//------------------------------// // 2 - The Performance // Story: The Opening Act // by thedarkprep //------------------------------// Chapter Two The Performance You would think a music store would be loud, wouldn’t you? After all, one of the main appeals of music is that it can be blasted at ever increasing decibels until the rumble of the bass grapples the beating of one’s heart into submission. Then there’s the variety of genres, some of which can only be found at music stores, shunned as they are from the more mainstream establishments. Metal, rock, dubstep, industrial, music genres dedicated to shaking walls and foundations, would often play through the store speakers as an appeal to their devoted fans who often journeyed here—the last mecca for the shunned scenes. And that was without even getting into the customers themselves and the employees, excitable as they were, often happy to yell and shout about the latest album their favorite band put out. Surely, they would demand the music be turned up so all could bask in its grandeur and, surely, the employees would acquiesce. But a music store was a store before all things and, as a place of business, it was not as loud as one would think it to be. These were the thoughts on Trixie’s mind as some thrashy metal song struggled and failed to be heard over some passing conversation as she continued to stock a nearby shelf. “And there’s that whole ‘Coda’ album, which just reeks of that self-empowerment sellout energy I’m talking about. Like, how you gonna co-write a full length feelsy album with your manager about how ‘sad and hard life is’ and then go back to fronting a punk band like some above-it-all bad-ass? Real poser move, man.” Yeah, sure would be a shame to miss out on this valuable conversation. “Uh huh.” The guy’s friend seemed to agree with her. “I’m so glad I walked away when I did. You wouldn’t believe the egos man, but now that they’re pulling this crap? I can’t even imagine. Not to mention that new guitarist, Windy or whatever? They certainly didn’t waste any time picking him up. Literally just asked people they knew instead of holding auditions. Don’t get me wrong, bloke’s alright, but they lucked out they actually knew someone who could play guitar. It's all arrogant-like to do it that way, is all.” Trixie heard the friend respond something but she couldn’t make out what, which was weird as they were stepping closer to her section. Soon they would be close enough that interrupting their conversation with a question or a greeting wouldn’t be out of place. Instead she focused on fixing the placement of the last three CDs, which she had accidentally placed in the wrong area. “I mean, honestly. I wouldn’t be surprised if the reason they’re getting so popular is because of some supernatural enhancements.” A muffled clatter intersected the conversation but was largely ignored as Trixie dropped a few CDs onto the carpeted floor and cursed under her breath. He should know better than to talk about that, she thought, scanning over the aisle for the first time. She recognized Ringo from school, but not the friend he was talking to. We all should. “What do you mean?” asked the friend, showing genuine interest for the first time since Trixie had begun unwillingly eavesdropping on their conversation. “Okay, so back in school the lead singer used to belong to this group, right? And they—” “Hi there, folks! What can I help you with?” The question broke through the conversation like a stone through a glass window, violently and unignorably. Trixie almost wished she’d been the one to ask it. Instead, it was her coworker who was left to endure the stares of the two whose space he’d just invaded. The store’s speaker system, now playing some indie rock number, was momentarily given a chance to chime in. “Hey, don’t I know you?” Ringo asked, gathering his wits first. “Yeah, you’re the mute girl’s friend!” “You mean Vinyl.” “Yeah, you lot set up the sound system at one of Flash Drive’s shows! That takes me back. What was your name again? Neon something right?” “Neon Lights,” he filled in with a nod. “Though I do a lot less setting up audio nowadays. More just making music online and working here.” “I bet it’s a pretty sweet gig,” Ringo’s friend said. “Getting to talk about music all day, listening to music. It’s where it’s at.” “There’s certainly that,” Neon agreed behind a quiet chuckle. “Still, it’s a job, so there’s other stuff to deal with as well. Anyway, speaking of Flash Drive, there was this band that just came out that reminded me of them just the other day.” Neon kept talking with the two customers as he led them over to the section where said band presumably was, thankfully away from Trixie, allowing her to focus on her task. Which she did.  Or she tried to at least. Ringo wasn’t wrong in that working at a music store was a “pretty sweet gig,” not least amongst the reasons for that being that it was a very easy job to do. However, there is always a danger with easy jobs in that there is often very little to distract one from their thoughts.  “Literally just asked people they knew instead of holding auditions,” Ringo’s words echoed through Trixie’s mind. She thought back to the CHS Battle of the Bands incident and how close she had come. Third place in a contest with no magical abilities and certainly higher if judged fairly. But they didn’t ask me. “They lucked out they actually knew someone who could play guitar,” more words, more echoes, more memories. Shutting her eyes, Trixie could see a music shop where Rainbow Dash and she battled for a guitar, neck-to-neck, riff-to-riff, lead-to-lead. At least, until— No, don’t think about that, Trixie reminded herself.  And yet, try as she might, she couldn’t shake the thought. Magic had won Rainbow that duel. Magic and the lack thereof seemed to have been a deciding factor in their fates. Even now, Rainbow was off touring the world, dazzling stages with her talent, while Trixie was here—stocking disks at a local music store. It’s not fair, Trixie grumbled. I worked just as hard as she did. I practiced just as much. I know I’m just as talented. She knows I’m just as talented. And she didn’t even think me worthy of asking! It felt good to be angry, Trixie noted. It made her shift go by just that much faster, a welcome blessing, and it felt nice to feel something for once, a drop of red upon a grey canvas. And yet, even that couldn’t last too long. Soon, Trixie’s thoughts turned somber and whatever embers had been sparked by the overheard conversation died without catching any sort of momentum. Sure, Rainbow could have asked her to join her band. But then what? Trixie had not properly practiced her guitar playing since high school, since her senior year to be exact. In fact, she had barely played her guitar at all since then and when she had, it was only for small stints of time—unable as she was to stomach the disappointing performances she put out. Dead notes. Muted melodies. Voiceless chords and arpeggios. Maybe Rainbow knew what she was doing after all.  “Okay, I’m back.” Trixie looked up from the shelf at Neon Lights, who was flashing her a wry grin. “I swear, former Canterloters are the worst. Am I right?” “Yeah, sure are. All of them,” Trixie rolled her eyes. “And I’m sure Crystal Preppers are all just absolute gems.” “I mean, I did just deal with those two so you wouldn’t have to.” “I guess you did. Thank you.” “Don’t mention it,” Neon winked. He then looked around for customers before crouching next to Trixie. “And I do mean it, it was no trouble. We all agreed back during the games to keep hush hush about all the weirdness that happened so I don’t mind intervening, but… shouldn’t you have been the one stopping him from blabbing? Rainbow is your friend right?” Trixie tensed. “More like acquaintances,” she said, going back to her task. “And really, that doofus shouldn’t have been saying anything to an outsider in the first place. So it’s really on him.” “Right,” Neon agreed, taking a few CDs from Trixie’s box and stocking them as well. “But, he was. Shouldn’t you have, I don’t know... Cut him off, or reminded him, or something?” “I don’t know Neon, okay?!” Trixie whispered, causing Neon to back up. She moved up in tandem, closing the distance. “We didn’t exactly have meetings about it! We didn’t sign a contract! Last I checked, I didn’t agree to spend the rest of my life cleaning up Rainbow’s messes and making sure her little secret doesn’t get out! Tell you what though, the guy you distracted might feel like complaining about her powers at some point in the future and we just can’t have that, can we? Want me to go follow him and take him out? I think I have one of my knives in my car from my magic act that I could use to make sure he stays silent.” “N- No,” Neon stammered, backing up even further, his pale face going even paler at the thought.  “Good,” Trixie said, finally giving him some space. “The way I see it, they’ve managed to keep things under wraps this far. They can probably survive a stray rumor from some jealous ex-band member. All I did was go to the same school they did. I don’t owe them anything.” “Didn’t they save—” “Anything.” “Right,” Neon said, rubbing the back of his head. He looked around the store again to see if their conversation had attracted any attention, but it did not seem to be the case. “Well, I should probably go do something useful.” “Yeah, me too,” Trixie agreed. “I’m pretty much done with these and I’ve got twenty more minutes or so before I have to leave.” “You’re not staying tonight?” Neon said, raising an eyebrow. “We’ve got the Bichette album release tomorrow. Jazz Tone said they needed ‘all hands on deck’ to make sure all the merchandise was on the floor and the display was set up after the doors closed.” “Yep, all hands on deck except me,” Trixie replied. “It’s a Friday night, and I have a show. It was part of my hiring conditions. You should know that, by now.” “I mean, I know, but...” Neon looked at her, uncertainly. “You’ll at least be here to help us tomorrow though, right? For the actual album release? That’s when we’ll really need people.” Trixie hesitated. Neon groaned. “More shows?” “No,” Trixie replied, shaking her head. “But in theory I could have a show on a Saturday or a Sunday, or be traveling or something. So instead of checking with me or trying to keep track of that, or remember, or anything sensible, Jazz just doesn’t ever schedule me at all on weekends.” “That must suck, hours wise.” “No,” Trixie lied. “I’m always available during the week, so I work plenty there. It’s fine.” Neon nodded, and Trixie tried to convince herself that he believed her. She found she couldn’t manage it. “As for tomorrow,” she continued. “Everyone’s getting all hyped up and worried because Rainbow is from here, but Everton is really not that big. Not only that, but people don’t really buy CDs from stores that much. The store will be busier because of the Bichette release, sure, but it won’t be droves of people filling it. Someone will just have to stay at the register for once and you won’t be able to have conversations on the floor while you wait for a customer to be ready to check out. It’ll be like a regular store, and they seem to manage it.” “I guess you’re right,” Neon said, taking a deep breath, though he still seemed unconvinced. Trixie took a deep breath as well. “Look, I have to stop by tomorrow to check the schedule,” she offered. “If it really is crazy, I’ll see if I can convince Jazz into letting me clock in to help. Okay?” “Okay,” Neon said. A second or two passed, during which Trixie could see Neon visibly relax before her eyes. “Thank you, that would be really helpful. Anyway, I did say we should get started on something right?” “Right,” Trixie agreed, following behind Neon as he walked back towards the register. “Not really sure what we can do with your twenty minutes, but I’m sure we can find something,” he thought out loud. “Got any cool tricks planned for tonight?” “I mean, there’s this new trick I’m trying out where an audience member straight up shoots me with a gun,” Trixie shrugged. “It took me forever to get the paperwork approval for that one, so if you’re judging it by the amount of red tape I had to go through, I’d say that one is pretty cool.” “...You’re kidding.” “I’m really not. Months of paperwork.” Neon Lights closed his eyes for a moment before rubbing his hands across his face. “Yeah, okay,” he said, grabbing some cleaning supplies from underneath the counter. He then began walking away, but not before adding, “You know, I really do miss the days when you would just do card tricks.” “Yeah, me too…” Trixie whispered, though Neon was too far away to hear. Just fifteen more minutes, Trixie sighed. It’ll go by quickly— Suddenly the store speakers cut out, a dubstep-metal mix dying mid bass-drop as a result. When the speakers came back on, they were projecting Jazz’ voice, presumably from somewhere in their office. “Hi, everyone! Jazz here, hoping you’re all having a Fantastic Friday! I know you’re all excited that our hometown heroes Bichette are releasing their newest album tomorrow. I know we are! So to celebrate this incredible instance, I have decided to introduce songs from all of their previous works into the store’s rotation. So expect to hear some classic compositions from these perfect performers, starting with what many consider to be the fan favorite song, ‘Broken Mirror.’ Enjoy!” Then there was a sharp click, as the microphone was turned off, followed by the beginnings of a song. A song that Trixie had absolutely no interest in listening to. Just fifteen more minutes. Just fifteen more minutes. After closing the door to her apartment, Trixie quickly rushed towards her bedroom, almost tripping on a bag next to the entrance. Undeterred, she continued on her path, stripping off her clothes and discarding them where she happened to be at the time. I’ll pick that up later, she figured, as she kicked off her pants and left them on the floor. There’s so much to set up before the show starts. Getting to her closet, she quickly pulled out her outfit, and began getting dressed, all the while running over a mental checklist of preparations and items she needed to account for. Once her outfit was on, she went over to her vanity to apply some make up. With practiced ease, she got her appearance up to show standard, but as she was finishing up her mascara, a picture next to the mirror caught her eye. It was a simple picture frame, holding a picture of a teenage Trixie performing at some function put on by her school. In it, she was draped by her signature lavender cloak and holding a fanned-out deck of cards. The stage too was captured in the shot, a vibrant display of lights and colors, and what appeared to be a hint of fireworks in the upper right hand corner. Trixie couldn’t quite remember the event, but it looked to be quite lively. A blink. She turned to look at herself in the mirror. Oh how things change. The Trixie in the mirror was definitely still a magician, but older and more mature. Black slacks, white shirt, black vest, black jacket when it wasn’t too hot to wear one. She even wore black gloves as a way to complete the effect. As for the stage… Color and lights are fine for kids, she supposed. But if you want to be taken seriously— Or at least that’s what dad used to say. Trixie slammed her fist against the vanity, the rattle of her makeup vocalizing for the shaking mirror. Don’t think of him, Trixie growled. You have more important things to worry about than some two-bit magician. Her reflection continued to glare at her. Eventually, however, the spike of anger began to numb into apathy. The reflection broke eye contact. Let’s get a move on, Trixie thought, smoothing out some wrinkles on her shirt. Plenty of things yet to do. She began to gather some of her materials, making sure to keep track of everything she’d need. The paperwork, the cases, the extra rope and auxiliaries, everything was accounted for. And yet, before long, her mind began to wander back to the picture she had seen again. More specifically, it began to wander to the defiant smile that Trixie had worn on her face. When did I lose that? Images of portals opening to other words, of a bright pillar of light, of her classmates performing feats beyond comprehension, struggled for attention but she pushed them back. Ah, right… And so, gathering the last of her things, Trixie made to leave her apartment. As she did, she passed by the bag she had tripped on when she had first arrived, and recognized it as a donation bag she had been meaning to donate for months now but kept forgetting to take out with her while leaving the house.  That’s why it was in the way, she thought. Sucks I’m not going anywhere near the place and that my car is going to be full as is. Maybe next time. Running through a quick mental checklist of the items in the bag, one of them caught her attention and prompted her to look through the contents. After about seven seconds of searching, Trixie pulled out her lavender cloak, the same one from the picture, though one wouldn’t know it by looking at it.  The rich lavender of the cloak was now a muted gray and the yellow and blue stars had all but disappeared into the background of the fabric. It seems all things fade, Trixie noted. Dreams. Hopes. Fabric. She ran her fingers across the frayed cloth. Some because of exposure to the sun… She looked around at her apartment, her guitar in the corner, dusty from lack of use. Her clothes all over the floor, not just from that day from weeks of a lack of motivation to clean. Her walls and shelves, upon which not a single family picture could be found. Her hand found its way to the cards in her pocket, which she carried out of habit but had not used in years. And some because of exposure to a much brighter light. With a sad smile, Trixie threw the cloak back into the bag, resolving to remember to donate it at the first opportunity. Maybe somebody can use it to actually keep warm, she hoped. Since all it seems to do is make me feel colder. The performance was going fine. Adequate. If one were to ask any of the audience members, Trixie was sure they’d even go so far as to say it was going great or splendid, but that was to be expected. They didn’t know any better. Atop a dark stage, lit by a single bright spotlight, Trixie took a bow as she finished a complex illusion. The crowd applauded.  Or at least she thought they were applauding. She could hear the rumble coming from the darkness. But she couldn’t see it, blinded by the light. She couldn’t hear it very well either from this distance. Still, she heard something, so she continued. “Thank you, thank you,” Trixie said, speaking into the darkness, her voice magnified by the microphone hidden in her shirt collar. “Now for this next trick, I need to tell you all about knives.” As she said the word, she did a flourish with her hand, producing a knife from thin air. She heard something again. An “aaah” or an “oooh”, she couldn’t be sure. She knew there were at least two hundred people in attendance. Maybe even three hundred. I should be able to hear them. “Knives, plural,” she said, producing three more knives, “are an interesting human tool. We use them for cooking, for hunting, for camping, for making tools, they’re very versatile accessories with tons of uses. They can, of course, be used for killing, which is something we will, hopefully, be trying to avoid tonight.” She heard laughter, she supposed, but it sounded pre-recorded. Canned. Static. Trixie continued to weave her story, tell the explanation, ask for volunteers. The act went fine, but it was wrong. Like a sitcom without the laugh track or a song played in an empty auditorium, there was some lifeless element that tainted everything Trixie did and everything she experienced.  There was no magic here. Still, Trixie smiled. What else is new? This is how’d she’d always done things, how’d she’d been doing things since her career started. Bellatrix, the magicless magician, forced to perform in more ways than one. And so she would. As the trick ended, the three sharp knives were driven into blocks of wood while the one with a blunted edge failed to go into Trixie’s arm as the terrified volunteers yelled in concern, at least until it was clear she was going to be ok. Once again, there was that strange noise as the volunteers took their seat. Trixie continued with her performance. “Thank you,” she said, as the venue technicians brought out the equipment for her final trick. “Now this trick that follows will be my last trick. First things first, I need a volunteer, someone who really is enjoying my show.” A volunteer, a young woman with brown hair, was brought to the stage and made to stand next to a contraption of Trixie’s own creation. On one end was a chair with a table next to it with a small metal stand welded to the top. Next to the table was a long metal tube. On the other end was another metal table, lower than the first, with a different stand on it, and way behind that a thick black curtain. Trixie walked up to meet her. “Please, sit down and put these on,” Trixie said, gesturing to the chair and handing her headphones. “I’m sure you’re wondering what this whole thing you see is. Simple enough, it is an aiming mechanism for this.” As Trixie had been talking, a production assistant had walked up to her carrying a black case and at the end of her sentence the case had been opened. From within she pulled a six-shot revolver, which she opened up to reveal was not loaded. “Now, you’re looking pretty nervous,” Trixie said, to which the volunteer nodded. “Do not worry. I have filled out all the proper paperwork for this so we are one hundred percent ok. You have nothing to worry about. As for what I want you to do, I have here a box of ammunition. I want you to pick one at random.” The volunteer did. Trixie then placed that one bullet in the gun and locked the gun in place on the stand. “Hands behind your back,” Trixie said, as she walked towards the other side of the tube. The volunteer complied. “I told you earlier that this was an aiming mechanism, and that’s partially true. It’s also a failsafe in case the aiming mechanism fails. See, behind that curtain is a bullet catcher, so as long as the bullet goes through, there will be no ricochets. This metal tube will make sure that if it goes at an angle, it will end up going in that direction no matter what. With me so far? Good.” Trixie then placed a bottle on the stand atop the other table which put it right on the line of sight. “Ok, let’s test this,” she said, stepping back from the bottle and putting on headphones of her own. “When I yell ‘clear,’ I’m going to need you to fire that gun. Ok? Good. Clear!” The volunteer pulled the trigger. The bottle exploded. “Good! Good!” Trixie exclaimed. “Now, with the help of the assistant, pick out six more rounds and sign them. The assistant will then put them in the gun and then lock the gun back on the stand. In the meantime, I’ll explain what’s happening to the rest of you all.” Trixie pulled a necklace from her pocket and put it on. “What’s about to happen is that my volunteer is about to take six shots down the range and before each shot she is going to say one of two things. She will either say ‘bottle’ or ‘Bellatrix’. If she says ‘bottle,’ I will place another bottle on the stand, I will move to the side, and… well, you saw what happened. The interesting thing is what happens when she says ‘Bellatrix...’” She stood directly behind the table in the gun's line of sight. “...Because that’s when I stand here instead and she takes the shot. Now, the only rule is she cannot do all six shots of ‘bottle.’ Otherwise it would be boring. Other than that, she can choose whatever order and as many of each as she wants, and I have no way of knowing, just like I don’t know which rounds she chose or what order she loaded them in. Pretty exciting right?” The volunteer shook her head. “Oh don’t worry. I have this,” Trixie said, holding her necklace. “This is a medallion of protection. It will stop your bullets from hurting me. It wasn’t cheap, let me tell you, but I think tonight it will be worth it. So, let’s play.” The volunteer hesitated, and Trixie decided to let her stew in her decision.  “Bottle!” “Ah, playing it safe then,” Trixie said. “Fair enough.” She stepped out of the way after placing a bottle on the table. “Clear!” she said. The bottle shattered. “That’s one down.” The volunteer looked at the shattered remains of the bottle and then locked her terrified eyes with Trixie, who simply smiled and nodded. The volunteer took a deep breath. “B-Bellatrix.” “And now things get interesting,” Trixie said, stepping back behind the table. “Clear.” The volunteer put her hand on the trigger, but hesitated again. Trixie gave her a gentle nod. The volunteer pulled the trigger. A loud bang. A chorus of gasps.  “There,” Trixie said, dusting herself off. “Told you it’d be fine. Wanna go again?” The trick itself was ingenious. The tube was actually a very powerful magnet that stopped the specialized bullets before they ever had a chance to get anywhere near the end of it, highly tested for consistency and durability. The bottles were actually being broken by the stand they were put upon and a mechanism that triggered every time the gun recoiled against its stand. Months of development and even longer for approval just to make this one illusion happen, all capped off with the signed and spent bullet shells up her sleeve. “Bottle!” “Sure” After that though, it was “Bellatrix” again. And this time while staring down the barrel she had a thought. She knew her mechanism wouldn’t fail, but what if it did? Accidents did happen. Testing sometimes doesn’t account for everything, no matter how thoroughly it is done. She stared down the tube unblinkingly.  “Clear!” Another shot. Nothing. She was okay. “Bellatrix!” Shouldn’t I feel fear? she pondered. “Clear!” You never do anymore. “Bellatrix!” You never feel anything. “Clear!” That’s why you keep escalating. “Bellatrix!” She stared down the barrel for what would be the last time for the night and tried to place the emotion. Was it fear? Hope? Regret? Longing? Anxiety? Desire? Something could go wrong. Something could go wrong and it would be over. With so many variables there was definitely a possibility.  So which is it? “Clear!” The shot rang out clearly in the venue and Trixie made a show of stumbling back as if struck, only to reveal that she was indeed ok. Because of course she was, there had never been any chance otherwise, and she struggled to know how to feel about that too. “I believe these are yours,” she said loudly, palming, then revealing four spent bullets from her hidden stash. The volunteer checked them for her signature, and indeed saw a marker line on them and assumed them to be hers. The crowd went wild. And this time Trixie did hear them, but the applause sounded hollow in her ears. Over three hundred people were clapping and stomping their feet. They were yelling and chanting, lost in the moment. But Trixie was lost elsewhere. After all, this rumble was nothing. She’d heard louder. And would any of them be clapping if they’d seen what real magic looked like?  Regardless, the performance continues, she thought, taking a bow she knew she didn’t deserve.