The Fishbowl

Vinyl Scratch rested her hand on the horizon. It felt rough to the touch, like terracotta. Looking through and beyond it, the landscape appeared to continue on in three dimensions, though much simpler than the real landscape on this side. Plants, dunes and even wildlife were repeated in regular patterns, as if the rolling hills around Canterlot were mass-produced.

She felt the warmth of the sun and a pleasant breeze. Glancing up at the sky, she wondered just how much of it was real. Where did reality end and illusion begin?

As a young girl, Vinyl had a doll. It was a ragged thing, with round stumps for hands and feet, and buttons for eyes, but Vinyl loved him anyway. She carried him everywhere, talked to him, played with him. She called him Smarty Pants.

Later, of course, she forgot about him and moved on with life.

Until a few years later, when visiting her friend’s house, she found a doll in the cupboard, tucked behind piles of music books and boxes of toys. It had round stumps for hands and feet, and buttons for eyes.

“Hey, Tavi. Why do you have my doll?”

Octavia poked her head round the door. “Hmm? Oh, you found Smarty Pants. I haven’t seen her in ages.”

Vinyl frowned. “Sure, but what’s he doing here? Last I saw he was in my attic.”

“What would my old doll be doing in your attic?”

She looked closer at it. The two eye buttons were different colours, the thread was pulling out of the left armpit, and there was a smudge of peanut butter grease on the right foot. It was exactly as she remembered it. “Tavi, this is totally my doll.”

“What are you talking about, Vinyl? I’ve had that doll since I was six.”

“And I’ve had Smarty Pants since I was four.”

“Are you...? Ugh. Why do you have to get so competitive over there weirdest things? Now come on, we have eight tubs of ice cream to get rid of before my mum gets home.”

“Yo, Trix. Can I ask you a question?”

The canteen was just starting to get busy with students collecting lunch, chatting, playing the daily game of who sits with who. Vinyl slid her tray down and hopped onto the seat opposite Trixie’s.

“Certainly you may ask the Great and Pow—”

“Yeah yeah. So, you had toys when you were little, right?”

“Of course I did.”

“Ever have any dolls?” asked Vinyl.

“Er, yes,” replied Trixie, unsure where this was going.

“Do you remember any of their names?”

“Um.” Trixie took a moment to think. “If I remember correctly, there was one called Smarty Pants, one called Philomena, one called Lemon...”

Rainbow Dash, walking past their table with a tray, cut in with “No way, you too?”

“The great and powerful Trixie begs your pardon?”

“Eh, you can have it!” she called out, walking off. Ugh, Rainbow was intolerable sometimes.

Behind her big coloured glasses, Vinyl’s eyes were sharp. “Tell me about Smarty Pants.”

“Um. She was a ragged old doll, made of cloth. Full of dry beans, I think. She had buttons for eyes.”

“She? Not he?”

“Definitely a girl, yes,” Trixie replied, still confused.

“Do you still have her?”

“Er, sorry, I think she may have been lost somewhere during the divorce.”

Three weeks after that, Vinyl was working till in her uncle’s music shop when he walked in.

She didn’t recognise him until he came to the till to buy a depressingly mainstream smooth jazz compilation and a disk of Gregorian chant. Vinyl spied a fancy bottle of wine and a pack of condoms in his bag, making it clear what his priorities for the night were. He had a big embarrassed grin. Luckily, Vinyl’s shades disguised her eyes so he didn’t notice her attention.

But it was him. Her ragged old doll, Smarty Pants. Vinyl couldn’t explain why she was so sure. It wasn’t like he was made of cloth and beans, though he did manage to give that impression with the baggy coat, nor were his mismatched eyes made of buttons under those big round glasses he wore. But it was totally him, in every way.

“Mr S. Pants,” it said on the front of his credit card. Vinyl’s hands were shaking by the time she handed the card back with a receipt.

As he was leaving the shop, she cast an eye at the bottom of his trousers. He had a familiar stain on the right trouser leg, just above his shoe.

Vinyl kept a safe distance. She avoided any of the stupid things you might do to draw attention to yourself when following somebody, such as hiding behind things, disguising your face, or stopping when the person you’re following stopped. She took her brightly coloured glasses off though, since those tend to stand out.

Smarty Pants stopped at a small fountain in one of Canterlot’s many picturesque little squares, all tiles and old bricks. This one also had boxes of flowers and an arched trellis with vines, making it a romantic place to meet. The sun was setting, bathing the square in lovely warm colours. Vinyl watched through an archway, then slipped into a cozy little wedding shop and browsed the knick knacks by the window, keeping an eye on the window in case he left.

He looked nervous, checking his watch with increasing regularity until his date turned up. It was a girl Vinyl didn’t recognise, with pink skin and green hair, wearing a Crystal Prep uniform. Vinyl was slightly surprised that the girl looked to be about her own age, clearly a few years younger than this version of Smarty Pants, and definitely too young for wine and condoms (to say nothing of Gregorian chant). She was ready to chalk it up as a mistake, but the sultry kiss the couple shared left little doubt.

“Are you having fun playing the spy?” asked a whisper in her ear.

Vinyl jumped back, almost falling into the woman who now stood behind her. She caught Vinyl and set her upright.

“I– I’m sorry, er, what?”

“Looks to me like you’ve taken quite an interest in Smarty Pants and Lemon Zest over there,” said the woman with a grin. She was tall and lean, with black skin, turquoise hair and strikingly big green eyes. She had a strangely deep voice, soothing like melted chocolate.

“Not at all. I was just...”

“Just thinking of buying a bow tie and cufflinks?” the shopkeeper asked sarcastically. “Well, the style might suit you, but I’d recommend something more flamboyant.”

Vinyl looked for the first time at what she’d been browsing, realising she was caught. “Please don’t tell them,” she pleaded.

“Tell who?”

Vinyl indicated the couple who were now walking arm-in-arm down a twisty alleyway filled with charming little shops. “I mean, you clearly know them...”

“I know everypony in this town,” said the black woman dismissively. Every... pony? What did that mean? “I know you, Vinyl Scratch. I know your friend Octavia. I know the Rainbooms and Celestia and Luna. But why would I bother telling any of them anything? They’re not even real,” she said with a yawn.

They're not even... what?