Two Beats
When I first got the job at Stalliongrad’s Plant 37, I remember trying to find music in the sounds. It should’ve been easy. All of the different parts of a track were there: the bass-like hum of the conveyor belt, the rapping of various pistons, and the rhythmic booming of the industrial press. Even the drills sounded like some of the synthesizers I’d used before.
It should’ve been easy.
After a week into the job, I gave up. There was no order to the noise—just random, screaming machines. For someone as musically inclined as myself, that rhythmless room was torture. For everyone else, the greasy tang of molten metal and the oppressive dimness kept things miserable.
Six months, two weeks, four days, four hours, and eleven minutes into the job, I fought to keep my eyes open while the day’s shipment of hydraulic valves passed me by. Some plumbing company wanted ten thousand of them for water heaters or something; I didn’t care. All that concerned me was that I had to make sure all of the mouths were round, smooth, and clear.
I stretched my eyelids open, and with a few blinks, my eyes wandered up to the high, rusted ceilings of the factory floor. I looked for something interesting, a sign of freedom, life, outdoors—anything.
That was as pointless as trying to find order in the factory’s noise. When the factory was built, some bigwig thought it’d be better to have electric lights and no windows. When I saw the blank, uncaring walls, I once again fantasized about finding that bigwig and showing him what I thought of his plan. Once again, I reminded myself that I wouldn’t do well in prison.
In lieu of clouds or birds, I thought about the show I had scheduled that night. It was a new place, or at least, one I hadn’t played at before. Managers had a tendency to freak out about my age when they saw me, even if I was wearing my costume. But if we got the arbitrary crap out of the way and they let me set up and play...
A shrill bell rang out over the industrial cacophony. I instinctively winced. The bell meant someone on the line had made a screwup. Silently, I prayed, Not me, not me, not—
“CROSSFADE! GET YER ASS OVER HERE!"
Fuck.
I looked around to make sure my path was clear, and the pain of a cramp shot up my neck. I walked on stiff legs to the end of the conveyor belt, where my boss stood. He was a bigwig from Manehattan, but he was loud and rough enough to fit right in at Plant 37.
“This is yer third screwup today!” the coal-gray stallion shouted. Getting yelled at sucked, but he was twice my size and pissed off, so I shut up and let him go on. “If you don’t wanna be here, fine, but get the fuck outta my factory!”
“I’m so—”
“And don’t say ‘I’m sorry.’ Do ‘I’m sorry.’ Or else...” He didn’t have to say the next part: too many late-night performances led to too many absences, tardies, and screwups. Union or no, I was already on thin ice—as in, one more write-up and I was gone.
I needed that job. I tried not to show how much my boss’s non-threat scared me—if not for my pride, then for who was standing about five feet away from us.
Steel Mill was about the only thing in that factory that I gave a crap about. Sure, the money kept me showing up every day, and the rules meant I kept getting money, but out of the sixty-ish ponies who worked there, she was the only one who went out of her way to treat me with some sort of dignity. We weren’t friends, and we definitely weren’t dating, but it really sucked to get chewed out when she was in earshot. I resisted the urge to glance at her.
My boss shook his head. “I don’t wanna fire ya, kid. Just get back to yer station, we got a schedule to run on.”
I turned around and kept my eyes focused on my station, trying to ignore the snickers of the other nearby workers. The line started back up, and from behind me, the company brown nose, Right Hoof, shot me a scathing whisper. “Wooks wike widdle Cwossy can’t even stand awound doing nuffing wight.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I said, rising to his taunt. He chuckled and started chanting my words in a high-pitched tone, which only made him more annoying than usual. Still, it felt good to blow off a little steam at him.
Eventually, Right Hoof got bored with himself, and I once again started the fight to stay alert. I hated standing still for ten hours a day watching little bits of metal pass me by. It felt like watching the hours of my life waste away.
I hated how I couldn’t talk about music to anyone: Mills was too far away, and any of my other co-workers would just use my passion as fuel for more mockery. There were only eight of us in the Q.C. department, but other than Mills, they all hated me. It was self-fulfilling, high school bullshit: we didn’t get along because they kept being assholes to me. It didn’t help that I was too young to drink, but I wouldn’t want to go to a bar with those idiots anyway.
I hated being called the name my parents gave me. Depending on who you asked, I either left or got kicked out of their “perfect” little white-picket-fenced world on my fifteenth birthday. I had taken what little equipment and tracks I owned, and I never looked back. Being independent had its advantages, but it also meant I had to worry about stuff like rent and food. No one wanted to hire anyone at my age, which was how I got stuck working in that Celestia-forsaken factory in the first place.
I hated Plant 37. I hated the windowless cell we were all packed in. I hated the smell of oil and molten steel that clung to my mane and tail no matter how much I washed them. I hated how time stood still while I was there.
Most of all, I hated how loud that factory was. The clubs I played in could get pretty heavy, but there was soul in those sounds. At Plant 37, there was only noise.
Mentally ranting didn’t really help the situation, but it let me scoff quietly and grin. None of this will matter when I hit it big. I reminded myself about my show that night. It’d be a well-deserved reward after the factory, and that thought made the rest of my daily interment bearable.
* * *
At the club, the manager tried to hassle me about my age. A patron saved me with a wave. “Do you know who this is? Astrosriff’s the most illest DJ around!” He couldn’t pronounce “Astro$RF” right, but no doubt he recognized the costume. A black latex wetsuit wasn’t common. But it was me. Tonight, it assured me a gig.
The manager shrugged and called over two crew members. The three of us set up my equipment: turntables, speakers, and lasers. By the time we were done, ponies were filtering into the club. Almost show time. I jittered a little, but made sure my tracks were in order.
At ten, the club went dark and the blacklights came on. Everything glowed in a sea of neon. The manager nodded. I smiled. He introduced me, and I spun a record. Ponies made their way onto the floor. The track built up. Energy peaked.
The bass dropped, and my music shook the room alive.
I always chose the first track, but that was it. Once the crowd got going, they chose the music. It was easy to read everyone from my platform in the back. The hard part was matching tracks to moods.
Strobes and lasers flashed glimpses of the booths. They were all empty. Everyone was on my dance floor. I smiled.
After the first track, the crowd was all riled up and wanted more. I gave them a hard, punching beat. After that, I let them mellow with a smooth, trance-ish mix. Watching everyone like that lit me up like a glowstick. In the club, the music lived in everyone. That was what I lived for.
After a bit, a spiky-maned stallion asked me to mix two tracks. When I heard the titles, I thought he was nuts. The more I considered it, the more I knew how they’d mix. Four tracks later, the crowd’s vibe was perfect for his request. I called out the titles, spun the discs, and the magic began.
I started with the quieter track. It was slower than the previous vibe I had going. Some of the clubbers stopped dancing, confused. I grinned and slid the fader over. Both tracks built up together, and when their basses dropped simultaneously, ponies cheered. Euphoria flowed over me. The mixing wasn’t over yet, but I knew I had done it.
The stallion who requested the mix stood up on his hind legs and screamed, “YES!” When his mix ended, he trotted over and mounted the table. “Holy fuck, that was awesome!” he shouted.
I could barely hear him, but I nodded. “Thank you kindly, but watch the stage!” I couldn’t be mad at him, but I didn’t want several thousand bits’ worth of my equipment falling over.
“So sorry, so sorry!” he yelled back sheepishly.
He took a few steps back and I winked at him. “No worries, dude. I’m glad you liked it!”
He nodded back and hollered, “Peace!” Then he went back to his mare and they started dancing again.
Around midnight, I spun a decently-long track so I could get a break. The show was electrifying, but my costume made me overheat. In the back hallway, I drained half my water bottle. The other half, I poured down my costume.
The night was going great. I knew what’d make it better. Water squished against my hooves as I walked back to my bag and pulled out a little tin of tablets. My “sharing” stash. No one was around. I took one, then drank another glass of water. Then I headed back to finish out my show.
The rest of the night flew by in a blur of lights and euphoria. I got more requests. I filled them all. I didn’t have any screwups either. Sure, there was a mix where I hit the fader a bit too hard. And I played one single with the bass up too high. But no one cared.
By the time the show ended, the club was pretty much empty. Even my spiky-maned friend had left with his mare. Par for the course for a Wednesday. I started packing up my equipment. The manager came over. “You’ve got talent, kid, I’ll give you that.”
“Thanks.” I tried to keep the rasp out of my voice. I was parched. The edges of my vision still streaked into colorful blurs, and I remembered why...
“You booked anywhere tomorrow?” he asked. I shook my head. “Then why not leave that shit here? I’ve got some asshole booked tomorrow, but fifty bits, and the spot’s yours.”
“Cool,” was all I said. Inside, I leapt. It sucked for whoever I just bumped, but even after the fee, two nights in a row was more than I made in a week. At the other place. But if this kept up, I’d only need one job. My job.
I shook the manager’s hoof. He handed me a sack of bits. I walked over to the bar. The first order of business was a drink. Then, despite the adrenaline and drugs in my veins, it’d be bedtime.
The mare behind the bar pushed a drink to me. It burned my nostrils. I pushed it back. “Nothin’ personal, girl, but I’m looking for some water.” She shrugged and swallowed the idiot juice in one gulp. Her loss.
“I guess I’ll have to remember that in the future,” came a low whisper on my right. I turned to face its source. I met a pair of vibrant blue eyes. One winked. “I bet you can’t wait to get that suit off.”
So, it’s gonna be one of those nights. I pushed back my plans for sleep and winked back. “It takes some nimble hooves—or lips—to get me out of this getup.”
The bartender scoffed and clinked down a glass. I ignored her. The pony on my side of the bar was more my type. I drank the water and looked at my emerald green companion through the bottom.
“I’ll try my best,” the green pony replied. A pink tongue flashed around green lips. Behind my shades, I raised an eyebrow. There wasn’t any reason to beat around the bush.
I turned around and met the manager’s gaze. “Same time tomorrow,” I called out. He nodded. When I put a forearm around my companion, the manager gave me a weird look. He probably thought I was “too young” or some bullshit. Just like my mom. Fuck him. My night, my business.
The two of us climbed up into the chilly night. The walk home got harder when my evening acquaintance leaned on me, nuzzling my neck through the latex. Luckily, I didn’t live too far away.
In my apartment, we got three steps through the doorway before I was shoved up against my own wall. Our lips met and our tongues danced; this pony didn’t waste any time. First chance I got, I freed a hoof and pulled my hood up over my horn. Right after, I felt my shades being lifted from my eyes.
There was a pause in the action. I filled it with a question. “So, you got a name?”
“Do you, Astrosurf?”
I smirked. The way I spelled my stage name threw off some fans. This one knew me better. Before I could respond, my partner bit the zipper of my costume and peeled it all the way down past my navel. A small team effort later, I was free of the costume. We headed down to my bedroom.
Some asshole had installed my door wrong, so I didn’t have floor space. Tonight, that didn’t matter. I got shoved onto it and my partner followed. We ran our tongues over each other's, panting. I rolled us over and pressed in, sucking and sliding hooves.
I didn’t stay on top for very long. In one fluid motion, we flipped over and the green pony pushed me up against my headboard. I sat up. My partner slid down. Now, instead of kissing my mouth...
Damn.
The pulsing heat made it tricky to think, but as I shuddered, I caught sight of the alarm clock in my closet. 3:46. Next to the clock sat another little tin. My “private” stash. I chuckled, grabbed it, and popped it open. Offering it to my orally-gifted partner, I stammered, “Y-you want o-one?”
No words, just climbing up and licking a tablet out of the tin. I tasted myself in a salty kiss as the tablet popped into my mouth. The second hit of the night dissolved on my tongue. Everything sped up. The world sharpened. Glowed. Melted.
My partner slid back down. Things picked up where they left off. I couldn’t hold back. Shoulders into the headboard. Deep, gasping breaths.
The room shook as I lost my mind in a wave of ecstasy.
* * *
I woke up with a splitting headache, sandpaper tongue, and thighs wrapped around my neck. As far as “mornings after” went, it wasn’t the worst I had ever experienced; still, I wasn’t really a fan of the view. I lifted a leg up and peered at my clock.
8:07.
Fuck.
I scrambled off my bed and into into the bathroom to see what the damage was. My eyes were bloodshot, and the fur on my cheeks was matted down with something... sticky. My reflection grimaced before I rinsed my face off.
Try as I might to put the worry out of my mind, I was late as hell for work. I trotted to the front door, which was wide open. With a quick glance back at my bedroom, I shrugged. Not like there’s anything here worth stealing.
I galloped as hard as I could to Plant 37. I still needed that job; I couldn’t get fired yet. My mind raced for an excuse, but they all fell apart. I ended up praying that I could slip in unnoticed, and that my “lost timecard” story didn’t get me written up.
At 8:16, I walked past Mills. She glared at me and handed me a small box of defective valves. “You owe me.”
My hero. Gratitude rushed out of me: “Sorry, Mills. I was just—”
She put her nose into her shoulder and waved me away with that arm. Any high spirits I had deflated, but I stepped back. Mills shot me an apologetic glance. “Sorry Cross... but you stink.
I shrugged and walked back to my station, levitating a broken valve into the box along the way. Now that I wasn’t worried about being late, I felt grimy: I was still damp with sweat, and my mane itched. Then the adrenaline left, and I remembered where I was for the next... nine hours and thirty-eight minutes. I’d need to use my lunch break to head home and shower, too, so today was going to be boring and hungry.
Fighting to keep my eyes open, I decided to check off the valves in my head: Good. Good. Good. Good. Bad! I grabbed the broken valve and put it into the box. The valve after it was good. So was the next one. And the next one.
My eyelids were stones, but I managed to make it through the first couple of hours without drifting off to sleep. Around ten, the other half of the Q.C. department showed up, including my boss. He went into his office for a few minutes, then came out and walked over to hover behind me. It was a good sign; whatever he needed could be taken care of without stopping the line. “G’morning,” I slurred despite my attempts at keeping the tired misery out of my voice.
“You forgot to clock in when ya got here.” He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t pissed. I’d take what I could get.
For show, I banged my forehead on the metal side of the conveyor belt. I misjudged it, so little lights started swimming in front of my eyes. I stood back up, eyed a defective valve, and floated it into the scrap box. “I left my card at home,” I apologized. The next eight valves looked fine, so I turned to face him.
He looked me up and down. “I’d bust yer ass if you didn’t already look like shit,” he said. Coming from him, it was almost nurturing.
“Everything ok there, boss?” I asked, turning back to the line.
A hoof struck the back of my head, and I almost slammed into the line again. “Don’t push it, kid. Just mind the damn valves,” he grumbled. He took a few steps away, then half-shouted, “And get a shower! You smell like fuck!”
I try to be nice, I thought, rubbing the back of my head. I considered filing a claim with the union rep, but I was three legs out the door already. It wouldn’t be worth it. Besides, everyone got a thumping from time to time; it was practically a friendly gesture from the boss.
Either way, his parting orders were spot-on. If I were a complete smartass, I could’ve taken his advice literally and gone to the janitors’ locker room, but the back of my head still throbbed. I’d better not “push it.”
Not long after my boss left, Right Hoof showed up to start manning the “A” line. Of course he felt the need to comment on my lack of hygiene. “UGH!” he shouted, completely over-the-top. “Do they even have showers in your slum?”
The barb hit deeper than it should’ve, so I ignored him and kept watching for defective valves. Yeah, I lived in a poorer part of Stalliongrad. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford a better apartment; it was that I had priorities. DJ equipment was expensive, both to buy and to keep up-and-running. I didn’t have the luxury of a nicer apartment.
Probably the only luxuries I did own were my mind-openers, but after a long day in the factory, if I didn’t play at a club, I definitely needed a musical high. There was no substitute for being in control of a whole crowd like that, but drugs were an echo of the sensation.
Ten minutes before my lunch break, I made my plan. I had thirty minutes, and it’d take twenty to get home and back. That left ten minutes to shower and, if I were quick, eat. I didn’t feel hungry, but that was the drugs from last night. If I didn’t eat something now, I’d be ravenous during the last few hours of my shift. The factory was efficient enough; it didn’t need help making me miserable.
When the lunch bell rang, I bolted out of the factory at top speed. I only had half an hour, but I could shave off some travel time if I ran home while I was still rank.
At my apartment building, I took the stairs two at a time to my floor. I burst through the door and bolted into my shower. The hot water was out again, so I spent the next few minutes gasping for breath while being stabbed with icy daggers. Eventually, I managed to rinse myself off as thoroughly as I could, noting the milky-white combination of talc and sweat that circled the drain. I had mixed feelings about my suit, but getting into it either meant powder or shaving. I chose the first option.
After the shower, I still wasn’t hungry, but I had time to force some lunch down. I trotted down my hall and turned into the kitchen.
I met a pair of blue eyes.
My stomach dropped as I lurched to a stop. The emerald pony gave a sultry, “Welcome home.”
By now, I was used to clingy ponies the day after. That was why I preferred spending nights as a guest rather than a host. I couldn’t remember why I hadn’t done that last night. Instead, I asked, “Why are you here?”
“I woke up here.” A smile flashed. “I’m not used to anyone trusting me alone in their home.” I walked over to the pantry, pulled out a jar of peanut butter, and took it to the counter. My guest kept talking while I smeared a sandwich together. “Last night was f—”
“Last night...” I magicked my front door, slamming it against the wall. “...was last night.”
Those blue eyes flinched, and for a moment, I thought they were going to cry. Instead, the green pony walked over to me and took a bite out of my sandwich.
I made a sound of protest, but a tongue silenced me by forcing its way into my mouth. The bite of sandwich followed. Then a hoof patted me on my cheek. “See you tonight, Crossfade.”
I spat the secondhand food into the sink, and the door clicked shut behind me. I glared at it, trying to piece together what just happened. I didn’t like being force-fed a bite of sandwich by some “FREAK!” I shouted, throwing my sandwich at the counter. It slid all over to the basket where I kept some important mail and stuff like...
My timecard.
I hit myself in the forehead, cringing at how stupid I was. I didn’t like fans knowing my legal name; things started to get all mixed up.
Cursing, I looked at the clock. Then I cursed again. Grabbing that damned timecard, I ran out into the street and galloped back to Plant 37 at full speed.
Unlike that morning, I actually made it back to the plant with time to spare. I glared at the time clock’s second-hand. Away from the assembly line, time moved far too quickly, and it’d slow right back down as soon as I punched in.
I got to my station at 1:32, so there were only four hours and twenty-eight minutes left to my shift. The valves came by slower than they had that morning; some union rep had probably realized we were going to finish work too early. I actually started laughing at how ridiculous it was. Sixteen bits out of three-hundred every week, and it boiled down to being bored at a slower rate.
By two, the boredom got so bad that I started checking the line behind me. Better eyes and the unicorn advantage made it easy to babysit both lines. About ten minutes later, Right Hoof finally commented on what I was doing: “What do you want, fuckhole?”
I scoffed at the implication. Sure, I didn’t really have too high of standards on stuff like race, color, or gender, but I did have standards.
Five minutes later, Right Hoof sighed. “Seriously, why are you doing something beyond the bare minimum?”
I checked my line. Good valve. I checked his line. Bad valve. Picking it up, I answered, “Same reason I do anything in this hell.” I dropped the valve into his box. “Sheer. Fucking. Boredom.”
It was his turn to scoff. “Do you even know how many strings the boss pulled to give you a chance here? You could try showing a little gratitude—”
“You could try breathing in a lake.”
“—or at least quit acting like you’re better than everyone else here.” He turned and caught my eye. “You’re bored? Boo-fucking-hoo. Deal with it. Cope or quit.”
I snorted. “Yeah, much as I’d like to quit...”
“So suck it up,” Right Hoof cut in. “Maybe if you quit acting like a whiny bitch, Mills’d let you take her out sometime.”
My mouth went dry. “How’d you...”
“Because I’ve got eyes. And I know she’s got a thing for gutter trash, even if she shouldn’t.”
“Then why say anything?” I grumbled, trying to ignore his smug assholery.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him turn to look at me again. “The same driving force behind all of our interactions, Crossy: Sheer. Fucking. Boredom.”
He was a conceited brown-nose, but I thought about his words for the remaining two hours and thirty-six minutes. Specifically, I thought about Mills and me. I didn’t know if she was actually cute or just cute compared to the rest of the factory, but I did want to get to know her better. The only problem was how she usually surrounded herself with the other dullards from our department, so to get her alone...
I shook my head. Knowing Right Hoof, the whole thing was probably an elaborate string of shit to get me to hoof the line.
When the end of the day finally came around, I clocked out. I turned around and Mills stood there. She shot me a quick grin before saying, “Try to get to bed on time tonight, huh?”
My face did not flush as I nodded and walked past her, out the door and into the street. But it was a good trip home nonetheless.
Back at my apartment, I was glad to see that no one was waiting outside like desperate luggage. Once inside, I felt I needed a nap. First, I grabbed the sandwich off the counter. It was a little stale, but I couldn’t afford to waste food.
I washed it down with a tall glass of water; after that, I drifted to my bedroom for some much-needed sleep.
* * *
Ringing. My eyes shot open. 8:30. I licked dry lips. Two hours to show time, but I had other things to take care of. Like a glass of water. And another shower.
Afterwards, I took my cleaning supplies from my bedside closet. My suit lay in the hallway like a discarded insect’s shell. I cleaned it until it glistened. When I finished, I put fresh batteries into the neck. The LEDs lit up and I powdered up. It was dangerously close to show time when I finally became Astro$RF.
Before leaving, I put away the cleaning stuff. Since it had brought me some luck last night, I popped open the tin and swallowed a tablet.
Some new bitch stopped and stared at me on the stairs. Fuck her. This close to show, nothing could get my spirits down. Once outside, I made my way to the club.
I entered through the hallowed side entrance. The club was empty and dead, except for the crew. The doors opened at 9:45; that’d fix the emptiness. I smiled and started planning the mixes for the evening: that’d fix deadness. Everything sounded prismatic and dazzling in my head. I started to get giddy again.
The crew from last night was setting up my equipment on my stage. I flipped through my box of vinyls. There was one I hadn’t played in a while. My opener. I kept looking through the box for inspiration. With all the ideas and energy I had, tonight was all downhill from here.
The crew finished moving everything and started connecting wires for me. They didn’t have to do that. “Thank you kindly, boys, but you’ve done enough. I’ll get the sound check.” I grinned. One chuckled, the other shrugged. They left me to my own devices. I hooked up all the cables, then tested my mic on different speakers. Everything was ready.
For the second time in two days, the crowd filed in. At ten, the manager got on my stage. Grabbing the mic, he commanded everyone, “Get your hooves ready, DJ Astrosurf is in the club tonight!”
I started my track. Screeching reverb assaulted the club. “Fuck!” I cringed and saw a loose cable. I plugged it in, the audio popped on, and I restarted the track. But the damage was done. Ponies slowly got into the groove—too slowly. I felt how dull they felt. I moved on to a mix. Then another single. Someone made a request. I filled it right away.
When my break came around, I guzzled water and tried to get my head on straight. Next time, I double-check the cables. Another tablet and another drink, and I got back into the club to soar or dive.
All in all, the night ended up being one of my worse performances. I never had bad nights, but that night was only “acceptable.” I was better than that. But no matter what I did, what mixes I threw, how many cheers I got, the music just felt off.
At 3:00, I finished strong with the heaviest track I owned. More ponies stayed for the whole set that night. My spiky-maned friend was there again; he had made another request earlier. I had done it, too, but only got a grinning nod.
After the track faded out, the lights came on and the crowd dissolved. I started taking things apart. Part of it was to be polite, part of it was I hadn’t been promised anything on Friday.
The manager came over and gave me my night’s pay. It was lighter than last night’s. He nodded. “You’re good, for a kid. Too bad I’m booked for the weekend. But gimme a card, I’ll pass it around.”
It felt like getting punched in the gut, not being asked back. “I... I do not have a card, I’m afraid.” Pride and thirst made it hard to keep my voice upbeat. I couldn’t bitch about not getting hired, though.
He nodded and handed me a piece of paper and a pen. “Write your address down.” I did. “I’ll send word if I hear anything or get an opening.” The manager read my address, and his eyes widened. He didn’t say anything. Smart guy.
I thanked him and offered a hoof. He shook it, nodding.
The crew took apart my equipment. I went over to the bartender. “Water, right?” she sneered. I nodded. Despite her mood, she at least used one of the big glasses. “Such a shame you’re not coming back.”
I drank my water as quickly as I could. It was hard not to throw it at her. “Thanks for the water; have a good weekend.” Sunshine choked me. I set the half-empty glass on the counter and turned away.
In the back hallway, I got my cart. It used to be a luggage rack at some fancy hotel. I needed it more. At the table, the crew helped me load it up. With all of my equipment and tracks secure, I pushed the cart out the door and headed back to my apartment. Alone.
Except someone was standing under the streetlamp near my apartment. When I got closer, I recognized them and bit back a scream.
I did not want company right then.
“They didn’t ask you back a third night?” the green pony asked.
Stating the obvious bugged me. Especially when the obvious hurt. “Nope,” I said quickly, moving to the front of my cart to get the door.
“Need a hoof with that?”
I stopped. Even with magic, it sucked to get the cart upstairs alone. But I knew “asking for help” would be “an invitation into my apartment.”
I wasn’t in the mood for sex, but fuck it. I was less in the mood to destroy my equipment. “Sure,” I grumbled.
We got it up to my place, and I pushed the cart into my kitchen. My now-returned guest latched the door. I squinted, annoyed, and stretched my hood back. I even thought of taking a tablet, but fuck that. Those things were 7 bits per, and I was almost out.
My guest stole my shades as I peeled off my costume. I forced a bemused expression, then we made our way down the hallway with locked lips.
We ended up on my bed for a good ten minutes, panting and vertical. I didn’t feel a thing. When it finally got bad enough, I sat up.
“What’s wrong?” my disappointed partner asked.
“I’m not feeling it tonight.” It was true.
“Wh... sorry, I can do better!” came the defensive retort.
I did a double-take. “What? No, it’s not you. You’re... you.” I paused. “I don’t know what it is,” I lied.
Shades lifted. There were those blue eyes. “You hate your day job, huh?”
That hit deep. Some stranger picked that up after one meeting? I thought about it more. Was Plant 37 the only thing I hated in my life? No. I hated... everything, outside of performing. When I didn’t have a show, my nights were usually hollow blurs of drug-fueled symphonies. The stallions and mares I ended up with usually accepted the rule of “one and done.” Which I preferred for many reasons.
My continued silence was taken for a “yes.” I flinched as I got pulled back down to the bed in a hug. It was alien to me: compassionate, not hot and dirty. A hoof stroked my belly. “So, why put up with it if you hate it?”
I thought about that for a minute. If I lost the job, I’d end up homeless. No more clubs. No more equipment. No more music. Even though I was facing away from my partner, I cringed my eyes shut. “Because I have to. Otherwise, I’d die.”
I couldn’t help it; I started crying. I was a wreck. How pathetic was I? I had tried acting the Astro$RF persona, but in less than two days, some pony had seen right through all the bullshit. And I didn’t even know their name.
“Who are you?” I asked between sobs, rolling over to meet those blue eyes.
My bed was empty.
Tears stopped as the breath caught in my throat. I twitched glances around my tiny room. I was completely alone. A hoof brushed against my stomach, but when I snapped down, I saw I was stroking myself.
My breath came back in quick, pained bursts. I patted the lumpy mattress, desperately looking for my shades. I couldn’t find them. All I found was my little tin of drugs.
I popped it open, and self-loathing sank my gut. My personal stash always lasted me the whole month. But now, only eight days since I saw my dealer, they were all gone. I threw the tin against the wall. Did I really have that little self-control?
Thirst strangled me. I needed water. I clamored into the hallway and cried out when I saw someone waiting for me. I blinked. It was just my costume. Stupid... thing! I spat at it. Then I saw my shades on the floor next to it. Where they’d been the whole time...
It got to be too much. I bolted into the bathroom and wrapped my lips around the faucet in a desperate kiss. Water took the edge off the sheer panic. When I pulled away from the sink, I could sort of rationally think again. One thought. What have I done to myself?
I looked into the mirror and choked: there were those blue eyes! I blinked, and they were their usual shade of crimson. Still, I barely turned to the toilet in time before I started heaving bile. When I finished, I drank more water. Then, I broke down sobbing.
Back in school, I heard the horror stories about loser addicts who did stupid things while high. It didn’t take an astronomer to figure out that was me, now. I had overdone it, and my baked brain invented a whole fucking one-night-stand.
I did some pretty dumb things growing up, but I always convinced myself that it was teachers, or my parents, forcing me into shitty situations. Now, I had no one to blame but myself.
Myself... I blanked. Who am I?
I went into the kitchen and picked up the factory time card with my name on it. Crossfade: Childish. Stupid.Nobody.
I looked over at the costume, who I wanted to be. Astro$RF: Famous. Talented. Loved.
I thought about the little tin in my bedroom. It was who I was:
Fake. Empty. Pathetic.
I collapsed in tears on the kitchen floor, hating myself more and more with each sob. Somehow, it had all gone wrong. I was supposed to get a day job, fund my night passion, and come out on top. But the two tracks of my life weren’t mixing together to form a rhythm.
It was just noise.
Realization struck me: it was the clubs. That was where I got my first hit, found my first seller... and I’d been doing shows at a higher frequency lately. Every time I did a show, it was so easy to take a tablet or two...
I shook my head. No, it was Plant 37. That misery was why I needed the drugs. But at my age, it was either factory work or...
I cringed. I didn’t want to whore myself out. I wasn’t “pure and innocent” anymore, but still. I had standards.
Shaking my head again, I sighed. It was the clubs and it was the factory. Both of them were how I lived. Both of them were how I was going to die. One of them needed to go.
I walked over to my trash can and levitated the punch card over it. Dropping it in wouldn’t be permanent, but it came down to one choice: keep it, or throw it away. I promised myself that if I dropped my card, then that’d be it: I’d go all-in. Get flyers and cards made, promote myself 24/7, and hope to Celestia that I didn’t end up dying in the streets.
But if I kept it, that’d be it, too. I’d sell all my equipment. I’d put that money in the bank and start saving for a few years. When I was old enough to get a decent job with decent hours, I’d come back to DJ-ing.
I knew it was the safer route. It was the route that the rational part of my mind had been screaming for since I left my parents’ house in the first place. But the thought of a permanent hiatus terrified me. Music was me; I couldn’t just take a break from that.
Then I remembered who I really was and why I needed to make a choice in the first place. For the first time, I caught a glimpse of what my coworkers saw me as. I hated that factory, but maybe Right Hoof was right. Maybe if I grinned and bore it, maybe if I turned my life around, things would get better there. Maybe Mills’d actually give me a shot.
Right then, in my hoof, I held two choices: keep the job or throw it away. Safe boredom or risky passion. Live dying or die living. Music or noise. Mills, or a thousand green ponies.
Crossfade or Astro$RF.
Two lives. Two beats.
I closed my eyes and made my choice.