Two Beats

When I first got my job at the factory, I remember trying to find harmony in the sounds. I really did. All of the different parts of a track were there, so it should have been easy. The groaning of the conveyor belt was almost like the lower end of a keyboard, various pistons let out rapping like a snare, and the industrial press even let forth the rhythmic pounding of a bass drum. Even the whirring of drills reminded me of some of the electronic vocals I’d heard before.

It should’ve been easy.

A week into the job, though, I had given up on my search. There was just no order to the noise. It was only the random screaming of machinery. For someone as musically-inclined as myself, there was no greater torture than to be stuck in a room without rhythm.

Six months, two weeks, four days, four hours, and eleven minutes into the job, I fought to stay awake in order to watch the day’s shipment of hydraulic valves pass me by. We had gotten an order for ten thousand of them by some plumbing company or whatever. I didn’t care. All that affected me was that it fell on my shoulders to make sure that all of the valves’ openings were clear and that none of the handles were broken.

Such interesting work; I know.

I couldn’t help myself; I let my eyes wander upward to the high, rusted ceilings of the room I was in. I was looking for some sort of escape, a sign of freedom, anything. That was as pointless as trying to find order in the sounds of the factory. When the building had been built, some bigwig had decided that it would be more cost-effective to have electric lights instead of windows. When I remembered this, I once again came to the conclusion that it would almost be worth the consequences to find out who had ordered that no windows be installed and show him what I thought of the idea.

Then again, prisons didn’t have windows either, which was my problem in the first place.

In lieu of clouds or birds, I counted the light fixtures. Twenty-four halogen bulbs cast a yellow veil on everything. This made it so that I wasn’t working in complete darkness; however, the dimness took on its own oppressive personality. I sighed; it wouldn’t have helped to have decent lighting in there. Everything on the packaging floor where I worked was a shade of grease-blackened gray.

A shrill bell suddenly rang out. I instinctively winced. The sound meant that someone on the assembly line had made a fuck-up. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I couldn’t help but feel that it was--

“CROSSFADE! GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!”

--me.

I shut my eyes for a second, cursing myself. The only thing worse than getting paid a pittance to watch bits of machinery crawl past me for ten hours a day was to get bitched at while watching bits of machinery crawl past me for ten hours a day. I looked around to make sure my path was clear, and the pain of a cramp shot up my neck. My legs were also stiff as I walked over to the end of the conveyor belt to deal with my boss.

“This is the third time you’ve let a defective piece through since you showed up today!” the coal-gray colt shouted at me. I wasn’t sure what intimidated me more: the fact that he was angry, or the fact that he was roughly twice my size. At any rate, I didn’t want to piss him off even more than he already was, so I remained silent as his rage continued burning, “If you don’t want to be here, fine by me, but get the fuck out of my factory!”

“I’m so--”

“And don’t feed me your ‘I’m sorry’ bullshit. Kids like you don’t know half of what that word means.” He paused, and his voice became menacing, “If there’s any more fuck-ups from you, I’ll give you a crash course right out on your ass!”

He minced the phrasing a bit, but my boss’s threat was clear: it was either pay more attention to my job or not have one at all. I needed the job now, but that was just for a few more months. I bit back a stream of retorts for that colt, who had made his living in the factory and wanted to turn around and bully me.

I would’ve succeeded in keeping my cool, but Right Hoof, the company brown-nose, shot me a gloating smile as he stepped away from the line to block my path. “Wooks wike widdle Cwossy can’t even stand awound doing nuffing wight,” he mocked.

“Shut the fuck up,” I said, rising up to his taunt as I shoved my way past him. He repeated the phrase behind my back in a mocking tone, which was even more annoying than his usual smugness. Still, it had felt good to blow off a little steam at someone. As I got back to my spot, the line started back up, and I once again went over all of the reasons that I hated working in that factory. I hated standing still for ten hours a day watching little bits of metal pass me by. It felt too much like a metaphor for watching the hours of my life waste away in that cramped hell-hole.

I hated my co-workers who made me the butt of their jokes because I didn’t want to join in on their mindless fun watching sports at the local bar. I hated my ass-riding boss who obviously didn’t care how tedious the work was; he just wanted me to do it. I hated spending ten hours a day unable to talk about the things I did enjoy. My asshole co-workers would probably mock my passion if they ever learned what it was, so I kept my mouth shut about my music rather than submit it to their idiotic judgment.

I hated being called the name my parents gave me. Depending on which side you asked, I either got kicked out or left their ‘perfect’ little white-picket-fenced world on my fifteenth birthday. I had taken what little equipment and tracks I owned with me and never looked back. Being independent had its advantages, but it also came with responsibilities, like rent and food. No one had wanted to hire anyone at my age, and I hadn’t done myself much of a favor on that front by leaving school. That was why I was stuck working in that Celestia-forsaken factory in the first place.

Speaking of...

I hated the factory itself. I hated the windowless cell we were all packed in. I hated the smell of grease mixed with molten steel that seemed to cling to my mane and tail no matter how much I washed them. I hated how, no matter what I tried to do to entertain myself, time stood still in that place. Most of all, I hated how loud the place was. The clubs I played in were loud, but there was more than volume in their walls. There was no soul in the sounds of the factory. There was only noise.

Mentally ranting didn’t really help my situation any, but it gave me a bit of inner peace. It was enough to let me grin bitterly to myself. The gesture felt foreign in that oppressive place. None of this will matter once I hit it big, I thought. It was the first cheerful thing that entered my mind since I had woken up that morning, and I clung to it for the rest of my internment that day.

*        *        *

I powered on the music and the whole room came to life.

Earlier that night, the club owner had given me a bit of a hassle about my age. I was saved by a stranger who recognized my costume. The black “wetsuit” was actually skintight latex, meaning was a bitch to get into before every performance. Then, I was stuck in it until the show was over. It was a huge part of my image, and that night, I had to thank it for guaranteeing me the gig.

As for the stranger, he had offered me a ‘little tablet of musical ecstasy.’ I usually liked to keep my head clear for a show, but E wasn’t that bad, all things considered. It was better than stumbling around like a moron on booze.

The first track of the night was always what I chose. After that, I read the crowd and gave them what they wanted. Everyone was living through the music. Some ponies couldn’t keep the beat with their hooves, but I’d be damned if they weren’t making a good effort.

I was playing for the whole club from the back on a table-turned-stage. I didn’t mind being there, either. From where I was, I got to watch the crowd’s reaction to the music. My tinted visor dulled some of them, but the club was still lit with bright neon colors. Plus, now everything was made more vibrant by the drug that was in me.

By intermittent laser light, I saw the outlines of booths that lined the walls. I smiled; there were hardly any ponies sitting at them. Tonight, everyone was on my dance floor.

A spiky-maned colt came and asked me to mix two tracks. My first request of the night. When I heard the titles, I thought he was nuts. The more I thought of it, though, the more I got an idea of how to mix them. A few tracks later, the crowd’s vibe was perfect for his mix.

I called out the titles, put the discs on the turntable, and the magic began.

I started with the quieter of the two tracks. It was slower than the previous temp I had built. There was a moment of confusion when the crowd didn’t know how to react to the change of pace. I grinned as I moved the slider over to the left and the louder track kicked in. Both songs built up in unison, and when the bass dropped simultaneously, a few ponies cheered. The mixing wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but I definitely saw the colt who requested it stand up on his back legs and scream, “YES!”

It was moments like that that I lived for. When his song was over, he came over and leaned on the table. “Holy fuck, that was amazing!” he shouted over the new song I was playing.

I could barely hear him. I pulled a headphone away from my ear and kept up the mixing with one hoof. “Thank you kindly, but watch the stage,” I called back. I couldn’t be mad at him, but I didn’t want several thousand bits’ worth of my equipment falling over, either.

“So sorry, so sorry,” he yelled back, sheepishly.

He took a few steps back and I nodded at him, “No worries my man. I’m glad you liked it!”

He nodded back and hollered, “Peace!” He then went back to the filly he had been dancing with that evening. I let the headphone snap back into place and went back to my tracks.

The rest of the night went by in a blur of lights and musical euphoria. Many more requests came in after the first, and I filled all of them. I didn’t have any major flubs, either. Sure, there was a mix where I hit the fader a bit too far, throwing off the sound; I also got the volume completely wrong during part of a single track. No one really noticed, though.

By the time I finished the show, the club was pretty desolate. Even my spiky-maned friend had left with his filly. I started packing up my equipment and the club owner came over. “You’ve got talent, kid, I’ll give you that,” he admitted.

“Thanks,” I tried to keep the rasp out of my voice. I hadn’t had a drink since before I showed up at the club, almost five hours ago. As the edges of everything streaked into colorful blurs, I was reminded of why I was even thirstier than usual.

“You booked anywhere tomorrow?” the owner continued. I shook my head and he asked, “Why not leave that shit here, then, and come back tomorrow, same price?”

“Cool,” was all that I said. Inside, I was jumping for joy. I hopped down from the table and onto the floor. The club owner handed me a sack of bits: my pay for the night. I shook his hoof before heading over to the bar. My first order of business was a drink. Then, despite the adrenaline and drugs that left me wired, it would be time for bed.

The bartender put a drink on the counter and pushed it towards me when I showed up. I smelled the fire in it, so I pushed it back. “Nothing personal, girl, but all I’m looking for is some water right now.” She gave me a shrug, grabbed the drink, and downed it in a single gulp.

“I guess I’ll have to remember that for next time,” came a voice to my right. I turned to face its source and met a pair of vibrant blue eyes. I caught a wink from their owner, a pony the color of grass. “I bet you can’t wait to get out of that suit.”

So, it’s gonna be one of those nights, I thought with satisfaction.

It didn’t matter too much to me, but the pony at the bar was pretty good-looking. The bartender put a second glass on the table, and I drank its cool relief before responding. “It takes some nimble hooves to get me out of this getup, though.”

I heard an exasperated sigh from the bartender, but my interest was solely on my side of the bar right then and there.

“Well, I’ll certainly give it a try,” came the green pony’s reply. With an answer like that, there wasn’t any reason to beat around the proverbial bush.

I turned to the rest of the club and met the owner’s gaze. “Same time tomorrow,” I called out. The club owner nodded at my words at first. When I put my forearm around the green pony, he gave me a weird look. He probably thought I was ‘too young’ or whatever, the same way my mom used to be. He was letting me play his venue and I was grateful for that, but fuck him. My night, my business.

Together, we went out into the street proper. Walking was difficult because my ‘evening acquaintance’ was leaning on me and nuzzling my neck through the latex. Luckily, I didn’t live too far from the club; it was obvious I wasn’t the only one who wanted to get back to my place.

We got three steps through my 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 peeled the ‘hood’ of my costume back over my forehead. Right after, I felt my visor being lifted from my eyes.

There was a pause in the action, so I filled it with a question, “So, you got a name?”

“Do you, Astrosurf?”

“Touché,” I smiled. The way I spelled my stage name threw off some fans. I got off the wall and undid the zipper that ran down to my navel. After I pulled myself free of the elastic skin, I left it in the hallway. I beckoned to my guest, and we went to my bedroom.

I was drenched in sweat and my room was a mess, but it didn’t matter. I felt myself being shoved onto my bed. I barely had enough time to get on my back before I was leaped upon. As we ran our lips over each others’, panting, I decided to take charge of the situation. I rolled us over and began kissing more aggressively.

I didn’t stay on top for very long, though. In one fluid motion, I was flipped over again and pushed farther back onto my bed. My partner used the same motion to move farther down my anatomy, so instead of kissing my mouth...

Damn.

The pulsing heat I now felt made it very difficult to think of anything but what was happening. As my head rolled as part of an involuntary shudder, my alarm clock came into view. 3:46. When I saw it, I remembered what was in my bedside stand.

I reached over to the drawer and pulled out a little tin that used to hold breathmints, but now it held my own personal stash. I pulled out a tablet out and offered it, straining to keep the pleasure out of my voice, “Y-you want one?”

In response, my partner climbed up me and licked the tablet off my hoof. I tasted myself on the following kiss as the drug was pushed into my mouth. As the second hit of the night dissolved on my tongue, everything sped up a bit more and the world became sharper while taking on a sort of liquid feel.

My partner slid back down, and things on the lower half of me picked up about where they left off. I finally couldn’t hold back anymore. I dug my shoulders into the bed as I took in a deep breath, and I lost my mind in a wave of ecstasy.

*        *        *

I woke up the following morning with a killer headache and thighs on either side of my face. Everything came back to me as I remembered everything I had done last night and just how I had ended up in that position. As far as ‘mornings after’ went, it wasn’t the worst I had ever experienced; still, I didn’t really prefer waking up to the sight and smell of genitals. I lifted a leg off my shoulder and slid off my bed, onto the floor. I was exhausted, but I still looked over at the clock.

8:07.

Fuck.

I jumped into the bathroom to see if I was at least presentable. My eyes were bloodshot from the lack of sleep, and my cheeks and chin were shiny with... I shook the thought out of my head. It was probably best not to think about what my face was covered in. Instead, I rinsed my face off, scribbled a quick note to my guest, and ran out the door.

I made it to the factory in near-record time, but I was still over ten minutes late for my shift. The only thing I could think to do was to slip onto the floor and hope none of the supervisors were there yet. I could play the ‘lost timecard’ bit especially well today: I had left it at home on my kitchen counter.

As I walked past Steel Mill, the filly who put the valves into boxes, she glared at me. “You fucking owe me, showing up fifteen minutes late,” she said, giving me a handful of defective valves.

My hero. “Sorry, Mills. I was just--”

Her nose wrinkled as she took in a breath, and she actually retched. Holding a hoof over her face, she waved me to move away from her. “I don’t care who or what you were with last night, but you need a fucking...” she hesitated before putting it a different way: “You need a shower.”

I stepped back, a little bit hurt. She was a cute filly, and wouldn’t treat me like that unless she were serious. Part of me wondered if she were jealous of the green pony, but then I remembered that Mills had flat-out turned me down a few months ago.

Anyway, now that I wasn’t worried about being late, I began to notice how grimy I felt: I was still moist with sweat, and now the skin under my mane felt itchy and dry. About the same time, I realized that being late had bought me fifteen minutes of time away from the industrial prison, but I still had nine hours and... forty-four minutes left until I could leave. Then again, I would probably need to use my lunch break to head home and take a shower, but still, that would be... four hours and forty-four minutes.

I walked over to my station, and I immediately felt a fog of boredom roll over me. I put the defective valves into my scrap box and sighed as I fought to keep my eyes open. Watching the valves pass me by was mind-numbingly boring. Fighting through a haze of sleep-deprivation, I figured an active mind might make things better. I started checking them off in my mind. Good. Good. Good. Good. Bad! I reached out and put the broken valve into the box. The next valve was good. So was the next one. And the next one.

My eyelids were heavier than stones, but I managed to make it through the first few hours without drifting off to sleep. Around ten, my boss showed up on my left. I figured it was a good sign: there was something that could be taken care of without stopping the line. “G’morning,” I said, failing to keep all of my tired misery out of my voice.

“You forgot to clock in when you got here,” he replied. My boss wasn’t pleased, but he wasn’t especially angry either.

I hit my forehead on the metal side of the conveyor belt. It was all for show, but when I stood back up, I grabbed a defective valve and put it in the scrap box. “I left my card at home,” I said in an apologetic tone. The next eight valves looked fine, so I turned to face him.

My boss looked at me, then my box, and then back at me. “I’d bust yer ass if you didn’t already look like hell,” he said. His tone was... soft, sad almost.

“Is everything ok, boss?” I asked, turning back to my valves.

A hoof struck the back of my head and I saw stars when I blinked. “Don’t push yer luck, kid. Just mind the damn valves,” he replied tersely. As he walked away, he shouted, “And get a shower! You smell like fuck!”

I try to be nice, I thought while rubbing the back of my head. He didn’t hit his employees very often, but it wasn’t meant to hurt anyone, just to snap us back in line. Everyone got a thumping from time to time; part of me realized I should’ve felt a bit of camaraderie from the gesture.

I figured he was right about his parting orders, though. If I were a complete smartass, I would’ve taken his advice literally and gone to the janitors’ locker room, but the back of my head was still tingling, so I figured it was best to ‘not push my luck.’

I glanced up at the clock. 10:14. I counted eighty-two ‘good’ valves before I found one with a dented opening. I looked back at the clock: 10:19. Fuck! I screamed in my head as I glared at the second good valve in a row. Then the third. Then the fourth...

At 10:57, Right Hoof showed up. As he walked behind me, he felt like he had to comment on my lack of hygiene that morning. “UGH!” he shouted with melodramatic disgust, “Do they even have showers at your shack?”

The barb hit me a bit deeper than it should have, so the best thing to do was to not let him see it bother me. Instead of telling him to get fucked, I kept watching for defective valves. Yes, I lived in the poorer part of the city. Still, it wasn’t that I didn’t have enough money to live somewhere else; it was that I had priorities. My equipment was expensive, both to buy and keep up-and-running. I didn’t have the luxury of a nicer apartment.

Probably the only unnecessary thing I did own was that little tin of mind-openers, but after a long day in the factory, if I didn’t play at a club I definitely needed to go to one. Yes, there was no substitute for being in control of a whole crowd’s mood and having them dance to the beat of my tracks, but the E helped to experience the music on a higher level.

Finally, there was about ten minutes left before my lunch break. I made my plan. I had thirty minutes, and it would take about twenty minutes to make the round trip if I wasn’t galloping at full-speed. That left ten minutes for me to shower and eat. I didn’t feel especially hungry, but that was an after-effect of the drugs. If I didn’t eat now, I would be uncomfortably hungry when my appetite returned, which would probably be during the last few hours of my shift.

The factory was already an expert at the task, it didn’t need any help making me miserable.

When the lunch bell rang, I bolted out of the factory as quickly as I could. I didn’t want to get sweaty by running on the way back, but I figured I could shave a bit of travel time if I ran home while I had nothing to lose, hygiene-wise.

I got to my apartment complex and hit the stairs, taking them two at a time. In one fluid motion, I shoved my key into the hole, turned the knob, and spun around the door. I was ready to make a mad dash for the bathroom and--

“Welcome back,” a sexy voice from the kitchen made me all but jump out of my skin.

I turned with a bit of agitation to my prolonged guest. I was used to ponies being clingy and wanting to hang around with me day after, but I really didn’t want to have that conversation right now. Biting back exasperation, I replied, “Hey.”

“I was wondering when you were going to get home, all your note said was that you were ‘out.’”

And that’s exactly where you need to be right now. “Er, yeah, I’m not sticking around,” I said. I went over to my fridge; if I was going to waste time talking, I might as well get the ‘eating’ part of my trip done.

“I’m not used to anyone trusting me alone in their house,” the green pony continued, as if on a mission to completely creep me out.

“Don’t think too much into it,” I shot back. I pulled out a jar of jelly and started spreading it over a slice of bread. “I was in a hurry when I woke up, and didn’t want to waste time waking you up to kick you out is all.”

At first, there was no verbal response to this. Instead, my long-overstayed guest got off my chair, walked over to me, and took a bite out of my lunch. I stood there with my mouth open, apparently an invitation to have my sandwich spat back in my mouth through a kiss.

“I’ll see you tonight then, Crossfade.” The door shut behind... whoever the hell that was, and I almost screamed. I did not like for fans to know my ‘legal’ name, and the way that it was said to me like it had been an unprecedented effort of detective skills to read the time card I had stupidly left on the counter just...

Ugh!

I spat the sandwich out on the floor. When I realized that I was going to have to clean that up, I threw the rest of my half-sandwich at the sink in a rage. I hadn’t been hungry to begin with, but now, I couldn’t even force myself to eat.

At least a shower would take care of the physical discomfort I felt from being... sticky, was the best word for it. My costume was tight; I had to dust up with talcum powder in order to get into it in the first place. I guessed I had it better than a pegasus or something, because I didn’t have to bother with wings, but still: four hours of being in that suit did not a dry Crossfade make. Last night, that sweat had mixed with the powder, and it still hadn’t quite dried all the way.

As a precaution, I latched the door before heading deeper into my apartment to get a shower. The hot water was out again, so when I was done, I felt less ‘clean’ and more ‘like I had been repeatedly stabbed.’

With both of my tasks finished as well as I could manage, it was time for me to go back to the factory. Unlike that morning, I remembered to grab my time card before heading out the door. I made it back to the factory with a few minutes to spare. While I waited at the time clock with the rest of my shift, I shot a hateful glare at the second-hand. It was moving far too quickly now, and I knew as soon as I got down to the floor, it would slow down to an unbearable pace.

When 1:30 rolled around, everyone punched in. I got to my station two minutes later, so there were only four hours and twenty-eight minutes left to my shift. The valves literally started to come by slower than they had earlier that morning. Some union rep probably realized we were going to finish work too early, so now we had to slow down. I actually started laughing at how ridiculous it was. Twelve bits out of three-hundred every week, and that was what it boiled down to: being bored at a slower rate.

The boredom got so bad that I started picking each valve up, looking at it closely, and then putting it back in a way that Right Hoof would find easier to snap his pressure meters on. Ten minutes after I started, he finally commented on what I was doing.

“What do you want, fuckhole?”

I reeled at the implication. There aren’t enough psychedelics in Equestria to make me that crazy, I thought with disgust. I was about to blow him off entirely when I figured there was a single point of interest that I had discovered that morning. A brown-noser such as Right Hoof would know, too. “What’s up with the boss?”

“What do you care?” he shot back. I couldn’t see him for the mechanical console between us, but he sounded shocked and defensive.

“Same reason I’m dicking with the valves for you, loser. Sheer. Fucking. Boredom.”

There was silence for almost a whole minute before he replied. “You didn’t hear it from me, but someone broke into his house last night. Right when he was asleep, too. Took everything that wasn’t nailed down.”

“Shit,” I said, genuinely impressed.

Right Hoof scoffed before answering, “Like you have anything worth stealing, you piece of shit.”

I was still bored enough that I didn’t stop positioning the valves for him, but I didn’t say anything in response, either. The boss’ story struck a note with me, though, and I vowed that I would look into getting a better lock for my place. My equipment wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t the cheapest on the market, either. I couldn’t afford insurance, either, so I’d be fucked if I had to re-buy everything. It was safe enough overnight at the club, but that was only an option while they continued to hire me.

The remaining two hours and thirty-six minutes passed at an agonizingly slow pace. Finally, the bell rang to signal the end of the day. It being Friday, I rejoiced at the prospect of being free from that dungeon for two days. It was also payday, which was nice. Between rent and groceries, the bag of bits wouldn’t last very long, but that wasn’t what was on my mind right then.

Back at my apartment complex, I was glad to see that no one was waiting in the hallway like desperate luggage. Once inside my place, the three hours of sleep from last night hit me. I decided to take a nap. First, though, I picked the sandwich out of the sink and ate it. It kind of tasted like soap, but it was still edible. I grabbed a napkin and picked the partially-chewed mess off the floor, too. I finished my dinner by drinking a tall glass of water; after that, I head down the hall to my bedroom for some sleep.

*        *        *

Ringing woke me up. I thought it was morning at first, but it was too dark. 9:30 was dangerously close to show-time, but I was thirsty. I took another drink of water. After that, I showered again.

I was clean, but my costume wasn’t. I got my cleaning supplies out. Then, careful around the wiring of the LEDs, I flipped it inside-out. I soaked up what sweat was still there before wiping everything down with a damp sponge. I flipped it right-side-out and gave the outside of my costume the same treatment.

When my suit was dry, I put some fresh batteries into the box in the neck. Everything else was ready for the night, so I powdered up and got into my ‘4stro$RF’ outfit.

I thought about it for a second and figured that it had brought me some luck the night before, so why not? I went back to my bedstand and swallowed a tablet before heading out for the night.

I made my way downstairs. Some moron on the stairs stopped and stared at me. I paid her no mind. There was nothing that could get my spirits down, not this close to a show. Once outside, I made my way to the club.

I entered through the revered side door of the place. It was empty and quiet. The doors opened at 11:00, that would deal with the emptiness. I smiled as I started planning the mixes that I would use when I got the chance: that would take care of the volume. I was literally shaking with excitement over the prospect of the evening.

Two gruff-looking colts were moving my equipment over to the stage. I was thankful that the club owner had let me stash the stuff there overnight. Even with a cart, it was a bitch to move several hundred pounds of equipment on my own.

I went over and started flipping through my box of vinyl disks. I saw one that I hadn’t played in a while and decided it was my opener. I kept looking through the box for inspiration, though. With all the ideas I already had, I could already feel that it was going to be a great night.

The colts 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 said with a grin. One of them chuckled and the other shrugged, but they both left me to my own devices. I hooked up all the cables, a familiar process. After I was done, I played a few different notes on different speakers. Everything was ready.

When it was time, the crowd filed in through the doors. The club owner got up next to me. Grabbing the mic, he told the crowd, “Get your hooves ready, DJ Astrosurf is in the club tonight!”

On cue, I started my track. It was a good starter, too: a very short build-up to a huge bass drop. Ponies’ reactions told me I had made the right choice. From there, I moved on to a mix. Then another single. Someone made a request during it. They got lucky: it was the perfect time, so they got it right away.

All in all, it was a great night. True, I rarely had bad nights when I was playing. Still, that night stood out in my memory as exceptionally good. The crowd loved my tracks and reacted perfectly to them. If I made any mistakes, I couldn’t remember them.

When 3:00 finally rolled around, I finished strong with the heaviest track I knew of. There were a lot more ponies there at the end than there had been the night before. I recognized the spiky-maned colt; he had made another request that night. I had filled it to the best of my abilities, and he had loved it.

The crowd wanted more. I looked over to the club owner, and he made a slashing motion across his throat. Fair enough; his club, his rules. I shouted on the mic, “Thank you all, you’ve been wonderful!”

I was met with cheering.

After things died down enough, I started taking things apart again. Part of the gesture was that it was polite, part of it was that I hadn’t been promised anything after that night. The club owner came over again with my night’s pay. “Sorry to cut you off like that, but the way you spin tracks, we’d be here until six in the morning.”

“No worries,” I answered. I was thirsty again; I kept my answers short.

He smiled at me with a twinge of regret. “I’ve got a guy for weekends, usually. He was out tonight, but he’s back tomorrow,” he said. “You got a card, though?”

It felt like getting punched in the gut, not being asked back. “I do not, I’m afraid,” I responded. It was tough to keep my voice upbeat. It was better than bitching about not getting hired, though.

He handed me a piece of scrap paper and a pen. “Write your address down, I’ll send out a letter if I hear anything or get an opening.” I did. Reading it, the owner’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything.

That was probably for the best, all things considered. “Thanks,” I said back. I put my hoof out. He shook it, nodding back at me.

The workers started taking my stuff apart. I let them while I went over to the bar. “Water, right?” the bartender asked curtly. I nodded. She was good about serving it, at least; she used one of the big glasses. “Such a shame you’re not coming back,” she added with an edge as she put it on the counter.

I drank my water as quickly as I could. It was hard to drink over the lump I now felt in the back of my throat. “Thanks for the water, and have a good weekend,” I said as cheerfully as I could. I put the half-finished glass on the counter before turning away.

I went to the back room of the club and got what used to be a luggage rack at some fancy hotel. I took it to the table, and the colts helped me load it up. A few minutes later, with all of my equipment and records secure, I pushed my rack through the club, out the door, and headed back to my apartment.

It was definitely a surprise to see someone standing under the lamp near my apartment. As I got closer, I recognized who it was, and bit back a scream.

I did not want company that night.

“They didn’t ask you back a third night?” the green pony asked.

Small talk or no, it bugged me to state the obvious, especially when the obvious... hurt. “Nope,” I said as neutrally as I could while I moved to the front of my cart to open the door.

“Need a hoof with that?”

I paused for a moment. It was an extremely awkward task to maneuver the cart up the stairs by myself. If it had been daytime, I would’ve even paid the kid in 12-B to help me get it up the stairs. However, I had a feeling that this pony would accept my asking for help as an invitation back into my apartment.

I decided I wasn’t in the mood for sex, but fuck it. I was less in the mood to unload the cart, piece by piece, and then carry everything up the stairs. “Sure,” I said with a tone of begrudged thanks.

We got it up to my place, and I pushed the cart into my kitchen. My now-returned guest latched the door. I closed my eyes in mild frustration while I peeled my hood back. I contemplated taking a tablet out of my tin, but fuck that. Those things were 7 bits per, I didn’t feel like wasting money on something I didn’t want to do in the first place.

I stepped out of my costume and took of my visor to reveal an expression I guessed meant ‘aroused.’ It must’ve been good enough; we made our way down the hallway with locked lips.

We ended up on my bed and spent at least ten minutes there, panting and vertical. I suppose I was physically getting turned on by the action, but it wasn’t enough. It finally got bad enough where I sat up, ending the façade.

“What’s wrong?” my disappointed partner asked.

“I’m not feeling it tonight,” I answered truthfully.

“Wh... sorry, I can do better!” came a defensive retort.

I was taken aback at this. “What? No, it’s not you. It’s...” I paused. “I don’t know what it is,” I lied.

“You hate your day job?”

That gave me pause. True, I was more sad about things turning out like they had at the club, but this pony had voiced a pretty accurate truth. For a second, I forgot about the club as I thought about the factory. Was it the only thing I hated in my life? No, there was more than that. I hated... everything, outside of performing. When I wasn’t working at the factory, my nights were usually empty blurs of drug-fueled dancing. The colts and fillies I took home generally accepted the rule of ‘one and done,’ which was probably for the best.

My continued silence was taken for a ‘yes.’ I flinched as I felt myself being brought into a hug. It was completely foreign to me: a compassionate, slow embrace, not something hot and dirty. “So, why put up with it if you hate it so much?”

I thought about that for a minute. I hated everything but playing in clubs, but I couldn’t do that without equipment, which cost money. I also needed a secure place to store it, and to eat... I wasn’t making enough from my shows to fully support myself, yet.

Even though I was facing away from my partner, I shut my eyes. “Because I need to. Otherwise, I’d never feel alive,” I admitted in a whisper.

I couldn’t help myself; I started to cry. I was a wreck. How pathetic did I have to be for some stranger to pick up on this? I had been acting the 4stro$RF persona, but in less than two days, this pony had seen through my confident act, through all the bullshit.

I didn’t even know their name.

“Who are you?” I asked between sobs, rolling over to face the green pony.

I felt a brief moment of clarity as the breath caught in my throat. There was nobody else on the bed with me.

I had been completely alone.

I scrambled away from the empty spot where someone should have been, as if it was somehow cursed. My breath returned in quick, pained bursts. On the bedstand to my right, I saw the tin of drugs. I opened it out of curiosity, not craving.

It was empty.

I blinked tears out of my eyes, but it didn’t stop the sense of self-loathing that washed over me. I had gotten my usual twenty tablets only last week. They were supposed to last me for the whole month, and I had gone through them in nine days. I threw the tin against the wall; it didn’t help, but it at least got the thing away from me.

Thirst gripped my throat like an assassin. I wanted water. I clamored out into the hallway, and shouted in terror when there was someone was in the kitchen waiting for me. A second later, I realized it wasn’t a pony, just my costume. Stupid... thing! I thought incoherently as I wrapped my lips around the sink in a desperate kiss.

Water helped by at least taking the edge off the sheer panic I was feeling. When I pulled away from the sink, I could sort of rationally think again. I didn’t usually like to think about my life’s direction too much, but there was something about hallucinating a whole fucking one-night-stand that forced my hoof at that point.

What had I done to myself? I thought. It started a purely physical question involving the mechanics of the previous night, but I shook the image from my mind. My problems didn’t stem from an excess of flexibility.

I didn’t really have friends, but some ponies in the crowd I hung around told horror stories about addicts who did the craziest things while high. The realization hit home pretty hard, that I was exactly the type of pony I had used to mock over not having self-control.

I had done some pretty dumb things growing up, but I had convinced myself that I was done making stupid mistakes when I got my own place. Now, I had messed my life up pretty severely, and had no one to blame except myself.

Myself...

I went over to the kitchen counter and picked up the factory time card with the name of who I used to be: Crossfade. Childish. Stupid. Nobody.

I looked over at the costume, what I wanted to be: 4stro$RF. Famous. Talented. Loved.

I thought about the little tin that was now on the floor in my bedroom. It was what I had become.

Fake. Empty. Pathetic.

I collapsed in tears on the kitchen floor, hating myself more and more with each sob.

By the time I was finished, I still didn’t know what to do with my life. I had talent as a DJ, I knew that much. There wasn’t a vinyl record emblazoned on my ass for nothing. To put it in music terms, then, the two tracks of my life weren’t mixing together to form a rhythm.

It was just noise.

I walked over to the trash can. I needed the factory to live if I couldn’t get enough work doing shows. At my age, it was either factory work or...

I didn’t want to be a prostitute. I wasn’t a ‘pure and innocent’ anymore by any measure of the term, but...

I sighed, shaking my head. The fact of the matter was, I either needed to stop hitting the clubs or quit working at the factory. Both of them were how I managed to live. Both of them were how I was going to end up killing myself.

I looked at the punch card as I held it over the trash can. Dropping it in wouldn’t be permanent, I knew: I could dig it out or get another one issued. I promised myself that if I dropped it in, then that would be it: I would go all out trying to get gigs around the city and hope to Celestia that I didn’t end up dying out on the streets.

If I kept it, though, I’d sell all of my equipment. I’d put the money in the bank and start saving up for a few years. When I was old enough to get a decent job with decent hours, I’d come back to DJ-ing. It was easily the safer route. It was the route that the rational part of me had been screaming to do since I left my parents’ house in the first place.

Maybe if I turned my life around, Mills would actually give me a chance. I had no guarantee of winning her affection by turning my life around, but for the first time since it happened, I saw why she had shot me down as hard as she had.

In my hoof, I held two choices: keep the job or throw it away. Responsibility or passion. Someone like Mills, or a multitude of green ponies.

Crossfade or 4stro$RF.

Two lives. Two beats.

I shut my eyes and made my choice.