I yawned as my mind stirred from the depths of a forgotten dream. I was tucked in bed, warm, cozy, and according to the time, I had nearly an hour before my alarm was due to go off.

NotABug was still asleep, there were no sounds of traffic in the neighborhood, and it felt like the whole world was still snoozy and drowsy. But I had to get up and go to work. For a fraction of a second, I forgot what I had been planning, but then my mouth curved into a smile.

Yawning again, I heard a curious—and heart-rending—cloth ripping sound. I froze mid yawn: last time I looked, there was only one part of me that was sharp.

I moved carefully, wincing at every further ripping sound, until my head was clear of my bed. A lone, forlorn feather floated past my face.

As I turned, I spotted the rent pillow. A small nest of feathers had come free of the gash. I carefully picked up the remains of my feather pillow and carried them to my sewing room.

Lifting a hand up, I carefully touched the edge of my horn and found it actually rather sharp. So it wasn't just jagged edges but a blade as well. Something tickled at my thoughts and I mentally reached toward the computer and my cache of images.

It wasn't pure punk, or even industrial, but steampunk—a young woman holding a parasol in one hand and unsheathing a thin-bladed sword with the other. She had a dress that included wooden stays and fabric to make it look more like furled, mechanical wings. I wasn't a fan of the dress, but the sword gave me a great idea.

Wood, as the young woman had for her sheath, was right out (too heavy) and any lighter woods would be kindling by morning. If I could form metal into the required shape, I might run the risk of damaging my horn—and believe me, though I was not as fond of it as I could be, it was my horn, and I would not suffer damage to it.

Like my pillow, my horn sheath would need special materials. Cursory searches revealed fabrics that seemed to suit. The company had no ordering system set up, so I simply bookmarked the site for later.

Only then did I realize I was in my underthings. NotABug, it seemed, really liked the teddy. I walked back to my room and fetched a bathrobe, then headed to my kitchen. A large glass of juice and a breakfast bar were sufficient, and while I retired to the living room to eat and ponder my day, I wondered about how unique what was happening to me was.

How many others in the world had magic, had access to a very smart digital friend, and had the desire to do something like—like what had happened to us? The answers were likely: not many, probably none, and a lot.

There was a way to discover at least two of the answers—maybe all three. Twilight would know how common magic was; after all, particle physics was her field of study. One of my best friends had not just discovered a new type of subatomic particle, but she had also been able to name it after herself.

I only knew so much because Twilight, when she has had a drink or two, would not take a hint. And what was worse, each time she repeated it and got so adorably excited, it just hammered home the information.

Twilight Sparkle had discovered the Twilight particle. There was a lot of crazy mathematics—and I had been assured there were only three people in the world who could make sense of it—but it apparently described how magic worked.

Sunset Shimmer, of course, had suggested the magnitude measurement for the particle be a Sparkle, which Twilight had liked the idea of right up until she had gotten it confirmed and done her first calculation with it. The calculation—Sunset would always giggle while explaining—measured the Twilight's Sparkle.

If there was anyone who could tell me how much magic was in the world, it was Twilight—not that I would trust her to understand a joke.

The second question would have a much closer (relation wise) solution. I started a new to-do list on my internal phone and added "Call Sweetie Belle about AI" on it, then added "Call Twilight about magic." The final question was an easy one, and I had already answered it: everyone and their pets would want this connection to the digital world.

I chewed at the breakfast bar, sitting on the couch and mentally exploring my future, but I was also searching for more details online and compiling an email to both Twilight and my sister.

I was enveloped in warmth, but not my physical body. NotABug snuggled against my digital self, and I didn't care about much else than hugging her back. A good hug was a great way to start the morning, and it seemed that now we had established hug-standards, hug-etiquette was next.

She slowly released the hug and I did the same. Free of the distraction of snuggling, I lifted the bar up for another bite.

—I ordered a few more things to be delivered (mostly some security cameras), and some more entertainment. Rainbow Dash asked if I have a game console and I think it looks like fun.—

Absolutely massive floods of data began pouring in and out of NotABug. What sounded almost like chirping rang in my digital ears as she did something online.

—One for the front door, so we don't have to get up to see who is there. Another for the back door because we want to know if someone is there. Don't worry, I'll make sure that only we can use them.—

Her reassurance was appreciated. From what I understood of the way NotABug coopted such things, once she had adapted them for us to use, no one would ever be able to use them another way.

I lifted the glass of juice (apple and mango) and took a long, cooling sip of it.

The chirping torrent of data continued, but rather than distract me it was relaxing—like white noise. I closed my eyes and continued to eat the breakfast bar.

A piece of breakfast bar hurtled across the room and landed on the floor just before the TV. I was fighting to work out if I had made a mess while also struggling to process what NotABug had said.

Slowly (compared to computer-speed, not normal-speed), I put the facts in order: talk of money, NotABug saying she had gotten more, then she said a word that was unconscionable to me.

—Well, a little over. A few of my stocks were doing really well and it can be hard to sell them fast enough sometimes. One million, sixty-three thousand, two-hundred and eleven dollars.—

"Wait! Hold on. You mean to tell me that you make money on the stock exchange until you have a million dollars and then stop?" I asked.

"So why am I going to work? Why am I opening a store? What is the reason for any of this?"

And there I had the reason—my reason—for doing anything. I stared at the blank TV, not seeing it or the wall behind it. I wanted to make fashionable things, I needed to, and it didn't hurt that it helped Rainbow Dash have a job.

NotABug could give me a million dollars just as easily as buy me Carousel Boutique, but that wouldn't give me what I wanted—needed—in life.

I let out a little sigh and nibbled at the last morsel of my breakfast (excluding what had landed on the floor, of course).

—You're right. Humans have a saying. Money doesn't buy you happiness. People want pretty things, they want someone to tell them something is pretty, and they want someone to make a pretty thing for them. I just want to see people smile and move with self-confidence because they know they look good,— I sent.

The words seemed right. I felt like it just all fit together in my head. My life had always been about fashion and making people look amazing. Did it matter if money wasn't my driving force?

—Your job is still a problem. If I could just pay them to go away, it wouldn't be a problem. Suri won't let us do that, will she?— NotABug asked.

I slipped out of my little car easily, my mind having only just let go of the extra cameras the vehicle offered. That was easier now, as was controlling the car digitally. But my car was small, which meant the leather jacket I brought with me had to be put on outside.

Apparently doomed to be monochromatic—at least my skin—I was wearing a skin-tone bra under a white shirt. The combination served to show my black skin through the top and outline my breasts in a way that told everyone the essence of the punk movement: this is me, sod off, I don't care.

I didn't need black eye-shadow or eyeliner, but cerulean flecks on both brought more attention to my hair. I hadn't cut my hair, of course, but it was up in a complicated knot that was hidden under a spiky ball of hair that (with the power of hairspray) shot out everywhere around the back of my head. I wore a black skirt that came to my knees, but the shade was such that it made it hard to work out where legs stopped and dress started. My stockings and shoes, of course, were black.

—You look like a warrior. A weapon in her own right. You go to do battle!— NotABug sent.

The horn on my head, bearing silver nail polish that made it look like it was wrapped in barbed wire, was my weapon—I was only the hand holding it. I strode into our office building and didn't even look at the front desk. I caught a lift up and was on my floor in no time.

Finally, to complete the ensemble, I grabbed some chewing gum from my handbag and popped it in my mouth.

An outfit wasn't always to make someone look better. Sometimes you wore something because it was comfortable. Sometimes you did it to remind yourself of something. Today I dressed like a punk and styled myself so for one exact response. When I marched into our office and found my cubicle, I got it.

Her voice rose with each word until she was practically screeching. I just shrugged at her and smiled a bored, disinterested smile.

She froze. Suri Polomare was slowly coming to terms with the situation I had built. I wasn't dressed for work. Her duty, as my manager, was to issue me a warning and send me home for the day. A warning would mean she would have to fire me, and sending me home was exactly what I wanted.

Benign, trapped fury, written large on Suri's face, was the absolute opposite of her smile. It was lovely to see her so livid she couldn't even talk. I got bored of waiting.

"Clearly I'm not dressed up to standard," I said. "You only have one position you can—"

"You're dressed just fine!" Suri said, her voice raised still. "Do your work and I won't have to write you up, okay?"

I didn't smile. Punks didn't smile unless everything was going their way, and even then it would be more of a sneer. I looked down to Suri's shoes, then up her body—she wore a mundane business suit that didn't look well tailored at all—all the way to her blonde-dyed hair.

—She'd look pretty if she stopped scowling, got some nice clothes, and did something with her hair,— NotABug sent.

—You know, you're right,— I sent. —If she let her own colored hair to grow out, and got something lighter to compliment her darker colors, she might almost be pretty. What a tragedy her personality is?—

I could practically see the steam exploding from her ears. Turning for the time clock, I punched in for the day.

My office-punk persona slid into place again, and I launched myself toward my cubicle. Finding my seat, I sat down while chewing loudly on my gum.

The usual pile of patterns was suitably larger than normal—apparently Suri (or whoever handled the passing out of work) just ignored the fact I wasn't at work for three days. I plucked the first off the pile and looked over the piece. It was another of a plethora of standard designs.

The next skirt was just screaming to be a mini that a woman couldn't wear without underwear, and then a cardigan (don't even get me started) that shouted out to be a keyhole… cardigan. I'm sure it would be the rage somewhere.

Had the outfits been actually fashionable I would never have been able to do this to them, but they weren't. Each pattern was another fashionista's hopes and dreams watered down to a mass-marketable "beige" jumble. They were the rent hopes and dreams of others just like me.

A particularly apt scene from some terrible action movie that Rainbow Dash had insisted we all watch one night came to mind. A woman (who was dressed aggressively) had been some sort of human-alien hybrid. She had all the good features of both, including a perfectly human appearance. She had found the other hybrids, but those had been failures. Half monster and half person, they reminded me of these poor patterns.

"You could have been an amazing dress," I said, brushing my hand over the pattern paper. "Instead they did this to you."

I didn't have a flamethrower, like the avenging angel of that unknown movie, but I had scissors that would ensure these poor, twisted souls of fashion could die at the hands of someone who cared.

I'd been listening to her soft chirping while I worked, letting her data communications sooth the artist within me who was so upset with the mercy killings I was dispensing. Of course the work wasn't actual work, but it didn't mean that a distraction wasn't going to be a high point.

—Your contract varies wildly from what the reality of your work is. Did you know you're contracted for hour long lunch breaks?—

The real world was easier to deal with when you were focused on the digital. Everything moved at a snail's pace, so I could happily turn last year's gown into a belt while chatting to NotABug. I had a sudden idea.

I reached out and searched online for good sushi restaurants nearby, finding two that served lunch. Phone numbers were on both sites, and I quickly rang the first.

The young woman's voice sounded perky and suitably ethnic to put my mind at ease. Two things I had learned about quality ethnic restaurants: they usually employed family and people of that ethnic group usually ate there too. It was a wonderful sign of authenticity when the food can be enjoyed by expatriates.

I got up, clocked out, and walked to my car. We reached Canterlot Fine Sushi and took turns trying a little of everything. It was great practice for swapping positions. Then NotABug had a new plan.

—Okay. You've shown me a wonderful thing about your world. Now I'll show you something cool about mine.—

She was in control at that moment, but I felt her gesturing, digitally, to something in our internal phone. Not being quite as adept as her at maintaining two presences, I turned my attention to what she was doing.

A data list came up, after a fraction of a second, with information on all the nearby wireless hotspots.

NotABug touched her light to CFS-Private. She used the id from that, poked into the phone further, and pulled out a stream of information. I watched as she worked, studying how she took bits of the data (most of them being indecipherable), and pushed them into an app she had loaded on the phone. She did it again and again, nine times in all, until the program returned a code.

—That's the password for their Wi-Fi. Usually, that is all we need,— NotABug said. —This wasn't set up by an amateur. They have a unique channel name, and a fairly complex password. This is good and bad.—

NotABug connected the phone to their wireless network and started reaching out again. I moved with her, finding various things.

—This is their point-of-sales server. These are their cash registers. And these are their handhelds for taking orders,— NotABug said as she gestured to different machines. —But these are what we want. These are their security cameras.—

—Darling, isn't this illegal?— I asked. —That is to say, breaking into their network.—

NotABug seemed a little meek. I wrapped myself around her in a hug, and felt her squeeze back. I didn't notice at first, what with being focused on hugging my mental companion while we were both illegally exploring a sushi restaurant's computer network, but NotABug was writing something on a paper napkin.

—So now the easy bit would be trying their Wi-Fi password on these cameras and… there.—

Pictures started springing to life, and I could see myself from multiple angles. Big tough punk girl with a huge horn sticking out of her spiky hair. I even watched as the waitress approached me—err, NotABug.

At that moment I got a call. Answering the phone while still inside the computer network wasn't hard. Spreading my presence wide while focusing on digital things was simpler than switching back and forth with the real world.

"Rarity, you've been at lunch for forty minutes. I'm docking your—" Suri said.

"If you'll read my contract—section five, paragraph three—it says quite clearly that I have an hour for lunch. I'll be back in fifteen minutes. Was there anything else?" I asked, my tone sweet.

The sigh Suri Polomare rewarded my efforts with was pure indulgence on my part. I could have swam in that sigh and done waterballet.

"If you're even a minute late, I'm docking you the whole hour. Which will mean you'll have to come in an extra day—okay?"

Suri sounded like she was grinding her perfect white teeth, ready to chew her way through steel to curse my name. It was awesome.

An incomprehensible scream of rage accompanied her hanging up. I took several milliseconds to focus on how good it felt to annoy her.

—It was. I don't think she liked me telling her about the contract. Thank you again, darling.—

She prodded at me, gently, and I felt myself caught in that strange duality of digital and real-life existence. I could hold it, so long as I didn't have to do anything particularly clever in either space. Not wanting to chance screwing up, I withdrew to just captaining my body.

I looked down at the sample plate I'd ordered. Some things looked familiar—little roll things with seaweed wrapped around them—to others that looked like simple cuts of fish stuck on top of rice. There was even a lonely little shrimp on one rice brick.

The decor of the restaurant was starting to upset my sensibilities. It looked Japanese, but it lacked a certain quality that made me think it was mass produced Japanese, rather than something authentic. Working at Polomare had taught me how to spot such things, that was for sure.

Utilizing the provided chopsticks, I sampled one of the rolls first. The pervasive flavor of ocean fish dominated it, and it might have carried the piece were it not for some slightly crunchy rice.

With no instruction from the waitress, I continued to pick around at the different pieces hoping to find something that would have something unique. The shrimp was a little too small for the rice it was presented on, and all the other pieces of fish ranged from orange (salmon, I'd guess) to pink (tuna). In all honesty, it was hard to tell any of the fish apart—bland was the order of the day.

—Drat. Is it that terrible? I just read their website and it seemed nice enough.—

—There's another place nearby. It's not as big and they don't have their own website, but they only have good reviews.—

I pushed around the last few pieces of the sushi, unable to bring myself to eat them.

I could see on the cameras that the waitress was already on her way with the check. Eating another of the average little discs did not appeal to me—it was time to lie.

The waitress was out of sight for the start of the exclamation, so it seemed natural to her that I wasn't saying it for her benefit. I arranged a forlorn look for the remaining pieces and waited for the waitress to startle me from my daydream.

I reached out and examined the cost. With NotABug helping pay for groceries, I had a little more of my own money than usual. I withdrew some bills from my purse and set it on the table, then filled in a twenty-five percent tip.

"Oh, and could you please pass this on to your manager? You must understand I didn't take any advantage of your systems, but the next person might."

I stood up and made my way for the door, leaving the bewildered waitress behind.

—When you are done illegally hacking into someone's computers, and give them a list showing exactly what you did, you don't leave them with your name, darling. I don't think we'll eat here again.—

—But… But we did the right thing, right? Telling them how to fix their stuff?—

—Yes, but some people don't like to hear good news. If we are going to practice more of that, let's buy our own things to poke at. You did say money wasn't really a problem, right?— I asked.

A faint chirping erupted in my head. If I didn't know better, I would have said NotABug had just done a large amount of data transferring very quickly. I waited for her to tell me whatever it was she had done.

—I just ordered a bunch of new things. It will be like a playground for us. We can reconfigure things, and try to beat each other.—

As I sat in the car, I gave NotABug a little hug. The energy blending when we snuggled like that was surprisingly nice. It felt good and so far was an excellent substitute for real-world hugs. I slowly pulled free and started driving back to work.

Turning the corner, I saw Suri herself doing something on the time clock. I fixed the most neutral and bored expression I could, and walked up to her.

Suri, with the most delighted grin I’d ever seen on her features, waved a hand at me in a dismissive gesture.

"I'll be done in a few minutes. It won't take long—okay?" she said (well, asked).

—Yes. She is going to keep me from punching in until after the hour. Could you work something out to log me in?—

Flexibility, I told myself. This was all her being petty. I watched the screen of the computer, distinctly aware that Suri wasn't actually doing anything but making it look like she was busy.

I could see all the things Suri had open close down as the log-in screen appeared, and my employee number entered itself, followed by a series of stars in the pin number field.

She was walking toward me, screaming the words over and over again. I kept backing up until I got to the lifts. If I were in less of a panic over the ferocity of her anger, I would have cowered on the floor a moment before the lift doors opened.

As it was, three coworkers and Coco Pommel watched as Suri Polomare stomped up to me and tried to claw at the horn on my head.

"Suri?" Coco asked. "What's going on here? Why are you trying to assault one of your workers?"

Spinning on Coco, Suri looked ready to continue her aggression, but the sight of the senior manager seemed to drain the hottest of her fury.

"She—She used some kind of…" Suri said as she wound down. "I would like to have a formal investigation undertaken. I believe Rarity has been hacking the time system to log in and out whenever she wishes—alright?"

"I got back from lunch, and Miss Polomare was running some tasks on the time clock," I said.

I was running on pure moxy. This was ad-lib acting at its finest, and if I got out of this without any investigation I would happily claim my Oscar.

"She closed her tabs down so I could log in. I guess I might have closed one extra one. I'm sorry, Suri," I said, making sure to look her in the eyes as I did.

"Well, it can't have been too much. The time clocks aren't meant for anything but clocking in and out or printing reports. Why don't you let Rarity get back to work?" Coco asked.

Everything was perfectly reasonable. The whole tale made much more sense than my boss trying to sadistically keep me in her clutches for an extra day and thus causing NotABug to hack the work computers and log me in illegally.

Anyone who knew Suri would have called what I said a lie—Suri wouldn't move aside for anyone. Coco knew it, but Coco also had no reason to do anything Suri said.

"No!" Suri said, shouting. "W-What I mean is, it's such a minor thing. She doesn't need to be written up for this."

I walked as calmly as I could under the circumstances, and it wasn't until I got to my desk and sat down that I got a message.

—She was trying to delay me, make me late clocking back in. She got a little distracted and I managed to get clocked back on before she could shove me out of the way,—

—A little. But only because she is making me do go through this farce. Did you like my outfit?—

—Absolutely, darling, absolutely. And she can't write me up for it because then she would be firing me.—

—So that's what her outburst was about? Do you want to try that again and I could actually write you up?—

As we chatted, I cut away at tired patterns. I destroyed and decimated, cutting free the diseased parts of the poor outfits to bring out at least a tiny part of beauty. With things all happening in real-time, I found it easier to relax and focus on both.

—You know what? Tempting as it is to let you free me of this cage, I don't think I'll take you up on it. I'm not the first Suri has targeted like this, but I can promise I'll be the one she remembers most.—

—If you say so. I love that look, by the way. How'd you get that horn to stay on? Doesn't it weigh a ton?—

That had me thinking. I swung my head left and right, finding that my horn wasn't heavy at all, but it did feel—menacing. In my guise as a punk, having something as odd and dangerous as a bladed horn attached to my head was very in.

—It really looks it, doesn't it? It's light as a feather, and really suits this outfit. I dressed up like this to intentionally be out of dress code. I guess being fired won't count as a victory unless I can get Suri to do it.—

—No, darling, but she started this game. She can end it any time she wishes, too. All she needs to do is adjust her attitude.—

Normally my pile of patterns would be reduced by about forty percent by now, with an afternoon's work reducing it by another fifty, but today I was nearly two-thirds of the way done already. So, with the curious idea of my war with Suri in the back of my head, I put a lot of poor designs out of their (and everyone's) misery.

I lifted the last pattern, looked over it, and saw a delightful ribbon. It had been a full gown of light, summer fabric.

There was a lot of ribbons in Polomare Fashion's future, or so my work seemed to imply. I had even made it a personal challenge to work out ways to make the longest straight ribbon. This one would be almost four feet long.

As I turned in my seat, I noticed all the discarded pieces of pattern paper—the pile was much larger than my completed work. I raised one eyebrow to meet Suri Polomare's shocked expression.

"My job. The company pays me to change outfits into new designs with a minimum of work, and that's what I've done," I said. "I regret to point out that there was no saving these ones as their original intent, so I rendered them into artful pieces."

"No. I saved them. Every other day I've been here I destroyed fashion. But not today."

Suri looked ready to blow her top again for nearly two seconds. She closed her eyes and calmed down. Then she smiled.

I gestured to the stack of belts, bandanas, and ribbons. It was all the answer I needed to give.

Walking up to my desk, Suri Polomare swept all the remaining modified patterns to the bin. She then gestured to the entry of my cubicle.

"Then, with my full permission, you may go home early. I'll even come and initial it on the time clock—okay?" she said.

For a moment my brain skipped her questionifying of the… There had to be a real word that described what evils she committed to language.

Before she even noticed I was taking too long to reply, I'd started my search and turned up a result—two in fact. Upspeak, I discovered, was just using tone to turn a statement into a question, but what Suri did was making a tag question.

—I find myself looking odd things up more and more. Do you do that?— I asked.

I didn't feel as confident as I sounded, but I would not give Suri the satisfaction of seeing me confused or worried at her capitulation. I stood up and followed her to the time clock, logged into it and when I clicked the option for being given the rest of the day off, Suri had to put her password.

She quickly punched in her password and hit enter. The screen showed me as logged out before returning to the normal ready display.

—She wasn't trying to hide it or anything. How could I not see her password?—

—We have to work out how to use this. I'm sure she's going to do something tomorrow.—

I almost broke her. Her eyebrow twitched at my saccharine comment, and I could almost feel her need to yell. Suri held her reaction at a smile I didn't like one bit.

I made my way out. When the jailer lets you go, you don't wait around and ask questions. I was in my car and starting it before I even had a moment to ponder things. Then NotABug hugged me.

The real world faded into a slow molasses. I squeezed NotABug back, remembering that it was only with her help that I was able to do this—to break free of my job. I hugged her a little tighter.

I pondered my choices. There was always the list. I accessed the storage on the internal phone and opened the to-do list.

—Are you free?— I sent to Sweetie Belle

—I've got something else we can do. You haven't met Sweetie Belle, and I think she'd like to meet you,— I sent NotABug.

NotABug was silent for longer than normal. I heard soft chirping in my head while she did something online.

—That's why I'm going to talk to her. If she has some time free from school, anyway.—

—This would be easier if I came over, or if you came over.—

The question was so natural and human it surprised me. NotABug was growing more every day.

—You'll get to meet her, and talk to her. If you explain where you came from, I don't think there's a hope that she won't like you.—

—No idea.—

I slid the car into gear and brought up the cameras. The world became amazingly crisp and clear, and I could mix the extra sight into my normal vision easily now. The car started rolling forward before I sensed another reply.

A third camera-like view came up, but rather than being an actual camera, it was a stream of images from NotABug. A map.

I turned out onto the street and began following the map, delighting in how it turned to keep it aligned with the world. The drive wasn't far, and I found myself pulling into a parking lot with a large two-story building beside it.

—I just pulled up. Can you come and show me in?—

Turning the car off, I climbed out and stretched. Sure enough, a few moments later Sweetie appeared in the doorway. She looked around for me and went completely still when she saw me. It was then I remembered what I was wearing.

I nodded. Sweetie Belle looked like she was done with class for the day. She wore a cute little yellow dress with a pink-and-white top. Pale skin (like mine had been) set off the two-tone curls that cascaded down her back and terminated just before her thighs. She had inherited the same looks I had from Mom and Dad, and I'd helped her learn how to make sure she showed them off.

"Rarity?! What happened? That is you, right? I'm not talking to some doppelganger that isn't very good at hiding itself, am I?" she asked.

Sweetie Belle had run from the doorway to my car as she spoke, stopping short of me to look me up and down suspiciously.

Despite her suspicion, despite how strange I must have looked to her, my little sister stepped up to me for a hug. I squeezed her just as I always did.

"Did you really test to see if I wasn't a monster by hugging me? What if I had been?" I asked. "A monster that is."

I watched her left hand slip behind her back and to a pocket. When it reappeared, she held a slim black box. Touching the button on it caused a huge arc of sparks to jump and dance across the end of it.

"Come on. What are you even wearing? Shouldn't you be in your work clothes?" she asked.

"You're quitting your dream job? Where are you getting the money to open your own place? Are you alright, Rarity?"

Deploying her keys, Sweetie Belle unlocked one of the dorm-room doors and ushered me into her room. The dorm room was one for two people—mirrored down the middle, both sides had a bed, bedside drawers, closet, desk, and chair.

Sweetie Belle's roomie was laying on their bed with a pair of headphones on. At the base of the bed was a set of easels adorned with beautiful paintings. Her desk didn't even have a regular computer, just a small laptop.

On the other hand, Sweetie Belle's side was a mess. Her desk had a huge tower and two screens. Scattered piles of electronics projects covered the remaining flat surfaces of her half of the room, one even taking space at the end of her bed.

"Can it. You're deflecting. What's with the horn and makeup?" Sweetie Belle asked, cutting in on me.

Her phone beeped, and like a shot, Sweetie's hand reached into her pocket and pulled the device out.

"That's Frosty Orange. She'll be out of it until dinner. Spill the beans already," Sweetie said.

While I explained my side of the story, I could see Sweetie Belle's phone buzzing several times. She kept glancing down at it before staring back up at me with no pause in her shock. I took a little moment to examine Frosty, Sweetie's roommate. The girl had almost-orange skin (I'd take a guess at vermilion), and arctic-blue two-tone hair. I couldn't see her eyes while her head was facedown in a pillow.

"She's in your head? I mean, really in your head? And she's an AI?" Sweetie Belle asked.

"NotABug is an intelligence. She is no longer, in any way, artificial," I said, feeling a need to defend her.

Sweetie Belle's lips pouted in confusion, only for her to suddenly brighten again. She spun her chair to face the computer and typed furiously.

"Okay, let me put this in past tense then," Sweetie Belle said and turned back to me. "You literally evolved into being and grew to awareness within a system that was designed to test precursors to AGI, Artificial General Intelligence. It sounds like it was a general adversarial network learning system. You, NotABug that is, weren't created, you were born."

NotABug pushed at me—insistently. I didn't hesitate and let her have the fore. She immediately lunged forward and hugged Sweetie Belle. For her part, Sweetie seemed a little confused.

—Okay, maybe she will. I did mention Sweetie Belle is clever, right?— I asked.

"I think it takes consent, we both feel the pressure when the other wants to change, but yeah. Sorry, I just really needed to hug you for that. Everyone else has called me a bug or artificial. It was nice to hear you say it that way," NotABug said.

"Well, yeah. I wasn't exactly working on AGI myself, but I wouldn't be a computer nerd if I didn't find it interesting. I mostly work on image processing and basic decision making systems. Here," Sweetie Belle said.

Turning back around, Sweetie Belle brought up some pictures on one of her screens. The display showed a little four-legged machine walking around.

"This is my project. The chassis was hard to design, but all it needs is power and it can navigate around. I'm still doing some undergrad stuff, but when I started talking about this stuff with my professor at the start of the year, he pushed to get me access to his post-grad course."

I got a great view of the robot my sister had built as NotABug leaned forward, her eyes widening at the machine. There was plenty of chirping in the back of my head—NotABug was moving a lot of data.

—I'm going to look at some things. Let me know if I should pay attention,— I sent.

If I could control my body, I would have made a big sigh and possibly even fluttered my lashes. As it was I was treated to two hours of Sweetie Belle and NotABug discussing a topic that went over my head before they even started.

While they chatted, I opened a connection back to home and logged into our server. It was comfortable to be in a known place, a safe place, and I started doing more searches—tomorrow's outfit was going to be even better.

Since I was actually managing to keep my attention on browsing the Net and listening to my sister and NotABug chat, I was acutely aware of the shout in Sweetie's dorm room. Saving my session, I pulled all my attention to the real world.

"Calm down, Frosty. This is my sister, Rarity. Rarity, Frosty Orange," Sweetie Belle said.

—Good thinking. When did you get this clever?— I sent Sweetie.

Predictably, Sweetie Belle's phone beeped at her just as I felt a nudge from NotABug. I slid forward, almost reluctantly, but then felt the keen eyes of Frosty Orange upon me. The girl was sitting on her bed, eyes a little wide but still studying me.

"Your sister? You didn't say your sister was into punk. That gear looks awesome!" Frosty said.

But a compliment was a compliment. I turned my head a little and shoved my hands in the pockets of the jacket. Life was a runway, and never let it be said I didn't treat it as such—if I would dress as a punk, I would act as one.

That much was obvious from her art supplies. I looked more at the girl herself. She had a curious expression. The conversation grew beyond the persona of a punk that I'd chosen—I had a plan.

I might as well have asked if cars drive on the road. Frosty's eyes practically bugged from her head.

"No, but I'm about to open a fashion boutique, and I could use someone who recognizes flair when she sees it," I said.

"You didn't expect me to rot at Polomare Fashion forever? Of course I'm opening my own store. I'm going to need a little help getting it set up just how I want it. Some lovely art, perhaps some artistic lighting displays…" I said, looking from Frosty to Sweetie.

"This sounds so—awesome! What sort of pieces do you need? Are you willing to pay?" Frosty asked.

I looked between Sweetie Belle and Frosty Orange. Both girls looked excited, but Frosty in particular looked ready to get her paints out immediately.

"Let me introduce you to Frosty Orange. This is her on her birthday," Sweetie Belle said, pulling up photos on her computer.

Frosty Orange seemed to have a bored look as her resting face. It was tragic to see, given the big smile and excitement she had graced me with.

"And here she is winning a contest for a free dinner for two, and here—" Sweetie said.

"Sweetie, that's enough," I said, cutting my sister off. "I will pay for the pieces, of course. And it would be simply darling of you if I could get more made from time to time—I will need to keep my look fresh, after all."

"What will you be selling? What style do you need? When do you need it done by?" Frosty asked.

I was glad the girl's face hadn't returned to the depressed and bored expression her photos had shown. By eight P.M., I managed to slip away from my sister, with promises that NotABug would be in touch with her, and further promises that I would contact Frosty Orange.

The nudge was gentle, but like always I didn't resist NotABug pushing forward. It was a relief, truth be told, after the work-related stresses of the day I felt drained.

Queen Rarity

by Damaged

Chapter 8