//------------------------------// // One // Story: Hold Still, You've Got Stars in Your Eyes // by ColtClassic //------------------------------// The mare was the first customer of the day, Coco Pommel reminded herself. And it was already past noon. Coco sat behind her small wooden desk, trying not to fidget as the other pony inspected her dresses. Coco's boutique was tiny, and she couldn't afford much fabric, so there wasn't a whole lot for the blue-coated unicorn to look at, but the she seemed intent on studying every dress down to the last seam. A small part of rebelled against the idea that her dresses were being judged by a pony who was wearing what, in Coco's opinion, was the most garish and tacky combo of a pointed purple hat and cape. But she was also the first customer of the day, and yesterday there hadn't been a single customer, and there was a stack of unpaid bills in the top drawer of Coco's desk, so Coco struggled to not say anything as the unicorn pushed through one of the two racks of dresses in the shop for the fourth time. But the silence was stretching long and awkward, so she at last cleared her throat. “Are you sure I can't help you with something?” Coco asked. “You can help me,” said the unicorn, not turning her head, “in a minute.” Coco suppressed a sigh, and the awkward silence awkwardly resumed. She was no stranger to the general rudeness of ponies in the fashion industry, but it still made her feel intimidated and uncomfortable. She was also not entirely sure if the caped unicorn was, in fact, a member of the fashion industry. The aloof attitude was certainly there, but even though she was spending an awfully long time inspecting Coco's dresses, Coco was beginning to get the sense that it wasn't with any amount of discernment. Abruptly, the unicorn turned to Coco. Her expression was strangely intense, and Coco reflexively leaned back a little in her seat. “I saw your name, Ms Pommel,” the unicorn said, “listed in the program of Hoofloose. It said you were the costume designer.” “Um. Yes. But I'm don't just do costumes. In fact, most of my designs are for everyday—” “I'm not interested in that,” interrupted the other pony. “I'm interested in costumes. I'd like to hire you to make the costumes for my new show. My name is Trixie Lulamoon.” “Oh,” said Coco. Her heart sank a little. The Hoofloose job that Rarity had recommended her for had been her first job as an independent designer. In fact, it had been her only real success so far. The boutique was in the tank, and all of her letters to the Manehattan fashion magazines had gone unanswered. But she didn't want to get pigeonholed as a costume designer, and she thought about just flat-out declining this “Trixie,” who didn't look all that reputable anyway. She glanced at the drawer where the bills waited, though, and a little voice in the back of her head repeated that Trixie was, after all, the first costumer today, and yesterday there had been none, and the day before that... “Um, what is the show, exactly?” asked Coco. “It is a theatrical piece of my own authorship,” said Trixie, raising her muzzle in the air and lifting a hoof, “to be performed as the centerpiece of this year's Grand Galloping Gala.” “The Gala?” Coco perked up at that. Some of the most important ponies in the fashion industry went to the Gala. If she was there, even as a costume designer, she could do some major networking. She licked her lips. “I don't know, I'll have to think about it.” “Here's what I'm willing to pay you,” said Trixie, and with a glimmer of magic she pulled a slip of paper from inside beneath her hat and passed it to Coco. Coco's eyes widened when she read the figure. “I—wow. That's, um, very generous, Ms. Lulamoon. I think that, um, that is—” Coco looked past Trixie, to her tiny shop and her unsold dresses, to the dust on the windows and the notebooks filled with unrealized designs. A peculiar tightness gripped her chest. “I'm going to be honest with you, Ms. Lulamoon,” said Coco, casting her gaze downward. “I don't think I'm the pony you want for the job. This sounds like an awfully important play, and I haven't had much success as a designer.” “Oh, you don't have to worry about that,” said Trixie, waving a hoof. “You won't have to make a single decision, just make the costumes how I tell you to. I've looked at your dresses and you're an excellent. What's the word. Seamstress.” “Oh. Uh.” “I have complete confidence in you,” said Trixie, already turning to leave. “Meet me at Celestia Square tomorrow morning, let's say 8 o'clock. And pack lightly.” “I—what? Pack? Where am I going?” “To Canterlot, of course!” Coco had a hundred more questions, but Trixie was already gone, the jangle of the little bell above her shop door the only evidence that the unicorn had even been there. Coco blinked, unsure of what exactly had just happened and what she may have just agreed to. But her eyes fell again on the slip of paper still resting on the counter, and on the absurdly high number that was written on it. For the first customer of the day, it wasn't that bad. The early morning sun cast long shadows across Celestia Square. Manehattan was always busy, and Coco was used to threading her way through the crowd of commuters and tourists, despite her heavy saddlebags. It didn't take long to find Trixie—the purple hat and cape stood out among the tailored suits and designer dresses. Coco had considered simply not showing up. The entire prospect seemed dubious, and she didn't know who or what this Trixie character was about. She also didn't like the prospect of picking up shop and moving to Canterlot—granted, business couldn't be any worse there than in her current tiny shop, but she liked a certain amount of familiarity in her life. She had decided, though, that she at least owed it to Trixie to tell her that she had changed her mind. And she had made sure that her store and her apartment were securely locked, just in case. Trixie waved at her. “Let's get going, Miss Coco,” she called. “We've got a long day ahead of us!” “Actually,” said Coco, as she trotted up to meet Trixie, “I wanted to talk to you about the whole, um, Canterlot thing. If I'm going to take this job—” “You're not having second thoughts, are you?” Trixie frowned at her. “Well,” said Coco, scratching her a hoof against the pavement, “I mean, I looked it up, and the Gala isn't going to be for another three months, is it? Being away from my shop for so long is an awful inconvenience, and—” “Which is why I'm paying you so much.” “Right, right. But is it necessary for me to be there so early? I mean, wouldn't it be easier for me to make the costumes here, and then mail them to Canterlot? Or I could even bring them out myself, closer to the Gala.” “Impossible.” Trixie shook her head. “I'll need you on hoof at all time. This is a constantly evolving show, Ms. Pommel, and you need to be ready to make any alterations as they are needed. Besides, there wouldn't be any way for me to communicate with you on the road.” “On the—” Coco blinked in confusion. “On the road?” “As you said, the Gala is in three months. I don't expect that we'll arrive more than a day or two ahead of time. My plan is to take my wagon on the road from here to Canterlot and perform in towns along the way, tweaking the show as necessary, and hiring the rest of the production crew. I was hoping to have found more ponies before we left Manehattan, but time is running short.” “You're—I—what? Wagon?” Trixie gestured to a garishly colored wagon parked on the street behind, which Coco had assumed was some street vendor's cart. Now that her attention was drawn to it, she saw that it had the words “TRIXIE THE MAGNIFICENT” written on the side in bold, glittering letters. “Don't worry,” said Trixie. “You won't have to do much of the pulling.” “That's crazy,” Coco said, backing away from Trixie. “You're crazy, aren't you?” “Now see here!” said Trixie, stomping a hoof in anger. A few pedestrians turned to look at the arguing mares. “Do you want the job or not, Ms. Pommel? I'm a very busy pony with a long road ahead of her, and if you're not interested, then stop wasting my time!” “But—isn't there, I don't know, a more conventional way for you to put on your show?” “Conventional!” Trixie snorted. “I don't give a hayseed about 'convention'! I am Trixie the Magnificent! I make my own conventions!” With a flourish of her cape, Trixie jumped up and perched on a fire hydrant. She loomed over Coco. “Theater is a living art, and my play yearns to be freed from its confining walls! I mean to speak to the very soul of Equestria—how can I do that if I keep myself shut away from the ponies of this kingdom, scribbling away in some dark office?” A small crowd had gathered around them. Coco was scanning around her nervously, looking for an escape route. “What kind of pony are you, Ms. Pommel? Are you not the kind of pony who loves art, who loves adventure, who wants to grab life by it withers and live it to the fullest?” Coco didn't think she was that kind of pony at all. Coco thought that she was the kind of pony who ran away from Trixie and her crazy cart and her crazy play, and closed the blinds and hid under her covers. Coco thought that she was the kind of pony who gave up on her silly plan to become a fashion designer, what was she thinking anyway. Coco thought that she was the kind of pony who went and became an insurance salespony, or an accountant, or some other boring, safe profession where you didn't have to deal with mad blue unicorns in purple capes who wanted to drag you halfway across Equestria so you could make dresses for a play that probably didn't even exist. “I—” She shuffled her hooves. “I—” Trixie squinted her eyes. “I—” The crowd leaned forward, holding its collective breath. “I—I mean, I don't—that is to say—” But ad she stammered and stuttered and hesitated, a tiny voice spoke in the back of her head. It was a voice she had heard before, just twice. It sounded like her own voice, only it never stammered or stuttered or hesitated. It was insistent, and confident, and brash. It had spoken to her twice before, once when she had left her quiet village to become a fashion designer in Manehattan, once when she had quit working for Suri and struck out on her own. Now, as before, it said just two words. Do it. Coco sighed. “Well, okay. I'll do it.” The crowd erupted into cheers, and then dispersed immediately. Trixie smirked, doffed her hat, and then turned back to her cart. “Hurry along then,” said the unicorn, “we've got a long road ahead of us.” The sweat wasn't so much dripping down Coco's forehead as it was streaming. The day was not unbearably warm, but the strain of pulling the cart made it feel like she was on fire. She didn't consider herself some dainty city slicker—fashion designer or no, she came from hefty Earth Pony stock, had grown up on a farm, and was no stranger to physical labor. But Trixie's wagon was heavily laden. It seemed that the unicorn's admonishment to pack light had been a necessity due to the fact that there simply wasn't room for anything else in the cart. Coco's came labored as she dragged the vehicle behind her, and the harness chafed against her chest. “I—*huff*—thought you said—*huff*—that you would—*huff*—be doing most—*huff*—of the pulling.” “Don't worry,” Trixie's voice called out from the depths of the wagon. “I will be. Inspiration struck, is all, and I just had to get this down before I lost it. Don't worry, you're doing fine.” Coco had her doubts. The paved streets of Manehattan had given way to a country highway of packed dirt, but the city skyscrapers still loomed close behind them. It was midday, and they had hardly made any progress at all. “What exactly is your play about?” Coco shouted back at the wagon, desperate for something to take her mind off her task. “Oh, it's got a little of everything. Adventure. Romance. Intrigue. It's autobiographical, of course.” “Is it,” said Coco. “So you've, um, done all that stuff, then.” “What stuff?” “The stuff you said. You know. Adventure and, all that.” “Of course!” Trixie poked her head out of the wagon. “I've traveled all over Equestria, and beyond. Why, I bet that I've seen and done more than any pony alive! Except perhaps the Princesses. But maybe even them, frankly. I get the impression they don't leave Canterlot a lot.” “Really?” said Coco. “Um, so what kind of stuff have you done?” “It's all in the play,” said Trixie, disappearing into the wagon again. “Don't worry, you'll see soon enough.” Coco didn't know what to make of that. She searched for another topic of conversation. “Um. So, the Gala. Do they know that you don't, um, have a play yet?” “I have a play!” Trixie shouted. “Okay, but that it's not, you know. Finished. And that you don't have actors. Or a set. Or anything.” “I have you! And theater is a living art, Ms. Pommel. A play can change up to and through opening night. Really, all it means that the play is wide open to potential. Anything could happen! Doesn't that thought thrill you?” Coco was more concerned than anything else. She felt out of control, swept up in Trixie's madness. There's still time to turn back, she told herself. Just drop the harness, tell Trixie to find another costume designer, cuddle up with a cup of cider and the latest Manehattan Vogue, and forget this ever happened. But the thought of the gala beckoned. Did it matter if Trixie's play was a flop? They would be at the gala, and the kind of ponies who went to the gala would see her dresses, and love them, and she would be in with the fashion elite at last. That was the thought that she had to hold on to. She would drag Trixie's stupid cart across Equestria and back for that chance. By the end of the day, Coco's legs felt like overcooked noodles. Trixie never did make good on her offer to pull the cart; she spent the entire day inside it, or trotting alongside Coco reading passages from the script for her approval, which Coco responded to mostly with noncommittal grunts. She didn't know what to expect in terms of sleeping accommodations, but she could hardly manage surprise when Trixie told them they would be camping. When sunset arrived, she followed Trixie onto the side of a grassy hill by the roadside, unhitched herself from the harness, and collapsed in a heap on the ground. “That was a good first day!” chirped Trixie. “We've made some quite good progress, I think!” Coco wearily lifted her head from the dirt. The Manehattan skyline was still clearly visible on the horizon, the city lights shining through the growing dusk. “Uh-huh,” muttered Coco, then let her head fall back to the ground and closed her eyes. By the time Coco found the strength to drag herself to her hooves, Trixie was already bustling around and preparing their campsite. She had set up a campfire and was cooking soup in a banged-up metal pot with what seemed like practiced ease. Coco cautiously approached; the soup smelled surprisingly good. “I've set up a blanket in some blankets and pillows in the wagon for you,” said Trixie, magically stirring a spoon in the pot. “I'll be out here. Don't worry, I'm more than used to it.” “Mmhmm,” said Coco. “Listen, Trixie, there's something I need to ask you. You, um, said you would be paying me in advance, and if you don't mind—” “Oh, of course!” said Trixie, promptly trotting over to the cart and jumping inside. There was a good deal of banging and scraping before she reappear, levitating a large trunk before her. “Let's see here...” she muttered as she set it on the ground and opened it. Coco's eyes widened and her jaw dropped open. The trunk was almost overflowing with golden bits. She watched wordlessly as Trixie began counting out 100-bit coins, dropping them one by one into a cloth sack with her magic. Finally, she tied it off, passed it to Coco, and closed the trunk. “There you are,” said Trixie. “That settles it, yes?” Coco let the bag drop to her hooves. She looked from the trunk of bits, to Trixie's rickety wagon with its faded paint, to the unicorn mare herself, who simply looked back expectantly. “Who, exactly, are you?” asked Coco. “Where in the name of Equestria did you get all of those bits?” Trixie raised her snout just a bit. “If you must know, it was a bit of windfall for me. I aided the Manehattan police department in a very important operation, and—well, there were some complications, some misunderstandings, but suffice to say I received a very nice reward from the mayor's office.” She knocked the trunk with a hoof. “And I decided that this was fate. I was going to use these bits to make a name for Trixie Lulamoon beyond cheap stage magic and—well, other things. It's all going to towards the show, every last bit.” With that, Trixie levitated the trunk back into the wagon. Coco poked the bag with a hoof, still not quite sure what to believe. She stayed silent through most of dinner. Trixie continued her work on the script—her current concern seemed to be a lengthy monologue halfway through the first act, when the main character (Trixie) leaves the home of her “boring” and “conventional” parents for a life of adventure. Trixie (the writer, not the character) kept asking for Coco's opinions on lines like “the irresistible and magnetic wanderlust that springs forth from the depths of my being” and “the desperate need to forsake the stifling confines of my upbringing”. For her part, Coco sipped at her soup and nodded at whatever Trixie said. It wasn't until the end of the meal that she spoke up. “Did you really say all that to your parents?” she asked. “It captures the gist of it,” said Trixie with a wave of her hoof. “I certainly told them off, I can tell you that. They wanted me to go to Celestia's school for Gifted Unicorns, but I told them I wasn't having it! The life of the road, that's what I chose!” “Hmm,” said Coco. “Well, I think that all might be, um, a bit much for the actor to memorize, honestly.” “Oh, I'm sure I'll have no trouble,” said Trixie. “You'll—” Coco blinked, then squinted her eyes at the unicorn. “You're planning on playing, um, yourself?” “Who else is better for the job?” Coco looked at the sheets of paper that were now littering the ground beneath Trixie's hooves. From what Coco could tell, Trixie's play was little more than two hours of Trixie performing outlandish and implausible feats, from dragonslaying to swashbuckling to seducing nobleponies, pausing only to receive admiration from minor characters and to tell the audience outright how great she was. It didn't seem to Coco like it was the greatest play in Equestrian history. In fact, she thought that it might be the worst play she had ever seen. “Thanks for the soup,” murmured Coco. “I think I'm going to bed now.” “That's probably a good idea,” said Trixie, not looking up from her script. “We've got another long day ahead of us.” Coco's joints cracked as she stood up and dragged herself to the wagon; behind her, Trixie continued to scribble and scratch at her script in the flickering firelight.