you, you know," Starry Step said. Mixtape turned to see her standing near him. "You never caused any trouble, you were always on top of rent..." she shook her head, then sighed. "I'm just going to sell the place like I did with all the others. I'm too old to be taking care of properties." "I can help cl—" "Mixtape." The sternness in her voice was like a schoolteacher's. "Your boxes are not the reason I am retiring. I'm old, and I've been old. You're the last tenant I have, and this was always the plan." He nodded. He was looking past her, at the tiles beneath her hooves. "Your mess is going to be somepony else's problem, so make sure there's not anything incriminating in there before you go." He didn't move. Weeks ago, he had made sure to get rid of anything remotely illegal he had done over the years. There was no evidence from the time Threadbare had convinced him to evade taxes for two years, nor of the drugs that he had bought on occasion. He had sold his bong that he bought at a concert years ago, and all those pictures from times passed—the ones showing him and his friends smoking around fires at concerts, lude photos of his friends taken as jokes, and even the one, blurry picture of him doing lines at a house party—had been burned. "There isn't," he finally said. The morning sun painted the city in shadow, but the sliver of sky that he saw reflected in the windows across the street was the pure morning blue. Starry Step sighed. "Well..." The word hung in the air. Mixtape looked over at her, and she looked up at him. She smiled, but it didn't meet her eyes. She said, "I guess there isn't much else to say." Their eye contact lasted entirely too long, and her smile of pity wavered as Mixtape stayed silent. He was aware of the disconnect between his mind and reality, that he should say something, but he was at a loss for words. Emotions were raw in the last days of the store, and he felt an exhaustion unlike any he ever had before. His mind was empty. His body was empty. What filled the void was the wish of escapism through sleep despite not being sleep-tired. "What are you going to do, Mixxy?" Starry Step asked. Her tone had shifted into something softer—a voice his mother would have used when he was a foal. "I-" he faltered, cleared his throat, and tried again. "I'll figure it out." "You haven't yet?" Her voice went up an octave. He shook his head. Mixtape understood the concern—he was overrun with worry over what he would be doing next. There was nothing that matched Mix's Tapes. He had yet to find a job that inspired him like his own store had despite job hunting, albeit he hadn't been looking hard. There was no point to working if he felt nothing; he knew he would do a sub-par job and eventually be fired, which would ruin any modern, relevant experience he had. "I know places hiring," Starry Step said. "I can give you their contact information. They're just cleaning jobs, but it is something until you can get back on your hooves." She turned to the saddlebag on her side, horn lighting up. "I know it's hard to go between professions, but... sometimes things change. It's how I got into being a landlord!" Things change. Mixtape turned and looked at the store. The gray shelves, dusty and empty. The tiles, black around the edges with dirty grout. The lights: bare tubes across a tiled, porous ceiling. Black metal mounts for electronics hung at various angles from the back wall. A card hovered in front of his face. His eyes crossed to read it, but it was still blurry so close. He took it in his magic and, without reading it, looked over at Starry Step and nodded. He said, "Thank you." She gave him that smile again: the one that didn't quite reach her eyes, the one that spoke a special kind of pity. He bowed his head slightly to her, then turned away. "I hope to see you around!" she said as he reached the door. He raised a hoof at her and walked outside into the crisp air. His box of favorites floated alongside him as he turned away from the store. He opted to take the long way to his apartment, so he didn't have to see Starry Step in the window. His hooves felt heavier with each step he took, and the exhaustion he had felt only mounted the closer he approached his home. The well-kept storefronts, closed, went by in a haze and he barely registered the taxis cantering by as he looked to cross the street to the concrete-gray low-rise that held his apartment. All his focus was to keeping the box floating beside him; even it seemed to grow heavier and heavier as he continued, and he was forced to set it down after walking up the flights of stairs to his apartment just so he could concentrate to lift the key and unlock the door. Once inside, he pushed the box next to the stove with his hooves and shut and locked the door behind him. His bed was straight ahead, and he made a beeline for it. He collapsed into the pile of blankets and pillows, pulling them around him with his hooves while he tried to reach out with his magic to close his blinds and curtains. When his horn failed to even light up, he threw a soft blanket over his face and closed his eyes. Despite his exhaustion, sleep was difficult and frugal. He tossed and turned, readjusting blankets and pillows and even taking the tennis ball off the end of his chipped horn to try to make his body more willing to succumb. It was odd—he was so tired, yet his body was so awake, almost energized. He was so, so empty. The exhaustion filled every pore of his being, even the parts of him that kept him from sleeping. Let me sleep. It was all he wanted. He raised his hooves to his muzzle and sighed before turning and promising himself that he would stop moving. Eventually, he fell into a restless, dreamless sleep and woke just as exhausted as before. His bedding was kicked onto the carpet in a pile. It was like that—no sleep, sprawled out on his bed under the window—for days. He listened to the thrum of the city through the window: hooves against road, murmuring passers-by, gunshots at night. It used to be safer. He ate cereal without milk out of dirty dishes lit by incandescent light that turned his white-tile countertop yellow. The newspaper came weekly, in the middle of the day after an uncountable amount of time since Mix's Tapes went under. Mixtape navigated around the two full trashbags in his kitchen to pluck the newspaper from the door. He thought it was the first time he'd opened the door since seeing Starry Step. He shut and locked it, then headed back to bed. Any ounce of self-esteem left in his body deserted him while he gazed over the classifieds: factory work, fast food, a printer at a publishing house, manual labor. The magic fizzled out of his horn, and the paper landed squarely in his face, forcing the odor of pulp and ink down his nose. He let it stay, then fell asleep. In his dream, he looked to the sky in a rural field, right after a Whitechimera set. The rest was blurry. Time was lost to him. He paced his apartment or laid in bed. He played the music left in his box, their familiar melodies turning into songs he had never heard—taunting, nostalgic. He glanced over his Rolling Bones magazines from years past, reminiscing all the warm summer nights, the bright lights of the store, the ponies with radios on their withers. The trash piled at the door. His sink soon birthed flies that swarmed the apartment, like they had at his childhood home after his mother left his father. A donkey and a unicorn were never meant to be. He had a friend over once, as a child, and it was after Mixtape's mom left. The kid wouldn't stay; wouldn't even come inside. It was rancid. Just like his apartment. Useless, rotting, disgusting—Mixtape felt dirty. He broke the mirror in the bathroom when he noticed his beard falling out. It was only partially an accident. Shredding his Rolling Bones magazines was not. One morning—he wasn't quite asleep, nor quite awake—a loud knocking on the door startled him out of bed. He felt off-balance as he crept up to his door and leaned over the trash bags to see through the peephole. It was his landlord. His lease expired the day before. "Fuck." It was the first time he spoke in days. His tongue felt glued to the top of his mouth, and his voice was gravely with misuse. He pushed the trash out of the way and opened the door partially. "Hey, Mi—" Mister Bristle paused, then scrunched up his nose. "There aren't any dead bodies in there are there?" Mixtape shook his head. He asked, "Would you rather talk in the hallway?" Pause. "With this door shut." "Yeah, I think so." Mixtape nodded and quickly stepped out into the corridor, closing the door tightly behind him with what little magic he could muster. Mister Bristle—a lanky, tan earth pony—still had his nose scrunched. Mixtape hadn't showered since his store closed. Mister Bristle seemed to be thinking behind his wide-eyed expression, his lips twitching as though he was ready to say something and chose not to. Finally: "Your rent's up. Are you staying?" Mixtape laughed. At first, it was just for the absurdity of asking such a rhetorical question, but then it devolved into painful hysterics. Tears fell down his face to his nose, onto his teeth, salty on his tongue and Mister Bristle stood by, stiff and stoic as though the reaction was normal. "I'll uh, take that as a no?" Mister Bristle asked as Mixtape finally calmed, taking big breaths to regulate himself. "Yeah," Mixtape said, out-of-breath, doubled-over. "Yeah. It's a 'no.'" Mixtape kept taking deep breaths, admiring the cracking concrete of the platform on the stairwell. He finally looked up, right at Mister Bristle. The landlord seemed to be struggling for words again, his mouth twitching. "What happened?" Mister Bristle asked after Mixtape gained back his breath. "I think I've gone missing." "I see," he said. Mixtape knew he did not understand. A building was on Mister Bristle's flank, not two cassette tapes. "Don't worry," Mixtape said. "I'll clean it all up before I have to go. I'll do it better than I did the store!" "Wait," Mister Bristle said. "Your store? Is it gone?" "It was obsolete, like me." There was a pause, nearly filled by Mister Bristle, but Mixtape continued, "Before you ask, I have looked at other jobs. Nothing is fulfilling. Nothing." There was a long bout of silence, Mixtape staring up at his landlord's jet-black mane, avoiding his eyes at all costs. Cutie marks were supposed to be eternal, like Mister Bristle's building; yet, Mixtape had aged out of his own. Was he supposed to die? To give up? To become a factory worker? A pony came down the stairwell and stared at them as they kept going down, toward the main floor. "When do you need me gone?" Mixtape asked when it became clear Mister Bristle would say no more. "A week, if you clean. If not, twenty-four hours." Mister Bristle lifted his hoof to walk away, but stopped and said, "I'll be back tomorrow to check. With the key." Mixtape nodded, and Mister Bristle went down the stairs while Mixtape pried open his apartment door with his shoulder. The apartment was vile; the door was shut immediately behind him. There was no easy place to start, but Mixtape knew his magic was too weak to carry loads of trash down to the dumpster. Instead, he took to cleaning his dishes, scrubbing every one down with brute force. He broke a saucer. The dishes went into the cabinets; he wouldn't be needing them, he knew, on the streets. He scrubbed the grody countertop until it shined more white than yellow from his light. Cleaned the floor. Picked up more trash. Scrubbed the bathroom. Contemplated a shower. It was dark by then. He took three trash bags down to the dumpster, but his magic failed him at the bottom floor. He carried them with his teeth, like an earth pony, one-by-one to the dumpster. He washed out his mouth with mouth wash after. His efforts barely made a dent. Ultimately, he felt there was no point in cleaning, but it occupied his mind, pulling him from the VHS reels of his past playing through his head, distracting him from the inevitable question of why he was put on Equestria. Was his time up? Did he misunderstand? He walked up the flights of stairs and into his apartment; he still had to shove trash bags out of the way. He showered. It was exhausting, and it made him think again, about who he was. Why he was. What the cassettes meant on his flanks. He got the cutie mark before his parents split up. It was a surprise, considering his parentage: hinnies usually did not receive cutie marks; however, he was one of the unlucky minority. He got it as he worked on fixing a cassette deck for a friend in grade school. His shampoo was purple, like his coat. He washed himself until it fully lathered away the greasy texture off his body. Repairing technology from his youth was easy. He understood it: tape on reels. Vinyl he understood: grooves. Turntables were easy. But discs? There wasn't a tangible way they worked. Something with magic crystals; something with lasers. Unicorn-devised. Hot water trickled down his ears, along his back and down to his unkempt hooves. They had grown long in his isolation. He cleaned his mane and tail until they lathered—his hair had been so dirty it gleamed in the light in the bathroom before the shower. It was why he broke the mirror—partially. He dried off and jumped into bed. The bedthings smelled. The rest of the trash was taken out before Mister Bristle arrived the next day. Mixtape's magic cut out halfway through. The rest he dragged with his teeth. Vile. He was vile. Mister Bristle found the apartment acceptable and allowed Mixtape his last week's stay under the stipulation that the apartment remained clean. That day, Mixtape washed his bedding and folded it into the box with all his favorite things from the store. Then, days blended. He got one more paper. The classifieds made him bleak. He took another shower and brushed his teeth. He spit out more blood than toothpaste. He filed his hooves. It all felt so final. A stage of his life was ending. The mattress and dishes stayed in the apartment, except for a singular bowl and cup he decided to take with him. He dropped off his key to Mister Bristle and faced Manehattan with a snark-filled, "Good luck out there!" from Bristle. Mixtape stayed at a motel; he sprawled out across the uncomfortable twin bed and hardly moved. He only had so many days. He didn't look for jobs. He had done nothing to improve his circumstances, simply wallowing in the stiff sheets and springy mattress, dazed. Something divine wanted him to suffer; it was exhausting to push against it. He didn't get the paper at the motel. He stared at the cigarette-stained popcorn ceiling. At one point, the grody ceiling had turned into a roadmap from staring too long. Then, time was up. When it was time to leave, he handed his key over to the receptionist and left; no words were exchanged, though the earth pony's woeful expression haunted his mind. He only stayed a week. The thin walls acclimated him to sounds of violence: screaming, yelling, gunshots. His box floated next to him as he faced the city once more. There was nowhere he could go. It was never far from his mind that he could have boarded a train, returned to the Smokey Mountains and his father, but he didn't. It was part of the punishment he outlined for himself. Summer was coming to a close, and autumn would soon bring cold. Perhaps he would freeze. The idea was morbidly appealing as he walked the streets. Nopony nor creature paid him any mind. He settled in at sundown that night in an abandoned factory building in a bad part of town. He pushed past plywood guarding a low window and crawled into the darkest recess of the place, hoping to not be found by a gang, and set up camp for the first time. He didn't feel hunger or thirst; he did not feel exhaustion—he just longed for the escape of sleep in his shadowed corner behind long-forgotten crates. The first night was the hardest, with the mice skittering and violent voices that sounded close. The gunshots were louder than at the motel. Then, the third day, it was normal. He hadn't moved. He still wasn't hungry, but he managed to fill his cup and bowl with water on the second day when it rained. It wasn't much. Nothing was. Freezing and dehydrating into a mummy in the corner of an abandoned building felt like a natural end, yet the third day was different than the others. His discomfort finally pushed him out of his suicidality and into a different mindset: survival. IIIMixtape had the leftover change that had not been enough for another day in the motel. He crawled out of the abandoned factory when true hunger finally and painfully bit into him, dragging him out of depression and into survival with its teeth. Hunger was ravenous; overbearing. He ordered two hayburger meals from the cheapest restaurant he could find. He ate them at one of the blue tables on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Passers-by gave him odd glances. When his money ran out, he would starve. The cold would freeze him if he didn't starve. A homeless shelter felt dishonest. He didn't know why. The hayburgers were cheap, like the ones his dad used to buy him. His mother had been jealous of his cutie mark. She called it evil. It was why she left. Maybe, like cassettes, his life needed rewound and played again—it would be redundant; perhaps cathartic, to be the same old thing all over again. Or maybe he would need played backward for a secret code to his life and its meaning. He slunk back to his place in the abandoned factory, taking his plastic cup with him so he could get refills from other restaurants. Upon returning, he went through his box. In it were priceless records and cassettes, and even some CDs and DVDs he kept for old repeat customers. Some CDs were regular music, but most were songs for fillies and colts. Just like the CDs, DVDs were movies for little ones. Sky Venture and Velvet never returned to pick the ones they had ordered. It had been about fifteen CDs of foal music. He hadn't seen the couple in moons. Perhaps they forgot. Outside, the orange streetlights turned on, casting dim orange rays through cracks in the plywood drilled over the windows. He slept restlessly. The next day, he took the box with him and went to the nearest safe and crowded intersection. "Buy a CD?" he yelled over the din of the crowd. "Fuck you!" somecreature yelled. Mixtape kept it up, begging to sell what he had to whoever would pay him mind. Some generous ponies and creatures gave him just bits, uninterested in what was in the box. He was able to eat with the meager earnings of that day. One day, a coral pegasus approached him, a giant smile on her face. "What kind of stuff do you have?" she asked. "CDs, DVDs, tapes if you can use 'em," Mixtape said, shuffling backwards out of the paths of pedestrians. The mare followed. He sat his box down on stairs outside a closed corner store. He laid the disc cases out for the mare to look at—muscle memory; nopony wanted tapes anymore. The pegasus puckered her lips into a frown. "Are any of the cassettes for sale?" she asked. Were they for sale? His favorite things? In the city, alone, there was no use for them. Ponies and creatures crowded past them in the long silence. That was what he had come to the intersection for, to sell his things, but being confronted with the fact made him bite the inside of his cheek. He said, finally, "Maybe." The mare's face lit up, her lips pulling into a huge smile and eyes wide. She pointed at an old tape of The Elixir. Mixtape pulled it into his magic. He spun it around in front of his face. "What price are you thinking?" he asked. He pushed the tape closer to the pegasus so she could see it more clearly. She rocked side-to-side, eyebrows furrowed in thought. "Fifty?" she offered. She knew her stuff. "That would be much appreciated," Mixtape said. "However..." his voice trailed off. Taxis raced by, wheels and hoofsteps echoing up the corporate skyscrapers. "However...?" she asked. "It's silly," he said. The tape pulled closer to him as he thought about it. "Can you... stick around for a story?" He wanted to say it was lonely. That he was broke. That his store was gone. Anything to keep the mare's attention; she was his only real social interaction for days. But he needed bits. Smooch Me, Smooch Me, Smooch Me was the first Elixir album he owned despite frequenting their concerts. The tape had history. The mare had her eyebrows furrowed again, and her wings twitched. "I—I guess," she said. "I don't have anywhere to go. Do you?" "No." Mixtape shook his head. "Nowhere." Hollow. Her eyes went wide. Realization must have hit her. She said, "Oh my Celestia, I didn't realize! I—I, uh, do you want to tell me over lunch?" It had been nine days. Mixtape wondered how ragged his appearance was, but he wasn't going to turn down food. He left his plastic cup at his place in the abandoned factory. No free refills. He'd knock the price down for her. The crowd of colorful creatures crossed the intersection like a liquid. "That would be nice," he said. As they walked, he learned her name was Pearl Love—Pearly for short—and that she was a massive Elixir fan. Smooch Me, Smooch Me, Smooch Me was an album she couldn't find on cassette anywhere. Mixtape mentioned he used to own a store. She said she'd never heard of it. They sat down outside a Hayburger Prince after getting their food. "So, your story?" Pearly asked. Mixtape placed the tape in its case in the middle of the table. His box was at his side, full of other priceless things. "This was the first cassette I bought from The Elixir," he said. "It was at a concert outside of town, in one of those big fields. It was a huge event—a hundred thousand ponies and creatures watching." "Oh wow," she said, perhaps only partially interested. Mixtape didn't fully acknowledge the cue. "We were there—that is, me, Threadbare, her husband and Ivy Spell—and a big part of the crowd: right up front. Coulda went deaf that close, but all the bodies around you, dancing. The crowdsurfers crushing our heads down... I had to levitate a whole diamond dog over the fence! "It rained halfway through; it was already hot and humid. Pegasi couldn't get to the rainclouds fast enough. The stage was dry, but the crowd was soaked, but we still danced and yelled. They played an encore." He felt there, in that starless night, air filled with the scent of tobacco and marijuana, of sweaty ponies, of the rain in the air, and his friends! His old friends! Threadbare said her goodbye at the store. The others never gave him such courtesy. "Hey," Pearly said. "You sure you wanna sell this?" "I, uh, I don't have the option," he said. "I just—I just wanted to tell somepony about it. I want it to be cherished." He was uncertain if he meant his experience or the album. "I want—I want you to know why it's special. Special to me, personally—not just as a rare collectible." "It sounds amazing," Pearly said, more authentic. "I'll hold onto the memory for you. I'll write it down if you want: 'Special to seller because of the concert.'" It wasn't just the concert, but she wouldn't understand. The concert, that was universal. But the friends, the memory, the ringing ears, the laughs, the community—it was all part of that memory. It went beyond the concert, but he couldn't put it into words. "Yes," he finally said. "That would be nice." He looked down at his hayburger. "I'm sorry to keep you for such a self-indulgent reason." The table they sat at was red. "It's hard to let go." "I understand." She did. He could tell, it was in her voice and her rigid posture. "Thank you," he said, "for listening. And for the food." "No, thank you. I think I understand why it's sentimental. I never bought anything from anycreature who had seen The Elixir live." She shifted her body, then, "You've given me more than a cassette. You're giving me memories." Mixtape nodded. The cassette cover was orange inside its plastic case. The tape was clear. Despite the circumstances, he felt something inside him stir: a warmth with Pearly's words. She gave him the fifty bits and saw herself off. Mixtape finished his food and left the premises shortly after, still feeling warm inside from the interaction. The fifty bits lasted for over a week. He found another intersection to set up his box and yell that he had things for sale. It was getting colder, and, though he had a roof over his head, the gunfire was getting uncomfortably close to the abandoned factory. He needed to leave it soon and try to get into a homeless shelter—though none had room by the time he arrived. The first morning frost covered his spot, he vacated the factory. Some buildings had been abandoned and had intact windows to keep out the cold. How he would stay warm was a mystery. He slept in alleyways with his box as he struggled to get into homeless shelters. He stayed one warm night at one, and was able to bathe. When he returned, some of his CDs were stolen from his box. He didn't try to get into a shelter again after that. After Pearly, he was able to sell just enough things from his box to survive. He tried to save for a winter coat, but he had to dip into his emergency funds for food so often that he understood trying to save bits was pointless. Each sale, each customer he could tell a story to—the interaction made him feel warm. Not necessarily happy, but warm. It was a new kind of feeling. It wasn't negative. It was pleasant to tell his stories, to invite in a new perspective into his buyers' lives. Most were young, just hoping to start collections, though other creatures and ponies his age had came by and listened. The hardest thing to let go of was a vinyl of The Portals' self-titled album. It was truly priceless to him, the sleeve was covered in his friends' names marked in pencil and crayon. The stallion who bought it was understanding. He and Mixtape were similar in age, and he promised to sell it back when or if Mixtape got back on his hooves. After all, the cold was coming, and the vinyl could be warped and ruined by the weather. His name was Swift Metal. He gave Mixtape three hundred bits. The warmth pervaded Mixtape's aching body, coming to its peak as Swift Metal turned the corner with The Portals' album in his magic. Mixtape was frugal with his newfound "wealth," and bought the cheapest coat he could find—one hundred bits. Terrified of theft, he kept away from the homeless shelters and mostly slept in abandoned buildings and cellars he found as he roamed the city looking for new creatures to solicit his stories and favorites. He stayed one particularly cold night in a motel, which ate up most of his bits. One night, he could find nowhere safe, and his magic was dimming. He slid his box under a dumpster and slept in an alleyway, dirtying his new, yellow coat with the grime along the alleyway between two abandoned factories. IVHe didn't sleep in the alley. He curled up, cowardly, by the dumpster until the gunshots stopped at sunrise; in a panic, he took his box and himself back toward the original factory that served as his shelter. Along the way, to the few creatures he passed in the silver of dawn, he touted: "I'll freeze without bits!" or, "Please, I need help!" or, "I'll die in the cold!" His jacket was light and poor against the wind. It was hardly like wearing a jacket at all, and he felt chilled in the cold nights. He needed more. Even his blankets he had thought to bring did not warm him against the autumn cold. Buying the jacket had been worthless. He should have saved the money to stay in a motel. Lost in his thoughts, he bumped into a lanky, orange earth pony with red-and-orange dreadlocks. His box fell to the ground as his magic fizzled out. "I'm so sorry!" he said, quickly moving out of the pony's way to begin to put his things back into his box. "Oh, it's okay," the pony responded. Then, she jerked her head around to look at Mixtape closer. "Mixxy?" His ears perked up and he faced her. She had been a stranger moments ago, but the more he looked, the more he realized. "Baby Remedy?" he asked. He couldn't stop staring. He had last seen her as a filly running amuck in his store, terrorizing the shelves and her parents. She had curly hair then, often styled into pigtails that looked like pom-poms. "Oh my Celestia," she said. She reached for an embrace, and she draped her leg around Mixtape's withers for a hug. "What happened?" "I became obsolete," he said. He put the last of his things back into his box, all except one thing. They were out of the way of hoof traffic, in the shadow of the canyon-like skyscrapers. "Shit," she said, stepping closer to the stone foundation of the building next to them. "I remembered, though," Mixtape said, floating an album over to her. "You liked The Celestias. Your parents never let you get it, right? This album?" Her mouth fell open, and she blinked several times before saying, "How did you remember?" "How could I forget?" The Remedy family had been regulars in his store ten years ago. Baby Remedy was a force to be reckoned with, but she loved The Celestias and never could get the album that she wanted. Mixtape finally got his hooves a week after the Remedies announced to him that they were returning to Jamareca. They were gone before he got the album. It had been a sunny day, the announcement day, and Baby Remedy had her hair in dreadlocks for the first time. "We're going back," they told him. He got a postcard two months later of them all on a white sand beach in front of too-blue water. It was in the box, too. "You had a birthday party in my store, once," Mixtape said. The album still floated between them. "I did!" she said, a smile creeping onto her lips. "I miss it." "Me too," Mixtape said. There was silence as he put the album back in the box, feeling fatigued from holding it in mid-air so long. "What brought you back here?" "I missed it," she said. "And better opportunities for business." She cocked her head to the side, locks swaying, then said, "Why don't you come with me?" "Sure," he said. "It isn't like I have much going on." He punctuated with a laugh. A real laugh, yet hysterical and hoarse from the cold and loneliness. Remedy looked concerned. He kept pace with her as they navigated the labyrinthine streets, past glass skyscrapers reflecting light off their peaks, across huge intersections and down a clean alleyway to a small shop with a teacup as a sign. They walked in together. It was a tea shop: it was warm and smelled of flowers and herbs. Remedy offered Mixtape a seat, and she sat across from him. "I'll give you a job," she said. "Doing what?" "Cashier, barista? Something with my crystal store?" Ponies in the restaurant murmured around them. The hiss of espresso filled the shop periodically. Most creatures came in and left, on with their morning commute. The décor was very brown; old-fashioned, even. "I, uh, I don't know," he said. "I appreciate the offer, of course—" They were cut off as tea was delivered to them both. His stomach rumbled, and the chill inside him was warmed as he took a sip of the tea. Remedy didn't touch hers. She just watched, eyes droopy. "You feel wrong, don't you?" Wrong. He wasn't sure if that was the word. He said, "Forgotten, I think." She nodded. They sat in silence until Mixtape finished his tea, and then Remedy's after she said she ordered it for him. "What makes you feel that way?" she asked. Beside them, a large line had assembled to order drinks. "I have cassette tapes on my flank," he said. "Nocreature uses that anymore. All I have is my name and this box of things no one wants." I'm going to freeze in an alleyway. The thought must have registered on his face, because Remedy frowned. "We aren't bound to one destiny, Mixxy." She motioned toward her flank; her cutie mark was a teacup with wavy lines over it. "For a long time, I thought my talent was just in brewing tea. I own this place, but my talent isn't in making tea. Not everything links together like ponies think it does." "Do you feel right running a tea shop, then?" Glasses and plates tinkled in the background. "Yes." She looked at him—really looked at him—and said, "It is some part of my talent, but not the united whole." Her violet eyes were piercing. "None of those jobs would work, would they? The barista, the cashier—it isn't you." With it laid out so clearly, it sounded ludicrous that Mixtape wouldn't take a job. He knew this, yet still nodded. He wouldn't survive the winter, anyway. "How about lunch?" she asked. Mixtape nodded again. She got up and went to the cashier. Baby Remedy—Natural Remedy—was in Manehattan. She owned two stores. She was half Mixtape's age, and she was so accomplished. She knew her way in life. Her parents were free-spirits when he knew them; it seemed to have rubbed off onto her. Crystals, coffee, and tea never went out of fashion—not like music, not like cassette tapes, though those had seemed timeless. Mixtape remembered tinkering with a cassette dock and his mark appearing. His mother hated it. His father was ecstatic. Later, his mother was angry when he told her he was a stallion. His dad was excited for a son. It was the last straw. His mother left shortly after. He never understood what it all meant, why his mother hated him. He was just installing a new way of reading cassettes onto the deck—not his own invention. It was more reliable, and less likely to pull enough tape to ruin the cassette. His colthood room was vivid in his mind: the blue walls, the small bed, the writing desk, two windows. Remedy sat down in front of him. He was only half-present. "How are your parents?" Mixtape asked, far-away. A visage of his mother floated in his mind, angry. "Good," she said. "They're still in Jamareca, enjoying island life." "And you're back in Manehattan." His dad had given him a hug when his mother left. "I can help more creatures here—the spiritually out-of-line ones." She didn't miss it, then. Not the cold winters, not the tall buildings; she wanted to be a philanthropist. It made sense. Scones were placed in front of Mixtape, and he devoured one almost immediately. "Let's go to my other store after this," she said. "I think I can help." Mixtape nodded as he ate the rest of the scones. He didn't leave her one, and only realized after the plate was empty. She said she wasn't hungry and that it was fine. She turned down his offer to buy her one. After their back-and-forth at the coffee shop, they started their walk to her crystal shop. The buildings were shorter than downtown, and were built downhill. The sun was high above them, bringing light into the bottom of the building canyon. "Thank you," Mixtape said, "for the food; tea, uh... hospitality?" He felt the thanks fell flat, but Remedy smiled. "It's no problem, really," she said. "You were like family to me." That was how it was at Mix's Tapes. Everycreature was family. They all knew each other. They all loved each other, took care of one another. The city was so alien in the modern times, with ponies passing on the street without even an, "excuse me." Life was too fast; everything in Manehattan felt like it was on fast-forward. Remedy's crystal shop was down a hill in a small, white brick building. They entered, and a dark-coated unicorn with gems hanging from her horn greeted them. "Is the bathing room open?" Remedy asked the unicorn. "I'll have to check," the mare said, disappearing behind a bead curtain. Plants grew in every corner of the dim store. Crystal shelves lined the wood-paneled walls. Ivy grew along most of the vertical surfaces in the store. A rack of hemp jackets was in the corner, and a large, circular rug covered the dark wood floor. Remedy walked over to a shelf and grabbed a large quartz crystal by its basket's handle and carried it to Mixtape. "You need to meditate on this," she said; her enunciation was perfect despite the handle in her mouth. "Do it with this. Do you know how? With your magic?" "My magic barely works," he said. Acknowledging that made him aware of how he was straining to keep his box afloat. He quickly, and softly, placed it on the floor, so he didn't drop it from overexerting himself. He looked down at the box and said, "Most of me is barely working right now." He ached. "I guess I should have figured. You aren't exactly in prime condition." Pause, then, quickly, "No offense!" Mixtape chuckled and shook his head; he said, "None taken. It's hard to keep up any magic when I'm hungry most of the time." He thought it was funny, in a fucked-up kind of way, but Remedy's wide eyes clued him into the severity of what he just uttered. He was going to attempt to put a more light-hearted spin on what he said, but the unicorn who had disappeared to "the bathing room" returned to her spot behind the desk. "It's open and clean, Remedy," she said. Remedy thanked her and lead Mixtape to a blue-tiled shower room. Dark plants decorated the corners in the sunny spots from the high-up window in the room. "Here's this," Remedy said, placing the quartz in the center of the room. "I'll be right back with soap and towels." Mixtape made a noise acknowledging her. The room smelled of lavender, and Mixtape's cracked hooves echoed around him as he approached the fixtures. He looked at himself in the reflection in the faucet. His coat was dirty, turning black and brown, and his eyes were sunken in. His hair was slick with grease and clung to his cheeks. Remedy returned with a bag of toiletries. She sat them in the corner by the plants and asked, "Do you want me to wash your clothes while you're showering?" "Yes, please," he said. The clothes felt stuck to Mixtape's coat, a product of sleeping in alleyways or tripping in puddles and potholes. The yellow coat was the easiest layer to take off, but his fall jackets and old sports t-shirt needed peeled from his body and each other. Remedy scrunched up her nose at the stench; Mixtape had grown used to it. She grabbed a bag, loaded up the clothes and promised she would stay in the store until he was finished bathing. The water was hot, not lukewarm like the homeless shelter. He smelled the street on him as the putrid, black water rolled off his body, past his hooves and down the drain. It was, perhaps, selfish, but he sat on his haunches, the water rolling down his face, down his back. The water was still murky. The crystal caught his eye from the edges of his vision, and he turned to look at it. It was bullshit—the whole crystal thing. It was just a rock. Unicorns were supposed to get something special from them, but he never had because he never tried. With the water rolling off him becoming more transparent and clean, he pulled the crystal to him in his magic. It was cloudy and grew in brilliant spikes. It looked heavy and was. He reached out his magic just to the crystal. It seemed like a time to close his eyes, so he did. He felt nothing. He saw nothing new. Instead, beyond the darkness of his eyelids, he found scattered, fragmented memories of his life. The night he got his cutie mark, his mother leaving, the opening of his store, the patrons of it—it was all there, but it was negative, like a film reel. Mixtape shook his head and reopened his eyes. The water was mostly clear, so he turned the other way to wash off his front. He still thought about the crystal while in the hot water, surrounded by blue and plants, but it didn't make sense to him... granted, he should have asked about meditation before trying whatever it was he did. It wasn't natural to him. He ruminated on his life as he grabbed the soaps and loofa to wash himself, remembering community gardens and good music from his colthood friends. How he wanted to be a musician, or maybe an engineer. He achieved neither; he felt as though he accomplished nothing. A dream-like visage of Mix's Tapes floated in his mind, one where the shelves were full and ponies and creatures were browsing, talking to each other in a warm hum. Then: empty shelves, dust. It was all so bleak. He turned off the water after the water truly ran clean, then pulled a white towel over to himself to dry off. The loofa was ruined, and he had used up most of the bar soap and shampoo. Getting the grime off made him feel lighter. Once he was dry, he wrapped his mane in a clean towel and poked his head out into the shop. The mare behind the sales desk was reading a novel; Remedy was reorganizing some of the shelves. He thought he was unnoticed until Remedy asked, "Did the crystal help?" "I don't think I'm doing it right," he said, which was the truth. Telling her that crystals were bogus was likely a dead-end. A dead-end from what, he didn't know—he felt at rock bottom with a shovel to keep digging; each passing day was more and more difficult. "That happens sometimes," Remedy said, "especially if your magic is already messed up from not having consistent meals." She turned around after placing a spherical blue crystal on a shelf. "Different races have to tap in differently." "How do donkeys, then?" Remedy furrowed her brow and said, "I guess like earth ponies. Maybe they need to take it more at their own pace." Her lips twisted to the side. "Why?" "My mother is—or was, maybe—a donkey." Remedy's eyes widened, perhaps off-put by Mixtape's disinterested statement about not knowing if his mother was alive or dead. Remedy raised a hoof to her cheek and shook her head. She said, "I don't know how I never knew that!" "Well, I don't advertise it, that's for certain!" Mixtape laughed. "Yeah, apparently not!" She walked up toward him and beckoned him into the door next to the shower room. "I think, then, I am right how it works on donkeys. It takes patience, but then unicorns just use magic... I guess it works based on what you are more: pony or donkey." Even though it was shameful to think so—considering how his mother treated him—Mixtape always felt alienated from unicorns. It wasn't that his magic was sub-par—it worked as well as any unicorn without a talent in magic—and it wasn't necessarily because he looked different, it was because unicorns were usually rich. He had no such luck to be born into a rich family; his father owned a single grocery store in Manehattan. His talent had something to do with milk cartons. Remedy flicked the light on in the new room, which hosted two sets of washing machines and dryers. The dryer tumbled and hummed; there were fifteen more minutes until he, he presumed, needed to leave. "Donkey, I think," Mixtape said, then, realizing how belated his response was, "to answer your question." "That explains why you won't work anywhere unfulfilling," she said. It was hard for him to disagree. The room was warm, filled with the scent of clean linen and potted night flowers at every corner. A small shelf of rocks was next to a dryer, along with towels. "Yeah, probably." He shook his head. "I don't know what the world wants of me. It feels like... like it's time to fail. That my success is gone." It was odd talking to a pony he had known as a filly about his problems, yet they poured out of him. "Sorry. I don't mean to be like this." "You're being eaten alive by it. Don't be ashamed." She frowned. "Do you really know you?" "I, uh—" Mixtape trailed off. He wanted to say yes, to agree to such an obvious statement that he should know about, yet to agree felt wrong. There were many things he didn't know about himself; some things that made him feel a stranger in his own skin. He said, "I guess not. I guess I don't." "You need to know yourself. Until then, nothing anypony or anycreature says to you will help you." He wondered if her statement was meant to be taken the same way: that the advice was unhelpful until he accepted his faults—or, at least, that's what he assumed the problem was, he truthfully wasn't certain. A silence passed as the dryer tumbled on in its muffled way. He was too stubborn, too prideful, perhaps too cocky at times, but those felt as though he had come to terms with those parts of himself. Finally, "Does the crystal... help?" He titled his head back-and-forth. "With seeing myself; knowing myself." "It can," Remedy said. "Meditation itself helps too. Trying to empty your head and observe your own thinking—it's a powerful thing." It would be impossible to relax in the streets of Manehattan, not enough to meditate and certainly not enough to tap into a crystal. As far as he knew, the crystal was useless to him because of his mother's species. The dryer beeped, and Mixtape went over to don his clothing. The sports shirt was full of holes and discolored; the flannels that went over it felt clean and soft again, and the big yellow coat seemed puffier than the day he bought it. "I—I don't have a place I can let you stay," Remedy said. The statement was out-of-the-blue. "I never asked for one," he said. "It still feels terrible to let you leave for the streets again..." She looked sorrowful, nearly tearful with her chin pressed into her neck. Some of her dreadlocks cascaded off her shoulder. "It's okay—really." He couldn't imagine the guilt of accepting such a gift—it felt unearned, even if it was available. They exited the laundry room and re-entered the floor of the store. The neon open sign was dark, but the pony behind the bar still sat on her stool, reading. Mixtape's box was next to her. "I can offer you free drinks and food from my café," Remedy said. "You can come here any time to clean up." She stiffened her posture. "I'm going to find a way to help you." Please don't. Instead, "I appreciate it." The thought hopefully was not as empty-sounding as it felt. He didn't want help. "Oh, let me get that crystal before you go!" Before Mixtape could object, she was off to the bathing room. Mixtape walked over to the pony behind the register and levitated his box from the ground. He put the Celestias album on the counter and said to the pony behind it, "This is for Remedy." She looked up from her novel and nodded. She closed her book to stash the record somewhere behind the desk. "I saw you had a Noisefield album on vinyl," she said. "Would ya sell it?" Noisefield was a band Mixtape never cared for, but he kept the album for somepony he cared deeply about long ago. It was the last tie he had to her. There were no more fond memories left of her; not after the things he had went through—yet, the album, her favorite, stayed in the box. "Would you like to hear a story about it?" he asked, floating the album from the box and onto the counter. Her eyes narrowed. "You don't have to if you don't want to." "I'm curious," she said. She leaned over the counter, elbows on the wooden surface. "Tell me." "This was one of my exes' favorite album and band," he said. "I got to see them live so many times, but she—she was awful to me. We weren't together for very long, but I had bought her almost all of the Noisefield albums that were available back then." A smirk plastered itself on his face. "This was the one she didn't get." The cashier smirked back. "Sounds very spiteful," she said. Mixtape laughed. "Yeah, you could say that. It's her favorite album too." "You really salted those wounds, huh?" "She deserved it." He grimaced as a thought of what she did passed his mind. "Anyway, I'll sell it. I don't need spite living in my box of things." The cashier—Dimmet—offered him a hundred bits for the album, which he initially refused. After her assertion that she would pay him no less, he caved and took the bits. It meant he could afford another night in a motel if he needed to. After the exchange, he felt an odd type of elation. It wasn't for the money, he didn't think; it was for getting rid of the album, for telling the story. It was comforting. Remedy finally re-entered the room from the stairs leading into the hallway with the laundry and bathing rooms. She had probably been eavesdropping considering how long it had taken for her to come back with the crystal. Without a word, she placed it in Mixtape's box. "Please visit my stores, okay?" she asked. "I know it's going to be a long journey. I'm here to help." His cheeks flushed; he knew Remedy wouldn’t let him be truly alone. It felt like the last years of Mix's Tapes were devoid of love and care, yet, in the interior of the hole-in-the-wall crystal shop, he felt happiness that he hadn’t felt since the best years of his store. "Thank you," he said. "Really." Remedy tried to smile, but her distress was clear in her wide eyes. Mixtape picked up his box in his magic and waved at them as he stepped out into the orange-colored night streets to find a place to sleep. VMixtape stared at the quartz. He knew every facet of the mineral, every clouded portion—one reminded him of the visage of Celestia impressed into a golden bit—and he knew the crude, dark gray rock of the matrix. No matter how he ate, no matter how he slept, the crystal was quiet, only occasionally sparking a memory before lying dormant again. Meditation was no better. It was too cold to have thoughts to keep track of. So long as he stayed clean, he was welcome in Remedy's coffee shop or crystal store as the days grew colder. The crystal loomed in his tattered box taunting him with its metaphysical truths. Remedy was typically in her crystal store. She encouraged him to keep thinking about the crystal and to meditate. At least he could do both in the sanctuary of her store, but nothing had brought him any closer to an epiphany. He hadn't sold anything in the box since he was given the crystal. With the first snowfall of the year anticipated on the news in electronic stores' windows, he realized he would need more than hospitality to stay alive. He begged and attempted to sell his wares. It was largely fruitless, though as he went to spend his bits on three nights at a run-down motel, the stallion behind the desk recognized something in Mixtape's box. "Is that a Radical Coats album?" the receptionist asked. Mixtape leaned over to see the contents of his box. A single cassette tape had moved itself to lie atop the record sleeves. He said, "Yeah, I guess it is!" He floated it up to the counter so the receptionist could get a better look. "Oh wow!" he said, admiring the art trapped in plastic. "How much do you want for this—or are you even selling it?" Mixtape barely remembered that concert. He said, "I'll sell it, but would you like to know how I got it?" A vending machine behind Mixtape turned on suddenly, humming as its lights flickered to life. The tile floor seemed stained a permanent yellow. The formica countertop the receptionist had his dark green hooves touching added to the liminal ambiance of the place. A lightbulb flickered off-and-on behind him. "Sure," the receptionist said. "Not many creatures come here so late." Mixtape smiled. The receptionist looked rough, as though he had came into work after a street fight. Considering his size, Mixtape would not have been surprised if that were the case. "Well, it started at a music festival," Mixtape said. "I never was that into the Radical Coats, but Thr—" he cleared his throat, realizing the receptionist would have no context to the other ponies with him that night "—my friends and I… Celestia, we were so stoned! The main stage where the big bands play, they were setting up for the next act and we decided to wander around the crowd." Mixtape shook his head, memory fuzzy as the memories came flooding in—some pleasant, some awkward, some bad. The receptionist was patient, but Mixtape was drowning in the memories of the concert, of life before, of the life he had, of the life he could still have. What if he had listened to Threadbare? She saw it coming. Mixtape was oblivious. "So you're at a music festival, fucked up, right?" the receptionist asks. Mixtape snaps out of his thoughts, still blurry on reality, and nodded his head slowly. "Yeah, so… we were all there," Mixtape said, "and we saw the outfits from the stadium, of the Radical Coats—their capes looked like auroras to the sky—and we decided we'd go there." He scrunched up his face. "It's hard to say, you know, what happened. I mean, we went down there, I know that." I kissed Threadbare and Sweet Berry; we swayed, stoned, at the music as dancing colors rather than sound. "I'm sorry, I wish I could remember more… I just like to—" he trailed off. What was it he liked to do? Talk? "You like to tell stories," the receptionist finished the sentence for him. "I suppose I do." Mixtape frowned. "I'm sorry I didn't have more of a story for you. I keep things that are sentimental to me. Something must have happened that I don't remember." "Happens to the best of us," the receptionist said. Mixtape nodded. "Fifteen bits sound good?" Mixtape asked. "I'll do you one better—I'll give you two extra days on your room. You'll freeze to death if you try to live on the streets with what you got." It was true. His jacket was not warm, and his tattered shirt brought nothing but discomfort along his coat. It was too cold during the day to do much. He could use a scarf, a real coat, better blankets—but all he had was the box and his bag of necessary things from his old apartment. "Thank you," Mixtape said. It came from the heart, how strongly he felt. He had enough bits to pay for three days. The receptionist saved his life. Five days off the streets, all because of a Radical Coats album. He was given a key to his room and he made his way back into the autumn chill. His room was on the second floor, and his hooves made loud pangs as he scaled the stairs. He located his room, entered, and promptly closed and locked the door behind him. It was a small room and smelled of thick smoke. The carpet was dingy, but soft, and the bed was made with the most starched bedspread he had ever seen. A microwave and mini fridge were available. Everything had a strange orange tint to it under the fly-filled light fixture. At least it was warm. He wouldn’t die tonight—at least not of exposure. He caught a glimpse of the crystal in the box, mocking him. He was too tired to try to commune with it. He showered, then laid down in bed and gave into his exhaustion. He slept until noon the next day, feeling rejuvenated from sleeping on a mattress that was only marginally more comfortable than the floor. He ached some, so he pulled the stiff covers close around himself. Exhaustion was what he knew for days on end. He was at the end of his rope when he spoke with the receptionist; the interaction hardly imprinted on him. He just knew five days. But, he'd given away the Radical Coats tape—or, rather, traded it, he remembered, for two extra days—and, in that moment, he had felt something. Reflecting only strengthened the feeling, whatever it was. It was warm in nature, like lying in a sunbeam for hours on end. It was almost like a healing spell. He dozed off ruminating on how he felt, and woke up an hour later feeing no closer to the answer. The crystal. Remedy's nonsense. Was it time? Was there supposed to be a time? Mixtape rolled out of bed, nearly taking the stiff comforter with him. He walked to his box and pulled the crystal from its spot in the corner of the box. It wasn't glowing—he wasn't sure where he got the notion it would. It was nothing special. The cloudy portion that looked like Celestia was still there. He set it on the floor and laid down on his stomach to examine it closer. Remedy said something about magic and crystals on one of her one-sided conversations between them. He had lifted it with his telekinesis, of course, but a different kind of spell had to be used on the crystal. Mixtape thought he remembered Remedy saying it is different for everypony. It felt natural to close his eyes and reach out with his magic, imagining its shape as a griffon's articulated foot. It touched it and he felt a surge of static run through the magic, down his horn and into his body. His hair stood on end. Normally such a shock would make him lose concentration, but it wasn't painful. Perhaps it was how he was supposed to commune with the rock? He tried to end the spell, but the crystal wouldn't let him. What was it trying to tell him? He pushed further, willing his magic to push through the layers of crystal until he could feel its middle; its pulse: a gently melody. As he probed the crystal, trying to slip through its lattice, different memories started to come to his mind. All the ponies who had bought things from him, those who listened to his stories. The crystal pulsed memories, feelings. His first time giving somepony a present—a perfectly round pebble to an elementary crush. He saw himself in third-person at his childhood desk, working on the cassette player that would give him his cutie mark. That had been a gift too, hadn't it? Colors pulsed from behind his eyes, was it the way it was supposed to be? The colors? Was something messed up? Images, memories, they flooded from the pulse. Some had to do with his identity; most were his happy days in Mix's Tapes. The ponies with their spikey manes and pointy jackets. The dancers who carried boomboxes on their withers. The dance-offs outside his storefront. He had felt so fulfilled then. Then, the crystal showed him as things waned. Threadbare telling him to sell the store. His stubborn nature keeping him there, watching the once-thriving store into a mausoleum to the past. Most customers in the two years prior to closing only came in because his store was a novelty. Nopony needed what he had. They wanted to see a relic of the past. And, even though his heart was breaking then, he still told stories and sold albums. His horn began to ache, and he was finally able to end the spell. He kept his eyes closed for a while, taking deep breaths as he processed all that he had seen. It was cathartic to have his life laid out in front of him by the crystal. He was so successful until he wasn't—Until he had to live on the streets or a cheap hotel room. Those issues didn't change him, though. He felt too old to know how to learn from some of his past, but yet, he felt as though a flower were blooming in his chest. He finally understood. It was stories. It was his name—Mixtape. A gathering of songs or sounds out of love, about not forgetting, about recording memories and music off the radio. Something inside him clicked. That was right. He forgot how it felt—like light, warm, a beacon. It was clear. That was it. That was it. EpilogueThe sunlight poured in, golden, from the streetside windows into Remedy's crystal shop: a new day. Winter brought brutal cold to Manehattan, and the sunlight glistened on the piles of dirty snow cleared from the roads. "Thank you again for all your help," Mixtape said to Remedy. She beamed at him. "I can tell you're feeling better here," she said. "And I am very thankful for you being here. Running just one business is a handful!" "Taxes are coming up," he said. "I can help if you want." She gave him a sideways glance. He smirked. They both laughed. "I don't want to be a felon, thank you!" Remedy said. They lapsed into comfortable silence as Mixtape organized the new inventory into their proper spots. Remedy was asking for numbers of rocks and minerals for the store's record. It was tedious work, but it was work. It was something. Mixtape knew he could still feel fulfilled so long as there was somepony to talk to. Remedy had gifted Mixtape peace. It was something he felt could never be truly obtained—what would he even do to do what Remedy had for him? She offered to take some bits from his check to give to the motel he was staying at until she found an appropriate apartment. Mixtape was just happy to be warm, and he no longer felt strained carrying his old box. The box had been so badly damaged, he threw it out, but not the things inside. In his motel room, there was a small dresser; in it, he had placed his most precious things. They would be in a box again when he moved, of course, but it would be different then. He wouldn't lift the weight of the new box every day. He was full; full of joy. Warmth, like the golden rays of the sun in the wood-paneled store. What he was meant to do was clear: remember. That was all. He simply needed to remember, and invite others to hear. "I think..." Mixtape trailed off. He went back to polishing a crystal ball before placing it carefully on its stand, cloth draped over it. "I think—" He frowned. "Tear it off quick, like a bandage," Remedy said. Mixtape nodded and squeezed his eyes shut, and said, "I think I'm going to move out of Manehattan." There was no reaction. Silence filled the space between them. Mixtape opened his eyes slowly, expecting anger or sadness from Remedy. Instead, he saw her smiling. "I think that's a good path for you," she said. "I don't know if I'll leave yet," he said, "but... it's crossed my mind—my talent, you know?" "I do." "I also need to get my shit together." Mixtape looked over and up at Remedy, who was still smiling. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. They went back to counting, walking every aisle in the store, depositing new inventory when necessary and placing anything "out of season" in the back room. The golden rays of sun were warm on their backs, and Mixtape paused in a beam. Peace. He finally understood. Author's Note yoooo i finished something!
IA small cloud of moths danced around a streetlight outside the shop, appearing as white specks and vanishing into shadows as they fluttered. Mixtape liked watching the moths and the shadows of ponies trotting past the windows of his store. They kept him from looking elsewhere, like at the empty shelves and the "Everything Must Go!" signs taped to the boxes scattered across the floor. "Damn," a mare's voice from behind him said, "the store's lookin' bleak." The mare, Threadbare, was chewing gum so loudly that Mixtape felt his ears swivel to catch the noise. He turned toward her after watching a silhouetted couple walk past on the other side of the street. He looked beyond the cyan unicorn at the empty, gray shelving units covered in dust. The dirt throughout the store was illuminated in unearthly clarity under the florescent light, especially in the grout of the white tiled floor. At least in the day, he could pretend the shadows of his store didn't exist. "Yeah," he said, finally looking to Threadbare. Her eyebrows, pierced with sparkling gems, were drawn down, and her dark eyes were staring him down with such an intensity that the words he had prepared to say stuck in his throat. "So, you gonna retire?" she asked between chewing. Mixtape felt his heart drop and an artificial chill settle in his chest. He nodded but didn't meet Threadbare's eyes. "Life is going to be tough without this place, though," he said. "You're broke," she said. The words, harsh and staccato, hung in the air. She had stopped chewing. Mixtape shifted his weight. "I—" He looked down; the silence was heavy for a moment. "Yes." "I told you years ago, Mixxy." She had. Threadbare had been a regular since the beginning, back when eight-tracks had just gone out of style and cassette tapes were the next best thing. Back then, they had probably been too friendly, attending parties together and getting themselves into trouble, but that was just how Mixtape interacted with his customers-- at least back then. Relationships were much more casual twenty years in the past; that's why when CDs first hit the market, she was comfortable enough to tell him that he had to make a change, that his business would come to ruin. If only he had listened... and listened again when she said that the store was done two years later. He would have bits; not many, but enough to live modestly in some nowhere town. As it stood, his small retirement had dwindled into one month's worth of funds for housing and food. His eyes burned as he nodded his solemn recognition. Threadbare sighed and reached a hoof across the dingy counter, brushing his shirt. He looked to her, aware of his downturned lips. "What do you have left that I will like?" she asked. Things she would like—music, in particular. His job; the livelihood he had built around himself. There was still some work— not much –for a few more days. Inventory needed cleared out and throwing it away would be not only wasteful, but add to the heartbreak of closing. While he knew Threadbare didn't actually want or need anything from the store, she had offered him the opportunity to pretend, one last time. He straightened his posture and took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he did so. Tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes before were loosened and fell down his cheeks when he reopened them. "What have you been interested in lately?" he asked, feeling some of the cold void that had settled inside his chest leave his body as he slipped into a role he had rarely been able to play in recent moons. Threadbare smiled, her ears swiveling forward as she brought a hoof under her chin in mock thought. Her lips screwed to the side, then she said, "Y'know, I recently heard a song from one of my dad's old records by Flank Zippa? I don't remember what it was called, but, you know, it went like this—" She proceeded to hum a vague melody that was common of music from Flank Zippa's era, something simultaneously complex and generic. Mixtape nodded along, then said, "Ah yes, the one about swans. I know just the thing." He turned toward the bead curtain that led to his office, took a step, then said, "I'll be right back. You hang out right there." Threadbare gave the affirmative as Mixtape stepped away, past the strings of yellowed plastic disks that shielded his office view. As soon as the beads parted around him and he took in the mess of boxes—mostly filled with overstuffed manila folders—piled on every available surface of his office, a deep sadness began to crush him. The sensation became all-consuming as he failed to find a place to look in the room that did not hold memories. Every box, every folder, every decoration—all had an emotion imprinted on his mind that only caused the deep despair to crush him further. It was over. The days of sneaking into his office with customers in the night hours to hit his bong, the one he sold weeks ago as an "antique vase," were over. The ponies he had held close through his store were gone, either through death, disinterest or relocation. The storefront that had been home to Mix's Tapes would never again be frequented by creatures in brightly colored clothes with too-loud boomboxes on their withers. Never again would he have to settle a dispute between music tastes or fix a broken tape deck. There was a purity, an innocence, to the times before, when his shelves had been full, not dusty. It felt innocent like the foals that had played chase through the aisles in the best of days. The same kind of laughter could, perhaps, grace whatever business took over the space after he vacated, but it would not be the same. Something about modern times was corrupted and cruel. The pressure of sadness was suffocating, and he found himself anchored in place in an office that suddenly felt alien. Nothing was as it once was; there was a deep veil of loss that had settled into the shadows of the room. "You see a ghost?" Threadbare asked. Her voice, close, felt so distant. "No," he said. He was only partially aware of the hollowness in his tone, but Threadbare's comment had reminded him of what he was supposed to be doing: work. On top of a filing cabinet by the door, there was an oblong box of cassette and vinyl albums containing some of his favorite music, Flank Zippa included. The spot had always been home to a collection of his favorite inventory. He grasped the box in his yellow magic and walked back out to the counter, setting it near Threadbare. "Ghost gotcha good," she said. "You're looking a bit warped!" The attempt at continuing their little roleplay did little to lift Mixtape's spirits, but he put on a fake smile as he pulled several items from the box. None were particularly valuable, but the sentimental value behind the plastic cases and record sleeves had largely been why they became favorites. He laid them all out to face Threadbare, colorful artwork on display and memories running in the back of Mixtape's mind as his thoughts reminded him of why he had kept each item in the box. Until closing, Mixtape pretended to pretend. He talked about each album at length, allowing himself to indulge in the bittersweet memories surrounding each one. For a moment, he was transported back to warm concerts in fields outside of major cities, the humid nights' air and creatures abound, their touch, the scent—it had all been so perfect. He would get lost in those thoughts until Threadbare gently brought him back, asking to compare the music to her fake Zippa melody. Reminded so suddenly of the world, Mixtape would step back into his old persona, comparing the music and explaining why he thought each album was a good fit. Threadbare would ask questions at appropriate intervals and chew her gum loudly as he answered—the only sign of her disinterest. Mixtape wanted to tell her that it wasn't working, that he was feeling more and more exhausted each time she brought him back to earth. All he really wanted was to close the store early, to think about the times before, but Threadbare had three foals and the time she spent with Mixtape—thirty minutes on Sunday evenings—was the only time she had away from home and work. Even though he knew her well, their friendship had dissolved into warm acquaintance over the years as she had settled into her life. She decided to buy two cassettes and two records—the only music Mixtape had had time to talk about before she had to leave. "Keep the change," Threadbare said, pushing a small cloth bag of bits across the counter. She pulled the bag of albums into her white magic aura as she stepped away from the counter to leave, then paused and looked over her shoulder. Their eyes met for a long moment. "Goodnight, Mixxy." She had stopped chewing gum. He felt the sadness squeezing his lungs as it bore down on his chest, harder than before. For a moment—a long one—his goodbye caught in his throat. "Goodnight, Threadbare," he finally said. His voice cracked. Her smile was tight-lipped. Normally, their goodbye had a timeframe, almost always "next Sunday." Their interaction had been routine. "Take care of yourself," she said, then turned away and trotted out the door. The bells mounted on the doorframe jingled as it closed, then the incessant buzz of the overhead lights-- unheard while he was focused on Threadbare --took over the silence.
II"So, this is it," Starry Step said. The key to the shop hovered between them, encased in Mixtape's yellow magic. He couldn't bring himself to speak. Instead, he gave a curt nod. His landlord, a stout mare who had owned the storefront for the entirety of its life, took the key in her dark blue magic. The absence of feeling as she took the key from him, that slight weight change from holding something to not holding anything at all, made him wince. He closed his eyes tight, fighting back tears as Starry Step's hooves echoed on the dirty tile. "Are you giving me all this stuff?" she asked. Mixtape hadn't been able to find anypony to buy most of his excess inventory, and he had nowhere to put most of the boxes piled in his office—not that their contents were necessarily important. "I thought it could cover cleaning costs," he said, opening his eyes; tears fell down his nose and dripped to his hooves. "An auction house might want it." "Nopony wants your files, Mixxy." She sounded so tired. He looked up, finally, to see her standing at the doorway of his office. She was older than Mixtape's parents when he had started renting the space, and age was catching up to her. "I'll throw them out," he said. Starry Step frowned. The wrinkles on her face deepened. His eyes darted to the empty shelves to his side. "Don't worry about it," she said. There was a pause and hoofsteps, then, "I think this is important." Mixtape looked back toward her. She was out of sight in his office. He walked back to his old workspace and poked his head through the beads. The box of his favorites levitated just above its spot on the cabinet, illuminated by her blue magic. She was looking toward his desk. He quickly took the box in his own magic and pulled it close to him. "That is where you keep your favorite junk, right?" she asked. He almost nodded, but realized she was still turned away from him. He cleared his throat, then said, "Yeah." "Glad I didn't let you leave without it, then." "Thanks." His lips twitched, almost into a smile. Starry Step had always been a good landlord, and she had once even frequented the store as a customer. The part of Manehattan that the store was in had been a very up-and-coming, artsy place when Mix's Tapes opened. Starry Step had always been out-of-place in the youthful community. She only shopped for music from her own time, but the elderly mare had always seemed to enjoy the energy of the neighborhood. It had since matured as the ponies who were painting murals and holding dancing contests began their true journeys into adulthood, and Starry Step, while her music taste never changed, stopped coming when the area became overrun with restaurants instead of artsy shops. He stepped out of his old office and looked out the window. In the mornings, most businesses on the street were closed. The ponies they catered to worked long hours, and it wasn't economical for most of the stores to be open until lunchtime or later. One stallion strolled by wearing a tuxedo, but the noises from the city felt distant in their quiet part of town. "I'm going to miss you, you know," Starry Step said. Mixtape turned to see her standing near him. "You never caused any trouble, you were always on top of rent..." she shook her head, then sighed. "I'm just going to sell the place like I did with all the others. I'm too old to be taking care of properties." "I can help cl—" "Mixtape." The sternness in her voice was like a schoolteacher's. "Your boxes are not the reason I am retiring. I'm old, and I've been old. You're the last tenant I have, and this was always the plan." He nodded. He was looking past her, at the tiles beneath her hooves. "Your mess is going to be somepony else's problem, so make sure there's not anything incriminating in there before you go." He didn't move. Weeks ago, he had made sure to get rid of anything remotely illegal he had done over the years. There was no evidence from the time Threadbare had convinced him to evade taxes for two years, nor of the drugs that he had bought on occasion. He had sold his bong that he bought at a concert years ago, and all those pictures from times passed—the ones showing him and his friends smoking around fires at concerts, lude photos of his friends taken as jokes, and even the one, blurry picture of him doing lines at a house party—had been burned. "There isn't," he finally said. The morning sun painted the city in shadow, but the sliver of sky that he saw reflected in the windows across the street was the pure morning blue. Starry Step sighed. "Well..." The word hung in the air. Mixtape looked over at her, and she looked up at him. She smiled, but it didn't meet her eyes. She said, "I guess there isn't much else to say." Their eye contact lasted entirely too long, and her smile of pity wavered as Mixtape stayed silent. He was aware of the disconnect between his mind and reality, that he should say something, but he was at a loss for words. Emotions were raw in the last days of the store, and he felt an exhaustion unlike any he ever had before. His mind was empty. His body was empty. What filled the void was the wish of escapism through sleep despite not being sleep-tired. "What are you going to do, Mixxy?" Starry Step asked. Her tone had shifted into something softer—a voice his mother would have used when he was a foal. "I-" he faltered, cleared his throat, and tried again. "I'll figure it out." "You haven't yet?" Her voice went up an octave. He shook his head. Mixtape understood the concern—he was overrun with worry over what he would be doing next. There was nothing that matched Mix's Tapes. He had yet to find a job that inspired him like his own store had despite job hunting, albeit he hadn't been looking hard. There was no point to working if he felt nothing; he knew he would do a sub-par job and eventually be fired, which would ruin any modern, relevant experience he had. "I know places hiring," Starry Step said. "I can give you their contact information. They're just cleaning jobs, but it is something until you can get back on your hooves." She turned to the saddlebag on her side, horn lighting up. "I know it's hard to go between professions, but... sometimes things change. It's how I got into being a landlord!" Things change. Mixtape turned and looked at the store. The gray shelves, dusty and empty. The tiles, black around the edges with dirty grout. The lights: bare tubes across a tiled, porous ceiling. Black metal mounts for electronics hung at various angles from the back wall. A card hovered in front of his face. His eyes crossed to read it, but it was still blurry so close. He took it in his magic and, without reading it, looked over at Starry Step and nodded. He said, "Thank you." She gave him that smile again: the one that didn't quite reach her eyes, the one that spoke a special kind of pity. He bowed his head slightly to her, then turned away. "I hope to see you around!" she said as he reached the door. He raised a hoof at her and walked outside into the crisp air. His box of favorites floated alongside him as he turned away from the store. He opted to take the long way to his apartment, so he didn't have to see Starry Step in the window. His hooves felt heavier with each step he took, and the exhaustion he had felt only mounted the closer he approached his home. The well-kept storefronts, closed, went by in a haze and he barely registered the taxis cantering by as he looked to cross the street to the concrete-gray low-rise that held his apartment. All his focus was to keeping the box floating beside him; even it seemed to grow heavier and heavier as he continued, and he was forced to set it down after walking up the flights of stairs to his apartment just so he could concentrate to lift the key and unlock the door. Once inside, he pushed the box next to the stove with his hooves and shut and locked the door behind him. His bed was straight ahead, and he made a beeline for it. He collapsed into the pile of blankets and pillows, pulling them around him with his hooves while he tried to reach out with his magic to close his blinds and curtains. When his horn failed to even light up, he threw a soft blanket over his face and closed his eyes. Despite his exhaustion, sleep was difficult and frugal. He tossed and turned, readjusting blankets and pillows and even taking the tennis ball off the end of his chipped horn to try to make his body more willing to succumb. It was odd—he was so tired, yet his body was so awake, almost energized. He was so, so empty. The exhaustion filled every pore of his being, even the parts of him that kept him from sleeping. Let me sleep. It was all he wanted. He raised his hooves to his muzzle and sighed before turning and promising himself that he would stop moving. Eventually, he fell into a restless, dreamless sleep and woke just as exhausted as before. His bedding was kicked onto the carpet in a pile. It was like that—no sleep, sprawled out on his bed under the window—for days. He listened to the thrum of the city through the window: hooves against road, murmuring passers-by, gunshots at night. It used to be safer. He ate cereal without milk out of dirty dishes lit by incandescent light that turned his white-tile countertop yellow. The newspaper came weekly, in the middle of the day after an uncountable amount of time since Mix's Tapes went under. Mixtape navigated around the two full trashbags in his kitchen to pluck the newspaper from the door. He thought it was the first time he'd opened the door since seeing Starry Step. He shut and locked it, then headed back to bed. Any ounce of self-esteem left in his body deserted him while he gazed over the classifieds: factory work, fast food, a printer at a publishing house, manual labor. The magic fizzled out of his horn, and the paper landed squarely in his face, forcing the odor of pulp and ink down his nose. He let it stay, then fell asleep. In his dream, he looked to the sky in a rural field, right after a Whitechimera set. The rest was blurry. Time was lost to him. He paced his apartment or laid in bed. He played the music left in his box, their familiar melodies turning into songs he had never heard—taunting, nostalgic. He glanced over his Rolling Bones magazines from years past, reminiscing all the warm summer nights, the bright lights of the store, the ponies with radios on their withers. The trash piled at the door. His sink soon birthed flies that swarmed the apartment, like they had at his childhood home after his mother left his father. A donkey and a unicorn were never meant to be. He had a friend over once, as a child, and it was after Mixtape's mom left. The kid wouldn't stay; wouldn't even come inside. It was rancid. Just like his apartment. Useless, rotting, disgusting—Mixtape felt dirty. He broke the mirror in the bathroom when he noticed his beard falling out. It was only partially an accident. Shredding his Rolling Bones magazines was not. One morning—he wasn't quite asleep, nor quite awake—a loud knocking on the door startled him out of bed. He felt off-balance as he crept up to his door and leaned over the trash bags to see through the peephole. It was his landlord. His lease expired the day before. "Fuck." It was the first time he spoke in days. His tongue felt glued to the top of his mouth, and his voice was gravely with misuse. He pushed the trash out of the way and opened the door partially. "Hey, Mi—" Mister Bristle paused, then scrunched up his nose. "There aren't any dead bodies in there are there?" Mixtape shook his head. He asked, "Would you rather talk in the hallway?" Pause. "With this door shut." "Yeah, I think so." Mixtape nodded and quickly stepped out into the corridor, closing the door tightly behind him with what little magic he could muster. Mister Bristle—a lanky, tan earth pony—still had his nose scrunched. Mixtape hadn't showered since his store closed. Mister Bristle seemed to be thinking behind his wide-eyed expression, his lips twitching as though he was ready to say something and chose not to. Finally: "Your rent's up. Are you staying?" Mixtape laughed. At first, it was just for the absurdity of asking such a rhetorical question, but then it devolved into painful hysterics. Tears fell down his face to his nose, onto his teeth, salty on his tongue and Mister Bristle stood by, stiff and stoic as though the reaction was normal. "I'll uh, take that as a no?" Mister Bristle asked as Mixtape finally calmed, taking big breaths to regulate himself. "Yeah," Mixtape said, out-of-breath, doubled-over. "Yeah. It's a 'no.'" Mixtape kept taking deep breaths, admiring the cracking concrete of the platform on the stairwell. He finally looked up, right at Mister Bristle. The landlord seemed to be struggling for words again, his mouth twitching. "What happened?" Mister Bristle asked after Mixtape gained back his breath. "I think I've gone missing." "I see," he said. Mixtape knew he did not understand. A building was on Mister Bristle's flank, not two cassette tapes. "Don't worry," Mixtape said. "I'll clean it all up before I have to go. I'll do it better than I did the store!" "Wait," Mister Bristle said. "Your store? Is it gone?" "It was obsolete, like me." There was a pause, nearly filled by Mister Bristle, but Mixtape continued, "Before you ask, I have looked at other jobs. Nothing is fulfilling. Nothing." There was a long bout of silence, Mixtape staring up at his landlord's jet-black mane, avoiding his eyes at all costs. Cutie marks were supposed to be eternal, like Mister Bristle's building; yet, Mixtape had aged out of his own. Was he supposed to die? To give up? To become a factory worker? A pony came down the stairwell and stared at them as they kept going down, toward the main floor. "When do you need me gone?" Mixtape asked when it became clear Mister Bristle would say no more. "A week, if you clean. If not, twenty-four hours." Mister Bristle lifted his hoof to walk away, but stopped and said, "I'll be back tomorrow to check. With the key." Mixtape nodded, and Mister Bristle went down the stairs while Mixtape pried open his apartment door with his shoulder. The apartment was vile; the door was shut immediately behind him. There was no easy place to start, but Mixtape knew his magic was too weak to carry loads of trash down to the dumpster. Instead, he took to cleaning his dishes, scrubbing every one down with brute force. He broke a saucer. The dishes went into the cabinets; he wouldn't be needing them, he knew, on the streets. He scrubbed the grody countertop until it shined more white than yellow from his light. Cleaned the floor. Picked up more trash. Scrubbed the bathroom. Contemplated a shower. It was dark by then. He took three trash bags down to the dumpster, but his magic failed him at the bottom floor. He carried them with his teeth, like an earth pony, one-by-one to the dumpster. He washed out his mouth with mouth wash after. His efforts barely made a dent. Ultimately, he felt there was no point in cleaning, but it occupied his mind, pulling him from the VHS reels of his past playing through his head, distracting him from the inevitable question of why he was put on Equestria. Was his time up? Did he misunderstand? He walked up the flights of stairs and into his apartment; he still had to shove trash bags out of the way. He showered. It was exhausting, and it made him think again, about who he was. Why he was. What the cassettes meant on his flanks. He got the cutie mark before his parents split up. It was a surprise, considering his parentage: hinnies usually did not receive cutie marks; however, he was one of the unlucky minority. He got it as he worked on fixing a cassette deck for a friend in grade school. His shampoo was purple, like his coat. He washed himself until it fully lathered away the greasy texture off his body. Repairing technology from his youth was easy. He understood it: tape on reels. Vinyl he understood: grooves. Turntables were easy. But discs? There wasn't a tangible way they worked. Something with magic crystals; something with lasers. Unicorn-devised. Hot water trickled down his ears, along his back and down to his unkempt hooves. They had grown long in his isolation. He cleaned his mane and tail until they lathered—his hair had been so dirty it gleamed in the light in the bathroom before the shower. It was why he broke the mirror—partially. He dried off and jumped into bed. The bedthings smelled. The rest of the trash was taken out before Mister Bristle arrived the next day. Mixtape's magic cut out halfway through. The rest he dragged with his teeth. Vile. He was vile. Mister Bristle found the apartment acceptable and allowed Mixtape his last week's stay under the stipulation that the apartment remained clean. That day, Mixtape washed his bedding and folded it into the box with all his favorite things from the store. Then, days blended. He got one more paper. The classifieds made him bleak. He took another shower and brushed his teeth. He spit out more blood than toothpaste. He filed his hooves. It all felt so final. A stage of his life was ending. The mattress and dishes stayed in the apartment, except for a singular bowl and cup he decided to take with him. He dropped off his key to Mister Bristle and faced Manehattan with a snark-filled, "Good luck out there!" from Bristle. Mixtape stayed at a motel; he sprawled out across the uncomfortable twin bed and hardly moved. He only had so many days. He didn't look for jobs. He had done nothing to improve his circumstances, simply wallowing in the stiff sheets and springy mattress, dazed. Something divine wanted him to suffer; it was exhausting to push against it. He didn't get the paper at the motel. He stared at the cigarette-stained popcorn ceiling. At one point, the grody ceiling had turned into a roadmap from staring too long. Then, time was up. When it was time to leave, he handed his key over to the receptionist and left; no words were exchanged, though the earth pony's woeful expression haunted his mind. He only stayed a week. The thin walls acclimated him to sounds of violence: screaming, yelling, gunshots. His box floated next to him as he faced the city once more. There was nowhere he could go. It was never far from his mind that he could have boarded a train, returned to the Smokey Mountains and his father, but he didn't. It was part of the punishment he outlined for himself. Summer was coming to a close, and autumn would soon bring cold. Perhaps he would freeze. The idea was morbidly appealing as he walked the streets. Nopony nor creature paid him any mind. He settled in at sundown that night in an abandoned factory building in a bad part of town. He pushed past plywood guarding a low window and crawled into the darkest recess of the place, hoping to not be found by a gang, and set up camp for the first time. He didn't feel hunger or thirst; he did not feel exhaustion—he just longed for the escape of sleep in his shadowed corner behind long-forgotten crates. The first night was the hardest, with the mice skittering and violent voices that sounded close. The gunshots were louder than at the motel. Then, the third day, it was normal. He hadn't moved. He still wasn't hungry, but he managed to fill his cup and bowl with water on the second day when it rained. It wasn't much. Nothing was. Freezing and dehydrating into a mummy in the corner of an abandoned building felt like a natural end, yet the third day was different than the others. His discomfort finally pushed him out of his suicidality and into a different mindset: survival.
IIIMixtape had the leftover change that had not been enough for another day in the motel. He crawled out of the abandoned factory when true hunger finally and painfully bit into him, dragging him out of depression and into survival with its teeth. Hunger was ravenous; overbearing. He ordered two hayburger meals from the cheapest restaurant he could find. He ate them at one of the blue tables on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Passers-by gave him odd glances. When his money ran out, he would starve. The cold would freeze him if he didn't starve. A homeless shelter felt dishonest. He didn't know why. The hayburgers were cheap, like the ones his dad used to buy him. His mother had been jealous of his cutie mark. She called it evil. It was why she left. Maybe, like cassettes, his life needed rewound and played again—it would be redundant; perhaps cathartic, to be the same old thing all over again. Or maybe he would need played backward for a secret code to his life and its meaning. He slunk back to his place in the abandoned factory, taking his plastic cup with him so he could get refills from other restaurants. Upon returning, he went through his box. In it were priceless records and cassettes, and even some CDs and DVDs he kept for old repeat customers. Some CDs were regular music, but most were songs for fillies and colts. Just like the CDs, DVDs were movies for little ones. Sky Venture and Velvet never returned to pick the ones they had ordered. It had been about fifteen CDs of foal music. He hadn't seen the couple in moons. Perhaps they forgot. Outside, the orange streetlights turned on, casting dim orange rays through cracks in the plywood drilled over the windows. He slept restlessly. The next day, he took the box with him and went to the nearest safe and crowded intersection. "Buy a CD?" he yelled over the din of the crowd. "Fuck you!" somecreature yelled. Mixtape kept it up, begging to sell what he had to whoever would pay him mind. Some generous ponies and creatures gave him just bits, uninterested in what was in the box. He was able to eat with the meager earnings of that day. One day, a coral pegasus approached him, a giant smile on her face. "What kind of stuff do you have?" she asked. "CDs, DVDs, tapes if you can use 'em," Mixtape said, shuffling backwards out of the paths of pedestrians. The mare followed. He sat his box down on stairs outside a closed corner store. He laid the disc cases out for the mare to look at—muscle memory; nopony wanted tapes anymore. The pegasus puckered her lips into a frown. "Are any of the cassettes for sale?" she asked. Were they for sale? His favorite things? In the city, alone, there was no use for them. Ponies and creatures crowded past them in the long silence. That was what he had come to the intersection for, to sell his things, but being confronted with the fact made him bite the inside of his cheek. He said, finally, "Maybe." The mare's face lit up, her lips pulling into a huge smile and eyes wide. She pointed at an old tape of The Elixir. Mixtape pulled it into his magic. He spun it around in front of his face. "What price are you thinking?" he asked. He pushed the tape closer to the pegasus so she could see it more clearly. She rocked side-to-side, eyebrows furrowed in thought. "Fifty?" she offered. She knew her stuff. "That would be much appreciated," Mixtape said. "However..." his voice trailed off. Taxis raced by, wheels and hoofsteps echoing up the corporate skyscrapers. "However...?" she asked. "It's silly," he said. The tape pulled closer to him as he thought about it. "Can you... stick around for a story?" He wanted to say it was lonely. That he was broke. That his store was gone. Anything to keep the mare's attention; she was his only real social interaction for days. But he needed bits. Smooch Me, Smooch Me, Smooch Me was the first Elixir album he owned despite frequenting their concerts. The tape had history. The mare had her eyebrows furrowed again, and her wings twitched. "I—I guess," she said. "I don't have anywhere to go. Do you?" "No." Mixtape shook his head. "Nowhere." Hollow. Her eyes went wide. Realization must have hit her. She said, "Oh my Celestia, I didn't realize! I—I, uh, do you want to tell me over lunch?" It had been nine days. Mixtape wondered how ragged his appearance was, but he wasn't going to turn down food. He left his plastic cup at his place in the abandoned factory. No free refills. He'd knock the price down for her. The crowd of colorful creatures crossed the intersection like a liquid. "That would be nice," he said. As they walked, he learned her name was Pearl Love—Pearly for short—and that she was a massive Elixir fan. Smooch Me, Smooch Me, Smooch Me was an album she couldn't find on cassette anywhere. Mixtape mentioned he used to own a store. She said she'd never heard of it. They sat down outside a Hayburger Prince after getting their food. "So, your story?" Pearly asked. Mixtape placed the tape in its case in the middle of the table. His box was at his side, full of other priceless things. "This was the first cassette I bought from The Elixir," he said. "It was at a concert outside of town, in one of those big fields. It was a huge event—a hundred thousand ponies and creatures watching." "Oh wow," she said, perhaps only partially interested. Mixtape didn't fully acknowledge the cue. "We were there—that is, me, Threadbare, her husband and Ivy Spell—and a big part of the crowd: right up front. Coulda went deaf that close, but all the bodies around you, dancing. The crowdsurfers crushing our heads down... I had to levitate a whole diamond dog over the fence! "It rained halfway through; it was already hot and humid. Pegasi couldn't get to the rainclouds fast enough. The stage was dry, but the crowd was soaked, but we still danced and yelled. They played an encore." He felt there, in that starless night, air filled with the scent of tobacco and marijuana, of sweaty ponies, of the rain in the air, and his friends! His old friends! Threadbare said her goodbye at the store. The others never gave him such courtesy. "Hey," Pearly said. "You sure you wanna sell this?" "I, uh, I don't have the option," he said. "I just—I just wanted to tell somepony about it. I want it to be cherished." He was uncertain if he meant his experience or the album. "I want—I want you to know why it's special. Special to me, personally—not just as a rare collectible." "It sounds amazing," Pearly said, more authentic. "I'll hold onto the memory for you. I'll write it down if you want: 'Special to seller because of the concert.'" It wasn't just the concert, but she wouldn't understand. The concert, that was universal. But the friends, the memory, the ringing ears, the laughs, the community—it was all part of that memory. It went beyond the concert, but he couldn't put it into words. "Yes," he finally said. "That would be nice." He looked down at his hayburger. "I'm sorry to keep you for such a self-indulgent reason." The table they sat at was red. "It's hard to let go." "I understand." She did. He could tell, it was in her voice and her rigid posture. "Thank you," he said, "for listening. And for the food." "No, thank you. I think I understand why it's sentimental. I never bought anything from anycreature who had seen The Elixir live." She shifted her body, then, "You've given me more than a cassette. You're giving me memories." Mixtape nodded. The cassette cover was orange inside its plastic case. The tape was clear. Despite the circumstances, he felt something inside him stir: a warmth with Pearly's words. She gave him the fifty bits and saw herself off. Mixtape finished his food and left the premises shortly after, still feeling warm inside from the interaction. The fifty bits lasted for over a week. He found another intersection to set up his box and yell that he had things for sale. It was getting colder, and, though he had a roof over his head, the gunfire was getting uncomfortably close to the abandoned factory. He needed to leave it soon and try to get into a homeless shelter—though none had room by the time he arrived. The first morning frost covered his spot, he vacated the factory. Some buildings had been abandoned and had intact windows to keep out the cold. How he would stay warm was a mystery. He slept in alleyways with his box as he struggled to get into homeless shelters. He stayed one warm night at one, and was able to bathe. When he returned, some of his CDs were stolen from his box. He didn't try to get into a shelter again after that. After Pearly, he was able to sell just enough things from his box to survive. He tried to save for a winter coat, but he had to dip into his emergency funds for food so often that he understood trying to save bits was pointless. Each sale, each customer he could tell a story to—the interaction made him feel warm. Not necessarily happy, but warm. It was a new kind of feeling. It wasn't negative. It was pleasant to tell his stories, to invite in a new perspective into his buyers' lives. Most were young, just hoping to start collections, though other creatures and ponies his age had came by and listened. The hardest thing to let go of was a vinyl of The Portals' self-titled album. It was truly priceless to him, the sleeve was covered in his friends' names marked in pencil and crayon. The stallion who bought it was understanding. He and Mixtape were similar in age, and he promised to sell it back when or if Mixtape got back on his hooves. After all, the cold was coming, and the vinyl could be warped and ruined by the weather. His name was Swift Metal. He gave Mixtape three hundred bits. The warmth pervaded Mixtape's aching body, coming to its peak as Swift Metal turned the corner with The Portals' album in his magic. Mixtape was frugal with his newfound "wealth," and bought the cheapest coat he could find—one hundred bits. Terrified of theft, he kept away from the homeless shelters and mostly slept in abandoned buildings and cellars he found as he roamed the city looking for new creatures to solicit his stories and favorites. He stayed one particularly cold night in a motel, which ate up most of his bits. One night, he could find nowhere safe, and his magic was dimming. He slid his box under a dumpster and slept in an alleyway, dirtying his new, yellow coat with the grime along the alleyway between two abandoned factories.
IVHe didn't sleep in the alley. He curled up, cowardly, by the dumpster until the gunshots stopped at sunrise; in a panic, he took his box and himself back toward the original factory that served as his shelter. Along the way, to the few creatures he passed in the silver of dawn, he touted: "I'll freeze without bits!" or, "Please, I need help!" or, "I'll die in the cold!" His jacket was light and poor against the wind. It was hardly like wearing a jacket at all, and he felt chilled in the cold nights. He needed more. Even his blankets he had thought to bring did not warm him against the autumn cold. Buying the jacket had been worthless. He should have saved the money to stay in a motel. Lost in his thoughts, he bumped into a lanky, orange earth pony with red-and-orange dreadlocks. His box fell to the ground as his magic fizzled out. "I'm so sorry!" he said, quickly moving out of the pony's way to begin to put his things back into his box. "Oh, it's okay," the pony responded. Then, she jerked her head around to look at Mixtape closer. "Mixxy?" His ears perked up and he faced her. She had been a stranger moments ago, but the more he looked, the more he realized. "Baby Remedy?" he asked. He couldn't stop staring. He had last seen her as a filly running amuck in his store, terrorizing the shelves and her parents. She had curly hair then, often styled into pigtails that looked like pom-poms. "Oh my Celestia," she said. She reached for an embrace, and she draped her leg around Mixtape's withers for a hug. "What happened?" "I became obsolete," he said. He put the last of his things back into his box, all except one thing. They were out of the way of hoof traffic, in the shadow of the canyon-like skyscrapers. "Shit," she said, stepping closer to the stone foundation of the building next to them. "I remembered, though," Mixtape said, floating an album over to her. "You liked The Celestias. Your parents never let you get it, right? This album?" Her mouth fell open, and she blinked several times before saying, "How did you remember?" "How could I forget?" The Remedy family had been regulars in his store ten years ago. Baby Remedy was a force to be reckoned with, but she loved The Celestias and never could get the album that she wanted. Mixtape finally got his hooves a week after the Remedies announced to him that they were returning to Jamareca. They were gone before he got the album. It had been a sunny day, the announcement day, and Baby Remedy had her hair in dreadlocks for the first time. "We're going back," they told him. He got a postcard two months later of them all on a white sand beach in front of too-blue water. It was in the box, too. "You had a birthday party in my store, once," Mixtape said. The album still floated between them. "I did!" she said, a smile creeping onto her lips. "I miss it." "Me too," Mixtape said. There was silence as he put the album back in the box, feeling fatigued from holding it in mid-air so long. "What brought you back here?" "I missed it," she said. "And better opportunities for business." She cocked her head to the side, locks swaying, then said, "Why don't you come with me?" "Sure," he said. "It isn't like I have much going on." He punctuated with a laugh. A real laugh, yet hysterical and hoarse from the cold and loneliness. Remedy looked concerned. He kept pace with her as they navigated the labyrinthine streets, past glass skyscrapers reflecting light off their peaks, across huge intersections and down a clean alleyway to a small shop with a teacup as a sign. They walked in together. It was a tea shop: it was warm and smelled of flowers and herbs. Remedy offered Mixtape a seat, and she sat across from him. "I'll give you a job," she said. "Doing what?" "Cashier, barista? Something with my crystal store?" Ponies in the restaurant murmured around them. The hiss of espresso filled the shop periodically. Most creatures came in and left, on with their morning commute. The décor was very brown; old-fashioned, even. "I, uh, I don't know," he said. "I appreciate the offer, of course—" They were cut off as tea was delivered to them both. His stomach rumbled, and the chill inside him was warmed as he took a sip of the tea. Remedy didn't touch hers. She just watched, eyes droopy. "You feel wrong, don't you?" Wrong. He wasn't sure if that was the word. He said, "Forgotten, I think." She nodded. They sat in silence until Mixtape finished his tea, and then Remedy's after she said she ordered it for him. "What makes you feel that way?" she asked. Beside them, a large line had assembled to order drinks. "I have cassette tapes on my flank," he said. "Nocreature uses that anymore. All I have is my name and this box of things no one wants." I'm going to freeze in an alleyway. The thought must have registered on his face, because Remedy frowned. "We aren't bound to one destiny, Mixxy." She motioned toward her flank; her cutie mark was a teacup with wavy lines over it. "For a long time, I thought my talent was just in brewing tea. I own this place, but my talent isn't in making tea. Not everything links together like ponies think it does." "Do you feel right running a tea shop, then?" Glasses and plates tinkled in the background. "Yes." She looked at him—really looked at him—and said, "It is some part of my talent, but not the united whole." Her violet eyes were piercing. "None of those jobs would work, would they? The barista, the cashier—it isn't you." With it laid out so clearly, it sounded ludicrous that Mixtape wouldn't take a job. He knew this, yet still nodded. He wouldn't survive the winter, anyway. "How about lunch?" she asked. Mixtape nodded again. She got up and went to the cashier. Baby Remedy—Natural Remedy—was in Manehattan. She owned two stores. She was half Mixtape's age, and she was so accomplished. She knew her way in life. Her parents were free-spirits when he knew them; it seemed to have rubbed off onto her. Crystals, coffee, and tea never went out of fashion—not like music, not like cassette tapes, though those had seemed timeless. Mixtape remembered tinkering with a cassette dock and his mark appearing. His mother hated it. His father was ecstatic. Later, his mother was angry when he told her he was a stallion. His dad was excited for a son. It was the last straw. His mother left shortly after. He never understood what it all meant, why his mother hated him. He was just installing a new way of reading cassettes onto the deck—not his own invention. It was more reliable, and less likely to pull enough tape to ruin the cassette. His colthood room was vivid in his mind: the blue walls, the small bed, the writing desk, two windows. Remedy sat down in front of him. He was only half-present. "How are your parents?" Mixtape asked, far-away. A visage of his mother floated in his mind, angry. "Good," she said. "They're still in Jamareca, enjoying island life." "And you're back in Manehattan." His dad had given him a hug when his mother left. "I can help more creatures here—the spiritually out-of-line ones." She didn't miss it, then. Not the cold winters, not the tall buildings; she wanted to be a philanthropist. It made sense. Scones were placed in front of Mixtape, and he devoured one almost immediately. "Let's go to my other store after this," she said. "I think I can help." Mixtape nodded as he ate the rest of the scones. He didn't leave her one, and only realized after the plate was empty. She said she wasn't hungry and that it was fine. She turned down his offer to buy her one. After their back-and-forth at the coffee shop, they started their walk to her crystal shop. The buildings were shorter than downtown, and were built downhill. The sun was high above them, bringing light into the bottom of the building canyon. "Thank you," Mixtape said, "for the food; tea, uh... hospitality?" He felt the thanks fell flat, but Remedy smiled. "It's no problem, really," she said. "You were like family to me." That was how it was at Mix's Tapes. Everycreature was family. They all knew each other. They all loved each other, took care of one another. The city was so alien in the modern times, with ponies passing on the street without even an, "excuse me." Life was too fast; everything in Manehattan felt like it was on fast-forward. Remedy's crystal shop was down a hill in a small, white brick building. They entered, and a dark-coated unicorn with gems hanging from her horn greeted them. "Is the bathing room open?" Remedy asked the unicorn. "I'll have to check," the mare said, disappearing behind a bead curtain. Plants grew in every corner of the dim store. Crystal shelves lined the wood-paneled walls. Ivy grew along most of the vertical surfaces in the store. A rack of hemp jackets was in the corner, and a large, circular rug covered the dark wood floor. Remedy walked over to a shelf and grabbed a large quartz crystal by its basket's handle and carried it to Mixtape. "You need to meditate on this," she said; her enunciation was perfect despite the handle in her mouth. "Do it with this. Do you know how? With your magic?" "My magic barely works," he said. Acknowledging that made him aware of how he was straining to keep his box afloat. He quickly, and softly, placed it on the floor, so he didn't drop it from overexerting himself. He looked down at the box and said, "Most of me is barely working right now." He ached. "I guess I should have figured. You aren't exactly in prime condition." Pause, then, quickly, "No offense!" Mixtape chuckled and shook his head; he said, "None taken. It's hard to keep up any magic when I'm hungry most of the time." He thought it was funny, in a fucked-up kind of way, but Remedy's wide eyes clued him into the severity of what he just uttered. He was going to attempt to put a more light-hearted spin on what he said, but the unicorn who had disappeared to "the bathing room" returned to her spot behind the desk. "It's open and clean, Remedy," she said. Remedy thanked her and lead Mixtape to a blue-tiled shower room. Dark plants decorated the corners in the sunny spots from the high-up window in the room. "Here's this," Remedy said, placing the quartz in the center of the room. "I'll be right back with soap and towels." Mixtape made a noise acknowledging her. The room smelled of lavender, and Mixtape's cracked hooves echoed around him as he approached the fixtures. He looked at himself in the reflection in the faucet. His coat was dirty, turning black and brown, and his eyes were sunken in. His hair was slick with grease and clung to his cheeks. Remedy returned with a bag of toiletries. She sat them in the corner by the plants and asked, "Do you want me to wash your clothes while you're showering?" "Yes, please," he said. The clothes felt stuck to Mixtape's coat, a product of sleeping in alleyways or tripping in puddles and potholes. The yellow coat was the easiest layer to take off, but his fall jackets and old sports t-shirt needed peeled from his body and each other. Remedy scrunched up her nose at the stench; Mixtape had grown used to it. She grabbed a bag, loaded up the clothes and promised she would stay in the store until he was finished bathing. The water was hot, not lukewarm like the homeless shelter. He smelled the street on him as the putrid, black water rolled off his body, past his hooves and down the drain. It was, perhaps, selfish, but he sat on his haunches, the water rolling down his face, down his back. The water was still murky. The crystal caught his eye from the edges of his vision, and he turned to look at it. It was bullshit—the whole crystal thing. It was just a rock. Unicorns were supposed to get something special from them, but he never had because he never tried. With the water rolling off him becoming more transparent and clean, he pulled the crystal to him in his magic. It was cloudy and grew in brilliant spikes. It looked heavy and was. He reached out his magic just to the crystal. It seemed like a time to close his eyes, so he did. He felt nothing. He saw nothing new. Instead, beyond the darkness of his eyelids, he found scattered, fragmented memories of his life. The night he got his cutie mark, his mother leaving, the opening of his store, the patrons of it—it was all there, but it was negative, like a film reel. Mixtape shook his head and reopened his eyes. The water was mostly clear, so he turned the other way to wash off his front. He still thought about the crystal while in the hot water, surrounded by blue and plants, but it didn't make sense to him... granted, he should have asked about meditation before trying whatever it was he did. It wasn't natural to him. He ruminated on his life as he grabbed the soaps and loofa to wash himself, remembering community gardens and good music from his colthood friends. How he wanted to be a musician, or maybe an engineer. He achieved neither; he felt as though he accomplished nothing. A dream-like visage of Mix's Tapes floated in his mind, one where the shelves were full and ponies and creatures were browsing, talking to each other in a warm hum. Then: empty shelves, dust. It was all so bleak. He turned off the water after the water truly ran clean, then pulled a white towel over to himself to dry off. The loofa was ruined, and he had used up most of the bar soap and shampoo. Getting the grime off made him feel lighter. Once he was dry, he wrapped his mane in a clean towel and poked his head out into the shop. The mare behind the sales desk was reading a novel; Remedy was reorganizing some of the shelves. He thought he was unnoticed until Remedy asked, "Did the crystal help?" "I don't think I'm doing it right," he said, which was the truth. Telling her that crystals were bogus was likely a dead-end. A dead-end from what, he didn't know—he felt at rock bottom with a shovel to keep digging; each passing day was more and more difficult. "That happens sometimes," Remedy said, "especially if your magic is already messed up from not having consistent meals." She turned around after placing a spherical blue crystal on a shelf. "Different races have to tap in differently." "How do donkeys, then?" Remedy furrowed her brow and said, "I guess like earth ponies. Maybe they need to take it more at their own pace." Her lips twisted to the side. "Why?" "My mother is—or was, maybe—a donkey." Remedy's eyes widened, perhaps off-put by Mixtape's disinterested statement about not knowing if his mother was alive or dead. Remedy raised a hoof to her cheek and shook her head. She said, "I don't know how I never knew that!" "Well, I don't advertise it, that's for certain!" Mixtape laughed. "Yeah, apparently not!" She walked up toward him and beckoned him into the door next to the shower room. "I think, then, I am right how it works on donkeys. It takes patience, but then unicorns just use magic... I guess it works based on what you are more: pony or donkey." Even though it was shameful to think so—considering how his mother treated him—Mixtape always felt alienated from unicorns. It wasn't that his magic was sub-par—it worked as well as any unicorn without a talent in magic—and it wasn't necessarily because he looked different, it was because unicorns were usually rich. He had no such luck to be born into a rich family; his father owned a single grocery store in Manehattan. His talent had something to do with milk cartons. Remedy flicked the light on in the new room, which hosted two sets of washing machines and dryers. The dryer tumbled and hummed; there were fifteen more minutes until he, he presumed, needed to leave. "Donkey, I think," Mixtape said, then, realizing how belated his response was, "to answer your question." "That explains why you won't work anywhere unfulfilling," she said. It was hard for him to disagree. The room was warm, filled with the scent of clean linen and potted night flowers at every corner. A small shelf of rocks was next to a dryer, along with towels. "Yeah, probably." He shook his head. "I don't know what the world wants of me. It feels like... like it's time to fail. That my success is gone." It was odd talking to a pony he had known as a filly about his problems, yet they poured out of him. "Sorry. I don't mean to be like this." "You're being eaten alive by it. Don't be ashamed." She frowned. "Do you really know you?" "I, uh—" Mixtape trailed off. He wanted to say yes, to agree to such an obvious statement that he should know about, yet to agree felt wrong. There were many things he didn't know about himself; some things that made him feel a stranger in his own skin. He said, "I guess not. I guess I don't." "You need to know yourself. Until then, nothing anypony or anycreature says to you will help you." He wondered if her statement was meant to be taken the same way: that the advice was unhelpful until he accepted his faults—or, at least, that's what he assumed the problem was, he truthfully wasn't certain. A silence passed as the dryer tumbled on in its muffled way. He was too stubborn, too prideful, perhaps too cocky at times, but those felt as though he had come to terms with those parts of himself. Finally, "Does the crystal... help?" He titled his head back-and-forth. "With seeing myself; knowing myself." "It can," Remedy said. "Meditation itself helps too. Trying to empty your head and observe your own thinking—it's a powerful thing." It would be impossible to relax in the streets of Manehattan, not enough to meditate and certainly not enough to tap into a crystal. As far as he knew, the crystal was useless to him because of his mother's species. The dryer beeped, and Mixtape went over to don his clothing. The sports shirt was full of holes and discolored; the flannels that went over it felt clean and soft again, and the big yellow coat seemed puffier than the day he bought it. "I—I don't have a place I can let you stay," Remedy said. The statement was out-of-the-blue. "I never asked for one," he said. "It still feels terrible to let you leave for the streets again..." She looked sorrowful, nearly tearful with her chin pressed into her neck. Some of her dreadlocks cascaded off her shoulder. "It's okay—really." He couldn't imagine the guilt of accepting such a gift—it felt unearned, even if it was available. They exited the laundry room and re-entered the floor of the store. The neon open sign was dark, but the pony behind the bar still sat on her stool, reading. Mixtape's box was next to her. "I can offer you free drinks and food from my café," Remedy said. "You can come here any time to clean up." She stiffened her posture. "I'm going to find a way to help you." Please don't. Instead, "I appreciate it." The thought hopefully was not as empty-sounding as it felt. He didn't want help. "Oh, let me get that crystal before you go!" Before Mixtape could object, she was off to the bathing room. Mixtape walked over to the pony behind the register and levitated his box from the ground. He put the Celestias album on the counter and said to the pony behind it, "This is for Remedy." She looked up from her novel and nodded. She closed her book to stash the record somewhere behind the desk. "I saw you had a Noisefield album on vinyl," she said. "Would ya sell it?" Noisefield was a band Mixtape never cared for, but he kept the album for somepony he cared deeply about long ago. It was the last tie he had to her. There were no more fond memories left of her; not after the things he had went through—yet, the album, her favorite, stayed in the box. "Would you like to hear a story about it?" he asked, floating the album from the box and onto the counter. Her eyes narrowed. "You don't have to if you don't want to." "I'm curious," she said. She leaned over the counter, elbows on the wooden surface. "Tell me." "This was one of my exes' favorite album and band," he said. "I got to see them live so many times, but she—she was awful to me. We weren't together for very long, but I had bought her almost all of the Noisefield albums that were available back then." A smirk plastered itself on his face. "This was the one she didn't get." The cashier smirked back. "Sounds very spiteful," she said. Mixtape laughed. "Yeah, you could say that. It's her favorite album too." "You really salted those wounds, huh?" "She deserved it." He grimaced as a thought of what she did passed his mind. "Anyway, I'll sell it. I don't need spite living in my box of things." The cashier—Dimmet—offered him a hundred bits for the album, which he initially refused. After her assertion that she would pay him no less, he caved and took the bits. It meant he could afford another night in a motel if he needed to. After the exchange, he felt an odd type of elation. It wasn't for the money, he didn't think; it was for getting rid of the album, for telling the story. It was comforting. Remedy finally re-entered the room from the stairs leading into the hallway with the laundry and bathing rooms. She had probably been eavesdropping considering how long it had taken for her to come back with the crystal. Without a word, she placed it in Mixtape's box. "Please visit my stores, okay?" she asked. "I know it's going to be a long journey. I'm here to help." His cheeks flushed; he knew Remedy wouldn’t let him be truly alone. It felt like the last years of Mix's Tapes were devoid of love and care, yet, in the interior of the hole-in-the-wall crystal shop, he felt happiness that he hadn’t felt since the best years of his store. "Thank you," he said. "Really." Remedy tried to smile, but her distress was clear in her wide eyes. Mixtape picked up his box in his magic and waved at them as he stepped out into the orange-colored night streets to find a place to sleep.
VMixtape stared at the quartz. He knew every facet of the mineral, every clouded portion—one reminded him of the visage of Celestia impressed into a golden bit—and he knew the crude, dark gray rock of the matrix. No matter how he ate, no matter how he slept, the crystal was quiet, only occasionally sparking a memory before lying dormant again. Meditation was no better. It was too cold to have thoughts to keep track of. So long as he stayed clean, he was welcome in Remedy's coffee shop or crystal store as the days grew colder. The crystal loomed in his tattered box taunting him with its metaphysical truths. Remedy was typically in her crystal store. She encouraged him to keep thinking about the crystal and to meditate. At least he could do both in the sanctuary of her store, but nothing had brought him any closer to an epiphany. He hadn't sold anything in the box since he was given the crystal. With the first snowfall of the year anticipated on the news in electronic stores' windows, he realized he would need more than hospitality to stay alive. He begged and attempted to sell his wares. It was largely fruitless, though as he went to spend his bits on three nights at a run-down motel, the stallion behind the desk recognized something in Mixtape's box. "Is that a Radical Coats album?" the receptionist asked. Mixtape leaned over to see the contents of his box. A single cassette tape had moved itself to lie atop the record sleeves. He said, "Yeah, I guess it is!" He floated it up to the counter so the receptionist could get a better look. "Oh wow!" he said, admiring the art trapped in plastic. "How much do you want for this—or are you even selling it?" Mixtape barely remembered that concert. He said, "I'll sell it, but would you like to know how I got it?" A vending machine behind Mixtape turned on suddenly, humming as its lights flickered to life. The tile floor seemed stained a permanent yellow. The formica countertop the receptionist had his dark green hooves touching added to the liminal ambiance of the place. A lightbulb flickered off-and-on behind him. "Sure," the receptionist said. "Not many creatures come here so late." Mixtape smiled. The receptionist looked rough, as though he had came into work after a street fight. Considering his size, Mixtape would not have been surprised if that were the case. "Well, it started at a music festival," Mixtape said. "I never was that into the Radical Coats, but Thr—" he cleared his throat, realizing the receptionist would have no context to the other ponies with him that night "—my friends and I… Celestia, we were so stoned! The main stage where the big bands play, they were setting up for the next act and we decided to wander around the crowd." Mixtape shook his head, memory fuzzy as the memories came flooding in—some pleasant, some awkward, some bad. The receptionist was patient, but Mixtape was drowning in the memories of the concert, of life before, of the life he had, of the life he could still have. What if he had listened to Threadbare? She saw it coming. Mixtape was oblivious. "So you're at a music festival, fucked up, right?" the receptionist asks. Mixtape snaps out of his thoughts, still blurry on reality, and nodded his head slowly. "Yeah, so… we were all there," Mixtape said, "and we saw the outfits from the stadium, of the Radical Coats—their capes looked like auroras to the sky—and we decided we'd go there." He scrunched up his face. "It's hard to say, you know, what happened. I mean, we went down there, I know that." I kissed Threadbare and Sweet Berry; we swayed, stoned, at the music as dancing colors rather than sound. "I'm sorry, I wish I could remember more… I just like to—" he trailed off. What was it he liked to do? Talk? "You like to tell stories," the receptionist finished the sentence for him. "I suppose I do." Mixtape frowned. "I'm sorry I didn't have more of a story for you. I keep things that are sentimental to me. Something must have happened that I don't remember." "Happens to the best of us," the receptionist said. Mixtape nodded. "Fifteen bits sound good?" Mixtape asked. "I'll do you one better—I'll give you two extra days on your room. You'll freeze to death if you try to live on the streets with what you got." It was true. His jacket was not warm, and his tattered shirt brought nothing but discomfort along his coat. It was too cold during the day to do much. He could use a scarf, a real coat, better blankets—but all he had was the box and his bag of necessary things from his old apartment. "Thank you," Mixtape said. It came from the heart, how strongly he felt. He had enough bits to pay for three days. The receptionist saved his life. Five days off the streets, all because of a Radical Coats album. He was given a key to his room and he made his way back into the autumn chill. His room was on the second floor, and his hooves made loud pangs as he scaled the stairs. He located his room, entered, and promptly closed and locked the door behind him. It was a small room and smelled of thick smoke. The carpet was dingy, but soft, and the bed was made with the most starched bedspread he had ever seen. A microwave and mini fridge were available. Everything had a strange orange tint to it under the fly-filled light fixture. At least it was warm. He wouldn’t die tonight—at least not of exposure. He caught a glimpse of the crystal in the box, mocking him. He was too tired to try to commune with it. He showered, then laid down in bed and gave into his exhaustion. He slept until noon the next day, feeling rejuvenated from sleeping on a mattress that was only marginally more comfortable than the floor. He ached some, so he pulled the stiff covers close around himself. Exhaustion was what he knew for days on end. He was at the end of his rope when he spoke with the receptionist; the interaction hardly imprinted on him. He just knew five days. But, he'd given away the Radical Coats tape—or, rather, traded it, he remembered, for two extra days—and, in that moment, he had felt something. Reflecting only strengthened the feeling, whatever it was. It was warm in nature, like lying in a sunbeam for hours on end. It was almost like a healing spell. He dozed off ruminating on how he felt, and woke up an hour later feeing no closer to the answer. The crystal. Remedy's nonsense. Was it time? Was there supposed to be a time? Mixtape rolled out of bed, nearly taking the stiff comforter with him. He walked to his box and pulled the crystal from its spot in the corner of the box. It wasn't glowing—he wasn't sure where he got the notion it would. It was nothing special. The cloudy portion that looked like Celestia was still there. He set it on the floor and laid down on his stomach to examine it closer. Remedy said something about magic and crystals on one of her one-sided conversations between them. He had lifted it with his telekinesis, of course, but a different kind of spell had to be used on the crystal. Mixtape thought he remembered Remedy saying it is different for everypony. It felt natural to close his eyes and reach out with his magic, imagining its shape as a griffon's articulated foot. It touched it and he felt a surge of static run through the magic, down his horn and into his body. His hair stood on end. Normally such a shock would make him lose concentration, but it wasn't painful. Perhaps it was how he was supposed to commune with the rock? He tried to end the spell, but the crystal wouldn't let him. What was it trying to tell him? He pushed further, willing his magic to push through the layers of crystal until he could feel its middle; its pulse: a gently melody. As he probed the crystal, trying to slip through its lattice, different memories started to come to his mind. All the ponies who had bought things from him, those who listened to his stories. The crystal pulsed memories, feelings. His first time giving somepony a present—a perfectly round pebble to an elementary crush. He saw himself in third-person at his childhood desk, working on the cassette player that would give him his cutie mark. That had been a gift too, hadn't it? Colors pulsed from behind his eyes, was it the way it was supposed to be? The colors? Was something messed up? Images, memories, they flooded from the pulse. Some had to do with his identity; most were his happy days in Mix's Tapes. The ponies with their spikey manes and pointy jackets. The dancers who carried boomboxes on their withers. The dance-offs outside his storefront. He had felt so fulfilled then. Then, the crystal showed him as things waned. Threadbare telling him to sell the store. His stubborn nature keeping him there, watching the once-thriving store into a mausoleum to the past. Most customers in the two years prior to closing only came in because his store was a novelty. Nopony needed what he had. They wanted to see a relic of the past. And, even though his heart was breaking then, he still told stories and sold albums. His horn began to ache, and he was finally able to end the spell. He kept his eyes closed for a while, taking deep breaths as he processed all that he had seen. It was cathartic to have his life laid out in front of him by the crystal. He was so successful until he wasn't—Until he had to live on the streets or a cheap hotel room. Those issues didn't change him, though. He felt too old to know how to learn from some of his past, but yet, he felt as though a flower were blooming in his chest. He finally understood. It was stories. It was his name—Mixtape. A gathering of songs or sounds out of love, about not forgetting, about recording memories and music off the radio. Something inside him clicked. That was right. He forgot how it felt—like light, warm, a beacon. It was clear. That was it. That was it.
EpilogueThe sunlight poured in, golden, from the streetside windows into Remedy's crystal shop: a new day. Winter brought brutal cold to Manehattan, and the sunlight glistened on the piles of dirty snow cleared from the roads. "Thank you again for all your help," Mixtape said to Remedy. She beamed at him. "I can tell you're feeling better here," she said. "And I am very thankful for you being here. Running just one business is a handful!" "Taxes are coming up," he said. "I can help if you want." She gave him a sideways glance. He smirked. They both laughed. "I don't want to be a felon, thank you!" Remedy said. They lapsed into comfortable silence as Mixtape organized the new inventory into their proper spots. Remedy was asking for numbers of rocks and minerals for the store's record. It was tedious work, but it was work. It was something. Mixtape knew he could still feel fulfilled so long as there was somepony to talk to. Remedy had gifted Mixtape peace. It was something he felt could never be truly obtained—what would he even do to do what Remedy had for him? She offered to take some bits from his check to give to the motel he was staying at until she found an appropriate apartment. Mixtape was just happy to be warm, and he no longer felt strained carrying his old box. The box had been so badly damaged, he threw it out, but not the things inside. In his motel room, there was a small dresser; in it, he had placed his most precious things. They would be in a box again when he moved, of course, but it would be different then. He wouldn't lift the weight of the new box every day. He was full; full of joy. Warmth, like the golden rays of the sun in the wood-paneled store. What he was meant to do was clear: remember. That was all. He simply needed to remember, and invite others to hear. "I think..." Mixtape trailed off. He went back to polishing a crystal ball before placing it carefully on its stand, cloth draped over it. "I think—" He frowned. "Tear it off quick, like a bandage," Remedy said. Mixtape nodded and squeezed his eyes shut, and said, "I think I'm going to move out of Manehattan." There was no reaction. Silence filled the space between them. Mixtape opened his eyes slowly, expecting anger or sadness from Remedy. Instead, he saw her smiling. "I think that's a good path for you," she said. "I don't know if I'll leave yet," he said, "but... it's crossed my mind—my talent, you know?" "I do." "I also need to get my shit together." Mixtape looked over and up at Remedy, who was still smiling. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. They went back to counting, walking every aisle in the store, depositing new inventory when necessary and placing anything "out of season" in the back room. The golden rays of sun were warm on their backs, and Mixtape paused in a beam. Peace. He finally understood. Author's Note yoooo i finished something!
