//------------------------------//
// Prelude 
// Story: Knight of Equestria IV: Unmarked Time 
// by scifipony 
//------------------------------//

Helping Hoof waited for me outside the club and I landed beside him.  The crowd in the roped-off line cheered upon seeing me and surged.  The Clydesdale pony bouncer stomped the pavement and gruffly said, "Watch it!"

I curtseyed to the crowd and struck a few flutter poses for a photographer, then let Helping Hoof lead me outside the street cafe next door.  He pointed over his shoulder at a golden pegasus mare who sipped an espresso and waved a wing.  I recognized Candy Crusher by her peppermint mane and tail (both dyed).  I smelled strong coffee as I noticed the saxophone case beside her table.  I recalled hearing some funk and smokey jazz tracks by her.  I gave her a two pinions up high sign.  I'd certainly be able to mix in anything she might provide, and I had no doubt she could improv.

"I've gotten the equipment laid out and patched in.  I'll do a sound check after DJ Popfizz's set is over.  Besides Candy, there's a colt that Big Hoofer said answered your call for mix-in artists, but I've never heard of him.  At all interested?"

"What's he play?"

"Not exactly sure, but it's big."

"Sound?"

"No, big as in large."  Helping Hoof put a hoof to his lips and whistled.

A smallish brawny brown unicorn, with a mushroom-shaped mane of kinky dark hair that hid his horn to the tip, perked up across the street where he lay beside a tree.  Beside him rested a four-wheeled pine pony cart with sides tall enough to haul ore.  He wore wraparound obsidian-rimmed sunglasses, had a thin black string mustache, and polished black hooves.  He was definitely cute, in a boyish way.  What did he play, a tuba?

He didn't exactly look at me, but his ears rotated towards us.  "What's his name?"

"Hauling Oats."

"That explains the cart."

The colt shook his head, obviously hearing us and I felt my cheeks warm up.  Considering the music escaping the club and the fair amount of hoof traffic on the Strand, his hearing was good.  Embarrassingly good.  Whilst I bought the best ear monitors to protect my ears while spinning my beats, I had to admit the volume did affect my hearing.  His acuteness might say something about his abilities, or more about his lack of experience. 

"Should I send him away?"

"No, no.  Every pony deserves a chance."  Especially cute colts.  I might not be in the market, but I didn't mind window shopping.

I pranced across the street, high tailing it, trying to imagine if there was a way I could place a tuba into the mix.  I remembered an exciting wub-wub intro to a song that started out slow.  Some Do Row song, maybe Take Five.  No, that was probably double bass, but it would be brilliant with tuba instead.

I stopped before Hauling Oats.  He didn't seem to be looking at me, though it was hard to say what he looked at behind his shades, same as it was with Vinyl Scratch.  It reminded me of how I used to reflexively hide behind my fringe so ponies couldn't see me looking at them nervously.  On a lark, I brushed my fringe forward.

He said, "I'm not good with faces.  You are?"  His voice was incredibly deep.  A scent of cloves lingered in the vicinity. 

I tilted my head without thinking.  I was rather recognizable, at least in the EDM scene.  Whatevs.  "I'm DJ FM."

"Ah,  Effie Emmay, The Songbird."  It was a nickname that had stuck to me on the club circuit since I'd been invited to the high line clubs in the south of Prance.  "I'm Hauling Oats."  He held out a hoof in my general direction.  "Nice to meet you."

I clacked hooves with him, liking his confidence.  "Likewise."  When he didn't say anything for an awkward half-a-minute, I asked, "What do you play?"

"Let me show you."

His horn lit with a pale crystal-blue aura.  As a single mass, dozens of blocks of wood and pieces of metal rose from his pony cart, swirling like detritus blown in a wind storm.  On the grass behind him, in a small clearing in the woods next to a curving path through Palisades Park, it all assembled accompanied by a cacophony of tuned wind sounds.  A frame assembled into a table and blocks settled to be bolted down.  Beyond that, lengths of sheet metal circled and became barrels one might fill with vegetable oil.  Sheets of rounded metal settled on top and crimped musically in place.  Drum sticks—more than a dozen, some with brushes, some with fuzzy heads, and some with conical knobs—floated mid-air, waiting for the assembly to complete, then began tapping the instruments' surfaces.  Despite the shadowed woods at night, I now recognized what I saw with the clue of the sounds.

Marimbas and steel drums.

My jaw dropped.  The fantastical musical noise took my breath away, as it did the ponies walking along the path in the park.  A cute unicorn couple in a dress and a high hat stopped, and I saw a few other earth ponies speed up for a better look.  I smiled.  As he adjusted the tension on the wooden keys and the rims of the steel drums, completely by ear without any magical tuners, he began playing a Carobbean melody that made me want to sway.  Using solely his horn, he played multiple melodic parts and harmonies.  He was a one-pony band.  The composition was only to check his tuning, which to my ear was in perfect pitch.  He rested his sticks abruptly.

"Okay," I said, "You've definitely got my attention, but keep going."  

He launched into a prototypical reghay song by the Pale Ales, I Want to Love You.  His marimba took over the drum parts and his steel drum took the place of what I remembered as steel guitar, arguably with a more authentic tropical vibe.  I soon found myself singing, "I wanna wuv you / everyday and every night!"  By the time the last clong-clong on the drums faded into the night, twenty ponies watched us.  He seemed unfazed.  I shook a hoof and my head when the impromptu audience seemed ready to stomp their applause. 

"Nice," I said and gestured over my shoulder at the club and added, "But they won't be into Dancehall and, as you can hear, my commoner Trotter accent is not right for singing reghay."  After Coloratura had insisted I sing at the public rave after the Canterlot wedding, I'd added mixing my voice into the act, the flourish that had earned me my "Songbird" moniker.

"No worries.  That was simply the music of my father.  It makes it easier to tune.  I can play most anything I hear.  What do you suggest?"

I made my L-wing bad-lighting gesture across the street at Helping Hoof, then took out my iSing.  I now rocked the Plus 500, an enchanted fire opal that held most of my music collection and could be charged with twenty recording spells at a time; it still had a frustrating click-spinner interface, though.  Click-click-click...  By the time Helping Hoof jogged over with a pair of sparkle-torches from my kit, I held one eardrop near the unicorn musician's ear.  "Want to give this a listen?"

He didn't look at me.  "From an iSing?  Sure, drop it in."  He wheeled an ear toward me.

Blimey.  The puzzle pieces fell into place.  He was blind.  

I dropped the little white eardrop into his ear and popped its mate into mine.  I clicked play.  As a softly chattering audience watched us bob to music they couldn't hear, I waved Helping Hoof aside to keep the lights away from where they might interfere with Hauling Oats' levitation magic.  Sparkle-torches provided a warm glow that modulated to the dynamics of the music.  The "sparkle" part was just the normal sparkles that accompanied the play of the embedded Illuminate spell.

Suddenly, he tapped time on a couple of sticks and launched into Pony Behavior by Bee Shoring, a favorite of mine because of the lyrics.  "If ever you get close to a pony / And pony be-hav-ior / Be ready, be ready to be confused..."

Sweet Princess Celestia, did that well describe me.

He muffled the steel drums to produce a sweet resonant ring to simulate the driving tympani drum line in a way that it slotted perfectly into the processed sound of the EDM I played.  Boom-boom-de-boom-boom.  I often looped solo sections of Pony Behavior into mixes because it was so incredibly danceable.  He scrubbed his metallic brush sticks against the legs of the marimba to simulate bean shakers, and played mirror lines on the marimba, making it sound almost like a dulcimer, to support the melody while I belted out the lyric with gusto.  He wisely dropped the guitar intermezzo, and not because I hadn't played the entire song in his ear, but because he knew the song well and knew he couldn't make it sound right.  I kept picking up the main lyrical line after the chorus, forcing him to extend the song as I studied the audience.  It did show he had experience at accompaniment.  

Ponies bobbed with the music.  Four blonde earth pony mares had trotted along the pavement and been ensnared by the beat.  I watched as they nodded to themselves and found an empty area beside the trees where they could dance.  In unison.  They swayed and swept their forelegs, then snapped their tails and flicked their manes.  I quickly suspected they were chorus-mares from an off-Bridleway musical playing in town.  When Helping Hoof began dispersing the crowds that were forming, many exiting the line at Hoofing It! to join us, I specifically waved him away from the jazz-dancing mares.  

They were giving me ideas.

Wanting to plumb the depth of his musical knowledge, I suggested something Selkie.  Merpegasi songs had been big when I'd been a wee filly.  He launched into Chinaid's I Want Your (Wings on Me).  A bit too suggestive a song for me, but I played along.  In a tit for tat, I asked for something substantially newer: All Falls Down.  It took him a few moments to think, then he began bobbing his head in time, hit the intro hard with his marimbas, and sounded like he was three players not one.  

"What's the trick?" I sang.  "I wish I knew / I'm so finished with thinking it through..."

But I had a reason to my request.  As he progressed into the melody solo, I whispered into his ear, "Do you sing?"

He grinned.  "In the bath tub."

With his deep voice, I suspected he could.  But he didn't twig to what I intended until it was too late.  The stallion's part to this song about a couple with relationship trouble rushed up and I whispered, "Time to get wet."

He missed his cue, but he played the phrase, circled back to play the intermezzo, and charged into his part singing with a not too polished squeak.  He caught up without damaging the rest of the lyric or losing a beat.  He did well, once his voice warmed up.  It was the stunt Coloratura had performed on me before a crowd of ten-thousand ponies—it proved I could sing for an audience—and I was delighted to pay it forward.

After the song ended, he began laughing nervously.

"I'm not hiring you to sing, but you could do worse to get yourself some lessons.  And—"

The dancers were giggling amongst themselves and beginning to trot off.  I cried, "You four, don't go."

They looked at each other.

"You have anything better to do tonight?"

One of the group, with a Hooflyn accent, said, "Da theatre's dark tomorrow, so, other than sleep, no.  What'cha got in mind, Miss Songbird?"

Ha ha.  Miss Songbird.  "I was thinking we could clear part of the stage at the club for dance accompaniment.  We play until dawn.  I pay industry scale, and we split the tips four-ways between you-four, Hauling Oats, Candy Crusher, and me."

They clacked hooves as Hauling Oats asked, "I get the gig?"

"Sure, if you think you can improv off some of my playlist and take signals to repeat and change tempo."

"Yeah I can.  Musical queues or you can tap me."

"You are a studio musician?"

"Well, part-time, after school."

"You may be too tired tomorrow for school."

"Mom will understand, trust me."

I began to wonder if he was a plant, a way for Sapphire Shores to test me for whatever plans she had for me.  It didn't matter.  I suspected it all would work out.

While we practiced my signals and cues, I had Helping Hoof fetch spare black blouses and a tank top from my clothing rack for the dancing mares so it would look like they were part of the act.  When the time approached, Helping Hoof motioned me to the club.  Hauling Oats' rig disassembled into a cloud of parts in a matter of seconds, then piled into a nice stack of parts in the wagon.

I said, "I don't think the wagon will fit through the door."

"No problem."  A stack that had to weigh half a celestial ton levitated as I led him across the street.  Under the lamplight, I got a good look at his cutie mark.  It was a spherical cloud of darts, all pointing inward.  Nice flank, too.

The club quieted expectantly as I stepped in.  The previous DJ had finished ten minutes ago and Helping Hoof had laid out my boards.  With everypony watching me and my entourage, I reached into my pocket and took out a giant pink ribbon.  The crowd roared, "Songbird!" as I tied on my signature bow with my wings.  Helping Hoof passed me four more ribbons (I aways had spares), and I gave them to the dancers.  As they copied my moves, the audience roared again with a hint of surprise.   Helping Hoof gave a ribbon to Hauling Oats who proceeded to use it as a cravat, tying an obvious winsome knot without collapsing the flimsy material. 

Helping Hoof put the mic headset on me and adjusted the boom, at which point I shouted, "DJ FM is in the house!"

More roaring.  More stomping of hooves.

"And, put your hooves together.  Introducing the F-M-Ettes, Oat-Boy-Blind, and Miss Candy Crusher!  Canterlot, are you ready to make some noise?"

As we assumed the stage amid the raucous sounds of stomping happy ponies—with Hauling Oats not even giving me a single clue as to whether or not I'd gone too far with his new stage name—I shouted, "Are! You! Ready!?"

As the marimbas and drums assembled in a cloud of keys and metal sheets, and Candy wet the reed on her sax, I set the drop on first record.


#


Oddly, we played until dawn should have come—and past that, until 6:30AM, and still dawn had not come.  Rarely, Princess Celestia slept in.

Rarely.

Very rarely.

I was a pony to notice the details, though.  With no morning light streaming in through the doors and the club manager giving me a furious T-sign, I wrapped it up and we very sweaty ponies bowed on the stage.  The audience, larger than even at 2AM, chanted "Songbird, Songbird!" as the serving staff and bouncers pushed them out the door.

The air smelled of spilt cider, rose and Everhoof orange premium salts, and pony perspiration.  As I began unplugging my processors and turntables, I wasn't surprised to hear somepony clapping in the back of the room, now vacant but for the cleaning crew.  I'd seen shadows in the glass booth where technicians controlled the sound and lighting.  Blue and purple gems glittered on her collar, though her midnight-blue Rarity couture jumpsuit otherwise lacked adornment.

"Wooie," she said, clapping some more.  "Mama is quite happy."

I jumped when a half-dozen marimba keys and a steel drum head clattered to the floor.  A few more pieces dropped as Hauling Oats grinned and tried to guess where the lost the errant musical parts had bounced to.

"He was a plant," I said as the record producer walked to the stage.

Hauling Oats said, "My stepmom."

Sapphire Shores said, "I signed Candy with Eohippus Records last month, too, and we are making beautiful music together."

"Really?" I asked rhetorically.

The Hooflyn spokespony for the dancers waved her hooves.  "We're just part of the off-Bridleway show cast."

"And quite a good addition to Flopsy Mopsy's act, so leave me a resume."  To me, she added, "Good girl!  You have a reputation for having a good performance-minded head on your withers.  Now we need to talk."

"Brilliant," I said.  "But I promised everypony breakfast."  Not until that moment, but I improvised.  

That's how we found ourselves at Donut Joe's on Ponyville Way, just shy of the Ponyville Incline.  If you haven't yet tried it, it's a Canterlot must.  We had a breakfast basket stuffed with fresh-baked glazed and jelly donuts, peanut butter-stuffed chocolate Hooflyns, apricot fritters, strawberry-frosted curlers, and powdered bien-neighs.  You could smell the canola oil and sugar.  Joe's Prance bread was crusty and, lathered with butter, luscious.  It crunched as I chewed.  Coffee scent filled the heavily chromed, white-vinyl appointed diner with a neighborly feeling as the small crowd of morning business ponies chattered away.  I nursed a cup of Trottingham breakfast tea with a spot of cream and lemon in it.  Hauling Oats had a puff of powdered sugar on the right lens of his dark glasses, but I wasn't going to say anything as it made me smile.  I needed that because the small and large hands of the clock pointed at 7 and 6 on the wall respectively.  The red second hand jerking forward kept drawing my eyes, because, as of yet, the sun had not risen.

Typically unworried, the other ponies chatted.  The normal ponies.  Pony Behavior.   I almost sang it.  

I remembered when I was just 11.  It had been my birthday, no less.  The sun did not rise until sometime after noon.  The tabloids had speculated heavily, but the consensus had been that Princess Celestia had been enraged about something bad that had happened in Canterlot, even sending somepony to bloody Tartarus over it.

Was she mad now?  Was that why Twilight had seemed downtrodden last night?

"Mop?" Sapphire Shores said.

"Sorry, ma'am," I returned.

"No ma'aming me, girl.  Here's the bottom line.  You have an ear for sweet music.  You can coax great performances out of anypony.  You sing like a songbird.  The arrangements I've heard on your bootlegs are strong.  What I want you to do is to create original songs."

I forgot the clock as my heart fluttered in my chest.  Well, so much for easing into producing dance records.  I swallowed hard.  "I— Well, that's not something I do, other than scatting and some alliterative drivel I originally cooked up to make fun of Discord."

She snorted at what she assumed was a joke (it wasn't) and sipped her coffee, taking time to keep me in suspense.  "Songwriting.  For somepony with your vocal talent, there's lessons for that.  Candy, here, would be a good tutor."

The golden pegasus pushed her peppermint-stripe mane out her eyes with a wing and looked, blinking at me.  "Sure.  I've done collaborations.  It might be fun, Mop."

"I dunno."

Sapphire Shores chuckled.  "Look, dearie.  I know the business.  I am the Pony of Pop.  I founded Eohippus Records.  Sure, you're a producer, and you should be recorded live, too.  Everypony on the world dance scene knows DJ FM, but if you want to go beyond being a niche player, you need mainstream hits.  I see you creating some heavily sampled dance numbers mixed with various artists, like my son, maybe Countess Colortura, and others in addition to some ballads and uptempo vocal trance.  We could produce covers, or I could get songwriters to put words in your mouth, but intuition tells me you can write, too, in a way that will mesh better with your Trottingham accent.  What have you to lose?"

A contract and a pen from her saddlebags landed on the table.

The entire restaurant went quiet.

And it wasn't because they suddenly recognized The Songbird or realized that Sapphire Shores was in their midst.  Or that a record producer was offering me a two-record recording deal.

No.

The restaurant shook.  The tea in the glass mug in front of me shivered, circular waves oscillating inward and outward.  Something heavy had stepped nearby.  And it did again.

Thump... thump.

I stood so suddenly, the chair below me flipped away behind me.  In an instant, I had flown to the glass door and flung it open.

Thump.

I looked left, toward the Ponyville Incline, the section of Ponyville Way that switch-backed down the face of Canterlot Mountain to the Ponyville Plain half a mile below.  That was six blocks away.  

Four blocks away stood an enormous red goat-faced centaur with longhorn steer horns, towering way over a story tall... and he held a struggling brown pony in one of his claws.

"Shag me in the flank!"