//------------------------------//
// Chapter Eight: Stitch by Stitch (or, Fix-It: Part III) 
// Story: On the Horizon 
// by mushroompone 
//------------------------------//

"What exactly am I getting out of this, again?" Vinyl asked.

"Uh…" I scratched my temple. "My eternal love and gratitude?"

Vinyl chuckled dryly. "Pretty sure I had that already." She tossed me a cheesy grin and an even cheesier half-lidded gaze.

"Watch the road!" I blurted, pulling the van back on track as it wavered over the double yellow.

"Aw, relax, Twi," Vinyl said, waving me off.

I was not relaxed.

Vinyl had this way of driving that was so… blasé and understated that it made me unbelievably stressed, even sitting in the passenger seat. While I gripped the armrests with a frightening strength, she had her seat leaned back to an outrageous angle and her elbow stuck out the window. Her shades rode low on her snout. She liked to drive one-hoofed, occasionally letting her magic take control so she could scratch an itch or just gesture to me.

"Since you avoided the question, I'm gonna ask you again: what exactly am I getting out of this?" Vinyl said. This time, for my sake, she kept her eyes levelled straight ahead.

I sighed. "I'll buy you lunch."

Vinyl gave me that one-sided smirk again. "Sweet. Food truck?"

I nodded. "Food truck."

The van's engine coughed very suddenly, and a hoof flew to my chest.

This time, Vinyl laughed outright.

I huffed. "This isn't the smoothest ride, y'know."

"What are you talking about?" Vinyl said, massaging the interior of her driver's-side door. "She's the fuckin' smoothest."

The van puttered around a corner with enormous effort. An almost pony-like groaning was forced from the engine as it accelerated out of the turn. Despite what Vinyl tended to believe, the van was generally considered to be a piece of shit.

I did my best not to let my voice waver. "If you say so…"

Vinyl rolled her eyes. "So she's not smooth. Big whoop. Y'know, audiophiles dig the pops and scratches on records-- that's all she's got. A few pops and scratches."

"A few?!"

"Yeah, you heard me!" Vinyl tucked her snout down and began to murmur into the wheel. "Don't listen to her, baby. She's just jealous."

I folded my hooves over my chest. "Hilarious."

The van coughed again.

"Ah, c'mon." Vinyl rocked back into her seat. "Let she who is without a few pops and scratches throw the first brick, ammirite?"

I furrowed my brows. "Oh, you so didn't just quote Celestia at me." I paused and thought a minute. "Er… sort of."

Vinyl chuckled mischievously. "Speaking of the Great White Sunbutt, have you decided what you're doing for--"

"I swear, if you ask me what I'm doing for the Summer Sun Celebration, I am going to--"

"Hey," Vinyl cut me off. "It's a valid question."

I tucked my hooves down tighter.

The van slowed to a clankety stop behind a pick-up truck. The truck was hacking up its own fair share of noxious fumes. Suddenly, I felt very sick to my stomach, and I was wondering just how much I could peg on the clouds of exhaust.

“You can't escape it, y'know,” Vinyl said, her voice softer and lower than usual. “It's the one-thousandth one, everypony is losing their shit over it. It's not like staying in Manehatten is gonna be that much different.”

I sighed and slid lower in my seat. "I know that,” I spat.

Vinyl waited to see if I might continue that thought. 

I didn't. 

"Uh. Okay,” Vinyl commented. “As long as… you know? I guess?”

I put my hooves over my face and moaned in emotional agony, long and loud.

"Damn.” Vinyl cast me a glance that was more amused than sympathetic.

"I'm just sick of everypony talking about it all the time," I said. "It's such a pointless holiday, anyway. Stupid."

The truck in front of us roared back up to speed. A slow-motion roar, though.

Vinyl reached down to throw the van into gear. "Can't argue with that."

I was gnashing my teeth now, almost against my own will. "I mean, who cares? She moves the sun every day. Every single day. And, what, now we have to throw her a party over it?" I slid down even lower. "Isn't she the one who makes the call on parties, anyway? Why did she make it law to throw a party for herself? How egotistical do you have to be?"

Vinyl's gaze rolled up briefly to the ceiling of the van as her face grimaced in thought. "I feel like I read something about why we celebrate a few years back."

I sighed. "Did you?"

"Yeah…" Vinyl nodded slowly, lost in thought. "I can't remember what the reason was. Something to do with, like… I dunno, an old princess. I just remember reading it and being all 'oh, huh… why didn't I know that earlier?' Y'know?"

"Yeah," I agreed. "Weird."

Vinyl took the van around another curve, and I slid into the seat belt a little bit. The thick fabric cut into my throat. I had to push off the door with one leg to relieve the pressure.

"What are you doing for the Festival of Terrible Weather?" I asked snidely.

Vinyl did me a solid and laughed politely. "Oh, I'm thinking I'll go back to Canterlot. Couldn't miss out on all that, myself. Cheesy and stupid though it may be."

I snorted.

"I just wanna get back to the city, y'know? See my family," Vinyl said. She tapped the wheel idly and looked out her own window, expertly avoiding eye contact with me. "I'm having fun and all, but I can't live in this van forever."

I nodded. "Yeah. I hear you."

Silence fell between us.

This was largely how Vinyl and I communicated-- quick bursts of meaningful conversation, bookended by long silences. So much was unspoken, or implied, or danced around. That's not to say I didn't know or understand her, of course… I believe that I did, deeper than most, maybe. It was just different than it was with Lyra.

With Lyra, it was all talking and laughing and shushing one another to stay quiet. With Vinyl, we never had trouble staying quiet.

Sometimes I wondered if Vinyl actually liked me at all.

I mean, she liked me, I guess. She hung around me and ferried me around town in her van. She played music with me.

But sometimes I felt like just one of those helpless, lovestruck foals, desperately clinging onto a crush so far out of my league that they hardly knew I was there. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between apathetic about the world, and apathetic about me.

Vinyl's ear twitched.

I was drawn out of my thoughts to stare at her. Her eyes fluttered shut and she sniffed deeply, like a hound dog, letting her lungs fill with the city air and all of its--

"Keep your fucking eyes open!" I shouted, taking home of the wheel in my own hooves.

"Do you smell that, though?" Vinyl asked, her voice in a dreamlike haze. She was very nearly salivating. "What is that?"

I sniffed tentatively.

Sadly, she was right. The air had taken on a new richness and tang that spurned the two of us forward.

"Oh, shit!" Vinyl's ears pricked up, and she leaned forward over the steering wheel. "It's a fried tofu cart! That's the one, I've decided."

I leaned forward, too, attempting to catch a glimpse of whatever Vinyl had spotted.

There was a tiny, little food cart jammed onto the sidewalk near the subway station's underground entrance. This was the kind of cart that sold one thing and one thing only, with minimal condiment choices. It was also the kind of cart which was run by a large and hairy stallion who was sweating profusely, both from the summer heat and the heat of his own food.

I wrinkled my snout. "I said truck, not cart."

Vinyl looked over at me. "Oh, please. Like a truck is so much cleaner."

I blushed. “Th-that’s not why!” I insisted.

Vinyl arched one eyebrow and clucked her tongue. “Twi. C’mon. I know you.”

I growled softly and looked out the window, hiding a smile.

“Hey, you’re keeping an eye out for this place, right?”

I sighed. A clever misdirection. "Cheese said it was right on a corner, and it had a weird shape. I don't think we could miss it."

Vinyl smirked. "Cool, cool. Just figured, what with all the complaining, you might not--"

"I'm looking! I'm looking!" I insisted.

Vinyl chuckled to herself and knocked the van up a gear, to its significant protestations.

A right, a left, another left… there must have been some secret to city driving that I was just not privy to. There was no way that this was the best route to our destination. And yet Vinyl seemed quite confident, as always.

Then, right there on the next corner: a squatty building with a… well. A weirdly-shaped roof. Cheese had been right about that. The best way I can describe it is rather like a lop-sided barn. Or maybe a melting shed.

"Ooh!" I pointed. "That's it! That's it!"

Vinyl slammed on the brakes. A cab behind us just barely avoided a collision with our back bumper.

I tucked my head down as the furious carriage driver shouted at Vinyl.

"Okay," said Vinyl, undeterred, "I guess just hop out and I'll, uh…"

I blinked.

"Hm." Vinyl tapped the steering wheel rhythmically, her head swiveling to survey the immediate area. "Y'know what? I'll find a place to park and chill on… that bench!"

She pointed at a little iron bench, painted a sickly green, which was only a few yards from the front door of the liquifying warehouse. I tried not to think about how many birds had treated that bench as their own personal bathroom in the past twenty-four hours.

I nodded. "Cool. Cool."

I did not make any move to get out of the van.

My body was suddenly seized with a sort of terror that I couldn't describe if I tried.

That makes it sound worse than it was. It was fine, I was fine-- just freaked. Like scary-story freaked.

Vinyl watched me carefully. She started tapping on the wheel again, this time more like a ticking clock than a beat.

Eventually, Vinyl chuckled. "You good? Should I put the hazards on or somethin'?"

"I'm good!" I said, hoping I would believe it.

Vinyl leaned out the window, determined she was close enough to the curb, and took the key out of the ignition. The van sighed as its engine relaxed.

"Tell me again who you're meeting?" Vinyl asked.

I took in a deep breath. "Suri Polomare."

"And what is it she needs help with?"

"Mending," I said. "Or… finishing. I dunno, she does fashion or something and she needs somepony to do some hoof-sewing."

"You know how to do that," Vinyl said encouragingly.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I did it in scouts."

"And she's the only one who works in there?" Vinyl asked, pointing at the melting barn.

I nodded.

"So, what are you gonna say?" Vinyl asked. "Practice on me."

I was thrown for a second. Was it that obvious I was nervous? How embarrassing…

The momentary freeze ended, and I scoffed. "I don't need to practice, I'm all good!"

"Practicing on me should be no problem, then," Vinyl said, flashing me a toothy smile. She leaned forward and folded her front legs over the steering wheel. "Go ahead, you social genius, you."

I grit my teeth and glared at Vinyl.

She just kept on with that stupid stoner smile.

"Okay," I said. "I'll go in and I'll-- I'll say hello and ask what she needs."

"Nah, nah," Vinyl shook her head. "She works all alone in this… frankly fucked-up little building."

I looked up at the workshop.

That was probably a fair assessment.

"She's probably not great with ponies, if you know what I mean. You're gonna introduce yourself, find something to compliment in her store, and small-talk for a while," Vinyl instructed. "Then she'll let you know what she needs when she's ready."

I put my face in my hooves. "Ugh, I hate this. So awkward."

"Yeah, but a few more of these and you'll be a real expert," Vinyl said, clapping me on the shoulder. "No sweat, right?"

I moaned softly.

"Right?"

"Right…"

"There ya go." Vinyl rubbed my shoulder a bit, then gave me two firm pats. "You got this, Twi."

I sighed and lifted my head. "I got this."

Vinyl smiled at me.

In that moment, she was very real to me. Maybe that sounds strange-- in fact, I'm sure it does. But sometimes you can just feel those moments you'll always remember with perfect clarity… even if they don't mean much in the grand scheme of things.

The way she looked at me, with a mix of pride and protectiveness, was something I hadn't ever seen before. I couldn't quite suss out the meaning of her half-smirk, her crinkled eyes, her softened brow and pinched ears. But it was good. And it was selfless.

It faded away the longer I looked. That feeling of disconnectedness returned.

"So…" Vinyl nodded towards the building. "You were getting out of the van?"

I giggled. "Oh. Right. Sorry, right."

Getting out of the van was a terrifying experience-- far too close to the aggressive and speedy traffic for my taste. I managed to slither around to the sidewalk while only looking halfway dorky.

I looked back at Vinyl. She jammed the key back in the ignition and gave me a casual wave as she started the van. "I'll see you in a bit, 'kay?"

"Okay…" I agreed. 

The van sped away.

I turned, slowly, and faced the squatty workshop.

It was hard to tell if the roof shape was purposeful, or rather due to a series of disasters that were dealt with quite poorly. My gut said the latter was closer to the truth.

In fact, now that I was getting a closer look, the same could be said for the whole building; the big front windows were slightly different sizes and heights, the paint shifted hue and tint across the wider swaths of empty exterior wall, the door hung at an odd angle on its mis-matched hinges… it was as if the whole building was looking at me suspiciously, head cocked to one side, squinting and smirking.

I squinted and smirked back.

The building didn't have a name on it, I noticed. Nothing cutesy or punny. Nothing to suggest that this building was anything other than an old, saggy eyesore.

Interesting.

I pushed on the door. It didn't budge, just groaned at me.

I pushed harder. An odd little hissing sound eeked out of the frame, and the door popped free, swinging inside with troubling speed.

The bell over the door tinkled in alarm as I stumbled into the space.

There was very little space to stumble, however. I nearly careened headfirst into a stack of fabric bolts.

For a moment, I stood in the postage-stamp space, unsure what to do next. It smelled like mothballs and mildew and some kind of room freshener that clearly wasn't working. The mountains of craft supplies surrounding me quite literally scraped the water-stained ceiling. I couldn't see any sign of life, beyond the likely infestations.

"Hi!" A distant voice, deep yet musical, hanging onto the single syllable and milking it for all it was worth. "I'm in the back!"

I took one tiny step forward and craned my neck, searching for the source of the voice.

I mean, it was a literal maze.

Right in front of me: fabric. To my left: fabric. To my right: mannequins. I guess just to shake things up.

"Uh… where?" I called back.

She laughed, I hope not at me. "Take a left!"

I shuffled forward, brushing against a teetering pile of fabrics, and took an approximate left.

"Then a right at the thread cabinet!"

More shuffling, ducking under a leaning hat rack, and a right at the disorganized chest of drawers filled with spools of thread.

"Just keep walking, I'm back here--" she broke for a little haughty chuckle "--okay?"

I chuckled nervously in response. "Okay…"

The narrow pathway leaned in further and further, until it eventually met in an arc above my head. I had to hold my head low to avoid scraping the material menagerie with my horn.

At last, I reached a doorway, and saw the bright light of the sun beyond it.

The back room wasn't much better than the rest in terms of clutter, but it did have a large, round window and a workspace flooded with yellow sunlight.

"Oh, hi!" The mare looked up from her work and smiled. 

She was-- well, quite frankly, the words 'tacky' and 'eugh' came to mind. She had that lite-brite customer-service smile and nothing in her eyes, a polyester kerchief tied around her neck that I was certain she'd describe as 'darling', and an equally stupid… thing in a her mane to hold back her very clearly artificial curls.

"Welcome! I'm Suri Polomare--" another break for stuck-up laughter "--okay?"

I chuckled back in confusion. "Hello… I'm Twilight Sparkle. I love your--"

Ah, shit.

I forgot to think of something to like.

To my credit, there was very little to like. The whole place felt like it was some kind of experiment in hoarding. I didn't know nearly enough about fashion to compliment the half-finished products in front of me, either. Though they looked just as tacky as the mare.

"Uh… store?" I guessed.

"Oh, thank you!" Suri blushed and put a pink hoof to her lips. "It's a bit of a work-in-progress, but it's coming along. I like the whole 'rustic' feel."

I was quite certain the Suri had no idea what 'rustic' meant. "Yeah… sure…"

There must have been a radio hidden somewhere in the mess, because in the ensuing silence I could make out some fuzzy notes of overplayed pop music. It really completed this whole picture of hackneyed urban 'art'.

"So, you're from Canterlot, right?" Suri asked. "Gosh, that city is just so glamorous. I visit every year for the Summer Sun Celebration at least. It's practically my second home."

Eugh.

She was working over her face and mane with her hooves, trying to put herself into a more presentable image. She didn't have to, though. She was just as plastic as a doll. Her mane hardly moved, her fur was as uniform as a die-cast toy.

"Ah, well… it's my, uh… first home," I managed.

Suri blinked, then let loose with another bout of laughter which was somehow both under-enthusiastic and over-enthusiastic. "Oh, that must be that famous Canterlot humor!"

There was no such thing as 'Canterlot humor'.

I forced a laugh out of politeness.

"Alright, well, let's just get right down to it," Suri said, turning back to her workspace and digging around for something in the drawers. "I'm between assistants right now, and I just need somepony to help me out with a little hoof-stitiching on this new line of saddlebags…"

She pulled a needle and a spool of purple thread out of her desk.

"Think you can handle that, sweetheart?"

I pinned my ears against my head and glared at Suri. "Yes, I think so."

"Oh, good!" She pushed the needle and thread at me, and I took them with some hesitation. "Let me just show you where the bags are, okay?"

She didn't wait for a response, just pushed past me with an uncomfortable amount of contact. She smelled like cheap perfume and cheaper coffee.

I followed her back through the maze of fabrics, over to a different room which appeared to be more professional in nature.

It must have been for photography or something. There wasn't much in here beyond some mannequins, some fake plants and flowers to use as props, and…

And an absolute mountain of saddlebags.

"Whoa!" I commented, almost involuntarily.

Suri chuckled. "I know, right? Gosh, it took hours."

I picked up a saddlebag in my magic and examined it carefully. As far as I could tell, it was totally finished. Definitely not my style, what with all the floral patterns and quilting, but finished.

"Okay, so--" Suri took the bag out of my grasp "--the bags are made with this fabric I special-ordered from Saddle Arabia. The problem is it has this really ugly maker's mark stamped all over it. Totally ruins the aesthetic of the bag."

She held the bag up to me, showing me a very small stamp on the inside of the bag. I didn't recognize the shape myself--it must have been in a language I didn't read--but it was very clearly a mark of ownership over the design. It blended nicely with the pattern of the fabric itself.

Again. I don't know anything about fashion. For all I know, I'm totally colorblind. Anything's possible.

"So, instead of that, I just want you to stitch these little tags I made over the stamp!" Suri reached over and showed me some more incredibly tacky fabric tags. These had her own little artist's mark stamped on them: three buttons, mimicking her own cutie mark. "See? So much cuter."

I squinted at the tags, then at the stamp in the bag. "But… should you really be covering the maker's mark? I thought that was… I dunno, like a signature."

Suri's mind seemed to hiccup for a second, then she started laughing again. I was really starting to hate that sound. "Oh, sure! I can see where you would think that, being from Canterlot and all. Such an artsy little town." She waved her hoof dismissively. "This is totally different. See, I paid for this fabric, which means I can do whatever I like with it. I wouldn't cover up the mark if it wasn't so ugly, okay?"

I looked back down at the mark.

I thought it was pretty.

I really didn't think it should be covered up.

"So, how does a hundred bits sound?" Suri offered.

I looked at the pile of saddlebags. It was starting to seem like a lot more work than a hundred bits could pay for. "Uh…"

"Great!" Suri clapped me on the shoulder with a firm and unexpected force. "Sorry, dear, I have to get back to work. Thanks a bunch, okay?"

Just like that, she scuttled off, leaving me with the pile of saddlebags.

There wasn't any music playing in this room, and so the strange artificial-ness overtook me quite quickly. Mannequins holding perfectly still, sunlight made more yellow by tinted windows, a total lack of any sort of scent… and, of course, only the distant whir of the air conditioning to be heard.

I ran my hoof over the maker's mark. It really was an elegant and not-at-all distracting thing; just a few scrolling marks in a dark ink, mimicking the form of a plant. I liked it better than the fabric, if I'm honest.

In most circumstances, I try to abide by the mind-your-fucking-business attitude, simply because it's much easier than trying to suss out the moral implications of every little thing. Sometimes, you just have to trust that somepony knows what they're talking about, and fretting over it will just make you lose your mind that much faster.

I was really tempted to just go for it and get the hundred bits. A hundred bits buys you a lot of food, after all, and I mean… these bags weren't that great. Who was gonna buy them? Who among them would care about something like this? 

Actually…

I held the bag up a little closer. The mark didn't seem to be part of the fabric at all. It went over the quilted stitching.

Okay, wait, actually…

I picked up another bag.

The mark was in the exact same spot as the first bag. The inside, towards the top. Right where, say, you'd put a tag if you were making a bag yourself.

I grabbed another. The same.

And another.

And another.

I went through nearly the whole pile, tossing saddlebags over my shoulder and creating quite a mess in the process.

Every single one had the mark in the same place, and nowhere else.

I mean. I may not know much about fashion, but… 

Wow.

Only my second cutie mark mission and I was already being used to make knockoff saddlebags.

There's a statement about society in there somewhere.

Damn. Suri must think Canterlot ponies are really dumb.

I couldn't help but take a little bit of offense, there.

Did Cheese know about this?

No. No way. His dedication to originality and legitimacy is exactly what got his business in so much trouble. He'd never send me here to help if he knew about this.

Y'know, the thing that sucks the most about this is now it is my business. 

I totally didn't ask for it to be my business.

And, yet, here I was; the decision-maker on an issue I wasn't even responsible for.

I sat down hard on the polished wood floor. 

What was with all the weird moral dilemmas lately? Something in the water?

Or was that just how things were?

Okay, Twilight. 

Looks like you have a choice to make.

You can just mind your business and do what Suri is paying you to do. That's shitty, though. Like, by the most basic standards, that sucks. I try not to do anything that a foal would tell me off for, generally.

Except for maybe the occasional joint.

Focus, Twi.

You can sneak out and leave her alone in her weird labyrinth of craft supplies. That's probably the best option for you, personally, but… she's just gonna keep poking around until she finds some sucker to do it. Or break down and do it herself.

Or

Maybe there was a secret third option here. Something to stick it to the scammer, y'know? Somepony that willing to to pass another's work off as their own won't stop just because they start feeling guilty. That kind of asshole-ery tends to be serial. Who knows how many knockoffs she'd already sold?

Well. Okay, judging by her workspace, probably not many.

I examined the tags. They were made of a cheap, stretchy, off-white cotton, kind of like a t-shirt. The bags, by contrast, were made of… well, I don't know what exactly, but it was much higher quality. Even for a knockoff saddlebag. In short, the tags were going to stick out like a sore hoof to anypony who so much as opened the bag.

I guess anypony willing to pick up a tacky bag like this wouldn't take much notice. They were kinda visually assaultive. An ugly little tag might not be an obvious addition.

Maybe I could make it even more obvious?

As I stared down at the pile of ugly bags, an obscure piece of fashion trivia bubbled to the surface of my mind.

I had never bought a suit before, but my brother had. I remembered, quite clearly, the way my father had scolded him for not removing the tack stitching that held certain parts of the coat together. A little stitch here at the tail, a little stitch on each pocket. I didn't really get the point (and I still don't), but it was stitching you were meant to remove.

Maybe doing an extraordinarily shitty job of stitching this together would make buyers rip it out.

Weirdly, the idea made me a little bit giddy. A strange sort of excitement at the prospect of doing some measure of good so chaotically.

I set the tag against the stamp on the first bag. Then, after a moment's thought, I reversed it.

A little whip-stitching around the edge (conveniently the only stitch I knew) and ta-da! It was like a little hidden panel. I held the bag up to the light to admire my shoddy work. 

Nice.

Way to stick it to the asshole.

The sewing went remarkably fast, mostly because I was taking maybe seven or eight huge stitches around the outside of each tag. Part of me worried that Suri would notice, but… she didn't seem to notice much. And she sure didn't seem to think highly of me, so I doubt she'd be surprised.

Fighting past my magical mediocrity was an added level of difficulty, but it didn't take me all that long to fall into a comfortable rhythm. In fact, as I worked, I found myself humming a bit. The song was almost familiar in its jauntiness. I must have heard it on the radio once.

A little voice wormed into my mind with the tune. A dim memory of the singer belting it out, I'm sure.

"Hm-hm-hmmm… stitching it together," I mumbled tunelessly. 

I'd have to ask Lyra about the song later. Seemed like her kinda thing, a little show-tune-y.

I reached for the last bag and plopped it down in front of me. Just to be safe, I decided to stitch this one per Suri's request. 

Excellent work, Twilight. Boy, you're a great swindler, aren't you?

All in all, it took maybe an hour. Definitely worth the hundred bits.

Plus, I was getting that extra do-gooder emotional boost. That was always nice.

I set the good bag over my own back and wound my way back through the terrifying gauntlet of a workshop.

"Suri?" I murmured, rapping lightly on the doorframe. "I've finished the sewing."

She wasn't looking up, utterly focused on something I couldn't quite glimpse over her shoulder. "Huh? Oh, good."

"Would you like to see?" I asked, offering up the good bag on one hoof.

"Hm? Oh, I'm sure it's fine," she said. "Your bits are on the counter, okay?"

I stepped backwards. "Where?"

She pointed, still not looking at me. "Over there."

A little sack of bits was on a shelf right beside my head.

Desperately trying to hide my pride, I set the saddlebag down in the doorway and took the sack in my magic. It sure felt like a hundred bits to me.

"Cool. Thanks."

"Uh-huh," Suri muttered. "Close the door on your way out, okay?"

I backed out of the room with as much care as I could manage, but that I-just-got-away-with-something energy was starting to bubble over. Once out of Suri's immediate vicinity, I scrambled through the maze and burst out the poorly-hung front door. This time, the thinking of the bell felt congratulatory.

Vinyl, who was sitting on a bench just a few steps to my left, jolted upright at the sudden motion. "Whoa!" She laughed, and the shock melted off her face. "You have some good news?"

I must have been giggling a bit, myself. "Vinyl, you'd be so proud!"

"Oh, yeah?" She glanced down at my flank, and seemed a little disappointed on my behalf. "No cutie mark, though, huh?"

She didn't mean it.

But, bam. Just like that, my good feelings began to deflate.

I looked back at my own still-blank flank. "Oh," I said. "Oh, I guess not."

Vinyl's face fell. She stood up quite suddenly. "Oh, hey, I-- shit, Twi, I'm sorry. I was just--"

"It's okay!" I insisted. "I mean… c'mon, did we really think I'd get it on the second go?" I forced a little laugh, but it even felt fake to me.

Vinyl forced one back. "Y-yeah, sure. We're in it for the long haul, right?"

The long haul.

Boy, did that sound depressing.

I smiled. "Right."

Vinyl held my gaze a little longer. The subtleties she managed to hold in her eyes alone were always amazing to me; a little bit of guilt and sympathy, a touch of hope, a glimmer of belief, a twinge of doubt. Or maybe I was projecting.

That feeling of distance was still there. Like she was looking at me from behind a pane of glass, from another life entirely. I couldn't help but feel that my own little journey was nothing more than a fairytale to her.

"Hey, I do have some good news," Vinyl said. Her horn sparkled, and a piece of paper was levitated before me. "Somepony's looking for a one-time foalsitter. Sound like something you could handle?"

I took the paper from her and read it over.

The thought of foalsitting at my age was moderately humiliating, but let's be honest. I was not above it.

"Sure," I said. "Sounds great."

"Well, damn, don't get too excited," Vinyl said, snatching the paper back from me. "Let's get some fried tofu into you, huh?"

I sighed lightly.

"Don't worry," Vinyl said, hooking her leg around my shoulders, "street food can cure anything."