Author's Note
I originally wrote this story on October 9th, but it was rejected for not having much to do with the MLP universe. Two and a half months later I've decided to fix that story up, putting it into the perspective of the show, to get it approved at last, just so I can get this unlisted thing live. Here is the original version, should anyone be interested.
Original Author's Notes:
This was put together in a day to give myself a little kick after not writing anything for weeks. Because of that, I'm not really expecting a lot here. Hope you enjoyed it, though!
When A Blind Bag Cries
I’m number eighteen. Or at least that’s what the piece of paper I’ve been standing on for the past several months says. And that piece of paper gives me the terrific name of “Twilight Sky”.
What am I? Some might say, “that friendly stallion from the neighborhood.” Some might simply say, “pony”. The most common answer you would get, however, is, “a toy”. A piece of plastic, mass-produced in a far away country where employees only get a fraction of what society around here would consider average salary.
I’m not special. I’m not unique. I’m just a bunch of fixed atoms, forming the shape of a collector’s desire. And even for that collector I’m still close to non-existing.
There are many plastic ponies here—all carefully organized with a corresponding card. Some even still have their aluminum package and safety instructions. Heh, safety instructions for an immobile toy one only stares at.
The cards—each having a recolored picture of another figure’s card on it, a line that gives insight to the pony’s special talent or hobbies, and, of course, the name—are the only connections we have to ourselves—if you don’t want to go to a scientific level, that is. They give us a title and a personality. They make us different from the rest.
I may have a name and a personality, but in the end I’m still a step away from the abyss of nothingness.
We all come down to the same basic concept: plastic toys intended for little children. But even that could be considered false; toys are something you play with, not stare at and put into a box with dozens of other toys.
But I think I’m making my situation sound a little more tragic than it really is. At least that’s what I think. And hope.
Instead of one amongst dozens, I’m only one amongst three. And I’m also not cramped into a box with a countless number of other figures; I’m standing on a shelf, between two other pony figures, both with their card under them, like mine. However, I know they are much more special than I am.
The one to my right is named Rainbow Dash, a light-blue pegasus pony with a crudely-colored rainbow mane, and a cloud with a rainbow-colored lightning bolt coming from it for her cutie mark. It’s funny, because the picture on her card shows that she has that mark at least on her left side, when here she only has it on her right one. Her card says, “Loves to help her friends!”
The other one to my left is Twilight Sparkle. We may both share Twilight as a first name, but she’s nothing like me. She’s a purple unicorn, crafted with a much higher quality than Rainbow Dash; her mane is almost perfectly painted, and—unlike Rainbow Dash and myself—she even has a shiny plastic gem stone as cutie mark! Not just some simple printed-on picture. The card she stands on says, “Loves learning!”
How do I know they are special? Both of their cards show some really well known numbers: three and three. They come from different waves, which also explains why their cards look a little different in comparison. Anyway, I know that low numbers mean more demand, and usually also more rarity. From what I’ve understood, they are part of a group called Mane Six.
I, however, am number eighteen. I’m a light-grey earth pony stallion with a light-blue mane. My cutie mark is three white stars. Why I have all these magic references without even being a unicorn is beyond me. My one-of-a-kind line reads, “Loves guessing games.” Not even an exclamation mark—shows how highly my creators thought of me.
So, if I, apparently, like guessing games so much, here’s one for you: why am I the only one standing between two of the most demanded pony figures? What makes me any more special than any of the other throw-aways?
Of course, one could assume I was simply the result of my owner picking a random blind bag—that’s what they, and us three, are called—and didn’t want to put his two and a half bucks to waste. However, I know that’s not the case, as he used a guide to pick exactly the three of us before he even opened the bags. He chose me.
Was it because I am so out of the line? I know stallions are rarer than mares, but I doubt that’s the reason. Was it because I’m so connected to magic without being a unicorn? Could be, but I don’t think so either. No, I much rather think because it’s because of her: Twilight Sparkle.
We were both purchased on the same day and we both come from the same wave. We also share a similar cutie mark—hers being five small, white stars surrounding a big magenta one. Not too far away from my three white ones. That, combined with our similarity in names, makes us like siblings!
… Like siblings…
This, in theory, would actually be a nice revelation of the situation; but I know the real reason behind it. I’m more like Twilight Sparkle’s fake brother she can’t have, because he doesn’t exist—Shining Armor.
He is her real brother, though he doesn’t exist as blind bag yet. But he has white fur and also a blue mane. I think the real reason I’m here is because I’m the one to come closest to him.
One would think that this makes me the special one! The one my owner chose despite of my imperfections of the real Shining Armor! But it’s exactly that that bothers me: I’m an imperfection. So close, yet so far. In that regard I’m actually more unworthy than any of the other blind bags. A pathetic attempt to replace what doesn’t exist. But I know it’s only a matter of time before even that last connection to a reason gets cut as well, and that’s when my producers actually make a real Shining Armor blind bag.
What then? What purpose do I serve when my position between these two high-classed pony figures becomes even more redundant than it already is? When I get replaced by the one I’ve been impersonating ever since I’ve been put on this shelf?
Part of me wishes that this day would actually come soon, to be put me out of my hybrid melancholy. But that wouldn’t cure the scars of the past. And even then the connections between myself and Twilight Sparkle could be made. It doesn’t take much to know I’ve been around longer than her real plastic brother.
That would actually make my situation even more tragic than it is right now, so I chose to hope that’s going to be a day that never comes instead. I would be cramped away in a box like all the other blind bags, but unlike them I wouldn’t be a true, completely neutral pony without any connections to the other ones. No, that past would be stuck with me for all eternity.
Sometimes I like to imagine what Twilight Sparkle thinks. Does she know why I’m here? Does she know why she is here? She may have been standing next to me for countless months, unmoving, but the nature of plastic… makes it kind of hard to communicate, let alone move, you know? All we can do all day is stare at this wall and watch our owner occasionally pass by—who, at this point, doesn’t really seem to pay much attention to us anymore.
And all the time we have a wide smile plastered to our face. Every time someone would look at us, they’d say, “Aww, would you look at those cute ponies! They just enjoy their happy lives in their peaceful homeland and play all day!” Har har, yeah, playing while your legs have been in the same position they’ve been since they were made.
Then there is Rainbow Dash. I must admit, I sometimes use her as an excuse to tell myself my situation isn’t so sad. She didn’t come from a bag our owner purchased. No, she was bought over the internet, already unwrapped. She also came a few weeks after Twilight Sparkle and me. Most importantly, however, is that she is from a completely different wave. As such, she’s much older than us. Her quality, as I’ve already mentioned before, is also much lower than ours.
And because of those differences I like to think that she’s having an even worse fate, being more of an outsider than myself. But it remains at that thought for only a moment whenever I think about it, before I remind myself that she was carefully picked by our owner over the internet for the sole purpose of having exactly her. Since she’s part of the Mane Six, I highly doubt she was just used as another excuse to have a similar looking pony.
Of course my being is something I shouldn’t even complain about. It was clear from the moment the molten plastic that was used create me, pressed into a form to harden, that I would be like this—that this would be my fate.
Actually, that’s just the issue I have: why am I conscious of a fate? I’m just the result of a machine with stuff sticked, painted, and glued onto me. Why do I know of this? Why do I know in general? Why am I?
If I put it that way I’m actually asking myself if the question whether or not Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash even care about their being matters, since I don’t even know if I’m a special case and the others are really just inanimate objects. Am I the result of some supernatural event that made me more than a collector’s toy?
That would actually make me special again! “Hey, you’re that one plastic pony with a consciousness! You must be so out of your mind over your lucky fate!” Doubled sad irony doesn’t exactly help me feel better either, I just realized.
I’ve thought of many different futures for myself.
For example: what if I were to come to life? If I wouldn’t be trapped in myself for all eternity and actually live? Would I be happy? Of course I can’t know, but I do know that I’m not certain about the thought. I’ve been like this for as long as I could think, and I was never supposed to change at all.
That is, if I won’t get fed to a dog or be put into the microwave by some insane kid. Though I’m not even sure if that would hurt at all. I can’t move because I can’t feel, and if I can’t feel does that mean I can’t feel pain either? I almost wish I knew. Almost. Maybe that would put me out of my misery. But what if I wouldn’t die, but instead just be a molten and deformed… thing that used to resemble a pony figure? I wouldn’t have any job anymore, not even making anyone happy about having me—my only job, really…
But what if I’d see a good ending to all that? What if I eventually get replaced by Shining Armor, but instead of being put into a box I’ll be given to someone else? Someone who actually plays with me instead of just letting me collect dust all day?
I remember when, many months ago, if not years, a young foal—a filly, probably the cousin of my owner—came over and played with the three of us. That is also how I learned what the three of us are, what is written on our cards, and that they are apparently special, unlike me. Well, that’d be until the day where I find out whether I really am a replacement or something else.
I always tried to enjoy the few hours of fun we had as much as I could. Those fleeting moments were the only thing I kept as memory, and they helped me from not going completely insane in the prison that is myself, so far. Even though all she did was awkwardly moving us around while doing crude impersonations, it still felt so great to have someone out there who liked you just as you are, and doesn’t use you just to have you.
Sure, eventually she grew up and get bored of me as well, which is probably why I haven’t seen her in such a long time, but knowing that I had at least someone to make smile makes me smile as well. Heh, see what I did there?
A blind bag smiles all day, every day, never stopping—an engraved line on its plastic muzzle to resemble eternal happiness. But when a blind bag cries, when something that shouldn’t feel emotion suffers from its existence, when there’s nothing that it can do other than waiting for the moment to pass, it feels the pain from its soul. Pain that no one sees beneath the plastic smile that covered its face for as long as it can recall.
This is pain I can neither show nor share with the world around me. I can’t even really tell whether I’m dead or alive at all. Alive means living, but what is a life in which you are trapped in your head, having to endure the same, almost non-existent fate all day long?
