//------------------------------// // Two // Story: Hold Still, You've Got Stars in Your Eyes // by ColtClassic //------------------------------// The threadbare blanket Trixie had provided for Coco and the hard wooden floor of the wagon had not made for a good night's sleep, and there wasn't much room to stretch out in between the piles of crates and suitcases that rose to the wagon's ceiling. Coco had peeked inside a few before going to bed the night before; they were stuffed full of old costumes and stage props. If the threadbare, moth-eaten dresses she had looked out were indicative of what she had to work with, it didn't bode well for her task as costume designer. Just another worry to add onto her growing list. She rose groggily, blinking against the grey dawn light that shone in through the cart's tiny window, and stumbled outside with a heavy yawn. Trixie, it seemed, had laid down right on the ground next to the fire, her cloak pulled around her like a blanket. The scattered pages of her script were still spread around her, and it looked like more than one crumpled page had been tossed into the fire, which was no more than embers at this point. Coco frowned down at the sleeping unicorn, then turned to consider the Manehattan skyscrapers in the distance. Her mind went to the bag of bits Trixie had given, now safely stowed in her own suitcase. She wondered how easy it would be to just run off the bits, and leave Trixie here sleeping in the ruins of her own play. The unicorn might just accept the loss and keep going; she had certainly displayed a cavalier attitude toward her own stash of bits. And even if she tracked Coco down, or went to the police, it would be Trixie's word against Coco's. It's not like she had made her sign anything. Her stomach turned over at the thought. Coco wasn't sure if it was integrity or mere cowardice, but she knew she wasn't the type to run off with another pony's money like that. Her lot was thrown in with Trixie's now, for better or for worse. She only hoped that the prospect of the Gala would be enough to keep her going, and that it would be worth it in the end. She tried and failed to get the fire going again. In short order, Trixie woke up and groggily told Coco to leave it—they would eat on the road. It wasn't long before Coco found herself back in the harness, and the two of them set off down the road once more, the sun peeking over the city in the distance behind them. “We should try to make Trottingham by tonight,” said Trixie around a loud yawn. “From there we'll head to the Hollows, stop in Filly Delphia, breeze through Baltimare, head to Dodge Junction, and finally catch the train to Canterlot!” As Trixie said all this, a parchment floated out of the wagon with a glimmer of Trixie's magic and drifted before Coco's face. It was a map of Equestria, with a bright red line drawing in winding, snaking path from Manehattan to Canterlot, passing through all the places Trixie had named. “What about here,” said Coco, tapping the map with a hoof, “where you have us going straight over the Foal Mountains?” “Mmhmm?” said Trixie. “Is there a road there?” asked Coco. “I know a few shortcuts,” said Trixie with a wave of her hoof, and the unicorn trotted a bit ahead of Coco, humming merrily to herself. Coco caught the map in her mouth before it fell to the road. She stared down at the long red line. The road to the gala was seeming longer by the minute. As they approached Trottingham, the traffic on the highway became thicker and thicker. The lakeside town, two days by hoof from Manehattan and mere hours by train, was one of the premier vacation spots for the city's wealthy and famous. As the sun began to lower in the sky and dirt highway gave way to cobblestone, the two traveller's pace slowed to a crawl. They were forced to maneuver the cart through the crowd of tourists and street peddlers. Coco struggled not to jostle anypony, while Trixie sat atop the cart and helpfully called out directions down to her. Trottingham was the sort of place Coco always envisioned herself being, once she had made it as a fashion designer. The whole place reeked of money. Luxurious resorts, sprawling private villas, and elegant restaurants lined every street. The utilitarian grid of Manehattan's layout was absent; here, broad boulevards wove their way around gardens and over hillsides. It seemed that everypony here was finely dressed, cheery, and relaxed. The only place she could imagine that might be more glamorous was Canterlot itself. The part she hadn't imagined was entering the city sweaty, exhausted, and pulling a rattling cart behind her. Trixie's shouting and the colorful wagon drew more than a few stares, and Coco was beginning to feel extremely self-conscious. She hadn't showered since the morning of the day before. She hadn't looked in a mirror all day, but she was sure her mane was a mess. What's more, she was tired to her bones. The day's pulling hadn't been any easier than before, and this time she had been going on the scant sleep she had gotten on the hard wooden floor of the cart. In short, she felt awful, and she was sure she looked it. She did her best to avoid eye contact with the ponies around them. “That one! There!” Coco started, then looked up at Trixie. The unicorn was holding a hoof out, pointing at one of the several hotels on the street they were currently traveling. Coco had no idea what drew her to that particular establishment, but she was also far too tired to care. She craned her neck up to take in the place as she pulled the cart up front. The sign over the door proclaimed it “The Honeysuckle Inn.” Two stories tall and built from dark wood, it had a welcoming enough appearance, though it seemed a bit cozier than some of the larger hotels around it. “Stay right here,” said Trixie, hopping down from the cart. “I'm going to have a chat with the owners.” While Trixie disappeared into the inn, Coco unhitched herself from the cart with a sigh. She leaned against the one of the carts wheels and sat down. The Honesuckle Inn was on a hillside, and she could just see the glint of the light from the setting sun reflecting off of Trottingham Lake in the distance. Her aching muscles and the scent of flowers and greenery were bringing up memories from the back of her mind of the days and nights she had spent working her parents' farm. When she closed her eyes, she could see it clearly before her—the fields of wheat and barley and hay, the old barn in a constant state of disrepair, the worn farming tools that littered the yard, and most of all her father. The silence hung between the two ponies for what seemed like an eternity. Roughshod Fields was a mountain of a stallion, his yellow coat and orange mane perpetually dirty from farmwork. He had been bringing in the last of the days harvest when Coco had confronted him and told her of her plans with all of the courage she could muster. And now he simply stared down at his daughter, still hitched to his wagon, his expression grave and unreadable. Coco did her best to meet his gaze, to not back down, even though she could swear that her legs were shaking. At last, Roughshod let out a slow breath, and moved forward to embrace Coco. She squeaked in surprise as her father's powerful forelegs pulled her close. “I've been expectin' this,” he said, “but that don't make it any easier.” “You—you can't make me stay,” said Coco, still confused, still prepared for a fight. “I've made my decision.” “I know, lass. I know.” Coco pulled back. There were tears in Roughshod's eyes, but he was smiling. “The city's the place for you, Coco. I figger'd that out a long time ago, and to be honest, I'm surprised it took you so long to see it yourself. You've got a gift, with those dresses you make, and you'll never shine like you should if you're cooped up here.” She had been ready to argue, to insist, to yell like she had a dozen times before. Her father and her hadn't seen eye to eye on several occasions, and Roughshod was as stubborn as an Earth Pony farmer could be. But faced with unexpected success, Coco's plans seem infinitely more daunting than they had before. She drew her father back into the hug. “Thank you, daddy,” she breathed. “I'll write, all the time, and—and I won't forget you, I'll come back and visit all the time, and, and—” “Shh. I know. You'll make us all proud, my darling.” Coco doubted her father would be proud of her now, though. In her letters home, she had recently been skirting the truth more and more. Business was great, she wrote. She was making connections, designing beautiful dressed. No, no need to send any money. I know the farm's seen better years. Yes, I'll try and make it home for Hearth's Warming. She though about her father. Roughshod was not a pony who let other ponies boss him around. If Roughshod saw his daughter now, being ordered around by a mare as pompous and ridiculous as Trixie, he would be fit to be tied. Coco could hear his deep voice in her ears: Is this why you left us all behind? To be a gopher to some silly unicorn who's going to lead you on a wild goose chase? “We're in!” Coco was shaken out of her reverie by Trixie's reappearance by her side. Her troubled thoughts were dispelled by the images of a clean hotel bed and a hot shower. “You got us rooms?” she asked Trixie. “Of course not,” said Trixie, brushing past her and sticking her head in the wagon. “We're on a tight budget, we can't afford frivolities like that. We're performing!” “Performing? Performing what?” “The show, what else?” Trixie had re-emerged with the dog-eared script floating behind her head. “The hotel bar has an open mic night, and I signed up the play for tonight.” “But their isn't a play!” said Coco. “I'll have to do all the parts, of course, and the script's still a little rough around the edges, but it's good enough for open mic night, and maybe we'll attract some ponies interested in joining up with the company.” Trixie began to pull the wagon around the back of the inn, while Coco trailed behind, still bewildered. “But we don't have props, or, or costumes, and we haven't rehearsed, or—” “Coco, Coco, Coco,” said Trixie, setting a foreleg on Coco's haunch. “You're new to the theater business, so let me explain something to you. None of that stuff matters! Theater isn't about how good your props are, or how big the venue is. If your heart is in it, and your talent is great enough, the audience's imagination will do all of the work! And believe me, my talent is more than great enough to overcome any deficiencies in this production.” There was a small yard behind the Inn, where several other carts, chariots and carriages were parked. Trixie gave the bored-looking attendant a few bits and pulled the wagon in, and then with a twirl of her cape, strode confidently back into the Honeysuckle Inn. Her unease growing with every minute, Coco followed close behind. Coco's tea had gone cold a long time ago. She had thrown a few sugar cubes in it and was stirring it more or less continuously, her spoon making little clinks against the cup, but her stomach was too upset for her to drink it. She had been lucky enough to find a table at the very back of the Inn, where she could lurk in the shadows and not have to make eye contact with the rest of the audience. Open mic night at The Honeysuckle, as it turned out, did not attract the most talented ponies in Equestria. The poor quality of the acts preceding Trixie's initially brought Coco some relief- after the string of awkward stand-ups, off-key guitarists, and one juggler who dropped his balls on no less than three occasions, Trixie's “play” might not look half-bad. At least, that was what Coco had been hoping. To Trixie's credit, she was at least throwing herself into the role—or rather the roles, as she was playing multiple parts. She jumped around the stage, made ridiculous faces and even more ridiculous voices, and in general gave one of the hammiest performances Coco had ever seen, all without the aid of props, costumes, or indeed a set. At first the audience had mostly laughed, with a smattering of “boo”'s and “get of the stage!”'s, but they pretty quickly settled into indifference, turning back to their drinks and their conversations. Trixie plowed on, but before the end of the first act it was difficult to hear her over the noise of the crowd. Finally, the bartender stepped up onto the stage, interrupting Trixie in the middle of a fight with an imaginary dragon. “Miss,” he said wearily. “Your thirty minutes are up.” Trixie glowered at him. “I'm not finished yet!” “Everyone gets thirty minutes, those are the rules. Come on, the next perfomer's waiting.” Trixie stomped a hoof, standing her ground. “My play is not finished! If you think—” “Lady, your play sucks!” a mare called out, and all at once the audience erupted with laughter, hoots and jeers. Trixie glared out and them, mouth working silently, while a few ponies began throwing food at the stage, and Coco slumped lower and lower in her chair. Finally, Trixie stormed off the stage, slamming the back door of the Inn behind her without another word. As the noise settled down, Coco slipped out of her seat and made her way out the door that Trixie had left through. Night had fallen, and the back yard of the Inn was only lit by a few dim electric lights on the back wall of the building. The noise of the Inn disappeared behind her, and as she walked into the shadowy collection of parked vehicles, she just caught sight of Trixie's cape as the unicorn climbed into their wagon. No, Coco reminded herself. It wasn't their wagon. It was her wagon. She wasn't a part of Trixie's insane scheme. Or, she was, but not really. She was there for the money, and for the chance to get into the gala. She didn't have a vested interest in the stupid play. She didn't care if Trixie got laughed out of Canterlot. Still, it wouldn't hurt to go check on her. Coco made her way to the wagon and climbed carefully in. The interior was lit by the soft blue light of Trixie's horn. The unicorn had her back to the entrance, and was sitting on the floor of the wagon. The script was laid out on the floor around her, and she was once more furiously scribbling at it. “Um,” said Coco. “I'm fine,” said Trixie, without turning around. “Are you alright?” asked Coco. “I just said that I'm fine!” said Trixie, turning and glaring at Coco, who shrank back a little. “Um, right,” said Coco. “Sorry.” Trixie snorted, then turned back to the script. She continued writing, and the minutes stretched on, as Coco stood trying to find something to say. “That, uh,” she finally managed. “that didn't go very well, did it?” “What an insightful observation.” “I was just wondering, if, um. If you needed any help.” Trixie turned her head again, a single eyebrow raised in an expression of disdain. “I'm quite fine. I just need to write a better script.” “Heh. You can say that again.” Coco felt the urge to stick her hoof in her mouth as Trixie's expression darkened. The unicorn didn't say anything, though, and turned her back to Coco once more. Still, she gamely tried to press on. “Um, and maybe it would help if we had more actors?” “I tried to get more actors,” said Trixie, through what sounded distinctly liked clenched teeth. “I held auditions back in Manehattan. Rented out a theater for a weekend I thought they went well, even. Then nopony showed up for the callbacks, and I was running out of time, so I went on the road. And here we are!” “Hmm,” said Coco. She picked up one of the script's pages. “Would you like my advice on the script, then?” “Ha!” said Trixie, finally turning all the way around to face Coco. “Have you ever written a play?” Coco's ears flattened, but she managed to meet Trixie's eyes with what she hoped was a measure of defiance. “Well, have you?” Trixie rose to her hooves and took a single step toward Coco, her nostrils flaring in anger. “You—” A long moment of silence hung in the air as the two mares stared each other down. Trixie's brow was furrowed with barely restrained anger. Coco could feel herself beginning to sweat and her legs beginning to shake, but she kept her ground. The only sound was the slight creaking of the wooden floorboards beneath their hooves. Finally, Trixie sat back down with a heavy flood. The unicorn almost seemed to deflate. Her head hung down, and one of the script's pages levitated from the floor to float before Trixie's face. After staring at it for a second, she crumpled it with a growl, then burned the paper up with a burst of magical flame for good measure. “This is should be easy,” said Trixie. “It should be just like a magic trick. You do something impressive, you make it as theatrical as you can, everypony claps and cheers.” Coco let go of a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. She joined Trixie amidst the mess of papers and picked on up. “I think, um, you have to be a bit more subtle in a play,” Coco began cautiously. “I mean, in my opinion. For example, don't you think that it's a bit, um, egotistical to write a play that's all about yourself?” Trixie scoffed. “No, really. Especially when there's so many spectacular events in the story.” “I've led a spectacular life!” “But this is downright implausible!” said Coco, sifting through the papers. “Battles with dragons! Single-hoofedly defeating armies of changelings! Magical duels with princesses! There's some pretty wild stuff out there, I admit, but all of this happening to one pony is a lot of suspension of disbelief to ask your audience. Especially when the pony is so unlikeable!” Anger flashed across Trixie's face once more. “I mean the character,” Coco said quickly. “Um, and of course you're likeable! But, um, 'Trixie', as you've written her, is, well. She's too perfect. Trixie frowned. “How can a character be 'too perfect'?” “She's boring! She waltzes around the world, instantly adored by everypony she meets. She solves every problem she comes across with a wave of her hoof.” “She's a strong character,” said Trixie, grabbing one of the sheets from beneath Coco's hooves. “Ponies like strong characters.” “Ponies like characters they can relate to,” responded Coco. “Trixie—Trixie the character—never has any conflict. Nothing bad ever happens to her, and if it does, it's solved instantly.” Trixie was staring intently at the sheet in front of her. Her eyes moved back and forth over the lines, as if she was trying to unravel some obscure riddle. Coco felt some of the steam leave her. “Um,” said Coco. “I mean, that's just, you know, my opinion.” “No,” breathed Trixie. “No, you're right. You're absolutely right. My play needs more... conflict.” “Um—” Coco began, but a sound from outside the wagon, like a heavy switch being thrown, distracted. She poked her head out of the cart's back window. The lot was even darker than when she had come out; the back lights off the Inn had been switched off. The majority of the windows were now dark as well. Coco pulled her head back in. “I think they forgot we were out here,” she whispered, suddenly conscious of the fact that they maybe weren't supposed to be where they were. “That's okay,” said Trixie, already bent over her script and writing again. “We'll just sleep out here.” “What if they catch us?” asked Coco. “Then they'll throw us out, I expect, in case we're no worse off than if we had left.” She looked up at Coco, who was peeking out of the window nervously. “Oh, relax. Here, just go to sleep.” Trixie levitated the blanket over to Coco, who lay down and wrapped herself up with some hesistation. She fished an old dress out of one of the suitcases for a pillow. As she settled down, the exhaustion of the day coming over her, she watched Trixie working madly on her play once more. The unicorn glanced up at her briefly. “Thank you for your help.” Coco nodded in response, then settled herself in her blankets as best she could, the exhaustion from the long day finally overtaking her.