Cathartic Things
One does not trot across this city.
One wades.
Only three blocks from the train depot, and the protective shield of tourism and financial obligation ends. The streets beyond are filled with refuse, broken glass, and mounds of garbage. At first, it seems like a problem—until one realizes that only a tenth of the residences and establishments are actually open. There's next to nopony to lay claim to these rusted, dilapidated carriages—abandoned over a decade ago when economic ennui struck this city like a tidal wave. All that's left is a population of destitute vagrants, wandering the alleys like ghosts among gravestones.
I trot at an even pace, cutting through the blocks as I head closer to my destination. I must look like a welcoming target: a unicorn magically dragging two large pieces of polished luggage. However, I also look healthy and rich, something that none of these onlooking freeloaders can relate to. If they attack me, they dig for themselves a hole ten times deeper than the ones they're already wasting away in. And they know it. There's nothing more crazy or manic than hope, and it draws them back into the shadows, anchored to whatever desperate dreams still give worth to the wasted streets of this sprawl. Sure, there might be a psychopath or two among them—ponies who understand that the lack of structure here makes for a lack of consequences. It's a dangerous risk to my well-being for sure, but it doesn't matter.
Nothing matters anymore.
Two more blocks, and I pass through an invisible barrier. Things around me start looking clean again. I expected this. The closer one is to the river, the more this city pretends to be something it once was, but isn't anymore. It's only now that a brief stab of fear digs through me—that there may be nothing left of what was once here seven years ago.
I turn a corner, rounding an intersection of partially crumbled asphalt, and I can breathe again.
There it stands. Seven stories tall with chips of red paint flaking off. Once upon a time, this building that looms above me was called the Fort Whinny Hotel. It existed in an island of luxury, sandwiched between warehouses, railroads, and the remnants of an old military base from Equestrian pioneer days. Now—as I can see—it's changed names at least three times, judging from the faded shadows of different signs scarring its northwest face. The current name is Riverside Inn, and the only thing more generic than that is the uninspiring rectangular slab of fiberglass signage announcing itself to the setting sun. I almost wonder if it's all an illusion—and if the establishment is really open.
I trot across the street to find out.
The words "no" and "vacancy" loom above the entrance. Both neon lights have run out of juice. When I pull on the handle of the glass door, the bottom of its frame scrapes a circular groove even deeper into the weathered pavement. The tile floor of the lobby is uneven, and the air conditioning barely works. The ponies who run this place have attempted to make up for it with several strategically-placed fans blowing hot air across the bottom floor. There's a dead, dried-up fountain in the center of the foyer. A moldy platform looms where a gorgeous statue had once been erected. A radio somewhere crackles with the sounds of a local station playing the same three outdated songs on constant loop.
There's a young mare at the front desk—scarcely beyond her high school years. Judging from the lackadaiscal way she picks through a magazine, I doubt she has the energy to make it past graduation. When I slide her a sheet of paper with my written requests, she looks at me funny. And then she gives me an even stranger look when I ask for a very specific room on a very specific floor. It occurs to me that it's been ages since anyone has made a sincere request of this hotel. Looking around, I don't see any maids or bellhops—not that it matters.
There is some fumbling around the order of paperwork. Part of me wonders if the girl even knows how to properly lease me a room. Nevertheless, ten minutes in, she hoofs me a key to the room requested. I don't bother to wait for room service. Trotting across the lobby, I find myself unsurprised at every elevator being out of order. I take the stairs instead. It's deliciously painful exercise.
At last, I reach the fifth floor. I walk down three intersecting hallways. The floors are dusty—the door handles even dustier. When I arrive at my destination, the number on the door has slid sideways. I stab my key into the rusted lock. To my relief, it actually turns, and I push the door open, dragging my luggage behind me.
The room is a great deal cleaner than I suspected—probably because nopony has bothered to bed themselves in anything above the second story for years. For a moment, I struggle to remember the night that I rested here last. I search the curtains and counters and bedspreads for a scent that will bring back those bittersweet moments of melancholy. But all I smell is the undying scent of tobacco smoke.
I drop my luggage onto the bed. There's not so much as a bounce; the springs scarcely work. I wander into the bathroom, fumbling for the light-switch. When it turns on, it flickers. I look across the cramped interior. For some reason, the sight of the bathroom stall chills me. It's still perfectly-sized for a mare who once hugged herself, sobbing into the brink of unconsciousness, overwhelmed by strange magenta seas that would not recede.
I take a deep breath. I have run out of length... excuses. There is only one direction to go now.
I shuffle across the room. I approach the curtains—the dim light of a dying day. Blowing the dust off, I spread them apart. The sliding glass doors of the balcony are slightly fogged from neglect, but all I have to do is tilt my head to the left, following the northern crook of the Detrot River. And there I see it—an arch. Tall, iron, rusted but undying. A bridge into the next part of the continent. An artifact from yesterday.
It is a strangely satisfying sight, a silent reward for the distance I've traveled into desolation.
I hug myself, breathing in a sweet, bitterly short catharsis.
And then... I stay put. For this is now the closest thing I'll ever have to home.
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Very Grand Budapest Hotel-esque.
Also, I just realized: The situation between Vinyl, Sweetie, and Rarity never got resolved, did it? Wonder if that's gonna prop back up before the story's end...
They...aren't going to fix things, are they...
Oh, hey, we found a way to make this pointlessly darker! Yay!
Is that the bridge?
Had a feeling that was there she was headed, especially with the repeated references to a river.
Rather than dwell on the reason for her coming here--which seems obvious enough, or is meant to seem obvious enough--I'll entertain some other questions. What was Vinyl doing here the first time? Was it simply where her ill-fated final performance as Cyan Sings took place? What was Octavia doing there? And what role will the mysterious package Vinyl received play?
I think I need to stop reading this for my emotinal health, but, I want to know what happens.
Please don't continue on this path! :( Don't do it!
I can say one thing to this story so far: Hmmmmmmmmmmahmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmahmmno
"We're following her right?"
"Oh yeah."
6730569
Nah, man, he's already invented a blasted post-industrial urban hellscape just because Vinyl's oh-so-tragic past needs someplace to be from, and she needs someplace to run to in order to mope appropriately, surrounded by wreckage. So like her life, in wreckage because... wait, no it isn't, the only things wrong are her own unwillingness to actually talk to or listen to any of her friends, and her marefriend acting the fool for a moment.
But hey, whatever gets the angst Skirts is looking for, I guess. At least she's not living in a trailer out on 8 mile with her mom, who's fucking one of her primary school classmates, and Skirts seems to have resisted populating the place with zebras to make the racist caricature complete.
Also : 'How do we know she's rich?'
'Well, she ain't got shite on her!'
>watching
Common, little package. You can do it.
6730482
Yeah, he can't finish the story without tying up all the lose ends, right?
...Right?
RIGHT???
*cries internally*
6730641 invented? You DO know what condition Detroit, Michigan has been in for some time, right?
6730832 I do. I've seen it first hand. It's really depressing.
6730877 some people have said that Robocop's vision of Detroit would be more pleasant. I don't know if I believe that but...
Something that was said (I think) last chapter just hit me: Remember when Vinyl said that Tavi deserved to have her name etched in stone?
What if that was foreshadowing?
What do you think gravestones are made of?
6730891 Flip a coin, and that's your answer. The place is a dilapidated ruin. It's at the point where civilization wraps around to wilderness, where the laws of a judge are mostly ignored in favor of the laws of the land, and everyone is so low that the only place lower is a grave.
I remember visiting the baseball stadium there with my grandparents when i was younger; there weren't anything like the clean areas for tourists.
There's a theory, you know, that cities are, in some way, fundamentally alive.
If that's the case, Detroit is an example of a city dying to disease, slowly rotting from the inside out.
6730641
What if it isn't angst Skirts is going for? The way I look at the story is that its less about Vinyl and Tavi and more about looking back at what made Vinyl the way she is now. Yes the story has taken a dark turn, but until I see otherwise I choose to believe that Vinyl realizes that a change needs to be made. One that won't happen until our favorite pony DJ is willing to accept what happened and move on as a better pers- I mean pony. After that, who knows? She could build a new life, or reach out to the ponies who cared for her all along and strengthen those friendships.
6730906
That's a pretty wild jump. Especially because Tavi isn't here (as far as we know).
6730832
Yeah. Been there, done that, not a pleasant place. Very confused why it's being pulled in as an expy in a pre-industrial Equestria run by magic, populated by literal horses who don't need processed food, manufactured clothing, or constructed shelter for survival.
Dude, you're overplaying it. It gets tiresome to wade through the angst just so I can see if it goes in the direction I think it goes.
6730962
If he's not going for angst, then he's missed his mark pretty substantially, I think. Everything Vinyl's done in the last few days in-story is the equivalent of a teenager throwing a tantrum and locking themselves in their room to listen to The Cure and try to think of rhymes for 'nothingness' all day because their girlfriend left them. With a side of the local reasonable authority figure spending half the story proving that having power makes ponies useless.
Yes, I get that Tavi is incredibly important to Vinyl, and I sympathize. But at this particular point, we're deep into idiot plot because every bit of tension in the story could be resolved in five minutes of actually conversing like rational adults on the part of pretty much everypony involved.
To lay it out :
Vinyl - Explain why you can't be a superstar doing the constant celebrity tour circuit without wrecking your muse.
Octy - Explain just what you want out of life, and tell your father to fuck directly off. If the answer isn't Vinyl, that's fine, but tell her that rather than yelling at her about being a drag on her and vanishing like a brainless idiot.
Twilight - Do pretty much anything useful rather than consulting a committee. Possibly starting with reading up on your responsibilities as a princess when swearing ponies into your service. They owe you fealty, but in return you have to protect them while they are doing your bidding, and getting into kill-or-be-killed situations with dignitaries from other countries or being kidnapped by their own family are right out. You're a royal now, and the unscrupulous will use your people against you if you let them. Ask Luna, she won't be as nice about explaining the realities of practical politics as Celestia.
At this point, I'm down to counting on Lyra to be the heroine we want and need, because she seems to be the only pony in this entire fic that's a rational actor.
6731003
Its all open to interpretation. You see angsty temper tantrum, I see letting go to start anew. There's no wrong way to look at it. That's what makes stories fun to read.
Seriously hoping that Vinyl reaches out to her friends once she's taken care of her business here.
6731016
Because it's a MacGuffin, and we're in The Land Of Angst. Whatever it is has to be something she will regret not opening immediately once she gets around to it, because that's how this story works.
Things are looking more desperate with each chapter.
Vinyl... you sure love to wallow in despair, don't you?
So much denial in the comments, so many people who forget this is the author of "Background Pony".
Why yes, it CAN go here. Because that's where the story goes, even if the audience flees.
I love how you continue to the course the story's heading and not skip it just because the readers are starting to loose interest or cannot handle Viny's tragedy You stay true to your story man no matter what, that's what I like.
6730641
Given all the vitriol and condescension in your posts, why do you bother to haunt the comments? Pass on from this dreary half-life, moaning spectre! A brighter world awaits you! Let go your rattling chains!
6731151
Eh, the initial worldbuilding, especially surrounding Vinyl's condition, has a lot of merit. Just because I don't like where the narrative's at now doesn't make that less true.
6730965 pre-industrial? They've got trains. Twilight used at computer at least once. They've got video games. They have a clothing industry.
Their tech level is quirky at least, and certainly inconsistent.
Detroit is a city that is dying, withering away as it is swallowed up by farmland and countryside again. It is clear from this chapter that Detrot is suffering the same fate.
6731204
It's true. Just try to focus on something you do enjoy. I feel that works best when you're at a disconnect with the writing. Personally, I'm still enjoying it - but you don't have to, obviously. But I think over the chapters you made what you dislike fairly clear - perhaps offer new criticism or opinions when available, rather than re-hashing your dislike? It comes across bitter and a touch incessant. Which is understandable, I get that way myself. Just offering a suggestion on how to comport oneself when dealing with it, from experience.
6731363
It is equally clear that Detrot is essentially a visual representation of what's happening to Vinyl internally. Symbolism.
Ya know, disregarding certain characters' stupid, stupid choices, I don't really mind the direction the story is going.
Shit! I caught up... Damn, no more binging.
Hello darkness, darling friend,
I've come to sleep with you again,
Because a smile softly creeping
Tried to clear my life of weeping
And the smile that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Please, bring me sounds of silence
Damn this Dx I can smell the ending...it tastes... bitter, but this story is like a drug, just like Background Pony... it tastes so good, but the aftermath is too much for you to take.
Good work,good work.
6730906
Broken dreams, tears and infinate sorrow.
Relevant Detrot Techno
6731596I tought it was "My old friend"
I'm now feeling this can only end in the worst way possible.
It's not beyond SS&E to do such a thing.
6732530 It is. This is an edited version.
Just another hustler, trying to make it through. But the dreams came on in the Japanese night like livewire voodoo, and he'd cry for it, cry in his sleep, and wake alone in the dark, curled in his capsule in some coffin hotel, hands clawed into the bedslab, temperfoam bunched between his fingers, trying to reach the console that wasn't there.
-Neuromancer