The bass thrummed through my soul. I felt the vibrations more than heard them, the music so loud that all I could feel was the beat, everything else flowing together into a wave that threatened to drown me.
It was perfect.
The other ponies in the room, less so; I would have preferred to be the only soul in a sea of sound, adrift with my thoughts and the straining emotions of the music. Instead, I was one pony in a sea of bodies, all moving together like a field of wheat. The pony next to me was screaming as loud as he could, but I could not hear him. On my other side, I could see the motions of a mosh pit forming, like a localized hurricane threatening to tear the field asunder. There were too many ponies for me to retreat from it; all I could do was hope it would break in a different direction and pass me by.
My Little Romance was not my favorite band—their sound was a little too clean, with a little too much pop in their punk. But my actual favorite band was a single anonymous pony who uploaded raw files onto a darknet listserv that often didn’t even bother to have titles, and I didn’t think they would be putting on a concert anytime soon, so this was the next best thing.
The mosh pit was creeping towards me. I watched it out of the corner of my eye like it was a living thing, a stalking predator. Instinct would have me seek the safety of the herd around me, but instinct was a panicky, stupid thing that I refused to listen to, even when it wasn’t dead wrong. The ponies around me would simply become a part of this predator, and it would swallow me up.
Then its path changed, and I dared to hope that it would pass me by without incident, even as I knew that it could be fickle enough to double back just as easily. But no, it was past, and beginning to move away—
WHUMPF.
Before I knew what had happened I was flat on the floor, and I couldn’t breathe. Something massive had shot out of the mosh pit, and now it was on top of me. I had always assumed that death by mosh pit was an irrational fear of mine, spurred entirely by my intense aversion to other ponies, so it seemed rather ironic to be experiencing it. Perhaps I had been too hard on my subconscious—but no, there was no reason to be thinking like that; if I lived it would only give it ideas.
“Damn, I did it again,” the mountain on top of me said, its voice thunderous enough to be clear even through the noise. Then it got up, allowing me to breathe once more. “Begging a thousand pardons, miss. You ain’t hurt too bad, are ya?”
The mountain turned out to be a pony, though it was the largest pony I had seen in my life. He had a dark coat in a solid color, though that was all I could discern in the dim lighting of the club. “I’m fine,” I said, not because I actually felt fine—it felt like I had cracked a rib—but because any other answer would lead to more questions and more ponies poking and prodding at me. Not that this answer was any better—if I was lucky he would see my mouth move, because otherwise he would have no way to know I had spoken.
“Please, ma’am, let me make it up to you. Won’t sit right with me ‘til I make this square.”
“That’s not necessary.” I peeled myself carefully from the floor, just fast enough to prove that I was in fact still whole. At least the stallion’s massive frame was enough to keep the ponies around us parted, or somepony probably would have stepped on me by now.
“At least let me buy you a drink.”
I could see that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. In some ponies, that would have put me off. Most ponies, really. But this one was looking so contrite and earnest that some foolish part of my mind actually believed him. Besides, the bar was in full view of the dance floor and this pony was a head taller than anyone else in the room.
“Very well.” This time I nodded, and that seemed to satisfy him.
The stallion turned and walked straight towards the bar. Where I would have had to carefully duck and squeeze, he simply went through. The sea of ponies parted for him effortlessly, and I could only follow in his wake. Before I knew it, we were at the bar, and the massive stallion had the barpony’s attention immediately.
“Whiskey,” he said. “On the rocks. And whatever the lady would like, on my tab.”
“Do you know how to make a Vampire’s Kiss?” I asked the barpony, and now we were far enough from the stage that I could hear my own voice again. He started pulling out bottles and I took that as assent.
“I’m Troubleshoes,” the stallion next to me continued. “I’m real sorry you got in the way of my awful luck. Follows me where’er I go, causing a mess o’ things. Didn’t mean for it to hurt nopony.”
I considered that. I wouldn’t normally think of myself as a prejudicial pony—not more than most of the masses, anyway—but I still had to admit that Troubleshoes didn’t seem to be the kind of pony I’d expect at a show like this. He was wearing almost nothing, just a pair of tattered jean shorts, which was about as far from punk rock as one could get. He was a boulder casually upended into a pool of water lilies, but I could not bring myself to say so. Still, I at least had one question.
“Why were you in the mosh pit, then?”
“Didn’t mean to be,” Troubleshoes said, voice earnest. “Tried to avoid it, I did. But things don’t work out the way I’d like too much. Was so focused on what was comin’ I wasn’t looking where I was goin’.”
“I see.” That hadn’t been the answer I expected. A pony that massive could rule the mosh pit like a petty king, and that would have explained his presence here. But if he wasn’t here for the dancing, and he wasn’t here for the drinks—not with such a basic order—then that meant…
“You like My Little Romance?”
He frowned at me. “I’m at their concert, ain’t I?”
My ears burned. “I’m sorry. I meant—”
What are you doing here? This isn’t your scene. You don’t belong here.
The words twisted inside me like a knife. I could hear them echoing in my ears, reminding me why I didn’t like ponies much. Now they had sunk their thorns into my subconscious, and it sickened me.
“It’s alright, I get it,” Troubleshoes said, when I failed to continue after faltering. “I’ll leave you be.” He picked up his drink from the bar, raised it in acknowledgement, and turned away.
“Wait!” I called out, before my brain had time to make a conscious decision. “I didn’t mean it like that. I do prefer my own company, but I did not mean to turn you away.” Belatedly, I added, “My name is Inky Rose. Apologies.”
Troubleshoes turned back to me, and then set his drink back down. “Ain’t no trouble,” he said easily. “Not your fault, I know I don’t look the part. Ponies don’t tend to want me around, what with my size and my klutziness. Guess you could say I’m none too good with other ponies neither.”
I felt the ghost of a smile cross my face. “What I meant to ask was… what do you like about them?” I gestured to the band onstage. They were a three-piece outfit, each of them wearing dark jackets with spikes and more eyeliner than you generally saw on a stallion. The song they were playing came to a crescendo, and Troubleshoes waited to answer until the stomping of hooves died down and the next song began.
“I’m none too good with puttin’ it into words,” he said. “But they got the right feelin’ to ‘em. The world’s done ‘em dirty, and they’re mad about it! I like that. Spent way too long with the world tellin’ me I didn’t fit nowhere, and all I did about it was mope. When I feel like just shutting myself in my cabin, these ponies tell me—No! The world’s the one that’s done wrong, not you! Makes it so’s I can face the day.” His cheeks flushed, but he took a long swig of his whiskey and looked at me. “How about you?”
I shrank back a little, having the question turned back on me. I didn’t usually talk about myself. Ponies didn’t need to ask me how I thought—they took one look at me and they knew that I was a thorn in a sea of roses. I’d applied the same logic to Troubleshoes, because why bother wearing anything if you weren’t going to say something with it? But it was clear now that whatever he might project outwardly, he was more than that, and I owed him an answer.
“I appreciate the darkness. A lot of ponies try to hide that, pretend the darkness doesn’t exist, that they can’t see it. That everything is perfect sunny days and rainbows. I know that’s a lie, but if I spend too long with just my own thoughts…” I trailed off, trying to decide how much of my anxieties I was willing to share. He didn’t need to know about the spirals, didn’t need to know how often I couldn’t tell if my own mind was lying to me. “I’m afraid sometimes that I’m making things up. Chasing shadows that aren’t there. But these ponies, they see the shadows too. I have to remind myself that they exist.”
“‘Preciate the darkness, I like that,” Troubleshoes nodded. “You may not like their company, but you want to be a part o’ something. Don’t I know what that’s like.” He raised his glass in a toast. “Well, I’ll say I’m glad you braved the mosh pit, Inky Rose. Not often I meet a pony like you, ‘specially in my line of work.”
The toast reminded me that my drink existed—the barkeep had set it down next to me so smoothly that I hadn’t noticed—and I raised my glass as well and took a sip. It was pleasantly tart, a blood-red vodka martini that I ordered mostly to have something fruity to drink that wouldn’t get me laughed out of the very small number of parties I attended. “What is your work?” I asked, just to be polite.
“Rodeo clown.”
I nearly spit out my drink.
Troubleshoes didn’t seem to notice. “It’s jus’ about the only thing I’m good at. Uses my klutziness for entertainin’ folks. What about you?”
I recovered enough to answer. “Fashion designer. Well. Aspiring fashion designer, I suppose. My designs have seen some success but most of the industry is too far up its own ass to recognize the demand for work like mine.”
Now it was Troubleshoes’ turn to choke on his drink, and I allowed myself a small moment of basking in victory. I wasn’t usually so blunt with my distaste for corporate Equestria, but Troubleshoes seemed like a blunt kind of pony.
Troubleshoes did have a smile on his face when he recovered from his surprise, so I had read him right. “Well, I don’t know nothin’ about fashion, but I ain’t never seen a dress like yours, so I believe ya. Is it one of your own designs?”
“..It is,” I managed, chest tightening. This was where he would call it ‘interesting’ or ‘different’ or ‘unique’ or any number of euphemisms for ‘not what I’m used to, and therefore terrible’ and that was just if he was feeling polite.
“I like it,” he said, his smile spreading. “It’s striking. Says you don’t care what nopony thinks, ‘cause you already know what you want.”
My heart fluttered. “Thank you.” Now I was ashamed, because I’d misjudged him. Again. “I just wish I actually could dismiss what other ponies think. I doubt I’m as strong as you. Putting yourself out there just so ponies can laugh at you? I would shrivel up and die.”
“Nah, it ain’t like that,” Troubleshoes objected. “You’re putting on a show, same as any comic or actor, and you’re making ponies happy. Same as I’m sure your dresses make ponies happy, even when those fashion ponies you don’t like see you wearin’ all that black and think you’re sad.”
“You’re very insightful.”
“Nah, I just had good teachers. You shoulda seen me when I was sure I was cursed with bad luck. Couldn’t reason my way out of a bucket. I needed a whole lot of kickin’ and proddin’ from a few very smart fillies before I could see things straight. Now I figure, you gotta look for the good side of things. You wouldn’t be wearin’ that dress if you weren’t proud o’ it, and you wouldn’t be here if it didn’t make you happy. So why wouldn’t you be happy? Just cause you ain’t smilin’ on the outside? That don’t mean nothin’, any clown can do that.”
I didn’t have an answer to that, so I downed the rest of my drink instead. “You’re right,” I finally said. “There’s a lot of shit to be mad about, but we’re here anyway.” I held out my hoof to him. “Care to dance?”
“I don’t really dance, Inky. I told you—”
“Neither do I. But this is a special occasion.”
Troubleshoes paused, and then he grinned, and then he took my hoof.
We returned to the sea of ponies, but now we were a wave cutting through it. The music still thrummed, and instead of letting it wash through me, I moved with it. I didn’t know how to dance, but neither did Troubleshoes, and it didn’t matter. We no longer feared the mosh pit, and in fact it broke upon us, ponies spreading out around us, stomping their hooves and cheering us on.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so alive.
