The door opens and I step in. No key and no lock; nothing much to steal anyway. My apartment’s dark, has been for weeks. Who needs electricity anyway? I use my hoof and slam the door behind me. The only illumination I get is the electric blue glow of my horn, carrying a not-so-discrete paper bag. The top of a bottle sticks out the top; don’t bother guessing, it’s vodka. And right now it’s my best friend in the world. I step through the kitchen and out into my living room; a cushy sofa, a couple nightstands and coffee tables, and one of my turntable sets. Or, no. My only one, I guess.
I throw myself onto the couch, and yank the bottle out. I take a minute to just lay there and stare at it, jiggle it around a little as I watch the potent liquid slosh around inside. I could just down the whole thing in one go. But where would the fun be in that? I should make a game out of it. I set the bottle down and walk back to the kitchen, throwing open the covers and yanking out every shot glass I can find. A few fancier bits of cutlery and some plates crash on the floor, shards and pieces going everywhere. Oh well, doesn’t matter much at this point.
When I get back to the couch I drag a coffee table right up next to it, and set all the glasses down. The vodka comes back up, and a healthy dose gets poured into each. There’s fourteen in total. I’ll be through more by the time I’m done, and I’m not just talking about alcohol. But it’s a start.
Setting the vodka aside, I pick up one of the shot glasses and bring it up to my lips. No hesitation for me, no gently easing in. One gulp, and it’s gone. But I’m a heavy drinker. One shot doesn’t even register on my radar; not like some ponies I know.
And even as I go for the second glass, my mind lingers on that thought. Here I am, at the ass-end of nowhere, and all I can think about is the mare responsible for putting me here. That’s just me, isn’t it? My luck, my lot in life, however you want to put it I’m doomed. I try and think back to the first time that I ever met that jerk. That stupid, beautiful jerk.
It was the wedding. It had to be the wedding, I was certain of it. I was young then. Well, younger. Up-and-coming, the big name in Canterlot. I’d done a few shows before, some gigs for friends; I hear one I did in Ponyville wound up getting some fashion designer nationwide acclaim. Great for her, I thought, but not my style, so I didn’t really care. This was my moment, not then. This was when I got to strut my stuff for the crème-de-la-crème. The big shots, the movers and shakers. Even the Princesses showed up to this place. I don’t know who that pink pony was, but I owe her my career.
I played my gig, pulled out all my best numbers and my cutting-edge remixes. I even debuted my number-one single there. Ever hear of Zombie Shuffle?.. Heh, nah, nevermind. You didn’t, I already know.
I was like a music machine out there, cranking out sick beats like an artist on a mad streak. And really, that’s what I was, wasn’t it? But even in my shining moment I didn’t notice, or care at how good I had it.
Because somepony didn’t like my act.
Oh, she didn’t say anything, but I could tell by the look in her eyes. I can describe every last detail of that face. Gray coat, darker mane coiffed like some kind of ritzy wannabe. A little pink treble clef for a cutie mark, and a matching bowtie. Her pink eyes had that spark in them. The spark of talent, and the spark of somepony who was completely aware of that talent. She carried herself just a little bit higher than anypony else there, and was proud of it. Too good for my “commoner” music.
I didn’t like that. After the party, I tracked her down. She wasn’t hard to pick out of a crowd. I didn’t realize it then, but nopony that beautiful ever is.
I can’t remember the names I called her. Elitist, snob, things like that and a few things much worse. I was still riding the buzz of the music, and I felt invincible even as I drew stares from the crowded streets of dispersing guests. This mare was getting what was coming to her. But she brushed me off, tried to pretend I wasn’t even there. Well, that just made me madder, and I got in her face. I asked who the buck she thought she was, trying to ignore somepony as important as me.
“Important?” she’d responded. “Is that what you think you are?”
She laid it out as plain as day: one gig a star does not make. She was a musician too, as I should’ve known. Even now, her name still sends a pulse of feelings I can’t describe rushing through me. It fit her perfectly, a perfect meld of she and the name bending towards one another to create a single mare, the pinnacle of her art. She played the cello. Classical. She and her band played at high-class events so regularly, we’d have been there all night listing them. That was a star. I was just a two-bit punk oversized for my saddle.
That made me furious. I stumbled for words to put down this high-class, haughty jerk, but I could barely find any. I told her I’d prove I was a star. Me and my music, we’d take Canterlot—no, all of Equestria by storm, and when she was out of a job and on the streets maybe I’d toss her a bit to buy some booze with.
To her credit, she took it in stride. That confident little smile, shining as brightly as a star as she accepted my challenge. Truth be told, I thought that would be the last I’d see of her, sashaying down the street with that cocky poise. She’d just be another face to gawk as I ascended to musical deification. But no, that was hardly the last I’d see of her, waking or otherwise.
Shot number fourteen goes down smooth. My vision is blurred, and the buzz going strong. This stuff would floor a pony of lesser constitution. But not me. I’ll tell the truth though, this is the most I’ve ever drank in one go. I set the final empty glass down and stare at my conquest. This would be a terrible hangover, if I had that to worry about.
That was the booze, but I’m not done yet. I open up a drawer in the stand by the couch, where I always keep my stash. My horn glows, and out comes a single joint. I can’t afford much harder anymore. But tonight I need any comfort I can get, so I light up. I take a deep intake, and puff out a large cloud of smoke into the air. Then another, and another. I get the most out of this little beauty as I can. Think of it as a last meal.
I slouch further into my sofa, the cushions relenting to my weight as I fall further into my own purgatory. I stare up at the ceiling, as dark and unforgiving as the rest of my apartment; blame it on the booze, the smoke or my own traitorous mind, but I don’t see my own ceiling anymore. I see the high-rise ceiling of the Canterlot Banquet Hall, lit up like it was Hearth’s Warming Eve.
And on that night, almost a year ago now, it really was Hearth’s Warming Eve. Just a few months since the wedding, and I’d been everywhere. Magazines, newspapers, and word of mouth spread my fame like wildfire. The hard-partying unicorn with the shocking blue mane and the total control of all things melodic, harmonic, and musical. DJ P0n-3, they called me. I loved it. I’d walk down the streets of Canterlot night life, my shades both my trademark and my mask, and everypony who was anypony would know me at a glance.
I signed autographs, I was treated to meals. I played gigs almost nightly, reveling in the rush. The darkness punctuated by the bright flashes of lights, ponies on the dance floor grinding and gyrating however I directed them. In the clubs, I was the puppeteer, and boy, did I put on a show. But one night ended differently than the usual. I was approached by a stallion in a suit, his sleazy grin telling me everything I needed to know about him: Personally, I didn’t want a thing to do with him. Business-wise, he had one hell of an offer.
It was an invitation, as it turned out. A Hearth’s Warming Eve ball, an evening reserved for the biggest individuals in all of Canterlot. Princesses, nobles, and all the ponies who had made a huge impact on society. It was cultural suicide not to attend, but if I went? If I went it was the biggest opportunity of a lifetime. How could I not accept?
What I found was something beyond me. The Banquet Hall was gigantic, a dome like a shield to contain all of the city’s cultural worth within. Chandeliers hung from above and cast warm, golden light to enhance and enrich those gathered there. I walked through crowds of well-dressed strangers, a dark mass of cultural detritus I could care less about. I was chatted up by fans and admirers, all talking malarkey about the growing relevance of my brand of music in the artistic world. It had always been relevant. I wasn’t about to be drawn in by suck-ups who couldn’t appreciate my work until the rest of the world beat them to the punch.
It wasn’t long before I found myself trapped in an endless loop of following the servant ponies carrying the snack trays. A cracker here, one of those little triangle sandwich things there, anything to devour and pass the time. I was in this routine for a while before I was snapped out of it by a familiar face.
She flitted in and out of my vision in the blink of an eye, but I knew her eyes. That confidence, it was… fascinating. Entrancing. It’s so difficult to describe her in few words, because every time you think you’ve seen all you want to learn you look into those eyes, and you see that spark. You just know there’s more to find, and you go digging to find it.
And that’s what happened to me. I didn’t know why, but I broke from my circling and pursued her through the crowd. Self-absorbed duchesses and barons were shoved aside as I dove in after that mare with the treble clef on her flank. I caught her deflecting advances from some blueblood, and watched her face as she saw me. I observed every inch of her expression for some change, but I came up with nothing. She was as stoic as a statue. And dang it, that just made her that much more of an enigma to take apart.
Only as I got close did I realize I had no reason to be there. No reason to have followed her halfway across the Banquet Hall. With nothing else to defend me, I fell back on gloating. I had made it; this was the big time. I was a VIP, how could she gloat now?
She was miffed, I could tell. She tried to defend her stance. “One invitation amounts to as much as a passing breeze. Sustain it, and maybe it will be worth something.”
I called her out on that one. How dare she look down on me? How dare she and her precious cello look down me for my music? She looked at me like I had some kind of plainly visible disease. Her voice was something I can still hardly describe. It rings in my ears like the sweetest note of the clearest bell, bright and powerful, with an air of dignity. And back then, all I could hear was the harsh clang of rusty, unmaintained cymbals. She asked if I’d ever even heard a classical concert.
Of course I hadn’t. There was no beat in classical music, and it held no interest for me. But I couldn’t let her know that. I half-answered, did it matter if I had? It was a stupid response, of course it did. She gave me a look that pierced straight through my pathetic little barrier, and I waited for the verbal lashing she looked so prepared to give.
But that was the first of many surprises she gave me. She gave this weird little smile, and told me that was something that needed to be fixed. She told me to wait there, and I did even if I wasn’t sure why I did. She came back a minute later with a ticket to her next concert, free of charge. She told me to come, and she’d give me a taste of some real music.
And like that, she turned and left; I watched her walk away again, strutting straight out of the Banquet Hall and out of my life. But something felt different that time. Before, I was confident she would be nothing but dust in the wind. And there was nothing stopping me from tossing that ticket in the next trash can I found, and going back to my stardom unimpeded.
But as she turned away, I saw something in those eyes. Something that I liked. And there was no way I’d let it get away from me again. This time, I’d chase her.
I look away from the ceiling. The booze, the blunt, it was all there. But I’m not done just yet. In the darkness, it’s hard to tell where I’m going. I’m so messed up by everything now, that it’s even harder than that. But this is all for nothing without the last piece. I struggle up to my hooves, carefully placing them one at a time so I don’t fall.
I shake, and wobble, ready to tip over at a moment’s notice. All I need now is back in my bedroom. I take a few experimental steps, testing my balance. I seem to hold. Gaining confidence, my inching shuffles become longer and longer. I feel a dark grin growing as I make for the last piece. No better way to end a night, right?
No better way to end.
My growing confidence isn’t very well founded; I strike an uneven portion of the rug, and like a startled goat, I flop to the ground. My legs swing around in every direction as my addled mind panics. I calm down quickly, and fall into a motionless stupor. Just rest, give it a moment and try again.
But it works against me, this attempt. My idle mind returns to its thoughts without being asked. My blessing and my curse, that terrible and wonderful mare.
The concert hall was packed. An usher, some shy colt in a gaudy red uniform opened the door for me and tried to lead me in to my seat. Poor kid, I still don’t know if he got trampled or not. The place was fit to burst with so many ponies gathered inside. The cacophony of a thousand voices filled the air, harsher and more powerful than any club I’d ever found. I weaved my way through the dozens loitering in the aisles, trying to find my row. Snippets of conversation slipped past my ears, gossip about high-society folk I didn’t care about, a few things about the weather, but one topic dominated: hey were excited. This was going to be a show.
I wasn’t alone, I guess. A lot of ponies seemed like they didn’t know what to expect. This was their first show too. That should’ve been comforting, I guess, but really it just made me anxious: if she was getting this many new faces a show, she might have been growing in fame, too. Maybe faster than me, even.
I finally got to my seat, jammed in like a can of sardines between some morbidly obese mare with a hat like an umbrella, and some white stallion with a tacky moustache chatting up some model to his right. I stuck out like a sore thumb in this place, and it felt like every eye was on me as we waited for the show to start.
That feeling didn’t last long. The lights dimmed, and everypony shut up fast. This was the moment we’d been waiting for. The thick red curtains were drawn back, to reveal a quartet of ponies onstage. The spotlight clicked on, and the show began. A slow movement, to build up into something greater as the concert went on. And when I said everypony seemed like they were looking at me? That stopped, because they were all looking at her. So was I.
She stood on her hind legs, cradling a cello as she worked the strings like a master. I shouldn’t even say like, she was a master. The other ponies on stage, you couldn’t even see them. They all faded into the background, and your world was filled with the subtle, powerful hum of those strings, and the image of the gray mare meticulously drawing out every tone, thrum and note. My eyes went wide, and like a foal seeing her first sunrise I drank it all in. I think then was when I finally understood completely. I didn’t hate classical music. I’d just never heard the right classical music.
I’d never heard her.
There were no clocks to be found in the hall. It all kept with the illusion, you were in your own private world, just you and the music. The rest of your life could wait. But when it was over, it had felt like only a few blissful seconds had passed. And yet, I could’ve sworn I’d been there for days, entranced.
When the lights came back on, and the curtains closed, everypony cheered. But that wasn’t what they were thinking, I’m certain. Inside, they were groaning, bemoaning that their wondrous night had ended. Well, I thought, maybe theirs had. But I’d be bucked if I was going to let her walk away again. I said I’d chase her, and I would.
It wasn’t exactly easy getting backstage. A minotaur was standing watch as the bouncer, his expression like a flat wall of rock. There was nothing there to read as I pleaded with him. I dropped my name, the fancy ball I’d been to, anything to get him to recognize my worth.
Nothing worked on him, but my shouting had a secondary effect. She had heard me when she walked by. She approached, and with a single, beautiful phrase tossed away the bouncer like he was no bigger than a puppy. He walked away, leaving me staring at her. A moment of silence passed before I realized how awkward this was.
She invited me backstage, to show me around. I got to see the workforce behind her performance; her band packing up, the dozens of stagehands shutting down the lights, even a few techs arguing over the acoustics of two separate recordings they’d made that night, and which should be submitted for the live album. I was overwhelmed by it all; I guess on some level I’d known the work other musicians went through. But on my pedestal, it had never amounted to much in my mind.
I think that was when it really hit me. Maybe this mare wasn’t being such a snob. Maybe it was me, the whole time. She was just saying things my ego didn’t want to deal with. Before I’d known what had happened, we were back in her dressing room. She casually tossed off her bowtie, asked how I liked the performance. I struggled to find the right words. Although, really, I was looking for the wrong ones. I already knew how I felt—“Entrancing, rapturous, beyond my wildest dreams.” I simply had to find a way to not embarrass myself when I said it.
With a face of faked embarrassment, mixed with just that right dab of actual embarrassment, I told her that I had to admit, it was pretty great. Better than I’d have ever given it credit for.
I’d opened up, let down my guard. Now was just about the perfect opportunity to seize the moment and strike, grind my pride in to the dirt like so much dust ready to drift off at a moment’s notice. But, amazingly enough, she didn’t. She just smiled—I swear the temperature went up four degrees in that room, from the warmth of the smile or whatever was going on in my chest.
She said she appreciated my honesty—a lot of people with my kind of grudge would’ve just lied and said they hated it. Oh, if only she knew right then what I really thought. But then her face shifted. She started staring at me, those eyes, that spark boring a hole through me. I felt vulnerable, under all that scrutiny. She was looking straight at my eyes—or, my shades, rather.
Then, with no warning, her face leaned in. I don’t know if she saw the blush, but I sure felt it. She wasn’t doing what I thought she was, though; her teeth clamped down on my shades, and yanked them off of my face. I balked for a second, and she looked at my eyes with a careful, studious sort of look.
“Red.” I remember she murmured, taking note of my iris color. “It’s a very beautiful color; why do you hide it?”
I would have told her, made up some lie or something. But my mind had the consistency of stewed tomatoes at that point. A thousand thoughts, more than a few I wouldn’t dare share went zipping about my skull like rockets. Finally, the worst of the bunch ricocheted just right, and flew down into my mouth.
“Maybe I could tell you over a drink?”
What did I just say? Stupid, stupid, stupid, I had thought. Out of all the things I could say to this classy filly, I just bumble out a half-plotted request for some… pseudo-date? My legs tensed up as they got ready to go for one heck of a run.
Then she said yes.
The rest of that night is still a euphoric blur in my mind. She took me to a bar she frequented. Naturally, that meant a five-star joint that wouldn’t know what a DJ was if it bit them. But it was… nice. As it happened, they were playing one of her pieces when we walked in. I remember that adorable blush on her face as she realized how that reflected her ego. I just laughed it off, and demanded to know where the drinks were.
I’d expected beer, but I wound up with some kind of ale that griffins brew out east. Probably the best drink I’ve ever had, truth be told, but maybe that was because of the mare I was drinking with. We talked for hours, whiling away the night with stories about gigs gone awry, psychopathic clients, and even a little bit about our homes. She was an odd mare, that one. So poised and refined, yet so ready to cut loose at a moment’s notice. She could laugh and joke, just like anypony else. But even as she did it, there was this… superiority to it. Not intentional, I don’t think, but the way she does things just looks at all the other attempts and scoffs, saying, “Is that how you amateurs do it? Here, let me show you how it’s really done.”
Before either of us knew what had happened, it was one in the morning, and the place was shutting down around us. I almost felt devastated. There was still so much to be said. So, I went out on a limb. I asked her to my own gig. I just smiled when she asked for a ticket. All she had to do was show up, and enjoy the music. No ticket caught her off guard a bit, I think. But as hard to read as she was, I think she liked the idea.
We left the bar together, and went our separate ways. I turned to face the cold winter streets, happy for a walk in the quiet night. But, I wasn’t really alone. That was the night I met the other pony responsible for all of this.
He came out of an alley and started walking alongside me as I went down the street. He didn’t say anything at first, he had a hood pulled up over his head. He kept glancing over at me, like he had something to say but no way to say it. I told him to just up and come out with it. He told me his name and asked if who he thought I was, the big DJ. I grinned and told him that I was. All at once, his body loosened up, and his weird gait became more natural. He took his hood down; his mane was blue, and his body a steel gray. A face like a young punk, probably fresh out of high school, with a disarming smile combined with shifty, droopy eyes. Very open and easy to read, that one. Just a laid-back, chill sort of dude.
He explained that he had been really nervous he had the wrong pony—he hadn’t recognized me without my shades.
That was the first time I had noticed I wasn’t wearing them anymore. I thought back to the bar, and to the concert. Had I really never put them back on? Did I even have them anymore, or did she take them? I felt naked out on the streets without my trademark, a start contrast to how comfortable I’d been with her for a span of hours; I hadn’t even noticed they were missing.
We got to talking, this colt and I. Local boy, kinda dorky, but cool. Pretty clearly terrified of saying something stupid around an idol like me; that just made him endearing. We talked about music, all the latest up-and-coming DJs; our favorite clubs, our favorite drinks at clubs. I didn’t bother asking why somepony his age was drinking; I’d been in college too, y’know? You’ve gotta live a little. But that talking about drinking delved down into… less scrupulous habits. The kid admitted he did some pot in his off-time. No big deal, I told him, all the same to me. Your life, your choices. He sounded a bit confused, and asked if I’d never tried it.
Well, if I told him I hadn’t I’d have been lying—like I said, I’d been to college too. I went with the subtle option, and said it’d been many a year since I had. Well, I mean, the colt was just trying to be friendly, so he offered me a joint he had on him. There wasn’t exactly anypony around this late, so we ducked into an alley and lit up. I don’t turn down hospitality, it’s just a thing.
It was a trip, to say the least. We wound up wasting the next three hours in that alley, just sharing laughs over lame jokes and chatting about the nightlife. We wound up retreading a lot of our first conversation, but we didn’t care. We were high, we were due for some sleep about six hours ago, and we were having fun. We didn’t really get moving until the telltale signs of the coming dawn started creeping towards the horizon. The black sky was turning blue, and a few crazy ponies were starting to wake up and prepare for the day. Me and the kid said our goodbyes, he assured me he’d be at my next show. I gave a nod and agreed, wandering back to my apartment; I was totally oblivious to what I’d just started.
After who knows how long, the disorientation is starting to wear off. I don’t see the past anymore, just my dark apartment, slightly less dusty spots showing where all the decorations I used to own used to hang on the walls. Still nervous over my lack of coordination, I’m very careful standing back up. It seems to go okay, I don’t flop back over again. I look back down the short hallway to my room, and walk towards it.
The door is shut, but my horn fixes that. I leave the glow on, just for that added light. I don’t think I’ve ever owned a candle in my life, I don’t have much choice.
My room’s simple enough. Four walls, a ceiling. An old waterbed I’ve never felt the need to replace sits on a bare-bones frame. The walls are where the real action is. Posters of all the biggest names in the business adorn my little slice of hell. There’s a battered old desk in the corner where I used to write music. Now it’s for something else. I stumble over, that dark smile growing again as I look at my prize. A discrete little orange bottle, full of blank white pills. I pick it up, the electric blue glow casting an almost psychedelic light on it. I spin the bottle around a bit, and admire the contents as they click around against each other. This will do the trick nicely. It doesn’t really matter what kind of pills they are—some long, rambling name I can’t remember. It’s what they do that matters to me. What ANY pill does, if you take enough of them. I flip and turn the bottle in mid-air as I stumble back to the door, admiring my prize. It’s been a long day.
Time to take a nap.
As it had happened, my next few gigs took me out of Canterlot. I toured, if you can call it touring, all through northern Equestria. It was almost two months before I wound my way back home. Honestly, I was afraid she’d forgotten about me. Sure, I’d come to the logical conclusion that her music was blessed by Celestia herself; but there’s no way to know if she was just doing me lip service when she said she’d come to a gig. Whatever her real feelings were, I knew I’d find them out in short order once I got back.
I can’t remember the name of the club I went to that spring. I think it was called Darby’s, or something; all I remember for sure was, it was a weird name for a pony and a weirder one for a club. The floorplan was pretty standard for a club. I loomed over the dance floor, my machinery set up and ready to pluck the strings of my puppets. I rotate my music between gigs, more for myself than anypony else. I’d already rearranged the pattern so I’d have the perfect music for the night. I can’t really call any of my work “slow”, but this was… I guess this was my most melodic stuff. A little less bass, a little more synth, even some strings in a couple remixes I’d done since the concert. The kind of stuff somepony new to the genre might like. Just in case she showed up.
When I got up there, I scanned the crowd for any sign of her. Nada. I tried to ignore the feeling when my heart dropped; I still had a crowd of slaves ready to do my bidding. It’d be a shame to waste them.
Waste them, I did not. Anypony tells you that you can’t dance to any one of my songs, you punch them in the face. It’s harder NOT to get moving when I drop the bass. And the moment my tracks blasted to life, the crowd began to shake and shiver. I’d call it subtle for maybe the first five seconds, before the thrashing really started. I saw mares and stallions alike shaking every limb, every inch of their bodies in a mad, primal motion. A collective tension built up over the course of weeks, waiting for tonight to be released in a mad frenzy of dance. I lost myself in the beat, and directed my dark congregation like a musical prophet. The night pounded and shook itself away as my wicked sermons swarmed their ears and took the control of their own bodies away. I was loving every minute of it.
And it all came crashing back to reality when I saw the spark in a pair of pink eyes watching from the bar.
She’d come after all; I hardly knew what to say. I stammered for a bit unheard and unseen by anypony, except her maybe. I scrambled for the controls. When I play I tend to manipulate my music as I go; it’s a unique experience every time. But a mare’s bladder can only withstand so much. I have a backup set of songs I can play on loop while I take care of non-DJ business. Tonight, that business was a gray mare with a pink bowtie.
I sat up next to her by the bar, and asked her what she thought. She seemed a little overwhelmed by it all; I think she might have been unprepared for all the noise. She was yelling a lot louder than necessary to hear. She pretty much fulfilled my dreams right there. She was overwhelmed all right, but it was the good kind of overwhelmed. She’d never seen so much energy in a crowd before.
There wasn’t really any smooth way to ask what she thought of my music. So, with a little liquid courage backing me up, I asked her straight-up.
Her response was this coy little smile; I didn’t know whether to yell at her or propose. It was very interesting, she assured me. She took special note of the blending of classical instruments—I chalked up a victory for me, thanks to my ingenious preparation. But, she wasn’t fully satisfied. I asked her what was missing.
“Nothing’s missing. It’s just… I expected it to be, how do I put it? Louder.”
Oh, she shouldn’t have said that. I grinned the most devious grin a devious pony could grin, and nodded back towards the stage. She could follow me, and I’d show her loud.
She didn’t protest following me, so I brought her up to the stage. I showed her my throne, from which I dictated the laws and the state by which my subjects would abide. At the end of my most recent looping number, I grabbed the mic to let the audience know we’d be switching up the act tonight. I asked who was ready for the number-one, show-stopping, head-pounding ear-bleeder? There wasn’t a “no” on the lips of a single pony in the club. I handed the mare beside me a pair of headphones; she was new to this, I figured she’d need them. Then, it happened.
I played Zombie Shuffle.
I can’t put it any other way: the bass? Dropped. The whole freaking club shook between the wubs, the drubs, the thrums and the hums; I could keep going through the sounds, rhyming them until it sounded like a storybook. But suffice to say, the term magnum opus applied. I flashed a smile back at the mare beside me, whose expression was frozen into something like a deer caught in a spotlight. She’d anticipated loud. This was deafening. And by Celestia, it may have been the cutest thing I’d ever seen. I leaned over and lifted the headphones, to let her know that she hadn’t seen nothing yet. I turned back and dove back into the controls.
Buttons were pressed; switches were flipped; knobs were turned, dials adjusted and little slidey-things slid. A cacophonic, harmonious masterpiece ripped the dance floor to shreds, and my little puppets could hardly keep up. I drank in the sights, mesmerized in every moment of it. But that itch at the back of my head wished I could turn around, and get the full reaction from the mare who mattered most at that moment. I had to wait until the end, as the crowd reveled in the energy surge through booze, to get her expression.
I could describe it, looking back, in a word: hooked. I had her hooked. She approached my equipment, and asked how it all worked. The spark was shining, yearning to learn. And how could I say no to that? The next song began, and I led her up to the controls. Carefully, gently, like I was handling a bomb ready to blow I took her hooves and guided them to a few knobs, urging her to turn them. The volume began to shift to her touch. I showed her how to adjust every little nuance of the song, and after a few minutes let her play with it.
It was a little shaky, but that was to be expected. She barely understood the controls, let alone all the details of my songs, that I’d known by instinct on account of creating them myself. But she wasn’t bad; there was a real, raw talent in there. I told her as much, that if she stuck with it I could make an honest DJ out of her. She laughed at the thought, but really she didn’t seem all that against it. She said she might be able to bring a little class to the profession.
I didn’t say as much, but frankly I agreed wholeheartedly. We sat up there for a few more songs, but sure enough the evening was winding down. This gig lasted until midnight, and it had come faster than I’d ever expected it to. The ponies started filing out the doors, and she and I said our goodbyes. I’d asked her to hang for a while after; we could grab a drink, talk some more. But she refused, said something about important duties to attend to in the morning. But she’d had fun, and decided maybe I could show her some more music sometime. She took my hoof, and jotted down an address. Next Friday, she’d said. I barely caught the time over the sound of my pounding heart. I nodded furiously, probably pretty stupidly in retrospect. She turned and left, leaving me alone.
Well, except for the kid.
He found me pretty fast once the crowd had dispersed, asked me about the mare. Was she my… y’know?
Ha, I told him. I wished. We fell back into the chatting routine pretty quickly, taking to the streets to hop over to another club. A bit on the shady side, I’d never played there; but it wasn’t an abandoned place by any means. Just… seedy. The bouncer gave me a wary glare, but the kid’s presence seemed to placate him. That was pretty amazing, I decided. Who did this colt know that he got entry, no-questions-asked? I found out pretty quickly.
We were led into a back room, the kid telling me about this rad stallion he’d been hanging with lately. Great guy, and knew how to hook you up with anything. Anything.
I’d never met the guy before. He was a pretty burly stallion, I don’t know if it was from legitimate means or a little “performance enhancement”, but the muscles were not to be discounted. His coat was something like a salmon color, with an orange-blond buzzcut mane and eyes hidden behind thick black shades. He wore a denim vest, and steel rings around his hooves. The cutie mark was an eye, for the record. Still not entirely sure what it meant.
They called him the Alpha, and truth be told his appearance gave the wrong impression about him. All in all, he was a real lax sort of guy. Bought us a complimentary round, even mentioned he was a fan of my music. You get these stories all the time, that big kingpin types are these sort of grubby, unscrupulous types. Even where I am now, I can’t do him wrong saying stuff like that. We got to talking, this Alpha and I, and he understandably was under the impression that I was here for “business”.
Handed me a plastic bag, easy to hide, enough joints to last me a week. He was real plain about it. If I wanted ‘em they were free, so long as I understood that he didn’t do special deals for anypony. After this batch, I’d be paying like everypony else.
At the time, it seemed like a harmless deal. I kicked a little money I wasn’t even using to the side, and got hours of entertainment out of it. Too much free time anyway. I took the bag.
I didn’t stay much longer than that. I was tired, that night. I wanted to get home; partially to catch up on rest, and partially to test some merchandise.
I step back out into my living room. I look around, somehow afraid things have been lost. Everything’s there. The booze, the pot, and now my little bottle of encapsulated relief as I set it down on the coffee table. Everything’s in one place now. I’m ready. I turn towards my last remaining piece of musical tech. The thing’s so old, all it plays is records. But I’m the kind of mare who prepares accordingly. There’s a record sitting on a shelf. I step closer, and my horn snatches it up. One of my first, and I still attest one of my best. It’s my first recorded copy of Zombie Shuffle, my first big hit and the one that got me in this whole big, beautiful mess. Without it, I wouldn’t have gotten that gig in Ponyville. Without that gig, I wouldn’t have played the wedding. And then I’d never have that wonderful mare. And none of it all would have come crashing down on me.
It’s an appropriate piece to go out to, anyway. A truckload of booze, enough pot to get you higher than a kite, and some kickass music while the pills drag you off to sleep. What more could a girl ask for?
Those next few months were a constant high that I never wanted to stop riding. I went to her house on Friday, 7:00 on the dot, like she’d requested. She met me at the door and led me into a house grander than I’d ever expected.
You heard me right. Not apartment. House. In Canterlot, aka the real-estate slaughtering fields, where aspiring homeowners go to die. There are maybe three neighborhoods in the capital with enough room to support full-blown houses, and she was in the best of them by far. Ornate marble decoration, with statuettes of historical figures I didn’t know tastefully arranged on her lawn. Where most homeowners would have put a slab of concrete for a cart or carriage they might own, she had a mosaic of the two Princesses, wrapped in a tapestry of musical notes. My old counselor/professor from my college days would have had a field day if he’d seen this.
The place felt really high-class. Dark, hardwood floors and rails and furniture contrasted with the white walls, and the enamel trimming all the ritziest stuff. The place I suppose would be the living room had a ceiling at least three apartments high, and a big chandelier hung from it. Two dozen candles lit the place with a warm, orange glow to match the setting sun. One of what I presumed to be many cellos sat in the corner. A warm fireplace was roaring across from a pair of cushy armchairs, where she sat me down while she fetched drinks. I barely had time to appreciate the fancy rugs laid out before she returned, and we started talking.
We shared news of our respective musical fields, the scandals surrounding a certain recording studio out in Fillydelphia. You know the one. It was a while before we got down to business.
A simple deal. A trade. In exchange for any request I wanted to make, I’d show her everything I knew about music. My music. The reward I picked was straightforward enough: free tickets to her shows, and backstage access. She agreed, and so it began.
As the months passed, things would switch up a bit. Occasionally, rather than her luxurious little slice of heaven, we’d go to my apartment, since the heavy-duty equipment was a pain to lug all the way over there. It was slow-going, at first. Not really by any fault of her own, more mine. Since I was a filly, I’ve been playing music. Nopony ever taught me anything, I did it all myself. I’d never had to put the technique, the feel of it into words until then. Have you ever tried to describe instinct? It’s hard, isn’t it?
But we found a way. I don’t know if it was because she had some training, and a whole lot of experience under her saddle already, but she was a quick study. I’d go as far as to say she’d mastered the machine in the first month. I was a little jealous, really; that took me years, and here she was going through it like a pro.
We hit a snag when it came to composing. She could copy my style, on pre-mixed tracks pretty easily. Making something new? That was a challenge. She’d learned so much classical, she didn’t know what to do with all the new sounds she had.
But we found a way around that, too. A little improvisation, a few new sounds programmed into the machinery, and not three weeks after the first dive into composing, she was fusing segments of her own music into the new stuff. She was real proud of it; I didn’t have the heart to remind her that me and a dozen others had done it before her.
That’s not to say it wasn’t good. It was stellar; mind-blowing, even. I like to think that personal bias had nothing to do with my glowing reviews.
When we weren’t practicing, we were out on the town. She showed me the ritziest places in town, and I showed her the sleaziest. It was fun.
But that wasn’t the only thing going on in my life.
After every concert, every night at the bar, somehow I’d find myself wandering back to the same place. Back to Alpha, and the kid. They welcomed me with open hooves every time, glad to have one more in their little troupe. I wish I could tell you what we got up to, but I can scarcely remember what little we did—I hardly want to. The thing about them was, they had one thing on their minds: get high, and then buck all else. Really, that wasn’t such a bad thing as far as I was concerned. I got my excitement often enough in my other activities. This was where I went to chill. Alpha kept to his word, and I had to pay up to get in on the fun. But I was riding the high of stardom; I had more money than I ever knew what to do with. Kicking a little his way, it was well worth it.
I don’t know how much you know, or care, about this stuff. But after a while, the usual “order” just wasn’t… doing it, anymore. Y’know what I mean? Alpha did. He suggested I “upgrade”, if I wanted a little more. A little powder in a little bag. A little more expensive for a little bigger hit. A fair trade, right? I thought so.
And that’s where it all came apart. I guess, looking back, it wasn’t really her fault, or the kid’s. It wasn’t the healthiest lifestyle I could lead, but it was sustainable with the status quo. And that was just it. Things change.
It wasn’t noticeable at first; somepony would turn me down, I’d find a new venue right around the corner. Just the ups and downs of the business. But time passed, and it got harder and harder to find work. It was something that only occurred to me then; I knew all the old DJs, all their stuff. But when was the last time I’d seen any old school actually getting played? The Equestrian club life is a life with zero patience. Everypony gets their fifteen minutes of fame. And then they’re gone. Cast aside for the new generation with their new sound, or their new beat; even if it was just new faces, so long as it was fresh they were wanted.
I hadn’t been fresh in a long time. Just like everypony else, I was a fad. And my time was up.
That’s not something you want to hear. Not something you accept. I’d hit a slump, yeah, but it’d pass. Maybe it’s take a month or two… or three… or five.
Just two weeks ago was when it all happened. The climax, the crescendo, there’s a thousand pretty words for one ugly scene. With less and less time going towards my music and my gigs, more and more time was spent with my pink-eyed protégé. More time with the kid, and Alpha, too. The stress of both was getting to me. On the one hoof, I did more, harder stuff. On the other, I had the mare of my dreams that absolutely could not, would not know how I felt. I’ve heard ponies say you can’t see how screwed up you are, looking at yourself in a mirror. Somepony else has gotta point it out to you. I must have looked like a wreck, because that spark was committed towards me; not in a good way, either. That stupid mare, getting into other ponies’ business. Rich, powerful bells calling out sour notes, daring to try and judge me. To try and care.
She’d noticed the change in my appearance, better than I had. Concern in her eyes that I ignored. That wasn’t a subject I ever wanted to touch. There was only so much time we had in a day together, I’d never waste it arguing over a dumb habit.
We never went to my apartment anymore. I didn’t want to have to tell her that I had started selling off most of my decorations, even some of my furniture. Anything to make ends meet. With so few gigs, I could barely shell out the money I needed for my bills, my fix, and my food. I’d scrounged up a few gigs for the month, my last shot.
I was playing at my usual club, anymore, that night. Where before there had been a throng on the floor, committed to my every note, I now found a few scattered faces. No crowds, no adoration. Fifteen minutes, up. I left early that night; I’d earned my paltry sum. Time to spend it. I found the kid, and the Alpha, the same as they always were, and joined them. Sat down, exchanged the cash, and waited for my fix.
It never came. I looked at the Alpha, but he didn’t look back. He was entranced by the spark.
She was standing in the door to our dark corner, as unreadable as the day I met her. Held above us all, feeling superior and rightly so. The authority in her voice was genuine, and the shaming effective. She’d come to my gig. Like she always did, when she could find the time. I don’t know how I didn’t see her, but I was deaf to her as I left. She followed me; wanted to talk, to drink. Found me here instead.
I waited for the lashing. The anger, the betrayal, the judgment. None of that came and she stung me worse for it. She shook her head and left, deaf to me now as I called her name. I followed her to the door, but she was already gone. Walking straight out of my life.
I wouldn’t let her go. I had to chase her.
The next night she had a performance. I knew that, I still had the ticket waiting at my home. I waited until the end of the show to arrive; if I’d sat through her concert, I’d have stormed the stage halfway through. The bouncer let me pass with no questions, but even he could see the change.
I found her backstage, surrounded by stagehands and bandmates, all eyes turned to me. I didn’t flinch; when I had an audience was the one time I was in total control.
Control didn’t mean confident. There’s no way to hide desperation, not like mine. I couldn’t afford to let her go. I tried to justify, tried to explain what she saw. Tried to deny what everyone could plainly see on my face, what they’d see in my eyes if revealed. But there’s this way about her. When she took my shades off, I’ve gotten to thinking she never needed to. She was always able to see right through them, through any wall or shroud. She was just showing me, the world, that she could.
And that was how it felt then. Her eyes punched right through my lenses, saw what was really happening. She wouldn’t buy a word of it, I could tell. So I knew, if that didn’t work, then I’d have to show her.
I kissed her. Right there, on the spot, everypony there to see. In one lip-lock I poured in a year’s worth of passion, frustration and desperation. She had to know, had to get it. My eyes were clamped shut, I didn’t dare look.
After a moment, I pulled away, and opened my eyes. I don’t know what I expected. What I got was shock; confusion; things I can’t describe. Terror?
That was when what I’d done really sank in. That I’d spent a year under the pretense of being somepony’s friend, only because I was madly in love with her. And then I confessed, if you can call it something that innocent, with a crowd to look on.
I looked away. That was the last time I’d look at my mistake, I swore it. I turned and ran out of the theater, and I wouldn’t be coming back.
Over the next two weeks I descended. I indulged. Everything I could afford, I grabbed and I imbibed. Everything I didn’t need, I sold. All my equipment, save for one little turntable: gone. Tossed away to a street-corner pawn shop. A spinning clusterbuck of booze, drugs, and an overwhelming desire to just shut away the last year of my life. It got to the point where I didn’t even want to get up in the morning.
And it was that simple. I decided that, after tonight, I wouldn’t. Ever again.
That’s where I am now. I’ve gathered it all. One last night of indulgence, then a long, long nap to forget everything I’d ruined. All that’s left is my old track to carry me off…
My eyes jolt open. My ears perk up. My jaw goes slack.
This isn’t Zombie Shuffle.
It’s hers. The first track she composed with me. A symphonic blend of strings and synth, I’d know it anywhere. I rip it off the turntable and read the title again. “Zombie Shuffle”.
I never mis-label my records. There’s no way I could have—
Then it strikes me. Her. She’d been here, replaced the record. But that raises more questions. When, how? Why? I screwed everything up, why do this?
I look back at the sofa. I look away not long after. The question burns, I have to know. She wants to be chased? I’ll chase her.
I race out of my apartment, not grabbing anything to bring with. I don’t have a plan, or even the slightest clue what I’m doing. But I have an address, and I’m galloping towards it with every ounce of energy I’ve got left.
It’s not a lot. I haven’t gone three blocks before I feel winded; soon my muscles will be burning like they were on fire. But I don’t slow down, the itch in my mind is growing worse by the second. Why would she do that, why would she ruin my plan? Why did she care what a screw-up like me did with her life? I can't tell if it's confusion, anger, or gratitude that's pushing me, but it's pushing hard.
I reach her house after running for… longer than I care to count. It’s so dark out, I can barely make out it silhouette. But a few lights are on. She’s awake, then. Time for answers.
I reach her door and start pounding. If there’s a doorbell then I don’t care enough to press it. I’ll break down this barrier before that happens. I want to yell her name, scream for her to come to the door and tell me who the heck she thought she was. But I keep quiet. I think that I might prefer to surprise her.
But she had to have known I was coming. I hadn’t been pounding for more than twenty seconds before the door flung inwards. She’s standing in the doorway now, looking immensely tired; bags under her eyes, strain visible in her countenance, like she hasn’t slept in days. My rage subsides for a moment, and I ask what’s happened. She just smiles, and brings me inside. She leads me quietly through the house, up stairs, and to a door I’ve never seen before. She opens the door with a gentle nudge. It’s her bedroom. A large, plush mattress with sheets that must be velvet, they look so soft. Warm, soothing colors on the walls. But my eyes dart to the corner. Carefully arranged there, rests all my lost equipment, down to the smallest knob and wire.
I’m speechless. She nudges me towards the bed, and I sit without complaint. Before I can react, she wraps her hooves around me, and I’m in the softest, warmest embrace that could be imagined. But I can scarcely feel it. I’m so confused. Why, I ask. I’ve ruined everything. Our friendship, my career, my life. Why did she ruin it? Why can’t she let me die, and fade like the no-name I am?
Bitter, confused tears stain her coat as she brushes a hoof through my mane. The hoof touches my shades, and pulls them away so she can look straight at me. She already could. This is for my sake, I know. She smiles, and tells me in that sharp, clear voice I know, “Because you, and your work, are beautiful. And nothing so beautiful should ever be forgotten.”
I can’t take it. Somepony so selfless and kind, while I’ve done what? Tear my life apart and wallow in pity? I’d say strong ponies can cry, too. But now, I think maybe I’m just weak. She may be the only one left in Equestria who still thinks that way about me, and I let her know that in no uncertain terms.
She just squeezes me tighter, and promises: the whole world could forget I existed, and my name could be ripped out from every place it had ever been written. But she would never forget me. Tender lips meet mine, and the kiss I thought had been wasted is given back tenfold. We fall back on the bed, our heads flatten the pillows beneath us. I hold her as closely as I can, and wait for the tears to stop. I have no money to get my home, maybe even my career back. But I still have her, and my music; and if I’m playing to an audience of one, so be it. I don’t know where I’m going from here; but I know the direction is up. I’m done with down.
I’m scared to say it, but I know it has to be said. For my own sake, if nothing else. I lean and whisper into her ear.
“I love you, Octavia.”
She looks at me, and in her eyes I see the spark, ready for the new day, and all it has to share. She leans in, and I hear her say to me,
“I love you too, Vinyl.”
And I sleep. The perfect melody to carry me through the night.
