//------------------------------//
// IV 
// Story: Mixed Up 
// by Overlord Pony 
//------------------------------//

    	He didn't sleep in the alley. He curled up, cowardly, by the dumpster until the gunshots stopped at sunrise; in a panic, he took his box and himself back toward the original factory that served as his shelter. Along the way, to the few creatures he passed in the silver of dawn, he touted: "I'll freeze without bits!" or, "Please, I need help!" or, "I'll die in the cold!"

His jacket was light and poor against the wind. It was hardly like wearing a jacket at all, and he felt chilled in the cold nights. He needed more. Even his blankets he had thought to bring did not warm him against the autumn cold. Buying the jacket had been worthless. He should have saved the money to stay in a motel.

Lost in his thoughts, he bumped into a lanky, orange earth pony with red-and-orange dreadlocks. His box fell to the ground as his magic fizzled out.

"I'm so sorry!" he said, quickly moving out of the pony's way to begin to put his things back into his box.

"Oh, it's okay," the pony responded. Then, she jerked her head around to look at Mixtape closer. "Mixxy?"

His ears perked up and he faced her. She had been a stranger moments ago, but the more he looked, the more he realized.

"Baby Remedy?" he asked. He couldn't stop staring. He had last seen her as a filly running amuck in his store, terrorizing the shelves and her parents. She had curly hair then, often styled into pigtails that looked like pom-poms.

"Oh my Celestia," she said. She reached for an embrace, and she draped her leg around Mixtape's withers for a hug. "What happened?"

"I became obsolete," he said. He put the last of his things back into his box, all except one thing. They were out of the way of hoof traffic, in the shadow of the canyon-like skyscrapers.

"Shit," she said, stepping closer to the stone foundation of the building next to them.

"I remembered, though," Mixtape said, floating an album over to her. "You liked The Celestias. Your parents never let you get it, right? This album?"

Her mouth fell open, and she blinked several times before saying, "How did you remember?"

"How could I forget?"

The Remedy family had been regulars in his store ten years ago. Baby Remedy was a force to be reckoned with, but she loved The Celestias and never could get the album that she wanted. Mixtape finally got his hooves a week after the Remedies announced to him that they were returning to Jamareca. They were gone before he got the album. It had been a sunny day, the announcement day, and Baby Remedy had her hair in dreadlocks for the first time.

"We're going back," they told him. He got a postcard two months later of them all on a white sand beach in front of too-blue water. It was in the box, too.

"You had a birthday party in my store, once," Mixtape said. The album still floated between them.

"I did!" she said, a smile creeping onto her lips. "I miss it."

"Me too," Mixtape said. There was silence as he put the album back in the box, feeling fatigued from holding it in mid-air so long. "What brought you back here?"

"I missed it," she said. "And better opportunities for business." She cocked her head to the side, locks swaying, then said, "Why don't you come with me?"

"Sure," he said. "It isn't like I have much going on." He punctuated with a laugh. A real laugh, yet hysterical and hoarse from the cold and loneliness. Remedy looked concerned.

He kept pace with her as they navigated the labyrinthine streets, past glass skyscrapers reflecting light off their peaks, across huge intersections and down a clean alleyway to a small shop with a teacup as a sign. They walked in together.

It was a tea shop: it was warm and smelled of flowers and herbs. Remedy offered Mixtape a seat, and she sat across from him.

"I'll give you a job," she said.

"Doing what?"

"Cashier, barista? Something with my crystal store?"

Ponies in the restaurant murmured around them. The hiss of espresso filled the shop periodically. Most creatures came in and left, on with their morning commute. The décor was very brown; old-fashioned, even.

"I, uh, I don't know," he said. "I appreciate the offer, of course—"

They were cut off as tea was delivered to them both. His stomach rumbled, and the chill inside him was warmed as he took a sip of the tea. Remedy didn't touch hers. She just watched, eyes droopy.

"You feel wrong, don't you?"

Wrong. He wasn't sure if that was the word. He said, "Forgotten, I think."

She nodded. They sat in silence until Mixtape finished his tea, and then Remedy's after she said she ordered it for him.

"What makes you feel that way?" she asked. Beside them, a large line had assembled to order drinks.

"I have cassette tapes on my flank," he said. "Nocreature uses that anymore. All I have is my name and this box of things no one wants." I'm going to freeze in an alleyway. The thought must have registered on his face, because Remedy frowned.

"We aren't bound to one destiny, Mixxy." She motioned toward her flank; her cutie mark was a teacup with wavy lines over it. "For a long time, I thought my talent was just in brewing tea. I own this place, but my talent isn't in making tea. Not everything links together like ponies think it does."

"Do you feel right running a tea shop, then?" Glasses and plates tinkled in the background.

"Yes." She looked at him—really looked at him—and said, "It is some part of my talent, but not the united whole." Her violet eyes were piercing. "None of those jobs would work, would they? The barista, the cashier—it isn't you."

With it laid out so clearly, it sounded ludicrous that Mixtape wouldn't take a job. He knew this, yet still nodded. He wouldn't survive the winter, anyway.

"How about lunch?" she asked. Mixtape nodded again. She got up and went to the cashier.

Baby Remedy—Natural Remedy—was in Manehattan. She owned two stores. She was half Mixtape's age, and she was so accomplished. She knew her way in life. Her parents were free-spirits when he knew them; it seemed to have rubbed off onto her. Crystals, coffee, and tea never went out of fashion—not like music, not like cassette tapes, though those had seemed timeless.

Mixtape remembered tinkering with a cassette dock and his mark appearing. His mother hated it. His father was ecstatic. Later, his mother was angry when he told her he was a stallion. His dad was excited for a son. It was the last straw. His mother left shortly after. He never understood what it all meant, why his mother hated him. He was just installing a new way of reading cassettes onto the deck—not his own invention. It was more reliable, and less likely to pull enough tape to ruin the cassette.

His colthood room was vivid in his mind: the blue walls, the small bed, the writing desk, two windows. 

Remedy sat down in front of him. He was only half-present.

"How are your parents?" Mixtape asked, far-away. A visage of his mother floated in his mind, angry.

"Good," she said. "They're still in Jamareca, enjoying island life."

"And you're back in Manehattan." His dad had given him a hug when his mother left.

"I can help more creatures here—the spiritually out-of-line ones."

She didn't miss it, then. Not the cold winters, not the tall buildings; she wanted to be a philanthropist. It made sense. Scones were placed in front of Mixtape, and he devoured one almost immediately.

"Let's go to my other store after this," she said. "I think I can help."

Mixtape nodded as he ate the rest of the scones. He didn't leave her one, and only realized after the plate was empty. She said she wasn't hungry and that it was fine. She turned down his offer to buy her one. After their back-and-forth at the coffee shop, they started their walk to her crystal shop. The buildings were shorter than downtown, and were built downhill. The sun was high above them, bringing light into the bottom of the building canyon.

"Thank you," Mixtape said, "for the food; tea, uh... hospitality?" He felt the thanks fell flat, but Remedy smiled.

"It's no problem, really," she said. "You were like family to me."

That was how it was at Mix's Tapes. Everycreature was family. They all knew each other. They all loved each other, took care of one another. The city was so alien in the modern times, with ponies passing on the street without even an, "excuse me." Life was too fast; everything in Manehattan felt like it was on fast-forward.

Remedy's crystal shop was down a hill in a small, white brick building. They entered, and a dark-coated unicorn with gems hanging from her horn greeted them.

"Is the bathing room open?" Remedy asked the unicorn.

"I'll have to check," the mare said, disappearing behind a bead curtain.

Plants grew in every corner of the dim store. Crystal shelves lined the wood-paneled walls. Ivy grew along most of the vertical surfaces in the store. A rack of hemp jackets was in the corner, and a large, circular rug covered the dark wood floor. Remedy walked over to a shelf and grabbed a large quartz crystal by its basket's handle and carried it to Mixtape.

"You need to meditate on this," she said; her enunciation was perfect despite the handle in her mouth. "Do it with this. Do you know how? With your magic?"

"My magic barely works," he said. Acknowledging that made him aware of how he was straining to keep his box afloat. He quickly, and softly, placed it on the floor, so he didn't drop it from overexerting himself. He looked down at the box and said, "Most of me is barely working right now." He ached.

"I guess I should have figured. You aren't exactly in prime condition." Pause, then, quickly, "No offense!"

Mixtape chuckled and shook his head; he said, "None taken. It's hard to keep up any magic when I'm hungry most of the time." He thought it was funny, in a fucked-up kind of way, but Remedy's wide eyes clued him into the severity of what he just uttered. He was going to attempt to put a more light-hearted spin on what he said, but the unicorn who had disappeared to "the bathing room" returned to her spot behind the desk.

"It's open and clean, Remedy," she said. Remedy thanked her and lead Mixtape to a blue-tiled shower room. Dark plants decorated the corners in the sunny spots from the high-up window in the room.

"Here's this," Remedy said, placing the quartz in the center of the room. "I'll be right back with soap and towels." Mixtape made a noise acknowledging her.

The room smelled of lavender, and Mixtape's cracked hooves echoed around him as he approached the fixtures. He looked at himself in the reflection in the faucet. His coat was dirty, turning black and brown, and his eyes were sunken in. His hair was slick with grease and clung to his cheeks.

Remedy returned with a bag of toiletries. She sat them in the corner by the plants and asked, "Do you want me to wash your clothes while you're showering?"

"Yes, please," he said. The clothes felt stuck to Mixtape's coat, a product of sleeping in alleyways or tripping in puddles and potholes. The yellow coat was the easiest layer to take off, but his fall jackets and old sports t-shirt needed peeled from his body and each other. Remedy scrunched up her nose at the stench; Mixtape had grown used to it. She grabbed a bag, loaded up the clothes and promised she would stay in the store until he was finished bathing.

The water was hot, not lukewarm like the homeless shelter. He smelled the street on him as the putrid, black water rolled off his body, past his hooves and down the drain. It was, perhaps, selfish, but he sat on his haunches, the water rolling down his face, down his back. The water was still murky. The crystal caught his eye from the edges of his vision, and he turned to look at it.

It was bullshit—the whole crystal thing. It was just a rock. Unicorns were supposed to get something special from them, but he never had because he never tried. With the water rolling off him becoming more transparent and clean, he pulled the crystal to him in his magic.

It was cloudy and grew in brilliant spikes. It looked heavy and was. He reached out his magic just to the crystal. It seemed like a time to close his eyes, so he did. He felt nothing. He saw nothing new. Instead, beyond the darkness of his eyelids, he found scattered, fragmented memories of his life. The night he got his cutie mark, his mother leaving, the opening of his store, the patrons of it—it was all there, but it was negative, like a film reel.

Mixtape shook his head and reopened his eyes. The water was mostly clear, so he turned the other way to wash off his front. He still thought about the crystal while in the hot water, surrounded by blue and plants, but it didn't make sense to him... granted, he should have asked about meditation before trying whatever it was he did. It wasn't natural to him. He ruminated on his life as he grabbed the soaps and loofa to wash himself, remembering community gardens and good music from his colthood friends. How he wanted to be a musician, or maybe an engineer. He achieved neither; he felt as though he accomplished nothing. A dream-like visage of Mix's Tapes floated in his mind, one where the shelves were full and ponies and creatures were browsing, talking to each other in a warm hum. Then: empty shelves, dust.

It was all so bleak. He turned off the water after the water truly ran clean, then pulled a white towel over to himself to dry off. The loofa was ruined, and he had used up most of the bar soap and shampoo. Getting the grime off made him feel lighter.

Once he was dry, he wrapped his mane in a clean towel and poked his head out into the shop. The mare behind the sales desk was reading a novel; Remedy was reorganizing some of the shelves. He thought he was unnoticed until Remedy asked, "Did the crystal help?"

"I don't think I'm doing it right," he said, which was the truth. Telling her that crystals were bogus was likely a dead-end. A dead-end from what, he didn't know—he felt at rock bottom with a shovel to keep digging; each passing day was more and more difficult.

"That happens sometimes," Remedy said, "especially if your magic is already messed up from not having consistent meals." She turned around after placing a spherical blue crystal on a shelf. "Different races have to tap in differently."

"How do donkeys, then?"

Remedy furrowed her brow and said, "I guess like earth ponies. Maybe they need to take it more at their own pace." Her lips twisted to the side. "Why?"

"My mother is—or was, maybe—a donkey."

Remedy's eyes widened, perhaps off-put by Mixtape's disinterested statement about not knowing if his mother was alive or dead. Remedy raised a hoof to her cheek and shook her head. She said, "I don't know how I never knew that!"

"Well, I don't advertise it, that's for certain!" Mixtape laughed.

"Yeah, apparently not!" She walked up toward him and beckoned him into the door next to the shower room. "I think, then, I am right how it works on donkeys. It takes patience, but then unicorns just use magic... I guess it works based on what you are more: pony or donkey."

Even though it was shameful to think so—considering how his mother treated him—Mixtape always felt alienated from unicorns. It wasn't that his magic was sub-par—it worked as well as any unicorn without a talent in magic—and it wasn't necessarily because he looked different, it was because unicorns were usually rich. He had no such luck to be born into a rich family; his father owned a single grocery store in Manehattan. His talent had something to do with milk cartons.

Remedy flicked the light on in the new room, which hosted two sets of washing machines and dryers. The dryer tumbled and hummed; there were fifteen more minutes until he, he presumed, needed to leave.

"Donkey, I think," Mixtape said, then, realizing how belated his response was, "to answer your question."

"That explains why you won't work anywhere unfulfilling," she said. It was hard for him to disagree. The room was warm, filled with the scent of clean linen and potted night flowers at every corner. A small shelf of rocks was next to a dryer, along with towels.

"Yeah, probably." He shook his head. "I don't know what the world wants of me. It feels like... like it's time to fail. That my success is gone." It was odd talking to a pony he had known as a filly about his problems, yet they poured out of him. "Sorry. I don't mean to be like this."

"You're being eaten alive by it. Don't be ashamed." She frowned. "Do you really know you?"

"I, uh—" Mixtape trailed off. He wanted to say yes, to agree to such an obvious statement that he should know about, yet to agree felt wrong. There were many things he didn't know about himself; some things that made him feel a stranger in his own skin. He said, "I guess not. I guess I don't."

"You need to know yourself. Until then, nothing anypony or anycreature says to you will help you."

He wondered if her statement was meant to be taken the same way: that the advice was unhelpful until he accepted his faults—or, at least, that's what he assumed the problem was, he truthfully wasn't certain. A silence passed as the dryer tumbled on in its muffled way. He was too stubborn, too prideful, perhaps too cocky at times, but those felt as though he had come to terms with those parts of himself.

Finally, "Does the crystal... help?" He titled his head back-and-forth. "With seeing myself; knowing myself."

"It can," Remedy said. "Meditation itself helps too. Trying to empty your head and observe your own thinking—it's a powerful thing."

It would be impossible to relax in the streets of Manehattan, not enough to meditate and certainly not enough to tap into a crystal. As far as he knew, the crystal was useless to him because of his mother's species.

The dryer beeped, and Mixtape went over to don his clothing. The sports shirt was full of holes and discolored; the flannels that went over it felt clean and soft again, and the big yellow coat seemed puffier than the day he bought it.

"I—I don't have a place I can let you stay," Remedy said. The statement was out-of-the-blue.

"I never asked for one," he said.

"It still feels terrible to let you leave for the streets again..." She looked sorrowful, nearly tearful with her chin pressed into her neck. Some of her dreadlocks cascaded off her shoulder.

"It's okay—really." He couldn't imagine the guilt of accepting such a gift—it felt unearned, even if it was available.

They exited the laundry room and re-entered the floor of the store. The neon open sign was dark, but the pony behind the bar still sat on her stool, reading. Mixtape's box was next to her.

"I can offer you free drinks and food from my café," Remedy said. "You can come here any time to clean up." She stiffened her posture. "I'm going to find a way to help you."

Please don't. Instead, "I appreciate it." The thought hopefully was not as empty-sounding as it felt. He didn't want help.

"Oh, let me get that crystal before you go!" Before Mixtape could object, she was off to the bathing room.

Mixtape walked over to the pony behind the register and levitated his box from the ground. He put the Celestias album on the counter and said to the pony behind it, "This is for Remedy." She looked up from her novel and nodded. She closed her book to stash the record somewhere behind the desk.

"I saw you had a Noisefield album on vinyl," she said. "Would ya sell it?"

Noisefield was a band Mixtape never cared for, but he kept the album for somepony he cared deeply about long ago. It was the last tie he had to her. There were no more fond memories left of her; not after the things he had went through—yet, the album, her favorite, stayed in the box.

"Would you like to hear a story about it?" he asked, floating the album from the box and onto the counter. Her eyes narrowed. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

"I'm curious," she said. She leaned over the counter, elbows on the wooden surface. "Tell me."

"This was one of my exes' favorite album and band," he said. "I got to see them live so many times, but she—she was awful to me. We weren't together for very long, but I had bought her almost all of the Noisefield albums that were available back then." A smirk plastered itself on his face. "This was the one she didn't get." The cashier smirked back.

"Sounds very spiteful," she said. Mixtape laughed.

"Yeah, you could say that. It's her favorite album too."

"You really salted those wounds, huh?"

"She deserved it." He grimaced as a thought of what she did passed his mind. "Anyway, I'll sell it. I don't need spite living in my box of things."

The cashier—Dimmet—offered him a hundred bits for the album, which he initially refused. After her assertion that she would pay him no less, he caved and took the bits. It meant he could afford another night in a motel if he needed to. After the exchange, he felt an odd type of elation. It wasn't for the money, he didn't think; it was for getting rid of the album, for telling the story. It was comforting.

Remedy finally re-entered the room from the stairs leading into the hallway with the laundry and bathing rooms. She had probably been eavesdropping considering how long it had taken for her to come back with the crystal. Without a word, she placed it in Mixtape's box.

"Please visit my stores, okay?" she asked. "I know it's going to be a long journey. I'm here to help."

His cheeks flushed; he knew Remedy wouldn’t let him be truly alone. It felt like the last years of Mix's Tapes were devoid of love and care, yet, in the interior of the hole-in-the-wall crystal shop, he felt happiness that he hadn’t felt since the best years of his store.

"Thank you," he said. "Really."

Remedy tried to smile, but her distress was clear in her wide eyes. Mixtape picked up his box in his magic and waved at them as he stepped out into the orange-colored night streets to find a place to sleep.