Mixtape stared at the quartz. He knew every facet of the mineral, every clouded portion—one reminded him of the visage of Celestia impressed into a golden bit—and he knew the crude, dark gray rock of the matrix. No matter how he ate, no matter how he slept, the crystal was quiet, only occasionally sparking a memory before lying dormant again. Meditation was no better. It was too cold to have thoughts to keep track of.
So long as he stayed clean, he was welcome in Remedy's coffee shop or crystal store as the days grew colder. The crystal loomed in his tattered box taunting him with its metaphysical truths.
Remedy was typically in her crystal store. She encouraged him to keep thinking about the crystal and to meditate. At least he could do both in the sanctuary of her store, but nothing had brought him any closer to an epiphany. He hadn't sold anything in the box since he was given the crystal. With the first snowfall of the year anticipated on the news in electronic stores' windows, he realized he would need more than hospitality to stay alive.
He begged and attempted to sell his wares. It was largely fruitless, though as he went to spend his bits on three nights at a run-down motel, the stallion behind the desk recognized something in Mixtape's box.
"Is that a Radical Coats album?" the receptionist asked.
Mixtape leaned over to see the contents of his box. A single cassette tape had moved itself to lie atop the record sleeves. He said, "Yeah, I guess it is!" He floated it up to the counter so the receptionist could get a better look.
"Oh wow!" he said, admiring the art trapped in plastic. "How much do you want for this—or are you even selling it?"
Mixtape barely remembered that concert. He said, "I'll sell it, but would you like to know how I got it?"
A vending machine behind Mixtape turned on suddenly, humming as its lights flickered to life. The tile floor seemed stained a permanent yellow. The formica countertop the receptionist had his dark green hooves touching added to the liminal ambiance of the place. A lightbulb flickered off-and-on behind him.
"Sure," the receptionist said. "Not many creatures come here so late."
Mixtape smiled. The receptionist looked rough, as though he had came into work after a street fight. Considering his size, Mixtape would not have been surprised if that were the case.
"Well, it started at a music festival," Mixtape said. "I never was that into the Radical Coats, but Thr—" he cleared his throat, realizing the receptionist would have no context to the other ponies with him that night "—my friends and I… Celestia, we were so stoned! The main stage where the big bands play, they were setting up for the next act and we decided to wander around the crowd." Mixtape shook his head, memory fuzzy as the memories came flooding in—some pleasant, some awkward, some bad.
The receptionist was patient, but Mixtape was drowning in the memories of the concert, of life before, of the life he had, of the life he could still have. What if he had listened to Threadbare? She saw it coming. Mixtape was oblivious.
"So you're at a music festival, fucked up, right?" the receptionist asks. Mixtape snaps out of his thoughts, still blurry on reality, and nodded his head slowly.
"Yeah, so… we were all there," Mixtape said, "and we saw the outfits from the stadium, of the Radical Coats—their capes looked like auroras to the sky—and we decided we'd go there." He scrunched up his face. "It's hard to say, you know, what happened. I mean, we went down there, I know that." I kissed Threadbare and Sweet Berry; we swayed, stoned, at the music as dancing colors rather than sound. "I'm sorry, I wish I could remember more… I just like to—" he trailed off. What was it he liked to do? Talk?
"You like to tell stories," the receptionist finished the sentence for him.
"I suppose I do." Mixtape frowned. "I'm sorry I didn't have more of a story for you. I keep things that are sentimental to me. Something must have happened that I don't remember."
"Happens to the best of us," the receptionist said. Mixtape nodded.
"Fifteen bits sound good?" Mixtape asked.
"I'll do you one better—I'll give you two extra days on your room. You'll freeze to death if you try to live on the streets with what you got."
It was true. His jacket was not warm, and his tattered shirt brought nothing but discomfort along his coat. It was too cold during the day to do much. He could use a scarf, a real coat, better blankets—but all he had was the box and his bag of necessary things from his old apartment.
"Thank you," Mixtape said. It came from the heart, how strongly he felt. He had enough bits to pay for three days. The receptionist saved his life. Five days off the streets, all because of a Radical Coats album.
He was given a key to his room and he made his way back into the autumn chill. His room was on the second floor, and his hooves made loud pangs as he scaled the stairs. He located his room, entered, and promptly closed and locked the door behind him.
It was a small room and smelled of thick smoke. The carpet was dingy, but soft, and the bed was made with the most starched bedspread he had ever seen. A microwave and mini fridge were available. Everything had a strange orange tint to it under the fly-filled light fixture. At least it was warm. He wouldn’t die tonight—at least not of exposure.
He caught a glimpse of the crystal in the box, mocking him. He was too tired to try to commune with it. He showered, then laid down in bed and gave into his exhaustion.
He slept until noon the next day, feeling rejuvenated from sleeping on a mattress that was only marginally more comfortable than the floor. He ached some, so he pulled the stiff covers close around himself. Exhaustion was what he knew for days on end. He was at the end of his rope when he spoke with the receptionist; the interaction hardly imprinted on him. He just knew five days.
But, he'd given away the Radical Coats tape—or, rather, traded it, he remembered, for two extra days—and, in that moment, he had felt something. Reflecting only strengthened the feeling, whatever it was. It was warm in nature, like lying in a sunbeam for hours on end. It was almost like a healing spell. He dozed off ruminating on how he felt, and woke up an hour later feeing no closer to the answer.
The crystal. Remedy's nonsense. Was it time? Was there supposed to be a time?
Mixtape rolled out of bed, nearly taking the stiff comforter with him. He walked to his box and pulled the crystal from its spot in the corner of the box. It wasn't glowing—he wasn't sure where he got the notion it would. It was nothing special. The cloudy portion that looked like Celestia was still there.
He set it on the floor and laid down on his stomach to examine it closer. Remedy said something about magic and crystals on one of her one-sided conversations between them. He had lifted it with his telekinesis, of course, but a different kind of spell had to be used on the crystal. Mixtape thought he remembered Remedy saying it is different for everypony.
It felt natural to close his eyes and reach out with his magic, imagining its shape as a griffon's articulated foot. It touched it and he felt a surge of static run through the magic, down his horn and into his body. His hair stood on end. Normally such a shock would make him lose concentration, but it wasn't painful. Perhaps it was how he was supposed to commune with the rock? He tried to end the spell, but the crystal wouldn't let him.
What was it trying to tell him? He pushed further, willing his magic to push through the layers of crystal until he could feel its middle; its pulse: a gently melody. As he probed the crystal, trying to slip through its lattice, different memories started to come to his mind. All the ponies who had bought things from him, those who listened to his stories. The crystal pulsed memories, feelings. His first time giving somepony a present—a perfectly round pebble to an elementary crush. He saw himself in third-person at his childhood desk, working on the cassette player that would give him his cutie mark. That had been a gift too, hadn't it?
Colors pulsed from behind his eyes, was it the way it was supposed to be? The colors? Was something messed up?
Images, memories, they flooded from the pulse. Some had to do with his identity; most were his happy days in Mix's Tapes. The ponies with their spikey manes and pointy jackets. The dancers who carried boomboxes on their withers. The dance-offs outside his storefront. He had felt so fulfilled then.
Then, the crystal showed him as things waned. Threadbare telling him to sell the store. His stubborn nature keeping him there, watching the once-thriving store into a mausoleum to the past. Most customers in the two years prior to closing only came in because his store was a novelty. Nopony needed what he had. They wanted to see a relic of the past. And, even though his heart was breaking then, he still told stories and sold albums.
His horn began to ache, and he was finally able to end the spell. He kept his eyes closed for a while, taking deep breaths as he processed all that he had seen. It was cathartic to have his life laid out in front of him by the crystal. He was so successful until he wasn't—Until he had to live on the streets or a cheap hotel room. Those issues didn't change him, though. He felt too old to know how to learn from some of his past, but yet, he felt as though a flower were blooming in his chest.
He finally understood. It was stories. It was his name—Mixtape. A gathering of songs or sounds out of love, about not forgetting, about recording memories and music off the radio.
Something inside him clicked. That was right. He forgot how it felt—like light, warm, a beacon. It was clear. That was it.
That was it.