Anonfilly Becomes a Musician (P1/?)


                                            Originally posted to mlpol. Might post more, but this is the story thusfar.


                                            >"You're doing great, Anon! You just have to ease up, hold that thought as gently as you can and relax."

                                            >Of course you've been told this piece of advice enough times that hearing it only fills you with more intrusive thoughts.

                                            >How long have you been shooting off fizzles and giving yourself days of headache?

                                            >How much in damages have you made Twilight pay out all because one of your magical fits turned a glass window into liquified mercury or caused a nearby glass of chocolate milk to combust like a grenade?

                                            >Do you even want to see her clinic bills??

                                            "DAMMIT!"

                                            >Your swear echoes through the Sparkle study's crystaline halls, as a column is utterly shattered by a blast of green.

                                            >The shatterproof plate on the table remains, only levitated by a corner maybe an inch from the surface.

                                            >Your horn aches again; your vision is dark and you are forced to blink through your scowl as tears quickly stream down your stupid fuzzy cheeks.

                                            >You don't even register your tutor's plea of waiting over your stumbling hooves, the noisy little glue blocks a further reminder of how completely out of water you are.

                                            >Where are you running? What do you think you're accomplishing?

                                            >Everything you do is futile and reactive, so who cares if you add another stupid tantrum to the list?

                                            >Yeah, fuck you, brain. Look how far you've got yourself.

                                            >Suddenly a loud slam causes your vision to go black as you realize where your body was taking you: broom closet.

                                            >The silence and dark is never relaxing, but a part of you feels at least...slightly comforted by uncaring voids.

                                            >Seems to be a pattern as far back as your old media library.

                                            >The ashen kilns of Lordran, the womanless Olathe, the dim red glow of red phosphor in the Refuge...

                                            >You didn't belong in the city, you didn't belong in the farm, and you don't belong in ponyland, no matter how hard purplesmart tries to make you feel welcome.

                                            >God, you miss having thumbs. Equestrian arcade games just don't scratch the itch.

                                            >At least the closet's fully quiet now, that you're back to your default mood of silently unhappy.

                                            >You clear your sinuses of tear-snot using a dry terry cloth from the rag supply, holding it in your hoof as you curl up on the floor with a spare mop head as your pillow.

                                            >Eventually you hear the princess of friendship rattle the closet door, finding it locked.

                                            >"Anon! Please come out. You're doing great, better than most fillies in your age range."

                                            "Twilight. I'm 25."

                                            >You can hear the venom in your voice and her wince when it gets into her bloodstream.

                                            >"You know I don't mean it like that."

                                            "You certainly act like you do."

                                            >"I--" A long, long pause.

                                            "Just...let me rot."

                                            >"You wouldn't make very good fertilizer with all that salt in your system."

                                            >Your eyes snap open. Was that...a burn? Is this bitch actually getting fresh right now?

                                            >Is she trying to speak Anonese just for you? Or is she just annoyed?

                                            >Is there a difference? That kind of attitude from a pony like her sounds...wrong.

                                            >"Chin up, Anon. You're doing a good job."

                                            >Right back to that voice.

                                            >That patronizing voice.

                                            >A growl involuntarily escapes your throat.

                                            "A good job at WHAT? Not combusting every dairy product in this gaudy eyesore of a castle!?"

                                            >You give her time to respond.

                                            >She doesn't respond.

                                            "Don't you get it!? My ancestors were out fucking bitches and spearing mammoths. Well? Where's my mammoth, Princess? Where the FUCK's wooly mammoth!?"

                                            >You hear her sharply inhale as if she's about to correct you, and you cut her off.

                                            "Stop. Just. This is about more than being a stupid horse kid. It's the patronizing, childish 'you can do it's, the pats on the back, the way you cut my food when I couldn't work the hoof magic bullshit. Why!?"

                                            >"B...because, I was trying to be supportive."

                                            "You're supporting me wrong. You're teaching a coyote how to sit and stay. It's not natural. I'M not natural. What the hell do you see in me? Aside from a goddamn experiment."

                                            >"Same thing I saw before you were a filly. A sad and angry person, who had a lot of potential if they could get over that hurdle."

                                            "Hurdle...shit's a wall. Just. Quit it. And quit trying to act like me to get on my good side too. I noticed that fertilizer joke. Only faggots can talk like faggots."

                                            >"Anon...will you at least unlock this door? You know I could just teleport you out anyway."

                                            >...

                                            >Click.

                                            >The book princess scoops you up and hugs you hard enough to cause a small crack to emit from your spine.

                                            >You don't bother to hug back. You can tell this hurts her, but you are too swept up in your thoughts again to care.

                                            >Much...

                                            >Before you know it, she's sat you down in her kitchen as she whips up some feel-better pancakes for brunch

                                            >You glance up and see what she's doing, and sigh in frustration.

                                            "Twilight, no...just. Stop. I said I didn't wanna be patronized. I'll get over the headache by noon."

                                            >"Sure, but I know you enjoy pancakes and--"

                                            "And I'll make them if I want to make them. Stop."

                                            >"Do you at least wan--"

                                            "I want you to leave me alone. God, you act like an empty nesting spinster. If you want me feeling better, hit up Berry Punch for some vodka and cranberry juice, since I'm 'too young' to buy it myself."

                                            >You glare at your reflective dining table, having a staring contest with yourself.

                                            >She obediently sets the mixing bowl back down, flour half-mixed into batter, and silently walks out of the kitchen.

                                            >You daren't look in her direction, and you have a feeling she is on the same page.

                                            >After yet another failed staring contest, you look back up at the batter...and your stomach growls.

                                            "Hmmh..."

                                            >Maybe you'll give cooking a try again.


                                            ---


                                            <"Is this room occupied?"

                                            >You spit out the whisk in your mouth.

                                            "Not by any ponies."

                                            >A certain elongated chimera implodes into being beside you.

                                            >Reared up on your hind hooves, you're hugging the mixing bowl while you actually mix with your mouth.

                                            >It's....less dignified than Twilight's method, but it's all you can manage.

                                            <"Believe it or not I come bearing genuine advice."

                                            "Nnn-hmmm..."

                                            <"Really! I believe I have some leads for you."

                                            >You just keep beating the batter.

                                            <"You said it yourself, you're no more pony than you are human. You're anomalous, and so you're not getting very far being treated like any old unicorn."

                                            >You raise your head, still biting on your whisk as you turn.

                                            >Your eyes bore into his, as if telling him to get to the point or stop flapping his gums.

                                            <"Impatient, eh? Suits a chaotic little imp like yourself."

                                            >His paw reaches toward your snoot, and knowing his intentions, you drop the whisk on the counter and bite down.

                                            >Hard.

                                            <"Nngf--!! Ack, goodness. You really are a feisty bastard."

                                            "The point. Now."

                                            <"Fine. My point is, your mind is full of thoughts that most ponies can't even fathom, swirling around all at once. When you're sitting there trying to levitate plates and other such boring things, that chaos is too much. You have a natural tendency toward..."

                                            >His eyebrows bounce up past his malformed head, comically separating from his forehead in the process.

                                            "Discord. Yeah. Got it."

                                            <"I don't think you got it, friend. Why worry about one day possibly telekinetically whisking your batter when you could sprout wings on the little thing and let it whisk for you?"

                                            "I'm not gonna swear fealty to pony Tzeench just because I can't into magic. You can give it a rest."

                                            >You grab a rag with a hoof, putting the whisk back in the bowl and cleaning up your mess.

                                            <"I was just offering advice to my favorite fish out if water. Is that so wrong?"

                                            "Quit...Socratizing me with your damn questions. I never had the head for all this bigger picture stuff."

                                            >He smirks before busting out his singing voice.

                                            <"But Tom, that's what I do..."

                                            "You're not doing yourself any favors singing a song about a zombie."

                                            <"Hmph, fine. Just thought I would offer a little mirth. You're in worse spirits than I thought. For what it's worth, Anon, I am sorry for your plight."

                                            "Plight...such a dramatic word. What's it matter? I'm one guy, and neither here nor back home did my life matter enough to be worth words like plight."

                                            <"Anon, I'm the god of chaos and even I think your sense of cosmic nihilism is a bit much."

                                            "Bite my fuzzy filly ass."

                                            >He actually looks a little exasperated as he sits on your counter, looking down at you.

                                            <"Anonymous. I get it. I really do. When I was set in stone, I felt every second of that eternal boredom, regrets, anger. When I was put under Flutterbutter's care, I felt like a pet. But these ponies don't act patronizing on purpose. They genuinely have trouble even thinking such things as meaning and purpose until it's willed into their soul by a cutie mark or by their celestial god princesses. Why do you think those other fillies spent so long chasing after their cutie marks? Meaning just...leaps right out at them when they get it, and their lives are set right just like that."

                                            "It's more than that."

                                            <"Of course it is! Meaning isn't bestowed upon you by sunbutt or granted by whatever hoodoo goes into your cutie mark! You have to make it, or carve a path in spite of its lack. You feel a lack of agency because YOU aren't in charge. I think that a simple change in perspective is the best medicine. So take up the mantle of chaos or don't. It's not my choice to make. But ease up on taking yourself so seriously. You're only mortal."

                                            "Huh..."

                                            >It dawns on you that you've been rubbing at one square foot of the counter with your rag for a while...

                                            "So...what now?"

                                            <"Ha! A great question to ask the mirror! Why don't you start by making amends with twinkleflanks, making some pancakes, and perhaps thanking a certain butter colored guardian angel for directing me to check in on you."

                                            "I....yeah, that probably would be a start. Thanks, man."

                                            <"Just what friends do. If you ever need another feelings jam, howl at the moon or go to sleep in the middle of a summer afternoon. Or, come to the cottage."

                                            >He disappears, leaving you to sit and ponder for a bit before you have to confront Twilight.


                                            ---


                                            >Twilight was more forgiving than you feel you deserved.

                                            >When she came in, you hadn't heated a frying pan yet, and so she offered to help you flip the hotcakes.

                                            >Despite everything, you still had to swallow your pride to let her help.

                                            >It's more than just feeling feeble and useless, but you can't think to put it into words. At least not articulately.

                                            >The nagging thoughts are shut up temporarily as the two of you reap the fruits of your labor.

                                            >She was even nice enough to pull out that vodka she brought home and mix it with some OJ for a screwdriver.

                                            >God, though, your eyes still hurt a little. Having such long eyelashes makes the aftermath of every petulant cry session feel like ramming facefirst into a cactus.

                                            >As you come down from the high of warmth that comes from the hot midday meal and gentle buzz of liquor, Pur....Twilight gives you a small pat on the back.

                                            >"Did you want to do anything else today? I could help you find the Crusaders, or we could go to the market square. Not too much is on my agenda, for once."

                                            "Ah...I think I'm gonna go for a walk on my own today. But thank you."

                                            >"Of course! Do you need anything for the trip, or you just want to pack your own satchel?"

                                            >"I'll be fine with some water."


                                            >With that, the two of you clean up the mess, and you venture off.

                                            >You have a pretty good idea where you want to go, and it's thankfully not very far from the castle.

                                            >You don't even need to take a sip of water before you cross a small bridge, silently appreciating the sight of the animal nursery in all its rustic comfort.

                                            >You smell tea from outside. Not cultured enough to guess by the scent but it seems sweet, not too bold.

                                            >You knock, and before you even hear the mare inside respond, you see a pair of yellowed eyes appear right in the middle of the door, accented by white eyebrows.

                                            >You hear his voice slightly muffled from the inside:

                                            <"Ah, that was quick. I'll get the door for you, come right in."

                                            >The door swings open, but he's not visible at the front door. You follow the scent toward the source, and you see the telltale swishing of a pink tail as the mare quietly hums to herself, dicing vegetables and preparing some salmon for her bear friend.

                                            >All while Discord relaxes with some of that tea, naturally.

                                            "Hey Ye--....F-Fluttershy."

                                            >"Oh!" She turns around, cleaning off her dripping knife. "I heard Discord paid you a nice visit this morning. Did you want to follow up with him, or did you have something else on your mind?"

                                            "I wanted to thank you. Whatever the motivation was, having him come by when he did helped a lot. And I wanted to pay you a visit instead of holing myself up in the crystal castle."

                                            <"That's the spirit. I hope you flossed this morning though, because socializing with enough of these little ponies may risk a cavity or two."

                                            >A little wink from the draconequus, and an encouraging smile from both hosts as Flutters gets to tossing all her ingredients into salads.

                                            >You spot the devil-rabbit as he hops up and snags a small tomato from the bowl, seeming quite satisfied.

                                            >"Do you like tea?"

                                            "Oh, I'll be okay on the beverages front, had orange juice and now I got water, should keep me going till dinnertime. But thank you."

                                            <"Am I wrong in assuming that orange juice had an extra kick added to it?"

                                            >Your face warms up a bit at the acknowledgement, and your voice catches in your throat.

                                            "J...just a little bit of liquid courage. Not a whole lot."

                                            >Fluttershy seems unaware of what the two of you are referring to, but politely allows the embarrassment to subside for a moment before she speaks.

                                            >"Whatever you need to get out there and meet some ponies is okay by me. If you ever need some...herbal remedies to relax, I do know somepony."

                                            "Oh god, if I got hooked on the devil's lettuce too I'd probably be even more of a mess. But if if you know someone who sells tea, that'd be great. Twilight's coffee is a bit too much for me."

                                            >"Actually, yes, Zecora has a lot of tea leaves."

                                            "Zecora...oh, you mean the zeeb lady deeper in the woods. I guess I could pay her a visit sometime."

                                            >"Look at you! Already full of ideas. All it took was a bit of time out of that stuffy castle and you're coming up with plans. I think you'll be making lots of friends in time, Anonymous."

                                            >That condescending tone irks you, but you can't say no to the cute mare. You silently swallow a little more pride, trying not to notice Discord's silent chuckle at your expense.

                                            "Ba....uh, small steps. I wanna find something I'm decent at first, instead of jumping into hijinks with the three little hellions."

                                            >"Nothing wrong with being a utilitarian. Just remember not to strain yourself, okay? You are just--"

                                            >She catches herself, clearing her throat.

                                            >"I mean, your body..."

                                            "I get it. I'm a kid."

                                            >The mood pretty quickly dampens at that.

                                            >"I'm sorry Anon. You know I don--"

                                            "Don't mean it. I know. I know."

                                            >God, not those big teal eyes...

                                            "It's-- it's fine, seriously. I've heard it before."

                                            >"Well...I'm still sorry."

                                            "I should probably get going, not a lot of hours in the day. Thanks for the hospitality."

                                            >Discord waves a white kerchief your way as though you were boarding a cruise ship, and with that you leave them to start feeding their animals.

                                            >Despite her accommodating attitude and clearly accidental faux-pas, you still feel a little bit of resentment inside.

                                            >If you weren't an alien or a filly, they wouldn't be tiptoeing around you and treating you like a charity case.

                                            >You should have just practiced your hoofwriting and sent her a note. This whole trip was fubar.

                                            >You bite your lower lip at these thoughts, shaking your head. Shut up, brain.


                                            ---


                                            >You soon find yourself trotting through the park, spotting a mare with minty looking hair and a green coat, strumming a lyre.

                                            >She watches birds and ponies enjoying themselves in the cool shade of a thin cloud hung above, which you imagine to be a really nice accommodation for the parkgoers.

                                            >The bench she's on has plenty of room on it, and the ground beside her seat has a nice big jar with a small chunk of bits in them.

                                            >It's obvious this isn't her main job, or she'd be quite poor; either that, or it's not about the money to begin with.

                                            "Howdy, can I sit here?"

                                            >"Of course. Want me to play anything for you?"

                                            "I....don't know any song names."

                                            >"That's not a problem, hun. Do you have a mood in mind?"

                                            "I dunno. Just do what you want, no biggie, you look happy doing that."

                                            >She stops strumming, turning her full attention to you as you climb up and sit beside her.

                                            >"Oh this? It's just a melody I play when I've got something on my mind and need to think on it."

                                            "Yeah?"

                                            >"Yeah, not too fast, not too complicated or jazzy, not really sad or happy. Just, uh..."

                                            "White noise?"

                                            >"Yeah. That seems like a good way of putting it. What's your name?"

                                            "Anonymous. Most ponies call me Anon."

                                            >"Lyra Heartstrings. Lyra's good to me as well. What brings you out here, Anon?"

                                            "I dunno. Just needed to get out."

                                            >"Sounds like more than that, hon. Need an ear?"

                                            "No, no, really, it's fine."

                                            >She raises an eyebrow, not buying it, but she drops it.

                                            >"So you said you don't know any song names. Got any melodies you can hum? Might recognize them."

                                            "Uhhh...if you recognize them, that'd be a miracle."

                                            >"Hipster?"

                                            "What-- no, shut up...I just come from...another place."

                                            >"You don't sound it. No thick accents. Plus, I get around."

                                            >You can't help but let out a small groan.

                                            "I can whistle out some melodies, but seriously you won't recognize them."

                                            >"You're on shortie."

                                            >You give your best approximation of a familiar song, gently rapping your hoof on the wooden bench to keep rhythm as you whistle the basic melody of the song.

                                            >After about 40 seconds of whistling, you look to her, and she mirrors it back with surprising precision.

                                            https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6VHvutlgf80

                                            >When she repeats it again, you feel a strange sort of comfort. The song certainly couldn't be explained with whistling on its own, so you couldn't get her to follow along if she tried, but the fact you got to remember a song like that is nice.

                                            >If there's one thing you can say you were good at growing up, it's absorbing media and remembering even the smallest details.

                                            >"You know, Anon, that's a really interesting song. Awfully short, but repeating it is relaxing in its own way. What's it called?"

                                            "Lateralus. The song has more, but....it's a complicated song. Plays with rhythms and stuff, really isn't something I could convey with my hooves and a whistle."

                                            >"A lot of layers, eh? Could scrounge up a band with a cellist I know providing backing, one day. She's a bit too upper crust to play on a park bench in a podunk town like this though."

                                            "Hey, don't diss the country. The city's not all it's cracked up to be either."

                                            >"You have experience with the city?"

                                            "A whole lifetime of it, actually."

                                            >"But you couldn't be older than eight."

                                            "It's really complicated. You'd be better off asking Twilight Sparkle the mechanics of it all. I used to be a human, and you might have met me when I first arrived, but I guess this world doesn't like humans. Maybe because we're not really...magicky."

                                            >"Not magicky?"

                                            "Yeah, like...home's not a lot like this place. But, this is my lot in life now."

                                            >"Actually...I think I've seen some stuff about humans before. Big tall fellas, got hands like minotaurs, not a lot of hair, right?"

                                            "Yeah. But it's not like....the humans Twilight knows about. Most of us didn't have multicolored skin, it was usually somewhere between peachy and a really dark brown, and our hair was black, brown, red, or a sandy blonde color."

                                            >"Fascinating! And how was life for you back there?"

                                            "Like I said...not a fan of cities. Really didn't have anything worth a damn to give back to society though, spent most of my time playing games, avoiding the mirror, and hiding from the sun."

                                            >"Well, the sun won't hurt you here, Anon. Maybe this is like a new start, yeah? You could pick up an instrument, share music with ponies. If you could put pen to paper on this stuff, you could be pretty popular as a composer or join the choir."

                                            "God, in front of all those ponies? I'd be a mess on stage. I saved that kind of activity for karaoke night at the bar..."

                                            >"Oh, so you like to sing, huh? Surprised I didn't see you busting out the singing voice during Winter Wrap-Up, hehe. A little egg-nog is all I need to enjoy myself during those festivities. Can't say whether it improves my singing, but Bonnie seems to like it."

                                            >Shoulda known she liked girls.

                                            >"Anyways. Nice chatting!"

                                            "Oh, yeah. Same to you."

                                            >She gazes out to the park, and it seems to be getting close to sunset.

                                            >The ponies are dispersing, and the birds are returning to their nests as the sparse clouds turn a pleasant pink.

                                            >"Before you go, do you have any songs you wanna sing? You can hum or whistle the first part, catch your breath and I can play for you."

                                            >You think for a while, taking a sip of your water. You do actually feel like singing, even if your squeaky filly voice is a little distracting...perhaps a song that's not too dependent on vocal range?

                                            >As she plays, you aid in keeping rhythm with your hoof again.

                                            >It takes a little while to get up the courage or recklessness to start singing:

                                            https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDdiyDTTZn4

                                            If my prayer goes unanswered, that's alright

                                            If my path fills with darkness and there's no sign of light

                                            Let me praise you for the good times, let me hold your banner high

                                            Until the hills are flattened and the rivers all run dry


                                            And I won't get better

                                            But someday I'll be free

                                            'Cause I am not this body

                                            That imprisons me


                                            ---


                                            >Your encounter with Lyra managed to awaken something inside you.

                                            >Hard to say what, but it's tinged with nostalgia for the music you listened to instead of talking with classmates or listening to family arguments.

                                            >You want to spread human music to Equestria, at least the punk and countercultural stuff that makes you feel a little less like a massive faggot.

                                            >You've taken to helping ponies around town for chump change while Twilight does princess things, between helping Fluttershy cook (and missing the fuck out of meat) and helping the Apples sell their stuff.

                                            >After two weeks, you can afford a quality looking acoustic guitar.

                                            >Six strings, a little hard to handle, but if you sit on your haunches and rest the body in your lap...

                                            >The instrument is a tad bulky for a f- person of your stature.

                                            >But with this machine in your hooves, you have a feeling things are gonna be okay.


                                            >A few weeks of by-ear playing later, you've translated three songs into a slightly simplified system to make up for your slower, less fancy playing.

                                            >You revisit Lyra's park bench at dawn, same day of the week as before, and strum a few practice notes.

                                            >A few ponies wander by, but it's not populous enough for the mason jar to be filled today.

                                            >But it's not about the money...it's about sending a message.

                                            https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnYfytuReMU

                                            I swear I'll run away

                                            From every home I ever have

                                            So I'll build a new house

                                            In every town I pass

                                            Maybe then I won't always feel lost and trapped.


                                            When I was growing up

                                            I was the smartest kid I knew

                                            Maybe it's just because

                                            I didn't know that many kids

                                            All I know is now I feel the opposite.


                                            >By this point ponies are actually coming around, gathered to hear your amateur fretwork.

                                            >Of course this part isn't what you wanted to sing this for.

                                            >Your throat tenses up, anticipating the strain that you know is coming.


                                            Like if you don't wanna work

                                            Then that becomes your job

                                            There's a lot of overtime

                                            There's not many days off

                                            I hope you know that I'm not trying to complain

                                            It just gets hard to explain

                                            To people that I know

                                            Or kids who come to shows

                                            That I just don't wanna talk about the- OFFICE TODAYYY!


                                            >Ponies jump back at the shouting of the last line.

                                            >Only to be expected; most pony music isn't like this, even the rare rock-type songs utilizing tabletop steel guitars. In your fleeting research it seems this place is stuck in the vaudeville era with little hints of rockabilly and disco.

                                            >You focus on the strings for a bit, but as you prepare to sing the next verse, you spot a few familiar faces in the small crowd you gathered.

                                            >One is minty-fresh Lyra, looking quite pleasantly surprised to see you in her spot; the other is Fluttershy, saddlebags full of groceries and ears folded down in worry as she keeps to the back of the crowd.

                                            >You keep singing, knowing that a good chunk of the human euphamisms to drugs or household names won't make much sense to any ponies here.

                                            >You close your eyes, relying on muscle memory to guide you along the fretboard.

                                            >You hear concerned murmuring and comiserating among them, but you are more concerned with finishing your song.

                                            >The vulgarity of the end certainly puts a few ponies off, but a few stick around, including the mares you know.

                                            >After some bits clink into your jar, you take a break to drink some water and clear your eyes.

                                            >Fuck, did you just cry a little?

                                            >Lyra comes up and sits beside you, smiling.

                                            >"More human music? Sounded good, definitely emotive."

                                            "Yeah, I ah...felt that would be a good debut to folk punk."

                                            >"Folk punk, huh? Interesting. But what the hay's a stay-at-home archaeologist?"

                                            >Oh dear, this might get hard to explain.

                                            "Uhh...do ponies have opioids?"

                                            >"Opioids?"

                                            "Like...in the hospital do you have pain relievers that go in your veins to put you under?"

                                            >"Ohhh...so, what's the archaeology part mean?"

                                            "Well...they dig skin deep to find a vein, inject the stuff, and spend their time, uh...zombied out."

                                            >"I...think I get it. Why would anyhuman do that though?"

                                            "Well, same reason I drank, I guess..."

                                            >"Damn..."

                                            >A long silence passes, and you look outward to spot a few stragglers chattering between each other. Fluttershy seems intent on listening from a respectful distance now that she knows you're socializing with somepony in a positive way.

                                            >It's like she's cheering you on, despite being a wallflower herself. It's...comforting.

                                            "Hey Heartstrings?"

                                            >"Yeah?"

                                            "Thanks for giving me ideas last month. Not to sound sappy but being here almost let me forget this music. Happy to have some way to get my blood pumping."

                                            >"You were certainly...animated."

                                            "One might say singing like that is enough to make anyone aaaa........."

                                            >You keep your mouth open, having a hard time keeping from laughing.

                                            >"What--"

                                            "A little hoarse?"

                                            >She seems not to get it at first, but when she does a snort escapes her and she turns her red face away.

                                            "Still got it, hehehe."


                                            ---


                                            >Be the filly.

                                            >Whatever you say, boss...your eyes are stuck shut with the glue of puffy eyes and eyelash-sand.

                                            >You shift your leaden skull off of the surface that it was resting on, only to hear a few quiet 'pings' from your sideways movement.

                                            >Your neck hurts, and your flank feels like you've been sitting pretty on concrete for days.

                                            >Your eyes tear right open as you realize where you're seated.

                                            >You had been up late into the night practicing on a few new instruments.....and perhaps drinking a few pints...

                                            >...of vodka.

                                            >Turns out, with a few vigilant talent-seekers coming through Ponyville and talking between each other the last few months, you've actually been picked up!

                                            >Part of you is excited to become the rockstar, but the rest of you is getting hard to silence.

                                            >While Pur....Twilight is more than proud of you being able to make money, she still insists that you avoid touring and keep living with her, for the time being.

                                            >Hey, it's free rent.

                                            >That stray thought makes you feel pangs of guilt, starting from the tip of your useless little horn and shivering its way to your flanks.

                                            >You hear the intrusive thoughts getting louder: 'She's not just your landlord, she's your friend. Even if she is a little pushy about getting you to socialize. She cares. You piece of shit. You owe her the company at least. Drink some water, you shitfaced horse.'

                                            >Shit, yeah, now you're awake.

                                            >You bop yourself on the side of your snout, before you sit upright and blink the mismatches out of your crossed eyes.

                                            >You shakily manage to nudge yourself off the piano bench and land on all fours, though not without a stumble and a sickly belch.

                                            >Tomorrow night you'll be playing with a small band for a club a few hundred strong. You don't even remember the name of the joint, but you did put a post-it on the vanity in your room. You spare a glance and-

                                            >....

                                            >Let's not look at the vanity again until the show.

                                            >You contemplate a little hair of the dog, but a gentle knock on the door startles you.

                                            >"Anon? You didn't talk or eat dinner last night. Are you alright?"

                                            >Your lips move before you can stop them:

                                            "I'm not a kid. I didn't have dinner OR breakfast back-"

                                            >Your words catch in your throat when you realize you're raising your voice.

                                            >Best to rip off that band-aid and just open the door.

                                            "Sorry..."

                                            >"It's alright. With the stuff you've been recomposing for Ponyville...I can understand the...aggression coming out sometimes."

                                            >You can't tell her the music isn't at fault, because that might open you up to further questions. So you accept her excuse and nod.

                                            "I'm still sorry. But anyway, I'll be alright with what I dra--eh, ate last night."

                                            >Nice save, dickhead.

                                            >"Well...apology accepted. Do you feel like talki-"

                                            "No."

                                            >She stops mid-word, her head dipping down.

                                            >Your heart aches a little.

                                            >Don't be an ass. At least come up with an excuse.

                                            "I-- I mean, no, like, there's nothing really to talk about. I just felt like a drink."

                                            >She looks over your shoulder.

                                            >You are nowhere near tall enough to conceal the interior from her.

                                            >The floor is littered with bottles. She counts at least five bottles beside your piano itself, and a small pile of malt drinks next to your bed.

                                            >You got a magically-sealed cooler and used it to stuff...liter-bottles of vodka and cheap mixers in.

                                            "Perhaps I get a bit....in-character, when I play."

                                            >"Uhhh, huh..."

                                            >You don't know how to feel about this tone, but it's not deadpan or angry.

                                            >She doesn't say anything for a few seconds, but when you look up at her, her horn lights up and you can hear glass clinking.

                                            >"Well, Anon. Why don't we go do something today? I've finished my paperwork for the mayor's office and the stuff left over from this morning can be taken care of by Spike if you want to go anywhere."

                                            >You hum to yourself. You've been able to at least convince one bartender in Creatureville that you're not just a little filly.

                                            >Problem is, he's a griffin, and most of his clientele aren't exactly as calm and kindly as Twilight would appreciate.

                                            >She clearly doesn't like the company you keep, but she keeps her lips sealed about it.

                                            >Let's not...frazzle her too much today.

                                            "Well. We could...go for a little hike in the Everfree. It shouldn't be overly dangerous these days, right?"

                                            >She claps her hooves together with a dull 'clop clop,' wings splayed and her face shining with excitement.

                                            >"Great! I'll pack snacks."

                                            >Your stomach rumbles mere seconds after she's teleported out of earshot.

                                            >You're not sure if you're hungry or you need to find the castle lavatory...

                                            >You stumble out of your room and place all chips on brown.

                                            >Suggesting a hike in your state might have been a mistake.

                                            >Nothing you can do about it now but clean yourself up...


                                            ---


                                            >As you trot along the trail Twilight had paved around the castle's front entrance, the two of you get to lighthearted small-talk about your job.

                                            >There's a lot of budgeting and paperwork, and you're paid based on how much you make for the agency.

                                            >Really, this isn't much different from being a cut rate country musician back home, but despite the snooty Manehattan attitude of your 'guy,' you do appreciate having things to do.

                                            >After some walking, the two of you eat egg-and-daisy sandwiches beside a quietly-roaring rapid, and you enjoy the feeling of mist sometimes brushing your ear while you eat.

                                            >You couldn't tell her what you think of the crowds at this point.

                                            >By now, there's a decent chunk of the Ponyville populace who attend most of your concerts in town.

                                            >You're okay with a few ponies around the park bench, but some of these clubs are really seedy and your tiny filly body simply wasn't made for biker-club looking minotaur or griffin hangouts.

                                            >There seems to be a fair bit of...instability in the audience too, when you play.

                                            >The few who are persistent enough to ask probing questions about you usually get a boilerplate response.

                                            >You don't like to get too personal. This is all just music from back home. Even if...some of it kind of is personal in nature.

                                            >Okay, most of it is.

                                            >You visited a studio the previous day before you came home; you picked out a band of two ponies to work the drums and piano, who are at the moment disposable.

                                            >You silently kick yourself for thinking that thought. They're not disposable. They got horse taxes to deal with too.

                                            >But...it is true, they're only showing up for a couple concerts because the agent wants the accompaniment for some of the songs.

                                            >Otherwise you're mostly stuck to the solo guitar act right now.

                                            >You're getting sick of the guitar.

                                            >You love the sounds it can make...when played right. And you are quite adept at it now.

                                            >But you also feel like a massive tool, even if what you're doing isn't that pretentious.

                                            >Or is it?

                                            "Agh. Shut the fuck uuuup..."

                                            >"Oh, sorry. I'll just..."

                                            "What!? Nonono, sorry, I didn't mean--"

                                            >She quickly shifts from flustered to a more passive concern.

                                            >"Anon....what were you thinking about?"

                                            "Nothing, really. It's stupid."

                                            >"It's not stupid if you're entertaining it in the first place. And especially if you're sounding that angry about it."

                                            >She's got you.

                                            "I don't know. I guess I just wanna do better and I'm not sure I know how. The money's not really that big of a deal even though my agent keeps pushing me to consider money important. At the least, I've paid off the stuff I owe you, at least aside from paying rent--"

                                            >"And you will never, ever have to pay rent around me. Just keep me company once in a while and the debt's zeroed out. Okay?"

                                            "I will, I will."

                                            >Part of you doesn't like the answer you just gave. You don't know why.

                                            >"Anon..."

                                            "What?"

                                            >"That tone of voice says more than the words, you know."

                                            >You glance up at her face, and her stern, yet slightly downtrodden gaze meets yours.

                                            >You feel yourself shrink a little involuntarily.

                                            >"Am I a bad friend?"

                                            >Fuck.

                                            >Panic sets in.

                                            "No I--! Twilight you're great, really! You're doing great, and you are great. You've stuck your neck out for me how many times now? You care, and that's more than I can say for most of the audience at those shows."

                                            >She softens up a little, but seems discontent as she looks forward again.

                                            >"I wish I could get in your head, Anon..."

                                            >You've got to make it up to her. You don't know how but you just do.

                                            >You don't speak for a few minutes. You're simply trying to put how you feel into the right words.

                                            >She's done so much for you.

                                            >You really never deserved her help since going filly. You've been a brat, and an unstable mess at that.

                                            >But she can get so pushy! Sometimes you just wanna stay inside and read some comics, or listen to your home-brewed vinyl records thinking back on your life. Is that so much to ask?

                                            >Thinking back on your life doesn't require half a handle of tequila. She's concerned for you.

                                            >...

                                            >You know what to do.

                                            "Twilight?"

                                            >"Yes?"

                                            "I've got a song I wanna share with you. Personally. No crowd, no record label, just us. I hope that's alright."

                                            >"Of course. Want to head back and 'jam' while we sift through my mail?"

                                            "Sounds perfect. But you'll have to bring it to my room, if that's okay."

                                            >"Why's that?"

                                            "Well I can't rightly carry a piano through that castle, can I? Your paperwork's lighter anyway."

                                            >She chuckles, a wing placed on your back.

                                            >"Alright, fair. But I'm picking up your trash first."

                                            "Oh, alright mom."

                                            >She lets out a little bashful titter, her wing tousling your mane.

                                            >You really don't deserve her.


                                            ---


                                            >You enter the castle behind Twilight and quickly prepare for your music, allowing the princess to grab her paperwork.

                                            >She seems hesitant to let you go, like the second she rounds a corner you'll disappear on her or do something dangerous.

                                            >Despite this, you make it to your room and pick songs out from your mental library.

                                            >Something softer, that much is a given.

                                            >

                                            >Your eyes pan across your room, and immediately regret it.

                                            >Maybe this room was a little bit plain when you moved in with the princess, but now...

                                            >Setting aside the bottles and trash, this place has seen better days.

                                            >You haven't opened the blinds in weeks. There's dust on the windowsill and the top of the headboard. The little sunlight that makes it inside shows that the dust isn't localized to those places either, but floating around freely.

                                            >Your bed hasn't been made since the sheets were washed a month ago. The topsheet is all you really use, especially with summer being the way it is.

                                            >Not wanting your room to worsen Twilight's mood, you decide to change this.

                                            >Pulling the bottom sheet from your bed with your teeth is a frustrating ordeal, but you've done it a few times by now.

                                            >You decide to fold the covers and put them atop the stripped bed for now, and you set the bunched up sheets on the bottle-less side of your bed.

                                            >Knocking some of the dust off the windowsill makes you regret your decisions a little, but after a quick sneeze and dusting off your fetlock with your other hoof, you pull the blinds open.

                                            >The sky is gorgeous and brightly lit with only a few thin clouds in sight. Although...your eyes do ache a little, especially after your hung-over hike.

                                            >Note to self: buy shades for future shows.

                                            >"A-Anon??"

                                            >It seems that she's surprised to see you in the sunlight.

                                            >You don't quite understand why, until you glance toward the reflection in your vanity:

                                            >You're a fucking mess.

                                            >You didn't even shower before that hike. Gross.

                                            "Sorry for the mess. If it makes you feel better...I'll keep the blinds open. And...I'll get a bigger wastebasket."

                                            >She lets out a little sigh, approaching your side and resting her wing on your back again.

                                            >She lifts up your vanity and sets it down to her side so she can use it as a desk for her paperwork.

                                            >The sound of her heavy stack of bills and treatises on the thin, simple space makes you jump.

                                            "Goddamn. Er, anyway. There are a lot of songs that popped into my memory the last few months. And...I'm not used to having a band with me, so some of them don't quite translate as well as the folk punk stuff I started with."

                                            >She doesn't reply, simply following along with you as you come to rest on your piano bench.

                                            >Her wing doesn't leave your spine for a single second.

                                            >"Did you have something specific to share with me?"

                                            "Actually...yeah. This one might be easier to understand if I share a few things with you, so feel free to do what you wanna do."

                                            >She doesn't waste a moment, her magic encompassing every remaining bottle in your room. She lifts her other wing, revealing a trash bag.

                                            >The clanking of glass is...distracting. But in a way it also reminds you why you want to play this song for her.

                                            "There's this film back home. It's called...Willard. The main character is a man in a big, worn down home with his mother. He doesn't...have a lot of friends."

                                            >She listens intently, still maintaining the contact and even leaning a bit closer to you.

                                            "His mom gives him a surprise birthday party, and all the guests are her friends. I hope I don't have to explain that it doesn't feel great. So...he leaves. And he feeds bits of his birthday cake to some rats that he finds there. But his mom just sees rats in the house and tells him to take them away and drown them."

                                            >"That doesn't sound like a story with a happy ending."

                                            "Well...this is merely a small portion of the setup. He hears them squeaking and crying and can't bring himself to do it. He keeps these rats as pets instead. And they are his closest friends."

                                            >She smiles gently, hopefully.

                                            >"Does he learn something about finding friendship from..."

                                            >Her words trail off.

                                            >You shake your head, avoiding her gaze.

                                            "No....no. The story gets...grim. But, one of these rats is named after a philosopher from ancient Greece. Socrates."

                                            >She seems to light up, although it's tempered by her misgivings about this story of yours.

                                            "He was a great man. One of the things he is known for is an allegory. Think of a bunch of ponies, who were from a young age, but not from birth, chained to a wall inside of a deep, dark cave. The only things they can see are shadows from the light outside. But, one day, someone manages to escape their restraints and see the outside world. But they can't understand what he's trying to explain..."

                                            >You chuckle slightly at the schizophrenic ramble you feel like you're on.

                                            "But...another time I could give the whole lesson."

                                            >"Of course, Anon. But, what does all of this have to do with this film? And....how does this relate to the song you wanted to play?"

                                            >You wish you could get into it with this cute mare, but...unfortunately, you're a little low on energy today, especially after going on that hike.

                                            "Maybe I should just skip the preamble and get to the song, huh?"

                                            >"Alright. I understand."

                                            >As you begin to tap at the piano to set the rhythm, you glance around the room, to see almost the entire space is cleared.

                                            >Even your sheets have been teleported out, presumably to the laundry room...

                                            "Thanks again Twilight. For the pickup, for accompanying me...for everything."


                                            >Here goes nothing...


                                            ---


                                            https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PAefYQe9hvc

                                            You know I couldn't hurt a fly, my friend

                                            I'm not the type to step on ants.

                                            I've nearly cried for moths that die at porchlight lamps,

                                            More for the plight of mice than men.


                                            See, I myself have been stepped on so many times,

                                            It's started to feel like my place.

                                            I failed to fit into those nests that scrape the sky.

                                            Is there room for me in your cave?

                                            >You swallow slightly, steeling yourself a little.

                                            >You don't want to fuck this up, not in front of Twilight.

                                            >So you play a brief reprise of the notes to work away the welling of emotions inside you.

                                            >It only takes that verse for her to understand what you're getting at.

                                            >However, the show must go on.


                                            Animals are people too, but these people are animals.

                                            Hunt in packs and act as though it proves they can't survive alone.

                                            And I guess wе just evolved disgust for prevention of infection, though

                                            Shame was an invention made for prisons, pales, and pest control.

                                            Yeah, sure, thumbs are great and all...


                                            But I just get bare necessities,

                                            Hakuna matatas and c'est-la-vies.

                                            Que sera sera's, what a crock, I mean

                                            Big talk for a chimpanzee!


                                            You might seem behind bars, but friend, this cage is inside oouuuut...

                                            It's awful out here, Socrates.


                                            >You can't quite stop yourself from tearing up a little.

                                            >You can't just stop now. There's so much more to say, and you won't accept this private performance unless it's perfect.

                                            >This has been on your chest for far too long.


                                            I've never understood what humans do and want;

                                            It's quite confusing to me to try to connect.

                                            Never learned how I should feel, instincts somehow stunted,

                                            Just seem haunted by my stupid urge to protect.


                                            Until frustration makes me wish my teeth were sharp as yours,

                                            Chew through their garage doors, these carnivores will no more use my heart!

                                            They'll call me crazy but their words all seem made-up to me.

                                            Maybe they just need more friendship like yours!


                                            So gather 'round Pandora's Skinner's Box, look through the one-way mirror.

                                            If you can see in shades of gray the colors are much clearer!

                                            Oh, my friend, you've got a friend in me.

                                            Let's go and make more enemies.

                                            Although my eyes face forward, climb up on my shoulder,

                                            Sure you'll see my point of view, I'd bring you with me


                                            To the office in my pocket, but the world would put us down,

                                            Lock me up and toss the keeee-eeeyyy...

                                            You might seem behind bars, but friend, this cage is inside oooouuut...


                                            It's dangerous out here, Socrates.

                                            It's lonely out here, So-cra-tes...


                                            >You breathe heavily as you play out the small melody at its end, eyes shut and tears streaming down your cheeks.

                                            >Your voice is a lot more ragged than you expected it to get.

                                            >You can't stop a hiccup from coming out, and with that the dam bursts.

                                            >You don't sob loudly. You manage at least a quiet cry, for what that's worth.

                                            >She hugs you closely from your side, gently hushing you.

                                            >She...starts rocking you back and forth in your seat.

                                            >Your eyes open as you stabilize enough for only the occasional shiver.

                                            >"You weren't a pony before. You used to be a human, but you didn't belong there."

                                            >You slowly, reluctantly nod, burying your face in her shoulder.

                                            >"When you came out here, and saw everypony so...peaceful, even sometimes placid and simple, you thought you were...Willard, peering in from the outside, with all the knowledge we lacked. But now, as a unicorn with no magic and no conception of Friendship...you feel as ignorant and lost as the rat must have been. Maybe even moreso."

                                            >You don't respond, simply staying wrapped up in her wings, trying not to make any more of a scene than you already have.

                                            >"I think I understand everything I need to know, Anon. And I hope you know that whatever troubles you, I'll be here to help. Alright?"

                                            >You peer up into her eyes, catching that gentle, sympathetic smile on her face.

                                            >You stay nuzzled up against her for what must have been hours.

                                            >By the time you disconnect, the sun is nearly completely hidden, and the castle and its surrounding clearing is blanketed with an eerie white glow from the moon.

                                            "Thanks Twilight."

                                            >"No, thank you. This is more than you've opened up in a long time...and I think I learned more from that song than from the last year living with you. Let's go out for a bite, how's that sound? Your choice where."

                                            "You know what? Sure. Just...let me take a bath and clean up. I feel even grimier than I did this morning."

                                            >She reaches her hoof over your neck, hugging you tight and squeezing like a heartbeat before she lets you scurry off to the bathroom.