//------------------------------// // Chapter 1 // Story: My Little Pony: Symphony of Fire // by LordStarKnight //------------------------------// My Little Pony : Symphony of fire Chapter 1 New York City - United States of America The yellowish light of the corridor was so weak that no reflections were appearing on the white tiles. The floor was a concrete slab. The front door squeaked to greet a young man with a blood-red flannel shirt. Its checkered pattern darkened under the dirty bulbs. The black strokes seemed to drool over the rest of the garment. It was difficult to deduce what was the cause his languid approach and sagging back. Mainly because of his thick guitar case, the nervous and physical exhaustion he clearly was in. At this time, he was really missing Providence. He dragged his feet up the stairs without stopping in front of the mailbox, which he knew was empty. He climbed the creaky stairs, putting a clenched hand on his slightly red face. He did not lament, however. It was not the first time Kenneth had been hit, and he knew it would not be the last. It was definitely not a good twenty third birthday for Kenneth. When he arrived at his floor, he had to drop his case to unhook his keys from the chain linking his wallet to his faded jeans. When the rattling of his keys gave way to the clicks of the lock, a phlegmatic voice behind his back burned his ears. “Mr. Marshall! I needed to talk to you.” Kenneth did not turn to his questioner. If the landlady saw him again with wounds, he would receive a new sermon from that witch clenched in her old secretary's gray suit; and who seemed to have declared herself as the guardian of his morality. Fortunately, the raven-black hairs caressing his shoulders concealed his crime against public order. “If it's about the rent Mrs. Pendleton, you'll have it by Monday.” “I hope so,” she said. “You have always paid on time. A delay would be an unpleasant surprise. And very unfortunate for you. But before I forget, Mr. Taylor would like you to lower the volume of your music. Besides, it would be better if you cut it off during the night.” “I can’t help it if he doesn’t appreciate good music.” “He remains your neighbor. I hope I do not have to hear about it again.” The young man sighed. He just wanted to go home, far from the contemptuous tone of that voice. “I’ll do my best.” “Alright,” she thanked him coldly as she walked up the stairs. “And think about bringing me the rent as soon as possible. Short reckonings make long friends you know.” While she was disappearing into her ivory tower, Kenneth mumbled like a thief: "As if I wanted to be friends with you." He brutally turned his key and closed the door behind him with a strong snap, announcing his rejection of anything that would attempt to approach him. Once in his dark oasis of tranquility, the young tenant turned on a tired lamp and walked, dragging his feet, to his retractable bed. He gently put down his guitar case, making the old bed springs squeal, and opened it religiously. Kenneth scrupulously examined the cherry-red electric guitar inside. The silver strings shimmered in the industrial light with a magnificent reflection. He caressed it with the delicacy of a brother and sighed with deep relief. Now certain that his relic had not suffered any damages, he collapsed onto his mattress covered with old clothes and CDs, under dozens of posters, glued to the walls, of composers and groups of all kinds. The papers contained the natural monotony of the apartment’s walls. A portrait gallery to the glory of renowned musicians, from Metallica to Hans Zimmer, but also Wagner, Nirvana and many others. He could finally relax in the middle of his little museum; but his aching jaw made him look for a pill in his bathroom. The musician took an aspirin and a large glass of iced water from the bathroom’s dirty sink. He noticed in the mirror a little red stuck in his goatee. He hastened to remove the last proof of his fight with an old napkin. He then took his laptop and, while it was turning on, glanced anxiously through the peephole in his door. Once certain that the way was clear, Kenneth restarted a film he had stopped when he left hurriedly. The songs of the Beauty and the Beast by Disney filled the room. The symphony quickly transformed the dismal and disorderly apartment, where disorganized piles of CDs and clothes were dragging, into a sanctuary cut off from the world. Beauty and the Beast - "Belle" With nothing better, and not being a difficult person himself, Kenneth retrieved a beer on the ground, which he had left warming up when he left, and settled down as comfortably as possible. The springs of his mattress were needles piercing his back and numbing his legs. But he had learned to bear it. After about ten minutes, Kenneth was no longer aware of the torture, only the dream. His mind danced to the rhythm of the instruments. His feet moved at the sound of Belle's voice. The living drawings modeled a smile on his face. Someone knocked on the door, breaking the illusion. Kenneth's first reflex was to stop the film. He glanced at his watch to check the time: Five minutes till midnight. He didn’t know who would come to meet him so late at night; and besides, he did not want to see anyone. The young man remained motionless, unconsciously holding his breath; as if playing the dead man would be enough to drive away his invader. Maybe it was a mistake. It was surely that he thought. If he remained nonexistent, the thing behind the door would leave. That was not the case. The knocks resumed, making fun of his attempt. Closing his computer, the young musician approached the door with suspicion. Through the peephole, he discovered a man with fiery hair. No one he knew. “Who is it?” asked Kenneth. The voice of the unwanted visitor was barely smothered by the wooden door. He seemed to have the enthusiasm of a used car dealer. “Mr. Marshall? My name is Emil Jannings. I am a producer and I would like to talk to you about a proposal which, I am sure, will interest you a lot.” The man passed something under the door. Kenneth took what was clearly a black business card. An elegant orange typography confirmed the presentation of the stranger. It was not easy for the tenant to believe it. Especially after what happened earlier. Maybe this Mister Jannings didn’t know about the incident. Kenneth hesitated. But he decided to let his curiosity guide him. It was rather strange a person like Mr. Jannings come to his neighborhood at such an hour to see him. But in lieu of his situation, he told himself that he had nothing to lose. Kenneth asked the producer to wait a moment. He rushed to pick up the clothes and CDs scattered on the floor. The bands and H.P. Lovecraft’s books quickly got back to their place on the crumbling shelves. The musicals, meanwhile, returned to their usual hiding place: the dark background of the closet. The musician finished winding up his retractable bed, hiding the posters of Frank Sinatra and Frozen. Once the place became as presentable as if a barracks inspection was happening, the young man opened the door to his visitor. Once in front of him, just as he was passing a hand through his red hair pulled back, Kenneth thought he had done well. Without the misleading magnification of the peephole lens, the so-called producer had a whole new face. With his straight and angular features, beyond a rough shaved face, a simple smile was the thin line between the sympathy of an angel and the rage of a demon. The kind of person who, from the first meeting, inspired an intimidating respect, despite his slightly relaxed posture. His black shadow suit was like an opening of the darkness, guarded by a ruddy tie. But the young man had a hard time grasping the infernal dignity of the producer. He showed him a thin hand provided with some rings of cold steel. "Nice to meet you Mr. Marshall.” he said with his vivid voice, which was now more the one of an ambitious diplomat than a local shopkeeper. The musician shook his hand hesitantly and struggling to meet his heavy eyes. A situation that Kenneth had rarely met. The handshake was brief and the businessman did not hesitate to enter into the small apartment. Kenneth was not able stop him. He simply closed the door and observed his intruder’s singular attitude. There was a smile on the visitor's lips as his eyes were scanning the posters, stopping for a second on those of Disturbed and Pantera. He seemed pleased with what he saw. Kenneth broke the silence skeptically. “So, you are a producer Mister... Jannings, is that it?” The man in black faced him. “That's right. He confirmed. Earlier, I was at the concert with your band: Night Terrors. What I saw pleased me a lot.” “You have specialized in Metal? What’s the name of your company?” “You mean my record company? In fact, I'm starting my own business, so it's normal that you have not heard of me. As for my specialty... I think I can say that I'm not the kind to be satisfied with quietness.” Kenneth arched an eyebrow at this most evasive answer. But the events that followed the concert were a problem. Unable to hide the truth from this talent scout, who would learn of it one way or another, the musician explained with embarrassment what was bothering him. “I must tell you the truth. If you're here to sign our band, we got in a... let's call it a fight.” The man in black interrupted him directly. “You mean the fight followed by your expulsion of the band after the concert?” This question surprised Kenneth. “I already know about this. But tell me: What actually happened?” “Let's say it's an artistic divergence that has been going on for a long time,” he replied without remorse. “Basically, I wanted to continue making various songs of different sorts and Peter, our singer, wanted to keep a Black or Death Metal style. I tried to explain to them that it was more interesting, considering the topics of our songs, to propose different music to surprise people; but they did not want to hear that. So, they accused me of monopolizing all the creative aspects of our group. Ok I chose our name and wrote half of our songs but they accepted and appreciated them. Then there were some punches and insults.” The unemployed musician tried to not explode thinking about what he considered a monumental form of ingratitude. To his surprise, Mr. Jannings was smiling. “You are someone who defends his ideas,” observed the producer, as if he was estimating a painting. “I have one last question for you: Why do you play music?” Kenneth's mind was frozen. Asking him this question was paradoxically obvious and unexpected. He hadn’t thought about it in a long time. There was no reason to not answer after all. His mind became a cinema screen on which his concerts, auditions and private performances passed. An answer crawled to his lips and he revealed it timidly. “I would say it is to express certain emotions. If I feel angry at something, music can help me. I do not know how to do it differently. And then there is also that I liked to hold an instrument and compose. It's difficult but nice at the same time. I'm not sure I'm very clear.” Jannings' mischievous smile seemed to turn quietly into a grin of satisfaction. The producer seemed like a wildcat to Kenneth. The boy was not one to be intimidated easily; And yet, he couldn’t stop himself taking a step back when the businessman approached. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Marshall, it is you I’m interested with. Not your colleagues.” His words change Kenneth's legs into rubber. He did make an effort to not fall on the floor, however. The producer perceived this shock and explained. “I saw you during the concert. The other members of your group are pretty good musicians but I perceived with you a spark that caught my attention. Call it intuition if you want; but I felt in your voice, your gesture and your consideration a much deeper implication than the others. And I have been looking for someone like you for a long time. You are apparently different from those I have met so far.” “And in what way exactly?” “Let's say the ones I talked to didn’t have the profile I was looking for.” All this was odd for Kenneth. But having no more groups, he could not afford to be choosy. He just asked one thing. “What are you proposing?” “What I propose to you is to join me in my project. I can promise you that you will have everything you want in the end and, by then, complete freedom. Where I take you, you’ll be able to do whatever you want with no restrictions. The only duty is to help me achieve my goal. In short, I ask that we share our minds and our energy. Do you agree?” Kenneth thought that this story was a little too convenient to be true. A producer trying to set up a record company and hiring him right after being fired from his group? It was strange, and even suspicious. He didn’t understand what this man could gain.Kenneth was not well known, even in Providence. How could he be an asset? But this lack of celebrity status was also an argument in favor of the agreement. He had no money or reputation to lose. Why would someone ensnare him? “Mr. Marshall,” interrupted Jannings, “I understand your mistrust. But know that, for the moment, I'm only asking you for a moral commitment. We can officialize all of this and discuss the details later. What do you think? Are you interested?” The producer tended his hands towards the abandoned musician and seemed to wait. His face shone with hope, concealed with a mask of dignity. Kenneth gazed for a moment at the famous hand and hesitated. But not very long in the end. He did not have many options. Without his group, his wallet would soon be empty. And the hunger of the gray harpy would not come down. In addition, he wanted to take revenge on his former partners and the risks were minimal for now. What risk was there in a simple handshake after all? The musician slowly brought his hand closer to the producer’s one. When they joined, Mr. Jannings' fingers closed like a wolf trap on Kenneth. “I accept,” replied the young man. At first, Kenneth was surprised that Jannings did not let his hand go. His look was ecstatic and his smile, euphoric. And it was at this moment that the foundations of the musician's universe collapsed. His palm was torn by a blazing heat. He suffered a lot before shouting at the demon's face. Jannings started in ecstasy cutting him off from the rest of the world. Kenneth was trying to remove his hand. Without success. He was chained to this monstrous statue. The struggle stopped when the stupefaction swept away everything in Kenneth's mind. When his gaze settled on their fused arms, he discovered fiery veins under their skin, drawing light lava cracks on it. A strong draft of air rose in the apartment. Kenneth searched for the origin. The windows were closed. The wind changed into a storm, turning the young man’s mess into a chaotic whistling tornado. The posters flapped feverishly against the walls. His clothes rolled on the floor. The books were flapping their paper wings. Finally, rays of light appeared all around them. Blue and orange shooting stars were dancing in the tornado. They multiplied until they locked up the two people into an egg of flames. And Kenneth felt like there were vipers moving in his body, clinging to every part of his body. The scream of this impossible hurricane became piercing, like needles in his ears. In spite of this, the voice of the man in black rose above the din, roaring like thunder. “Finally! I have the key to open the way. It's different from what I imagined. But it's also exhilarating. Don’t be afraid my child. In a moment, everything we desire will be within our reach. Let me awaken your energy from its unfair lethargy. Let our minds bond…” When he pronounced those words, his cheerful look was replaced by consternation. His voice turned to anguish and rage, while his hair changed into litteral flames and his skin to charcoal. “What…? You don’t... No! You tricked me! Let me go! I refuse!” Kenneth screamed in pain as Jannings tore his hand off. His skin was shredded paper. The suddenness of the beast’s withdrawal made the musician lose his balance. He fell back and passed outside of the infernal bubble. But instead of landing on his apartment’s floor, he plunged into an iridescent vortex where an irresistible current prevailed. He struggled to regain control, but he was a blade of grass inside a screaming hurricane. He swirled in the impossible spiral of colors and sparks. He saw a black dot. The darkness grew quickly. Kenneth passed through like a cannonball and the blackness was replaced by pain, then unconsciousness.