//------------------------------// // 2 - Vinyl // Story: Black Rose // by AliceA020 //------------------------------// V I N Y L A smile tugs at my lips when the crowd roars. I’ve heard it so often, yet every time I get a feeling inside me, a feeling that makes me feel proud and accomplished, one that makes me feel happy. As the ponies cheer, a few pump their hooves in the air, causing my grin to widen slightly. They’re here for me—at least, that’s what I like to tell myself. More than likely they are not; they are probably here to have a good time with their friends, or just to party. But I like to tell myself they are here for me, despite how arrogant it is. It helps my courage with being on stage. I’ve always had stage fright, yet always wanted to perform in front of a crowd, if that makes any sense. Telling myself that they are here for me, that they won’t care if I make a mistake makes being on stage and talking to the crowd much easier. I wait until the crowd calms down, until they are eyeing me with silence waiting for me to say something. It doesn’t take long. “Are you ready to get this party started?” I shout so that everypony can hear. The crowd roars again, and my smile widens a little more. I light up my horn and start the music. As the music begins, so does the flashing strobe lights and the multicolor floor changing with the rhythm of the song. Normally, I would stay on stage, but tonight I do not want to. Instead, I trot down the steps. The crowd parts for me as they continue to dance, allowing me a pathway. I wish they wouldn’t do that. Many come up to me and ask for my autograph or for a photo with me. I do that; I happily oblige. But sometimes, I wish they wouldn’t ask me for such things. Having ponies idolize you is great, but sometimes I want to be treated like a normal pony. I eventually reach my destination: the backdoor. I feel as though I want to be alone right now. And I do. I push the door open and step through the threshold. I kick the door shut with my hind leg. The music it’s loud enough to be heard from out here, though it is a bit muffled. I look up at the night sky, lit by the moon and the accompanying stars. The stars twinkle as if to greet me. But that isn’t what they do; instead, they push a memory to the front of my mind. A memory I’d rather forget, but at the same time, I wish to hold on to it. It’s strange, but I understand. Forgetting is losing an important part of oneself. I close my eyes, and think. I don’t choose to think about that memory; I don’t want to. Instead, I choose to think about what it would be like if I wasn’t famous. I’d be treated different. No, I’d be treated the same. Right now, I’m treated different than from how everyone treats each other. It’d be nice. I like being famous, but I’m afraid every one I meet will treat me like I’m a celebrity, not like I am me. My head lowers, and I sigh. For now, I am alone. I don’t have to worry about signing papers and photos and taking pictures. I can have my peace and quiet, as peaceful and quiet as it will be with the muffled music. My bliss doesn’t last long, though. I hear a spark and a shriek. My eyes open and I reenter the club. It’s dark, so dark one wouldn’t be able to see their own hoof in front of their eyes. The music has stopped. A power outage. Ponies begin to complain. It dies down though as the lights come back on. But this time they are dimmer, and the strobe lights aren’t flashing, and the multicolor floor isn’t changing every few moments. It’s the emergency electricity generator, I realize. They still complain, though, and don’t part for me this time, too focused on the brief power outage rather than letting me through. I weave my way through the crowd, a task easier said than done. Once back on stage, I shout, “Everypony!” The noise dies down and they look up at me with upset looks on their face. I scrunch my nose before continuing. “I’m sorry for what happened, but—” “What did happen?” a voice from the crowd asks. “I don’t know, but don’t worry. I’ll get the power up and running as soon as I can. Just be patient, all right?” They mumble as if to disapprove, but they don’t say any complaints. I nod once, and walk off stage. The crowd parts this time, although a bit reluctantly. I pass through as they eye me. They are depending on me now; I cannot let them down. I reach the door to the basement as the chatter of the ponies behind me rises. I lift the key that is hooked on a string looped around my neck. I insert it in the keyhole, and twist. After hearing a click, I smile, and let the key fall as I pull the door open and enter. It’s dark; I don’t think the emergency generator works for the basement lights. Using my horn, I create an orb of light, and it sends some of the darkness away. It’s quiet, since I can’t hear the ponies out there talking. It’s quiet enough that I can hear the scurry of spider legs as one runs back to its crevice to hide. The stairs creak under my weight. No surprise—this club is about as old as I am, which I suppose isn’t that old. Still, they creak, and it’s enough to send shivers down my spine. I’ve never been a fan of basements. I reach the bottom and trot over to the electricity generator—the actual one. I flip the door open and see that some of the switches have been flipped. Someone did this, though I don’t take the time to think about who did. I want to fix the problem and get back upstairs as soon as possible. I flip the switches back, and hear the generator start again. With a grin of satisfaction, I shut the door. I turn to head back upstairs. “Vinyl.” But a voice stops me. I turn back and look at the darkness, where the voice seemingly came from. An unfamiliar grey pony steps out. No—I recognize her now that I can see her better: Octavia Melody, a cello player. I heard she once played at the Grand Galloping Gala. An unsettling silence follows. After I realize she will not speak, I say, “You… were you the one who turned off the generator?” She doesn’t say anything. Her silence is proof enough. I frown. “You know you aren’t supposed to be down here.” Again, nothing. I choose to say nothing now. If she will give me silence, I will return it. Finally, Octavia says, “You’re an interesting pony.” I raise an eyebrow. “Uh, thanks?” I don’t know what to say. I’ve been complimented before, if what she’s saying is supposed to be a compliment. But with her, it’s… different. She’s a bit…nerve-racking; I suppose is the best way to put it. I feel her eyes boring a hole into my head, though I have a feeling that’s not what she intends. Or maybe it is. I don’t understand other ponies very well, especially ones I haven’t talked to at all/very much. “How’d you get down here?” I ask. “I have my ways,” she says. “That’s not an answer.” “It is the answer I have chosen to give.” She’s odd. Her expression hasn’t changed—nor has her monotone voice—this entire time. I raise an eyebrow, and then I sigh. “You’re weird, you know that?” She doesn’t say anything, as if she already knows. “Well, please leave. Only workers are allowed down here.” She says nothing. Instead, she turns and trots towards the stairs. As she passes me, she says, “We’ll meet again, Vinyl Scratch. I look forward to our next meeting.” I stand there for a few moments, and then I turn to see her halfway up the steps. I wait until she is gone for my turn. I walk slowly, as if I’m afraid of what awaits me upon my return upstairs. Perhaps that’s it, perhaps it’s not. Either way, I’m thinking. Octavia had to have a reason for coming down here. She’s definitely not the type who’d turn of all the power off a club just for a silly prank. With the way she talked to me and looked at me, it was as if she was trying to draw me down here. But why? I stop, sigh, and shake my head. I will know soon enough. Halfway up the stairs, the music begins to play again. It’s loud; it causes the steps to vibrate. At this time I realize my glasses are still on top of my head. I slide them back over my eyes before walking back through the doorway. I make my way back to the stage. For now, I wish to just play the music, and forget about that whole Octavia thing for a while. Fortunately, it seems my mind will be off her for a while. Ponies ask for the same thing they were before, and now I am grateful for it. It helps. Now I don’t think of Octavia; rather, the ponies who ask for a photo and an autograph. I almost thank them, but I stop myself. I know how weird it would sound—a celebrity thanking a fan after signing something. For now, I am a celebrity.