Cold, Act 1 [RGRE, Romance, Drama]

>The principal’s office is darker than usual, and the two people speaking within halt their conversation the moment you enter.
>Celestia sits at her desk, the bars of sunlight peeking through the blinds at her back framing her as she hastily turns to smile.
> Luna, conversely, sits in a darkened corner, squeezed between  the wall and a filing cabinet –  her eyes chill slightly when they find you.
”You wanted to see me?” you say.
>Celestia gestures for you to come closer. ”Anonymous, please, take a seat.”
>You do as you’re told, and the vice principal emerges, circling Celestia before standing at her shoulder.
>Her eyes are still set firmly on you, and Celestia’s voice catches briefly in her throat, hidden behind a cough.
>”Thank you for coming, Anonymous,” Celestia eventually says. “I know it’s a little late; I hope I’m not holding you up.”
”It’s fine, I don’t have any plans.”
>It’s fast, but Celestia flashes a look at her sister before returning her gaze to you.
>”How have you been?”
>You shrug and offer up a small, professional turn of the lips for her concern, despite the feeling you were getting that pleasantries weren’t why you were here.
”Fine as ever.”
>”That’s good, that’s good,” Celestia replies, her face brightening slightly. “How are the preparations coming along?”
”Going well. The numbers should be tight. Booking someone for the doves has been an issue, but I’ll find someone to do it.”
>“Good, good. Sounds like you have everything under control.” Celestia hums and peers down at the papers on her desk, sifting through them absently. “How have things been with your friends?”
>You pretend to think for a moment, fighting the sinking feeling in your gut.
”If… you mean the other council members, then fine? We’re still keeping an eye on things, but there haven’t been any major setbacks. Once I deal with the birds it should be smooth sailing to the Winter Formal.”
“Oh, uh… yes, wonderful,” Celestia replies.
>Luna, still perched and watching, clears her throat.
>Celestia doesn’t turn, but you can tell from the shift in her expression that she heard it, too.
>”No… no other setbacks? Maybe, personal ones?” Celestia leans back in her chair, trying to look casual. “Stress mounts. It’s only natural for friends to have arguments or get angry, especially during major projects like this. I’m just curious, is all.”
>Your brow crinkles slightly.
“Not… really, no. Nothing that’s affected school or council duties. I’ve delegated and altered schedules so there wouldn’t be any unnecessary friction with school work. Everybody is exactly where they need to be. They aren’t being overworked, and I judge their work to my own standards so nothing slips through the cracks.”
>”Y-Yes Anonymous, the work has been going well, I know. What I meant was…” Celestia stews for a few moments, staring at the folders on her desk. “I meant more ‘personal’ issues? Like in your relationships with the other students? Has anything like that happened recently?”
>Celestia pauses again before shooting her colleague a look.
>”I don’t mean to pry, I’m just inquiring about your emotional state. It’s completely normal for—“
”Why am I here?” you cut in finally, stopping her short.
>Celestia pauses her previous train of thought and shifts in her seat, her expression falling slightly.
”I sent you a progress report yesterday,” you continue. “There’s not much point coming in for one in person unless there’s something else on your mind. Is there a problem I should know about?”
>Celestia actually chuckles and slackens her shoulders – wilted, yet relieved
>”You’re right, Anonymous. Honesty is important in a student-teacher relationship, so I’ll speak plainly,” she says, nodding at you. “We’ve been approached by a student recently with a problem. It’s one that, well… concerns you.”
>Your lips thin slightly, and you do what you can to stop the annoyance from crawling up to a place where they could see it.
“Someone’s been complaining about me,” you say.
>”No, not ‘complaining’ per se, it’s just that—“
>”How well do you know a student named Braeburn?” Luna’s question is simple and sharp, almost machine-like in its lack of emotional content despite the clear displeasure on her face.
>You actually respected that power for directness.
>At least, when it wasn’t being levied at you so expertly.
>You swallow the lump in your throat and think for a moment, hoping the tone of your voice wouldn’t weaken the honesty of your statement, given that you now had a pretty good idea who your accuser was.
>It would be difficult, since Braeburn had also ‘miraculously’ been struck with a cold this morning and been unable to come in.
”Transfer student, good grades,  just came on board,” you manage. “He’s settled into his duties fairly well. There have been some issues with his consistency, but overall he’s a fine addition to the student council, and I think I’ve utilized his talents well.”
>”Interesting,” Luna replies, “he seems to think quite differently.”
>Despite your best efforts, a dry, unimpressed smirk forms in the corner of your mouth.
“Well… some people have a hard time correcting their mistakes. Ego comes into play. I’m sure anyone would downplay their problems and exaggerate other people’s given—“
>”I wasn’t talking about your criticism of him, Anonymous,” Luna stops you, and her already cool expression chills even more on your name, dropping the temperature in your blood another degree.
>A short silence occurs, one you’d rather not break yourself, and your smile vanishes.
>”I was talking about his feelings regarding his position in the group,” Luna continues after a moment. “Specifically, whether or not he’s capable enough for the role.”
>Luna stays here, waiting with intent for your reply.
>Despite this, Celestia scoots her chair up and chimes in.
>”I spoke to Braeburn after his first week here, to see how he was feeling about attending Canterlot High,” she says. “We talked. He said that he always wanted to be on the Student Council back in Appeloosa High, but that it was a bit of a… well, a ‘girls club’, and that he never felt like it was within his reach. He said he respected you for taking up the responsibility of becoming the president… a lot. I encouraged him to try for a position himself. He was very excited, to join and to meet you.”
>Celestia’s eyes shift to her desk, a conflicted look crossing her face.
>”He’s talked about you a lot, actually.”
>You try for a smile despite the pit that was beginning to settle into your stomach.
“Well, he worked hard and he made it. I’m— I’m glad I could help in any way that I could.”
>”He cried yesterday,” Luna says.
>Again, your smile vanishes.
>Luna gestures to the far wall. “After the bell rang, Braeburn left the auditorium, crossed the grounds, walked into our office,” she motions from the office door, then to you, “sat there, right where you’re sitting now, and cried.”
>Luna’s pointing finger lingers on you on a moment before being retracted.
>”He came to speak with the principal, but Celestia was occupied at the time. I was there, however, and acted as his counselor in her stead,” she continues. “Despite my urging, the young man couldn’t say anything for nearly a minute. He sat and stared at his feet, trying to find the words, until the tears started.”
>Celestia looks at you sadly, disappointment etched into the lines of her face, and you begin to miss the bastion of her warmth immediately.
>”When he finally composed himself, he told me that he thought he was about to lose his place on the student council. He said that he’d been trying his best to keep his grades pristine, and that he’d stayed up late some nights trying to perfect his paperwork, but that it wasn’t working. Worse by his account, he’s under the impression that he failed to meet your expectations.”
>Luna says nothing more, clearly waiting for you to speak.
>That sinking feeling deepens as you stumble for an answer.
”I’m… sorry to hear that?” you try. “But… I don’t really know what this has to do with, uh…”
>You can’t even finish the sentence.
>Luna is already scooping up a tan folder from Celestia’s desk and fanning it open, her thin patience spent.
>Even if you continued she wouldn’t be listening.
>She pauses on a page, eyes narrowed.
>“‘Is this the spreadsheet I waited twenty-four hours for’?” she says.
>You cringe inwardly, finding yourself ill-prepared for the words despite a part of you knowing they were coming.
>”‘If I knew you were going to do such a shit job’,” Luna continues, flicking her eyes toward you for the profanity, “‘then you wouldn’t even be here to hand me garbage like this. I would have saved myself some time and trouble and put your application in the trash instead. Do it again, and try not to embarrass yourself for once’.”
>Luna eyes stay sharp as she lowers the folder and settles them on you.
>”Does that sound familiar?”
>No, it doesn’t sound familiar.
>It sounds perfect, un-paraphrased.
>Despite the complexity of the statement and the volume with which you spoke it originally, Braeburn had recounted every single word you said to him, verbatim.
>He’d remembered what you said well enough to recount it to Miss Luna word-for-word, and she recorded them word-for-word.
>Your eyes trail away as she continues to wait for an answer.
”I was… frustrated,” you say softly.
>“Frustrated?” Luna says, and for a moment a sparkle of wry humor shines in her eyes. “Is this how you speak to your friends when you’re ‘frustrated’?”
>Your eyes dart back up to her face.
“He isn’t my friend,” you say, face hardening at the familiar line of discussion.
>Luna is clearly displeased by your reply, and her following sigh comes out quick and sharp in a huff of anger.
>Celestia, shifting uneasily in her seat, leans over her desk toward you.
>”We understand that you were upset, Anonymous,” she says, being sure to emphasize the ‘we’ in the statement, “we’re just concerned about how you’ve been treating your friends.“
>Your face sours on her last word, and Celestia shrinks slightly.
>"I think you should know, this isn’t the first time a classmate has expressed concern about your emotional state.”
>The pit in your stomach is starting to level, and the chill in your blood is quickly being overpowered by warmth from something else.
>The fingers wrapped around the arms of your chair begin to tap in agitation.
“My… emotional state?” you say, forcing some calm.
>Surprise surprise – here you are again, in the same spot, having the same conversation.
>Over and over and over, just like the first time you met.
>“I understand this is hard for you,” Celestia says. “I know that there’s a lot of outside pressure on a young man in your position, with your responsibility.”
>”That isn’t an excuse…” Luna mutters, but she ignores her.
>You get a funny, pointless instinct to say something.
>Like maybe telling her you didn’t much want to have this conversation again might actually work.
>But she would have ignored that, too.
>Celestia is focused, just as focused as she was a year ago.
>And just as wrong.
>She can probably sense it.
>She shifts in place, struggling to get out the words she so desperately wants to, the ones you could practically predict before they came.
>Your fingers begin to tap into the chair harder, grinding in with each strum.
>”I know things have probably been… difficult for you, because of your home life.” Her eyes trail away. “I don’t want you to think this is something you need to hide from or put off, Anonymous. I thought that, maybe… since you’ve probably been under more stress lately, this would be a good time to talk more about how you feel, and maybe reach some sort of underst—”
>Celestia’s eyes race upward.
>Luna’s do, too.
>It’s because you’re standing.
>You don’t know when it happened, but it happened fast, and the warmth running through your veins reached a boiling point some time during.
>Celestia’s mouth snaps shut, a mix of dread and defeat whirling in her eyes.
>A long breath races in through your nose, cooling your blood, and you jam a finger at the principals.
>Not the one this scene might have called for, no – you were too civilized for that.
>It’s your index finger, and it’s swiftly joined by the thumb of your opposite hand.
“I… get straight A’s,” you say. Your middle finger comes out and is joined by your thumb as well. “I run your student faculty,” your thumb presses against your ring finger, “‘I’ manage the budget for student-run functions so that YOU can afford erasers and pencils next semester,” your pinky, “‘I’ do the paperwork so that my ‘classmates’ don’t run simple functions into the ground by buying a-thousand-too-many cupcakes, or listing the wrong deadline for the performers, or failing to do simple math.”
>The urge to grind your teeth lessens as the words roll out.
>Despite your risen volume and the urge to speak you can see in both of their eyes, neither of them interrupt you.
“I work hard to make these things happen right, so that these kids can actually have NICE memories, and maybe, by some miracle, be ready for the outside world when they leave this daycare center. And you’re here, worrying over their ‘feelings’, and my ‘feelings’, and my ‘home life’.”
>Your hands drop to your sides and hang, your energy and anger draining away.
“… what the hell else do you want from me?”
>Celestia has to fight to keep your gaze, and her face tenses as if she’d just been dealt a wound.
>”You could try and make some friends…?” she ventures, just above a whisper.
>You take a long breath when you feel the warm prickle on your skin returning, but you smooth away the bubbling anger as you smooth your hand across your head.
>You don’t answer, and when it doesn’t seem like either of them will say anything more, you turn on your heel and trail toward the door, more than ready to end this little meeting before it gets any worse.
“I’ll speak to Braeburn tomorrow. If you’ll excuse me, I need to make some phone calls before I go to sleep.”
>“Anonymous,” Luna says, and her voice carries a low threat that you ignore for prospect of the exit.
>”Anonymous…”
>This time it’s Celestia who speaks, and her soft voice somehow manages to halt you with your hand on the doorknob.
>You don’t turn to regard her, but you are listening, for whatever that’s worth.
>”I don’t want this to be… what I mean is…” she tries, and your hand tightens around the knob.
>The sound of her sigh pauses you yet again however, and you wait for her to continue.
>”… you mentioned doves before? For the ceremony?” she says finally. “I think I can help you.”
>A momentary instance of relief flutters in your chest, and you halt your departure to peer at her over your shoulder.
>Luna has retreated, digging into a filing cabinet in the corner with a bitter fervor.
>Her face is kept hidden from you, possibly for good reason.
>Celestia, oppositely, has her tried and tested continence on full display, and the fingers she runs through her long, messy hair stay tangled in them as she speaks.
>She still gives you a kind look, one that eases your shoulders despite your mood.
>”I think I know someone who can help you,” she says. “If they’re willing, you could probably meet with them over the weekend…”
“Trainer?” you mutter, happy to be back to business.
>Celestia smiles sheepishly and peers away. “Actually, she’s more of an ‘animal lover’.”

*-*-*-*

>The cry of the lunch bell mingles with those of the happy students as they flood into the hall.
>A hundred shapes and colors swim by as you exit the classroom, chatting and laughing amongst themselves as they pass you by.
>Despite the crowd, you’re never once bothered by any bumping or brushing of shoulders.
>The space that any one person or group of people afford you as you walk is healthy, and although many heads turn as you pass, none of them address you.
>The freshmen are bolder – like the one blocking your locker right now.
>They’ve seen your face on the student broadcast channel, heard you talk at them through the screen, maybe even read the announcements you’ve typed up and sent down the pipeline, but that’s it.
>Unlike their older peers, they’ve yet to experience the pleasure of working with you in person.
>That might be why the little redhead barring your path manages to ignore you for so long.
>She babbles away to her two little pals without a care in the world – until an arm reaches out of the crowd and snags her by the backpack.
>The redhead nearly loses her balance and looks disgruntled, but her face shifts once she identifies the third party.
>”S-sorry, Anonymous!” the arm says hastily, emerging from the crowd to reveal a young lady with a soft, freckled complexion and blond hair. “Y’all know how youngins are, haha…”
>You’ve seen her more than once, maybe met before – a cowboy-hat was hard to forget – but her name escapes you.
>Judging from her appearance and your lack of insight, she was probably a sophomore or a junior.
>You reach for the combo lock, and the freshman bounces a confused look between you and the older girl before backing away and scratching at her neck sheepishly.
>”Uhh, sorry…” she mumbles.
>Your locker door pops open and you quickly begin filing the things you need into the bend of your arm.
“Mhm,” you hum.
>The older one lingers awkwardly, tensely, as if waiting to see if you would say anything.
>When you don’t, she wraps her arm around the younger’s shoulders – in a way that couldn’t have been anything less than familial – and herds her and her little friends away.
>The blond mutters to the freshman about manners – and something else, something you don’t quite hear over the buzz of the crowd; you pick out your name amongst the words.
>You ignore it at first, writing the act off as a simple introduction, but it happens again.
>As you leave them behind and set out down the hall toward the lunchroom, someone says your name again, just loud enough for you to catch it.
>As a test, you swing your gaze into the direction it came from and find a gaggle of boys whispering to each other just outside the lunchroom doors.
>All of them look away, but one boy in particular freezes on the spot and can’t break eye contact; you aren’t just imagining it.
>You don’t like it, but as you pass into the cafeteria you grow progressively more sensitive to the notion of people talking about you.
>Your recent visit to the principal’s office was a little too enlightening for comfort.
>The possibility that your ‘concerned classmates’ were scrutinizing you from the sidelines wasn’t just a taxing thought; it was bad for your reputation, as well as the reputation of the student council.
>That thought lingers with you throughout your stay in the lunch line, and it must have disagreed with you, because the lunch lady flinches at your expression when it’s your turn for food.
>You have to convince the worrying old woman that you’re alright before she fills up your tray and frees you.
>When she does, you trail toward your usual table and try to brush your distracting thoughts aside.
>Going on some ill-fated and nonsensical crusade about this is pointless.
>Even if you were successful at finding out who else was speaking to Celestia, it wouldn’t solve anything in the long run.
>It would be much more productive to slow down, breathe deep, and take a little bit of your own advice.
>Move on Anonymous; put your focus where it belongs.
>Second-guessing everyone’s motives, second-guessing yourself – it was a waste of time.
>If there truly wasn’t a problem then now would be an excellent time to act like it.
>You punctuate this thought by dropping the combined load of your notebooks and lunch tray onto the table in front of you.
>The people sitting at the table halt their conversation and swivel their heads to spot the source of the noise.
>One person, the only other male at the table, noticeably jumps in their seat
“Good afternoon,” you say.
>Each of the student council members return your greeting as you take your place amongst them.
>You waste no time, flinging open your ledger book with one hand while taking up your plastic fork in the other.
“Maud Pie,” you say, check-marking the box near her name. “Octavia Melody, Sweetie Dr—“
>A female member at the table loudly clears her throat.
>Your mouth twitches.
“… Bon Bon,” you amend with some difficulty, check-marking her name as well. “Braeburn.”
>The quality of your voice hardens on the last words, even if you don’t intend it.
>You can tell he feels the sharpness of your delivery by the quick, nervous flit of his eyes and the shift in his seat.
>”Uh, here…” he says.
>’Yes, I have eyes,’ and at least a dozen other responses whiz by in your mind, most of them equally ill-advised, needlessly confrontational, and surprising.
>Acting like there wasn’t a problem might be more difficult than you anticipated, especially with the charming return of your teenage hormonal imbalance.
>You neglect everything you might have said and make a mark next to his name on the sheet before flipping it over.
“Glad you decided to join us today.”
>Despite what you thought was a generously neutral sentence, Braeburn sinks into his seat a little.
>You catch the hind-end of a sour look from Octavia as you scoop some sliced peaches into your mouth.
>”How are you feeling today, love?” she says softly, offering the other young man a warm look. “Better I hope?”
>Braeburn manages a smile as he peers away. ”Much better, thank you.”
>”If you’re still feeling intestinal distress, I know several home remedies that might aid you,”  the monotone voice of Maud Pie says as you toss open your notebook. “All you need is a few rocks.”
>Bon Bon folds her arms. ”If he’s still feeling sick he should’ve stayed home.”
>”Ah’m fine, really,” Braeburn says quietly. “We should get started now…”
>He casts all of them a quick, pleading look and sets his notebook onto the table in front of him.
>The tray of food sitting beside his books appears full and untouched.
“I agree,” you reply after swallowing, eager to move on. “When are the cups and plates getting here?”
>Bon Bon’s brow jumps and she quickly throws open her notebook, taking a few moments to peer inside.
>”Wednesday now,” she replies.
“Wednesday?”
>”Some of them were the wrong color, and they needed time to make more blue ones,” she says, trailing her eyes away. “I just assumed that—“
“Fine, fine,” you cut in, making a note of your own. “Catering, who are we looking at?”
>Octavia, who already had her phone prepared, swishes her thumb across the screen and smiles.
>”I found this lovely little place in Cloudsdale called Au Revoir,” she says. “They make entrees and desserts. They make almost everything, really.”
“Perfect; can they deliver on Friday?”
>Octavia’s face falls.
>”They… don’t deliver,” she says.
>You stop writing, and a crinkle of displeasure forms out of habit in the corner of your mouth.
>You make a good show of slashing out what you were just writing with your pen before locking a stale look onto her.
“… were you planning to carry fifty pallets of food from Cloudsdale on your little vesper? Find a place that will, preferably BEFORE next friday.”
>”S-sure, of course, love. No problem,” Octavia replies.
>You sigh and peer back down at your notes, moving down a line to the next order of business.
“Fluttershy.”
>Several heads rise, their owner’s eyes scanning you with confusion.
>A moment later their faces turn to anxiety, and several hands fly over the table to throw open notebooks and brush through pages.
>Your eyes rise, as does one of your hands.
“New inquiry. What do we know about her? Any of you in contact?”
>Their tense dash to come up with a response halts, and relief crosses their faces.
>”Oh, uh... she’s a student, isn’t she?” Octavia says.
>Maud raises her hand. “I believe my sister knows a Fluttershy.”
>”She’s social anthrax,” Bon Bon says with a roll of her eyes. “Everybody knows about that weirdo.”
“I don’t,” you reply.
>Bon Bon flinches. “O-Oh, uh… well…”
>”I have heard that,” Maud adds.
>You turn to her for clarification, and find her gently nudging her pet rock closer to the applesauce on her food tray, presumably so that it might eat.
>”That she’s peculiar, I mean,” Maud continues.
>You fight to suppress an amused smirk.
>Bon Bon tilts her head over the table to try and get your attention. ”I heard that when she was a freshman, she came to school with a DEAD MOUSE in her bag, and it fell out onto the table in homeroom.”
>Octavia furrows her brow. ”I’ve… also heard that story...”
>”Her house is supposed to be like a zoo,” Bon Bon says. “People say it’s full of snakes and wolves and bears and stuff. I even heard that she sleeps on a bed of hay!”
“Let’s stay centered in reality, please,” you mutter, scratching out yet another line of notes with your pen.
>”My sister likes her,” Maud says, finally succeeding at knocking her stone into her food. “She can’t be all that disagreeable.”
>The other two females at the table twist their faces in disagreement, but neither one of them decide to comment.
>You look to Braeburn, who has been silent since your discussion started, and find him peering over his shoulder at something on the other side of the lunchroom.
>When he turns to find your eyes on him, his shoulders hike.
>”A-ain't that her? Over there?” He motions in the same direction he was just looking, singling out another occupied table in the distance.
>You narrow your eyes at the faraway group and spot several young ladies talking amongst themselves.
>Celestia hadn’t given you a physical description, merely a homeroom number, a name, and an implied sex.
>Celestia also said that she would contact Fluttershy for you, but you weren’t in the habit of waiting and hoping.
”I don’t know her,” you mutter. “Which one is she?”
>”The one at the end, I think?” Brae replies quietly. “Pink hair, yellow shirt.”
>“Why are we talking about her, again?” Bon Bon says, frowning at the faraway table.
“The animal coordinator from last year left town,” you answer. “Celestia recommended her.”
>Bon Bon snorts. “As an ‘animal coordinator’? Hah, that’s perfect.”
>”Maybe we could ask her friends for her number?” Octavia says, shifting in her seat. “Maybe… we could get them to work with her? Not sure if I’d wanna be alone in a room with that one…”
>Braeburn doesn’t comment, but if the look on his face is anything to go by, he agrees.
>Bon Bon laughs again. “Alone? I wouldn’t wanna be in the same GRADE as that spaz. You sure this is a good idea, Anonymous?”
>You grunt in annoyance and rise from your seat, tiring of the peanut gallery.
>”A-Anon, wait.” Bon Bon rises from her seat as well. “I’ll go. You don’t have to—“
>You rebuke her with a quick wave of you hand, and the last you see of the young woman before you depart is her melting uneasily back into her chair.
>Getting teenagers to do anything productive is a chore.
>If they’re so scared of doing their job, then you’ll do it for them.
>It was probably better that you went, anyway.
>Despite recent concerns over you sociability, your track record for persuasion was utterly unassailable.
>Getting a teenager to be in said place at said time might be unreasonably difficult, but convincing them to do it in the first place is far from it.
>All you have to do is pay attention.
>As you continue to approach, the group of girls laugh amongst themselves, and one of them even nudges your target on the shoulder through the giggles.
>She’s strangely popular for an outcast.
>Then again, her group of contacts might be just as tolerated.
>That feeling of being watched returns as you cross the cafeteria – the whispering, the trailing eyes.
>None of those eyes belong to this Fluttershy, nor any of her companions.
>The girls are enveloped in their own little world, and they stay inside even as you draw close.
>”—supposed to get close enough to one of them to ask? They’re always clumped together into groups like-like… wasps!” a sporty-looking one says.
>A girl in a tailored dress and a showy bonnet chuckles.
>”I’d keep my voice down if I were you.” she says. “It’ll be a smidge harder to get a date if they know you’ve been comparing them to insects.”
>You were unsure at a distance, but now that you were closer, one familiar face begins to stand out.
>A girl with bright pink hair and, what you assume, are deflated balloons taped to her hip, is the first one to catch sight of you, and her eyes widen in recognition.
>Maud mentioned their connection before, but her being present was still an unpleasant surprise.
>”But it’s true!” Sporty says. “Fluttershy, back me up here. You’ve practically been trying since middle sch—“
>”ICE KING,” Pinkie Pie coughs loudly into her cup.
>She hastily cuts her eyes in your direction, silencing her friend.
>You pause any greeting you might have started with to narrow your eyes at Maud’s sister.
>She laughs hesitantly. ”Oh! H-hey there, Nonny! Did you, uh… lose weight? You’re lookin’ great! Eheheh…”
>You let your eyes linger on her a while more before softening them and turning them to the rest of her tablemates.
”Good afternoon,” you say mechanically. “Sorry to bother you during lunch.”
>Each of them trade looks and then mumble their own assurance that your intrusion is alright, despite their faces reflecting differently.
>Fluttershy, you notice, is the only one who doesn’t attempt to make eye contact with you.
>You set your gaze firmly on her regardless, and she practically curls from the attention.
“Fluttershy, isn’t it? I wanted to speak with you.”
>Her eyes widen, as do those of her friends, and she flashes a quick look to each of them before chancing one at you.
>”Uh... m-me?” she mumbles softly, gesturing to herself.
“Yes, I just need a moment alone – if you don’t mind?”
>Fluttershy’s brow furrows and she peers at each one of her friends again, most of whom offer a shrug or less.
>After a moment of silent deliberation, Fluttershy backs away from the table and slides her lanky legs out from underneath.
>She slouches as she stands, but even so you can tell that she’s ever so slightly taller than you, possibly than all of her friends.
>Despite the social dress code present among young people, she’s the only one in her group wearing jeans, and she pairs them with a set of hardy-looking work boots.
>Not counting her soft features and well brushed hair, the bright yellow blouse she has on is probably the most feminine thing about her.
>You nod and gesture to the other side of the room. “Thank you, this should only take a second.”
>Fluttershy merely nods in response.
>”Is this… is this really happening?” Sporty whispers, casting her friends a dumbfounded look.
>Pinkie rises from the table and attempts to subtly tap the fashionable one on the side.
>The blue-haired girl turns, puzzled, but Pinkie merely pops her brow and tips her head to the side.
>Not bothering to wonder, you turn to leave them, and the Fluttershy girl follows close behind.
>The prying eyes are starting to become like background noise to you, but that doesn’t mean you don’t notice when the number of them increase.
>Apparently you and she are an entertaining combination, because the student council’s head’s aren’t the only ones you turn on your way out of the cafeteria.
>Thankfully, the hall outside is much quieter than it was before, and just as equally devoid of life – the perfect place to talk business.
>The two of you stop just beyond the double doors.
>The timid girl, somehow, looks even more lost than she did when you first approached her.
>She looks away from you and squeezes her upper arm, bulging the fabric around her slim fist.
>The subtle sway in her shoulders is because her feet are shuffling; she can’t find a comfortable way to stand in front of you.
“Thank you,” you say. “It’s a little awkward discussing these things in front of an audience. I’m Anonymous by the way, It’s nice to meet you.”
>Fluttershy’s eyes drift upwards.
>They only meet yours for a moment, and within them swirls a sky-blue tempest, an unsteady sea that vanishes just as fast as it comes.
>”M-me too…” she says.
“I’m sure we’re both busy people so I’ll get right to it. I’ll assume you know about Friday? The Winter Formal?”
>“Uh, yes…”
“I’m going to need you.”
>Fluttershy tenses, and for a moment you think you see hope twinkling in the storm.
>”R-… really?”
“Celestia recommended you to me. She said you had skilled hands for this sort of thing.”
>Her face twists and prickles a light pink, and her eyes drift even farther away.
>”Th-the principal said that?” she whispers.
>You’re about to reply, but something stops you, a sound.
>You turn toward the ajar cafeteria doors and stare, swearing that you just heard a third voice.
>You wait, but the only sound you hear is the vague buzz from the people inside.
“… yes – uhh, she said you were very good with animals, doves specifically. Is that true?” you continue, turning back to her.
>Fluttershy’s mouth opens and then drifts shut several times, and the hand squeezing her arm noticeably slacks.
“Doves – for the freshman ceremony?” you continue. “I need someone who works with Doves. The people we used last year aren’t available.”
>Fluttershy stares blankly at you for several seconds.
>The rising tension in her posture diminishes, but so too does that soft spark of excitement.
>”O-oh, um…” she mumbles. “I… I, umm…”
>You withhold a sigh, your patience for the one-sided and unproductive conversation drawing thin.
>You take a step forward and raise your arms.
“The doves need to go from point A,” you motion with you hand, “to point B,” you motion again, “and back to point A. Can you do that – yes or no?”
>Fluttershy drifts backwards, restoring the distance you just took. ”Y-yes, uhh, they can do that… but—“
“Good,” you respond, tugging a notepad from your back pocket. “I’ll need to meet with you over the weekend to confirm things and iron everything out. I’ll obviously need you on Friday as well, and the day before – to prepare.”
>Everything you say to her is paraphrased onto your pad.
>Fluttershy merely looks on as you write, her face strained.
>”Is… is Thursday, um—“
“The school can’t pay you for this, for obvious reasons, but a more appropriate credit-based reward isn’t out of the question. I’ll leave the specifics of that between you and the Principals though, as well as any scheduling of any appointments to discuss said matters. Any questions?”
>You stay your pen and look up at her.
>”U-um…” She squirms a little and scours the tiles on the floor with her eyes.
>It takes a maddening amount of indecisive floundering, but eventually she shakes her head.
>“… no.”
”Great.” You sigh, this time in relief. “One less problem to deal with.”
>You toss aside a page on your pad and draw out a new table with your pen.
“Alright, are we meeting at your house, or do you have a place of business?”
>”Uhh… my house, maybe...”
“I’m also going to need to know what hours during the week that you’re available to meet wi—“
>”Okay okay, wait just a second!”
>Your mouth snaps shut at the interruption, and Fluttershy’s eyes widen and lock onto something over your shoulder.
>You turn just in time to spot Sporty leap into the hall through the open cafeteria doors, a displeased look painting her face.
>A moment later the door opposite to the one she slipped through flies outward and spews a pair of female teenagers onto the floor at your feet.
>The grounded eavesdroppers, after a moment of realization, cringe and slowly peer up at you.
>They each rub the back of their heads and let out a nervous chuckle.
>You do not.
>Sporty only pays them half attention, marching up to Fluttershy instead.
>The girl in the tailored dress clears her throat and attempts to stand, fighting an equally tangled Pinkie for balance.
>“D-Dash, maybe this isn’t the best—“
>”Fluttershy’s too nice to say it, so I will,” Sporty, ‘Dash’, mutters, eyeing her timid friend before turning to you. “She can’t work with you; she’s got plans.”
“… who… are you?” you ask, any semblance of relief or pleasant mood you once had dispersing fast.
>The sporty one grins broadly. “The name’s Rainbow Dash, babe. Dunno if you’ve ever heard of something called ‘Head Quarterback’, but that’s gonna be me after tryouts – again.”
>The sour look on your face lingers on her before drifting toward Fluttershy.
>She trades looks between the two of you and squirms in place.
>”I-it’s okay, Dash. It’s not important,” she practically whispers.
>Rainbow Dash’s smile vanishes.
>”’Not Important’?” she says. “C’mon Flutters, you’ve been talking about that ‘specialist what’s-her-face’ since before school started! You really wanna cut out on Thursday just for this guy?”
>Fluttershy’s face falls. “She… she said she might be back in town next year. I can go then. It’s okay…”
>Rainbow Dash folds her arms over her chest and frowns.
>The rest of Fluttershy’s friends, now standing and united, approach her from the side.
>”Are you sure about this, darling?” Tailored dress says. “There’s a lot of hours in a Thursday afternoon. Can’t you just go to both? The animal shelter isn’t that far away from the school.”
>Pinkie Pie nods emphatically at the recommendation, and Fluttershy perks up a little.
“Um… no. That isn’t going to work.”
>Their entire group turns toward you, and under their scrutiny you instinctively straighten your jacket.
“I don’t get things done by playing fast-and-loose with deadlines. Doing something like this with a student instead of a professional is already risky. I need to be sure she can perform the day before.”
>Rainbow Dash examines you a moment before scowling. “Don’t you think you’re being a ‘little’ pushy? Fluttershy isn’t even getting anything out of this. Why should she agree? What’s in it for her?”
>Your eyes narrow on her.
“She’s getting extra credit.”
>Rainbow Dash chokes out a laugh. “Fluttershy isn’t like me, sweetheart. She gets STRAIGHT A’s. What’s extra credit gonna’ do for a perfect student?”
>You stare at the blue menace a moment, trying to keep your jaw from hardening any further.
“If she wants money…” you say, lowering your volume, “then I’d be more than willing to work something out with her personally, under the table…”
>You’re sure to emphasize the ‘she’ and the ‘her’ in your statement, hoping the obnoxious girl catches on.
>You hear Fluttershy mutter something about it being okay, but Rainbow Dash ignores her and marches closer to you, flashing her stubborn grin in your face.
>”Didn’t you hear what she said? This could be the only chance she gets to do this in a year. It might be a once in a lifetime thing! You think your pocket change compares to that?”
>Her smirk widens and somehow becomes even more cocky.
>”Do you even have a girlfriend to ask for that ‘personal’ money of yours?”
>You’re getting angry.
>That special kind of angry, that high, windy peak where everything is serene and quiet – right before the mountain cracks and starts spitting molten rock into the air.
>The casual if somewhat alien sexism that crops up here usually isn’t difficult for you to brush off, but the girl in front of you does it so well that it’s starting to push your buttons.
>That isn’t even mentioning what an effective roadblock she is.
>You begin to smile despite not meaning to.
“I assumed,” you say softly, “that Fluttershy would recognize the importance of this event to her schoolmates, and come to a reasonable decision.”
>Despite Rainbow Dash’s continued zeal, the rest of her friends are slowly backing away.
>You don’t blame them; the look on your face must be incredible.
>Rainbow Dash advances another half-step forward, still grinning, still unwilling or unable to do the smart thing.
>Fluttershy looks distraught – neither of you are budging from your places despite her subtle attempts to move you apart by squeezing in between.
>Her eyes widen with dread when Dash opens her mouth to speak again, but the sporty girl is interrupted by a heavy pink hand landing on her shoulder.
>”Ooo, ooo, I got it!” Pinkie cries, waving her other hand in the air frantically. “If she doesn’t want money, you could let Fluttershy take you to the dance!”
>A moment of silence passes.
>The dread in Fluttershy’s eyes rapidly shifts to horror.
>Rainbow Dash pulls away from her pink friend and examines her incredulously.
”… what?” you say.
>”W-whaddaya’ mean, ‘what’?” Pinkie says, shrinking, “I thought it was a good idea…”
>Dash’s face sinks, and she gives it a small shake for emphasis.
>”You can’t just… assume he’ll do that in exchange, Pinkie,” the fashionable one cuts in sheepishly, “It isn’t, well, you know… he isn’t a… ‘you know’.”
>Pinkie, lost but clearly determined, shakes her head and turns toward you. “What’re you talking about? It could totally work! Nonny agrees with me, don’t you?” She smiles and gestures at you. “I mean, you’re probably single, right?”
>Not only do her friends recoil, but Pinkie herself flinches at that one.
>”O-okay, no, wait a second, lemme try that agai—”
“Stop,” you command.
>Pinkie’s mouth obediently slams shut.
>None of the girls seem eager to speak after that – even Dash hovers awkwardly, her vigor deflated.
>You utilize this moment of peace and opportunity by taking a deep breath and slowly aligning your pen to your pad.
>After scribbling down what you want to, you tear the bottom of the paper free and grab onto Fluttershy’s wrist.
>She frantically mumbles several apologies under her breath, but you ignore her and mash the piece of paper into her hand.
“I can be reached at this number at any time,” you say, measuring out the words carefully so she couldn’t misunderstand. “Whatever you decide… decide on it by the end of the day. Call, text, I don’t care. I’ll be waiting.”
>Fluttershy cautiously peers at you before settling her gaze on the piece of paper in her hand.
>She stares at it silently, and when it doesn’t seem like she’ll say anything more, you turn to leave.
>You spare neither her nor any of the others a second glance as you depart the hall.
>It might not have not have been on the best terms, but your task was complete, and you were all too happy to return to any semblance of professionalism you could.
>Despite the brisk manner with which you leave them, an optimistic voice bubbles up in your wake.
>”See?” Pinkie says. “He TOTALLY just dropped you his digits!”
>Your displeased grunt is mirrored by Rainbow Dash; it’s the last thing you hear before the lunchroom doors swing shut behind you.

*-*-*-*

>Despite what you could only describe as a minor disaster, the several hours following lunch are routine and painless to the point of prediction.
>Mrs Harshwhinny’s lecture is already a blur; it’s only been a few minutes since the bell rang, but you can hardly remember what she said or the things you studied.
>It’s been happening a lot lately.
>That isn’t to say you don’t pay your school work the proper attention, you do, your grades are perfect in spite of your memories of the subject matter being a few years deteriorated.
>It’s the time in between the problem-solving that’s been slipping away.
>That might be why your journeys across campus to the student council room always feel stretched and uncomfortable, like you could be late at any moment regardless of the time.
>It didn’t matter what trouble might await you when you got there, the thought of being late was much, much worse.
>Punctuality is a chief concern in your mind, but it isn’t the only one.
>Sometimes, at the end of the day, all you can remember vividly is the time you’ve spent in the club room, and with its members.
>When the council meeting started, Braeburn handed you a spreadsheet – a new version of the one sitting in the trashcan in the auditorium.
>His hand barely barely trembled.
>The columns on the page were uniform and evenly spaced, the fields were in their proper places, his spelling was perfect, his math was competent.
>He even attached a colored tag to the page that matches the filing system you use.
>An almost imperceptible breath left the young man when you tucked the document away with the others.
>In the time between lunch and now, Octavia had collected a list of establishments she was actively considering to cater the dance.
>Bon Bon followed up on the date for the plasticware, and although she spoke with the manager, she was unable to arrange an earlier delivery.
>Maud discussed her joint proposal with the tennis team to expand the courts and erect rudimentary fences; her budget is a tad steep, and she makes a pun about concrete, but her presentation is thorough and professional – almost enough to convince you.
>After the status reports and presentations were finished, the five of you settled into personal work for the rest of the afternoon.
>The student council room is as quiet and productive as a hospital ward when the final bell rings, but even the silence lingers with you.
>Heads belonging to the council members rise at the sound, but none of their owners make a move to leave.
>There aren’t any cheers or long sighs of satisfaction, no one makes a rowdy rush for the exit.
>You feel the full weight of their attention as you set down your pen and reach for your bag.
“I trust everyone knows what they’re supposed to be doing over the weekend?” you say, rising from your seat.
>They answer or nod in the affirmative.
“Good, then I’ll see you all on Monday. You’re dismissed”
>The four students stand and begin quietly collecting their things as you do the same.
>During the cleanup, Bon Bon pauses to glance in your direction, and when you turn as well, she peers away and clears her throat.
>”Uh, hey, Anonymous?” she says. “About the football team stuff…”
“What about it?” you reply, zipping up your bag.
>Bon Bon tries for a smile and runs a hand along the back of her neck. ”Uh, it’s just, you usually divide that out between us. It’s, uh… it’s a lot of work for one person, I mean.”
“It’s fine, it shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”
>“Are you sure? I know you can do it, I just…“
>The hand on her neck hooks around the collar of her blouse and squeezes it between her fingers.
>”I can come over and help you over the weekend? I-I mean, if you want me to – if you’re not busy, I mean. I don’t have to if you’re not, uh, comfortable with – anything.”
>The other three teens have paused in their cleanup, apparently interested in your reply.
>You grunt in exasperation as you toss your bag over your shoulder, and Bon Bon tenses.
“It’s fine,” you repeat, ignoring the hint of chivalry you sensed in her tone. “Worry about your own work before moving on to mine.”
>Bon Bon takes a half-step back, her smile remaining, if tested. “O-oh, yeah, sure, of course. You’re completely right. I’ll, uh… sorry.”
>The girl’s head dips slightly as the others exchange sheepish looks.
>All but one of them, Braeburn, finish packing and don heavy winter coats before hoisting their bags over their shoulders.
>Octavia reaches out to pat a hard-faced Bon Bon on the back as she passes, but the girl hardly seems to notice the gesture; she pushes past her light grey colleagues without a word.
>Bon Bon’s exit fills the council room with the sound of laughter and footsteps, the fanfare of the students outside rushing to start their weekend.
>Octavia catches the door before it closes and clears her throat, offering up a smile as she turns. “We’ll be in touch, loves. Have a nice weekend.”
>”Boulder says goodbye,” Maud adds as she slips by the taller girl.
>Octavia snickers and follows behind, sneaking in a wave before the door slides shut.
>It’s just you and Braeburn, now.
>You move toward the exit, casting the other boy a glance as you pass – he’s still stuffing his things into his bag as you pop it back open.
>When he notices you waiting for him, he forcefully jams the rest inside without worry for the contents.
>He stands to leave, but in his rush, swerves too sharply and knocks the overstuffed caddy of pencils and pens on the corner table to the ground, scattering them on the floor.
>Braeburn pales and quickly sinks to the floor, cursing and muttering apologies under his breath as he tries to scoop up the mess.
>For a time you’re content waiting, but after he sets the pencil holder back onto the table only to knock it over a second time, you sigh and move from the door.
>”S-sorry, sorry,” he apologizes hastily, but you say nothing, crouching at his side instead.
>As you work, the commotion from the hall settles somewhat, the muffled roar morphing into a faint murmur.
>By the time you finish, Braeburn actually manages a worn smile.
>”Sorry,” he says again, running a hand through his hair. “Thank you…”
>The peach-brown strands atop his head crinkle and stick as his fingers pass.
>His eyes are wilted with lack of sleep, and now that you’re close enough, he might be thinner than he was when you first met.
>’He was very excited, to join and to meet you’.
>Your brow curls, and Braeburn shrinks.
>”R-right, sorry, ah know you have to lock up now,” he says, rising quickly and moving toward the exit.
>You stand as well, expecting him to leave, but he doesn’t – he stops with his hand on the knob.
>The young man neglects to speak for a while, the faint sounds from the outside trickling in while he collects his thoughts.
>’I’ll speak to Braeburn tomorrow.’
>A chilly fear washes over you in the silence.
>“Ah, uh… ah really appreciate… everything.”
>He pauses again, slowly raising his free hand to join the other, gripping the brass in both of them before he continues.
>“Ah know it might not seem like – w-what ah mean is…” His head dips. “Ah… really wanna’ stay in the student council. Ah’ll try really hard from now on, promise. Ah’ll have everything done by Monday like ya’ said, bright an’ early. No screw-ups this time, honest. S-so...”
>’He’s talked about you a lot, actually’.
>”... have a nice weekend.” He lingers only a moment more before pulling the door open.
“Braeburn,” you say.
>His back tenses and he turns almost immediately, pausing in the arch. “Y-yeah?”
>As you peer at him, the hall at his back shimmers and vanishes, morphing into a shadow of the principal’s office.
>His weary eyes vanish, obscured by his hands as he feverishly tries to wipe the tears away and breathe through the knot in his throat.
>Luna tries to comfort him, but he can’t stop.
>”Uh, Anonymous?”
>Reality returns, as does your need to respond, but whatever words you were considering dry up in your throat.
>You hear a sound close by, a dull buzzing through your pants pocket – It’s your phone.
>The loud buzz only fills in for your conversation for a few seconds, but it mulls yet more words out of your brain, and when it stops, you’re left hanging and lost, unsure of what you meant to relay or where you meant to go.
>If you had a direction to begin with.
>Braeburn still patiently awaits.
>You clear your throat and drag your eyes away from the exit, hands curling into fists.
“I’ll see you on Monday,” you mutter.
>The young man shifts in place a moment before flashing you a cautious smile.
>”O-oh. Uh, right… right,” he says. “Ah’ll see ya’ then.”
>He retreats – eagerly, you notice – and you advance, passing into the hall with him.
>Braeburn mingles into the sparse crowd of students without looking back; his back becomes straighter, posture more confident, as he shrinks into the distance and out of sight.
>You look after him far after the fact, and your jaw begins to tighten.
>When you finally turn away your hand rushes forward and slams the council door shut, hard, a scowl forming on your face as you jam your key into the lock.
>He’ll thank you for this one day.
>He’s seventeen: his life is still safe, secure, and familiar.
>Boys might be treated differently here, but in the end that’s just one more thing holding him back.
>When his first real bad day comes, when everything falls out from under him, when he only has himself, he’ll remember this.
>He’ll remember the hardships and the indifference, the long nights, the stress, the desperation – he’ll remember, and he’ll be grateful.
>It’s better this way, he’ll see, he’ll learn.
>Everybody does.
>There’s a familiar prickle on the back of your neck, and you don’t need to turn around to know what it is.
>You always have an audience here, and however few they might be, it wouldn’t pay for them to see you fuming aimlessly in the halls like a child.
>You take a deep breath and tuck away your keys, trying to recompose yourself and sort through the tangle of your thoughts.
>Your pocket begins to vibrate again.
>Given your mood, your first thought is to ignore it, but the idea doesn’t last.
>Your eyes widen with realization as your hand darts into your pants to free the device.
>The message splashed on the screen belongs to a number you don’t recognize, the caller registers as ‘Unknown’.
>You scroll, selecting the first message in the chain.
>’this is fluttershy,’ it says.
>‘i’ll do it’.
>A phantom tension in your chest peeks and then slowly begins to dissipate.
>You run a hand through your hair in relief and fall back against the council door, moving ahead to the next message.
>’1788, everfree way and chocolane ave, i can only see you after school on weekdays, but my weekends are open’.
>Her poor social skills don’t extend to her thumbs, it seems – thank goodness for that.
>Now all you have to do is make sure she doesn’t screw everything up at the last second and you’re golden.
>The Winter Formal will go off without a hitch – better than last year’s, even.
>Celestia will realize that doubting you was a mistake and you’ll finally be able to leave all this nonsense behind.
>As you lean off the door and tuck your phone back into your pants, you almost smile.
>The desire vanishes in an instant as your hand begins to vibrate.
>Cautious, you slowly free the item again and examine its screen.
>’please meet me behind the auditorium’. The phone buzzes a fourth time, not five seconds after the last. ’if thats okay with you’.
>You squint at the screen, confused, until a thought strikes: reimbursement.
>Money may have been mentioned in the heat of the moment, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t made an option at the start.
>Why else would she want to meet with you alone?
>You brush away several errant, useless thoughts about her questionable reputation and tuck your phone away, turning to advance down the hall.
>If money is what she wants, you can provide.
>You won’t be able to provide… very much, but you can provide.
>She didn’t seem like the haggling sort when you first spoke (if you could call that speaking), so this shouldn’t be a problem.
>’You’re on the home stretch,’ you mentally assure. ‘Get it done and go home.’

>it’s colder outside than you were expecting, but your trip back across campus is propelled by an almost pleasant tension.
>By the time you reach Building A. you’re feeling something akin to focus – or, at least, an emotion much closer to it than what you were experiencing a few minutes ago.
>Frustrated or not, it was a welcome return to your element.
>As you cut through the grass and come around the baby blue shell of the auditorium, you spot a slender figure squeezed between it and the back of the library.
>She’s alone, just like you were hoping.
>You’re actually a little surprised her gal pals aren’t here to carry some of the load, but you’re the last person who’d complain at any loss of company from miss ‘head quarterback’.
>The girl turns when she hears your feet crunching against the gravel and mumbles something that sounds like a greeting.
>You simply roll up your bulky sleeves.
“I got your messages,” you say. “Pretty cocky of you – sending your address before we discussed the terms.”
>”W-what? Uh...” A hand wrapped in a bulky yellow mitten rises to grip at her upper arm, a familiar tick.
“I don’t know how much this outing you’ve planned means to you, but I’m willing to offer you two hundred Bits to work with me instead. Take it or leave it.”
>Two-hundred is a little steep for you, but for the work you were expecting it was fairly light – a sight less than minimum wage if your math was correct.
>It wasn’t money that a teenager was likely to just brush off, though.
>Fluttershy knits her brow and peers down at her feet. ”U-um, no, that’s not… It’s okay. I’ll do it.”
 “You’ll… ‘do it’? For two-hundred?”
>Fluttershy shakes her head. “No, I mean… I’ll just do it. I don’t need any money…”
>Your shoulders slump a tad.
”You – you don’t want the money?”
>Fluttershy simply shakes her head again.
>You stare at her for several seconds; of all the things you were expecting when you came out here, your ‘do it out of kindness and the spirit of co-operation between students’ pitch paying off wasn’t one of them.
“You’re serious?”
>Fluttershy nods, and you would have chuckled over your easy victory if not for a thought crossing your mind.
“Then why am I standing outside in the cold with you instead of on a warm bus heading to my house right now?” you mutter, yanking your sleeves back down your cold arms.
>The girl’s eyes widen before straining apologetically. “O-oh no, I’m… I wanted to talk about something else if… if that’s okay.”
“Yes? Which is?” you respond curtly.
>Your mood has soured again, or perhaps it never truly improved in the first place.
>”W-well, I was just wondering if… um…it’s, um…” Fluttershy’s volume drops until she mumbles out a half-formed sentence that you can’t even hear.
>You wait for her to continue like she obviously desires, but she can’t seem to find the words.
>By the time she manages to get to a second aimless utterance, your arms are folded, and your foot has begun to tap.
>Possibly noticing your displeasure, Fluttershy squeezes her eyes shut and takes a step back.
>”I’m-I’m sorry,” she stutters, “this… this was a mistake. I’m sorry, this is… I changed my mind. I-I don’t… it’s not important.“
>You hear what sounds like the growl of school buses lurching to life in the distance.
>Another winter breeze cuts into your already numb fingers.
“… it’s not important?”
>Fluttershy stops moving away, practically freezes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“I came out here for a reason,” you say, failing to suppress a bitter chuckle. “Don’t tell me I came out here for nothing, because I didn’t. Why am I here?”
>You take several steps forward.
>Admirably, or perhaps intelligently, the timid girl doesn’t move a muscle as you approach despite clearly wanting to.
>She flattens herself against an invisible wall, one that holds against even the shadow of your mounting anger.
“Why am I here?” you almost hiss.
>Fluttershy flinches. “I-I’m sorr—”
”Don’t… say you’re sorry,” you cut in, patience thinning at breakneck speed. “Everyone in this entire school tells me how sorry they are all day. I KNOW you’re sorry, you’re INCREDIBLY sorry. You’re the sorriest girl I’ve ever met. Tell me something worth my time.”
>You aren’t shouting, but you’re getting close – just close enough for the sound of your voice to drown out that smart, quiet one in your head telling you to take some good fortune and run.
>Like her friend, something about this girl grates on your nerves.
>This isn’t about the damn dance anymore: this is about competence, maturity, respect.
>Fluttershy’s scrunches her face and tries to lean away, like the force of your personal space was beginning to physically crush her. “I-I’m—“
“I didn’t come here to hear you apologize. I didn’t come here for you to tell me what you told me over the phone. I didn’t come here to waste money and time in public transit for something that never happened. I came here to talk about SOMETHING, and we’re going to talk about SOMETHING, so SPIT IT OUT already!”
>”Ca-ca-ca—can I join the student council!?”
“What!?” you practically bark.
>Fluttershy’s withers ever more at your volume, and a soft, sobbing mewl escapes her lips. “I-I-I want to join the student council, p-please.”
>As you slow to try and piece together her most complete pair of sentences to date, your brain whirs to a halt.
“W-what…?”
>Fluttershy cautiously lifts an eyelid to peer at you, practically trembling.
“What did you just say?”
>”I’m s—“ She swallows that word fast, clearly noticing the flash of chilly death in your eyes. “I-I… I want to join the student council, please… if that’s alright with you, um…”
>She squirms in place.
>Despite knowing the penalty, you can tell she still really wants to apologize.
>Your mouth opens once and then quickly shuts; the puff of steam that passes through your lips coincides with the raw heat of your anger sputtering out.
“Are you…?” You skip on to your next thought immediately and without emotional censor for your surprise – or your disapproval. “Why?”
>Fluttershy mumbles out several muddled and broken sentences, each leading nowhere fast.
>You, too, are at a loss, but unlike her, you’re quite ready to settle this nonsense now.
“U-uh, well, sorry, but that isn’t going to happen. Not just anyone can apply. For a start, you need to have the grades to—“
>’Fluttershy isn’t like me, sweetheart. She gets STRAIGHT A’s!’
>You stop short and grimace as the annoying memory plays out.
>It didn’t matter if she was a bumbling, hopeless pariah; straight A’s was a competent qualifier for ‘good grades’ by most standards.
>As you continue to ruminate on this, you take an uneasy step back, the vision of an incompetent, indecisive, passive pink-haired girl sitting next to you in the club room dominating your thoughts as they unravel.
>You might be a barrier for entry... but you were also just a student.
>Your power over the club is far from unlimited.
>You had a professional duty to inform the principals of her application if she fit the scholastic bill, even if you were against it.
>Nobody had even TRIED to apply since Braeburn, but there was still a vacancy in the roster...
>If Dash was telling the truth, and you turned away a perfect student while you had room to fill, it would definitely draw attention.
>If you rejected her, Celestia or Luna could easily veto you if they wanted.
>Even if you risked your reputation by not telling them, she or one of her little friends could expose you by simply applying with them herself.
>Did she know that?
>Now that you’re thinking about it... Celestia knows this girl – well enough to recommend her skills in your time of need.
>How close are they, exactly?
>’Close enough’, your anxiety answers.
>If you tried to persuade her, would it matter?
>Would touchy-feely Celestia agree to keep a student she’s personally interacted with, well enough to trust her, out of the council based solely on your say-so and her lack of popularity – well-earned or otherwise?
>’No’, it answers again.
>A wave of goosebumps crawls across your skin.
>She can’t actually get in… can she?
“… I’ll give you two-hundred and fifty bits to pretend you didn’t ask me this,” you whisper.
>Fluttershy hardly considers your offer before slowly shaking her head.
”Three hundred.”
>She doesn’t even have time to shake her head this time.
“God,” you groan, “why?”
>”Does it… does it really matter?” she mumbles softly.
>You honestly have to think about that one for moment.
>Did it matter ‘why’ you were doomed?
>You let out a bitter chuckle and begin to pace, wracking your mind for a countermeasure that wasn’t forthcoming.
>”My friends are, um… they’re really nice. To me,” Fluttershy says softly.
>Having not expected her to acquiesce, you stop and turn to regard her.
>“They go through a lot for me, because… well, they like me. Maybe… I hope. But, nobody else does.”
>She says the words so honestly – like she’s telling you the sky is blue.
>”I know… you didn’t get off to a good start, but… Rainbow Dash is a good person. She sticks up for me when – she’s been doing it since we were little. She still does it, even since we moved. Applejack too, a-and Rarity, and Pinkie. They became friends with us when nobody else would. But… it didn’t fix anything. It just made everything worse for them. They always… and I just…”
>Fluttershy’s eyes are shadowed in something like regret now, and her head sinks low.
>”Somebody… somebody posted something online a few days ago – about Dash and me,” she says. “It was long and really, really… bad. They told so many lies about her, and they called her names, and… and a lot of other people did, too, a-and they’re still… it’s happened before, with the others. Sometimes online or in mean notes in their locker. Sometimes… right in front of them. They spend time with me and then everybody just-just—” The hand gripping her arm squeezes down, her blue eyes becoming glossy.
“Is that what this is?” you say, a frown forming. “You think being a part of the student council would give you the power to punish them or something? If you’re closer to the principals you’re in a better position to ’send a message’?”
>Fluttershy squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. ”N-no! That’s not – I don’t want to do anything to them, I just…” She trails off there, struggling to elaborate further. ”Everybody… everybody watches you and the others on the student broadcast. They read your emails, they…. they check your announcements on the bulletin board, they listen when you talk and never interrupt. Everybody knows you, but they don’t… they respect you, or-or they like you, or they know to stay away, or – I don’t know! But you’re untouchable, all of you are.”
>Although you didn’t think it possible, her tone, posture, and even her volume are starting to strengthen.
>For a moment, you think you see a glimmer of determination in her deep blue eyes.
>”If I was with all of you... if I knew what you did and how you did it, if they respected me, too, my friends wouldn’t be… I wouldn’t drag them down anymore! People wouldn’t treat them so badly if I wasn’t so-so – me! If I was like all of you in the student council, then maybe, maybe that would—!” The glimmer brightens, blossoming into something massive, powerful, beautiful...
>Before swiftly sputtering out.
>Her eyes widen, the will vanishing from them without a trace.
>She deflates slightly, as if her body was sinking in to fill up the energy she just used.
>”Th-that’s… that’s what I want,” she finishes softly.
>Suffice it to say, her speech leaves you a little boggled.
>Still somewhat lost but now put on the spot, you wrack your brain trying to come up with a proper logical response to all of this.
>There HAD to be one, there had to be a way out of this.
>Her explanation might have been interesting and all, but…
“You really want to join the student council?” You can’t hide the lack of enthusiasm in your voice. “In exchange for doing the job?”
>Fluttershy has to collect herself a little before throwing you for a loop and shaking her head again.
>”No,” she says. “I said I’ll do it, so… you don’t have to accept. I was just, uhm… I mean…” She squirms. “If it’s okay with you, I really, really…”
>You stare at the baffling girl for what feels like an eternity.
>Eventually, your hand drifts up and lands gently on your temple in an attempt to soothe away the forming throb.
“Why me? Why… this? Can’t you just talk to Celestia about this?”
>”I did… a while ago,” she responds. “It didn’t help, it just…”
>’Made things worse’, yes, big surprise – but you were desperate.
”You realize that even if I’m a determining factor for who joins the club, there’s no way for me to guarantee you getting in, let alone anything else, right?”
>”Um, yes…” she replies.
”You also realize that I’d have no incentive to try and keep you around after you were finished working for me, especially if you make things difficult for me, right?”
>”Y-yes.”
“And you’re saying you’ll work for a week, regardless of whether or not I vouch for you, for free?”
>“Um… yes.”
>You smooth the hand on your temple down the front of your face.
“You’re the worst negotiator I’ve ever met in my life.”
>Fluttershy peers down at her feet and shuffles them glumly. ”I know...”
>You stay yourself there and look up to the cloudy sky, staring into the far and blurry shapes as you try to think of something to say that might appease her.
>It’s too bad that there isn’t anything to say – nothing that she isn’t probably expecting.
>Yet, here she is, with you, looking for some sort of help.
>Some sort of comfort.
>The image of a young man with light brown hair rears up in your mind, mocking you.
“Why does everybody think I can—“ You bite back the words, refocusing yourself. “Look, I might be able to get you in, but I can’t… FIX your LIFE. That’s a promise I can’t…”
>Fluttershy’s eyes fall to the ground and become distant, troubled things. ”I know.”
>The sigh that rumbles out of your chest is almost painful.
>This conversation started with you on the offensive, but now, all you wanted to do was retreat, retreat and bide your time.
“Look, I’ll… I’ll think about it, okay? Just give me some time.”
>Despite your noncommittal reply, Fluttershy’s sullen face brightens immeasurably, blinding you with sincerity. “R-really? Are you sure?”
“I’ll ‘think’ about it,” you reiterate carefully.
>For all the good it’ll do you.
“Just, okay, if you go out into public where other students might see you – just don’t do anything… anything ‘you’, in the meantime, alright?”
>The gangly girl looks like a pot threatening to bubble over.
>”Thank you,” she says. “I-I won’t do anything bad, I promise. I’ll stay in my house all weekend.”
>Her grossly subservient response both comforts and wounds you.
“No, you don’t have to do that, just – look, I’ll call you, alright? I’ll call you, so just… just go.”
>“O-okay, okay I’ll, uh… thank you...” Her smile shrinks but doesn’t vanish.
>The girl’s suddenly upbeat demeanor does nothing to soothe the churning in your stomach as you silently depart each other’s company.
>As you come out from behind Building A. and step back into civilization, a whirlwind of anxious thoughts about the future cloud your mind, each one hinting at a similar, inevitable fate.
>This is going to be a disaster: something deep inside you knows this.
>Entering this outcast your fold might be the worst thing to happen in your professional life, and there was nothing you could really do to stop it; in fact, it might be your hand that dealt the blow.
>Why did you push her?
>Why did you push her you goddamn simpleton?
>Why didn’t you just let her be and go home?
>Ahh, home; your head rises hopefully at the concept.
>You need to go home.
>You need this day to end.
>In fact, there’s nothing you want more than to turn on your heater, sit at your desk, pull out your binder, and work.
>It’s all you think about as you break free of school grounds and make your way to the bus stop.

-*-*-*-*-

>Dinner is palatable, homework a breeze; you finish both by five despite coming home later than anticipated.
>Dealing with the accounting for the football team was going to take longer.
>That was fine with you, especially if the work was sufficient to keep worries over a certain student at bay – which it was.
>For three hours you compiled and merged reports, double-checked ledgers, trimmed fat, calculated financial statements, and even marked down a general statement based on your personal recommendations.
>Your eyes wouldn’t be the last ones looking over these records, you are only a student, after all.
>Nonetheless, you double, triple, and quadruple check the pages with the intention of them being the final drafts.
>At long last, when every article finally holds up to your scrutiny, you tuck the papers into a precisely arranged stack and slip them inside a personalized folder where they would remain until turned in.
>The satisfaction you feel over another job well done is hampered somewhat by a sideways glance at your wall clock.
>You certainly didn’t mind efficiency, and you never cut corners, but all the same, you’d finished much earlier than anticipated.
>It was hardly eight o’clock.
>After thinking a while, you rise from your chair and stretch your limbs, idly considering turning in early.
>It was a Friday night, so you didn’t really have a schedule to keep to tomorrow.
>You still had things to do – things you’d rather not think about right at the moment – but for the most part you were free to spend the night and much of the weekend how you saw fit.
>’It’s a little early to go to sleep,’ you muse to yourself. ‘There’s something else I can do.’
>You peer at the computer in the corner of your living room and consider turning it on.
>There was a simple program on it you could use to contact the principals or the other council members if you needed to, and they were probably still awake, but... you didn’t have anything to report.
>There was nothing to say to them.
>At least… nothing you wanted to say.
>You could always look elsewhere on the internet for entertainment, but tonight, something about draining your time away on forums or video sharing sites felt unappealing.
>You turn to the pager-style phone sitting on your desk, but a familiar problem persists.
>There were people to call, yes, but not much you needed to say to them.
>You were done working.
>For the most part...
>An unpleasant but logical thought sours your expression.
>Begrudgingly, you reach down to pick the device up.
>After finding the number you needed and assigning it a proper name tag, you open a text window and begin tapping out a message.
>Talking with her on the phone would be an act of masochism, but this would be tolerable.
>’can you meet with me tomorrow at 10am?’ you say, and title the text: ‘doves’.
>Several minutes pass without a reply.
>You spend them all standing aimlessly with a phone in your hand.
>Eventually, it emits a low hum and brightens its screen.
>’okay’, it says, ‘i can meet with you at ten’. A second buzz sounds out.  ‘oh, please come in boots or sneakers if that’s okay with you’
>Perfect, one last little problem dealt with; it even brought you closer to reaching your goals for Friday.
>Now, there was truly nothing stopping you from enjoying the rest of your night.
>The clock on your wall tick, tick, ticks away.
>You continue to stand, the hand holding your phone still floating.
>Your thumb hovers over the keypad, her message still open and awaiting a possible reply.
>’How are you?’ something inside you offers softly.
>A frown adorns your face as you shove the silly proposal down and snap your phone shut.
>You cast another look around the room, your eyes falling upon the television.
>it didn’t get much use, and if there wasn’t anything you wanted on the internet, then there wouldn’t be anything suitable in the idiot box, either.
>You turn again, this time toward the small, dark room that adjoined this one, the one where your bed was.
>You weren’t tired, but suddenly... all you wanted to do was sleep.
>Close your eyes and quietly drift away.
>Rest, until you forgot how.
>A small part of you advises against it.
>It assures you that staying out would be better, but you don’t want to listen.
>All you want to do is sleep.
>Despite how warm you know the room is, you begin to feel dreadfully cold.
>The soft sound of your breathing is the only thing you hear for a long, long time.

>The relative silence of your apartment is disturbed by the tinny clank of your radiator.
>Dull, distant reality morphs back into focus.
>Tick, tick, tick.
>How long have you been standing there doing nothing?
>You don’t want to look at the clock.
>Your time was wasting, slipping away, but you were still here like always – you couldn’t disappear.
>Your thumb moves, typing on your phone without permission.
>Again, something inside advises you not to look, but it doesn’t really matter if you do or not.
>You know what the number is, you know it by heart.
>It isn’t a Canterlot number, it’s not even Equestrian.
>Equestrian numbers don’t have seven digits.
>Despite this, your phone jumps to action, displaying the pre-programed name tag for the number in its contacts list.
>’Home’, it says.
>The chill in your chest begins to grow, creeping down your limbs and numbing you to the core.
>It didn’t matter if you hit send, the call wouldn’t go through.
>You tried in the beginning, over and over, until your little throwaway cell ran out of juice.
>For a while you did it once a day, and then once a week, then once a month, then not at all – it was pointless every time, it’s pointless now.
>You’re never going to talk to any of them again.
>They might as well be dead.
>Your hand squeezes down on the phone as a wave of nausea disturbs your stomach.
>’Don’t, don’t think about it’.
>You twist in place; the computer, the phone, the television – it doesn’t matter.
>You settle on the lattermost and cross the room, replacing the remote on the coffee table with your phone – but not before tapping the ‘end’ key.
>The T.V. hums to life as you take your place on the couch and cover your numb body with the throw.
>The blanket is warm, but it doesn’t help much.
>A colored bar at the bottom of the screen fills as you squeeze the remote, drowning out the awful, empty, terrifying silence in your apartment with noise.
>The show you’re watching is a comedy, and terrible; you can’t even force yourself to laugh, let alone to feel anything else.
>Still, the thought of changing the channel never crosses your mind.
>You watch for hours and, when the block ends and a new show comes on, you watch that, too.
>Eventually, your eyes begin to feel heavy, and your body begins to warm.
>Tonight, instead of stillness, you are lulled to sleep by the gentle sound of human voices.
>Sometimes they sound familiar.