//------------------------------// // Chapter 2: How the Dawn Breaks // Story: Cooling Embers // by Incandesca //------------------------------// To the sound of rain, and by flickering lanternlight, Head Matron Swan sorted papers. It was the least favorite part of her job, but as the director of an orphanage, it was important. If nothing else, it gave her time to think. Such luxuries were rarely afforded during the day, but she could not complain much. Few ponies could say they loved their work as much as Head Matron Swan. Stamping one document and signing another, she thought back to when she'd discovered her passion. Back then, she'd been older than most who got their cutie marks. That blankness of her flank earned her plenty of mockery from the mean girls at school, and a few from the boys. Mostly though, they'd rather try hitting on the pretty mare in the hallway, cutie mark or no. The day she earned her cutie mark was utterly ordinary. If she'd been told that morning, she would never have believed it. Swan liked to imagine it went that way for most ponies. She had taken a foalsitting job for a couple - some friends of her father. She didn't do it out of the kindness of her heart. She needed the bits for a silly designer purse, made with the comfort of a pegasus' wings in mind. Now, she couldn't remember what its name was. She did remember the boy. He was cute, significantly younger than she - six years old where she was thirteen. His mane - a mop of blonde and blue curls - fell messily upon his face. They stood in stark contrast to one another, him possessing a coat somewhere between teal and powder blue. Her, boasting hot pink fur, and straight silky hair white like a swan's wings, painted by rose stripes. Soft spoken, he made himself known as a shy pony. She'd been glad for that. She didn't want to deal with a difficult child. In the beginning, she kept a distance. The idea of fraternizing with a foal, even for money, felt almost degrading. How silly an idea that was. How ironically childish. Yet, as the day wore on, she found herself enjoying his company more and more. Once his shyness cracked, he exposed himself as an affable, funny, and intelligent young colt. They played games, had snacks, read a comic or three. Her favorite part was helping him to draw, using the pack of colored pencils she got from school. After radio shows lost their appeal, they ventured out to the yard. Pegasi yards were not filled with grass and greenery as with the other tribes, not normally anyhow. They were formed of the same clouds that made up Cloudsdale's structures, packed firmly til hardness. There they had the freedom to play more active games, of the sort she enjoyed when she'd been a filly - cloudball, hide and seek, skipscotch, tag. During that last game, it happened. She managed to sneak up behind him, touching his haunch with her wing. "Tag, you're it!" she exclaimed, giggling. He whipped around, huffed, started after her. Her age, speed, and experience made escaping a breeze. By no means could she compete in some place like the Junior Speedsters Academy, but to beat a first grader? That she could do. But maybe she'd gone tooo fast, tempted him to push himself too far. She didn't see what happened, but she heard. As quickly as she flew she careened, racing to the sound of his cry. She found him crumpled. Curled into a ball, he cradled his wounded foreleg. Tears stained his cheeks as much as blood streaked the fur. She remebered in vivid detail - too much detail - the striking clash of wet crimson against matted teal. The scrape was nothing that couldn't be fixed. Soap, hot water, and a generous packing of gauze would solve the issue, but that didn't change the hurt. Her heart ached. She scooped him into her forelegs, her wings. Rocking back and forth she crooned, stroking a hoof through his curls and whispering promises that everything would be alright. When he calmed down, and the flow of watery sobs trickled to errant sniffling, she brought him inside. She washed the wound, cleaned it, wrapped it, applied pressure. For his troubles she offered him a bowl of icecream, the biggest there was in the cabinets. In spite of the pain, he smiled. Hugging her tight, he said she was his most favorite foalsitter in the world. From her core blossomed a feeling, one that Swan today could say she'd not felt since. She could take that feeling and ride it to the tallest peak of Equus. She could hold it dear on a freezing winter night, and never grow cold. She could die with that feeling, and be happy. He gasped, and she pulled back. "What is it?" she said, worried. "Is your scrape okay?" "No, look! Your cutie mark!" "What did he mean by that? She didn't have a cutie mark. "My what now?" He pointed his hoof insistently. She looked. And understood. There, on her flank - a heart, bubblegum within and baby pink without. White and red swan's wings wrapped about it, as if to embrace, made from cut ribbon. It was her destiny. She loved children. Nothing in Equestria existed that gave her the joy of caring for them, making them smile, offering comfort when they were hurt. She took a lot more foalsitting jobs after that. Graduating from highschool led her to search for proper employment. She faced limited options. Many fields involved with foals required degrees she did not have, nor did she want. She found work at a nursery. Given menial tasks such as providing food, water, changing cloths and diapers meant she always had something to do, but she missed the satisfaction. These weren't just foals, they were babies. Her individual participation held no impact, made no difference. So after a few years, she looked elsewhere. With experience under her belt, she wound up at the Cloudsdale Orphanage. It would not be the one she stayed at, but it was the one to propel her forward into her dream career. Cloudsdale's Orphanage could permit pegasi only, but Swan wished to help foals from every tribe. At twenty seven she resigned, leaving for the shining jewel of Equestria to find more diverse opportunities. There she discovered the Royal Canterlot Orphanage, run off the direct funding from the Princess' coffers. Offering the best conditions and most prestige, it seemed an obvious choice. The paycut was insignifcant in the face of those details. Ever since, she had resided. Countless children came and went. Some found adoptees, others did not. She loved them all the same, and took pride in helping them grow. And after thirteen years of service, she became the Head Matron. That was some two decades ago. She was an older mare now. Those years took their toll on her body. Wrinkles tugged at her face. Her fur, once luscious and shiny, had faded to an off fuschia. Her hair retained its brightness but lost the waviness and volume it once held. Her eyes though, soft and kind, the color of blueberries, remained bright as ever. Humming a tuneless melody, she placed a stack of signed pages to the left, stamped to the right. As she prepared to begin the next unsorted pile, she heard a sound. Her ears strained to listen. While her vision was sharp like in her youth, the same could not be said for her hearing. The sheets of rain from outside, pounding against the roof, made the task no easier. She waited, and heard it again. Rhytmic, hard, impactful. The noise floated from down the hall, near the front entrance. A knock. Grunting, she stood from her chair. How long had she been sitting? The snap, crackle, and pop of her joints told her it must have been over an hour. Gently clip-clopping her way towards the front, two large double wooden doors, she wondered what it might have been. After her time working at an Orphanage she had reason to suspect a couple things. At this time of night, one seemed more likely than the other. Unlocking and pushing open the leftmost door, she discovered no one there. She called out, just in case, and received no answer. She knew what this was, then. Glancing down, she confirmed her suspicions. A basket lay at the precipice. Inside rest a swaddle of cloth, colored like a tropical sea. Between the folds, towards the top, a golden nub of a horn poked out through a mess of red and yellow strands. Big, soulful eyes peered up at her. They were, she noted, the same shade as the blanket. "Hello little one," she heard herself say. Her voice sounded distant, muffled by the rain. "Let's bring you in, hm?" Taking the basket's handle between her teeth, she paced backwards. She shut the door, and made for her own room. Not until paperwork had been settled and the foal had become adjusted to this place could she put them in the nursery. "Here you go. I have to go work now sweetling, but I'll be back shortly, alright? Just close your eyes and get some rest." Placing the genlest of kisses upon the baby's horn, she noted something. A tag was attached to the handle, and a pair of letters were fit in beside the blankets. Squeezed in beside the foal fit a hoof-stitched plush toy, a bright golden sun with a big, smiling face, sewn onto it a pair of small framed glasses. She took the former, and left the latter. Walking downstairs away from the Matron's Quarters, Swan re-entered her workspace. Placing each upon her desk she read. The tag came first. 'Sunset Shimmer', it said. The name of the foal. Next were the letters, sealed within non-descript envelopes. She cracked open the first. 'My shimmering Sunset,' She stopped reading there. This was not meant for her eyes. The second addressed her. Not specifically, but in spirit. It described the author's situation, why she had left her foal - a filly, Kindfeather now knew - and a desperate plea. Like other letters of similar ilk, she would do her best to honor it. From now on til she could no longer, the care of Sunset Shimmer was her duty. Her, among many. Sunset was a willful little thing. This became apparent the first day, when she tossed her food in Swan's face. The other foals ate their breakfast without issue, a mix of unsalted, unspiced peas and porridge. But no, not Sunset Shimmer. Wiping the grool off her fur, she attempted to feed Sunset more directly. The second the spoon neared her lips, magic flung it across the room. Swan tried everything she could, all the tricks and combinations of words that could settle unruly foals. Sunset was not to be dissuaded. Swan gave up. She had to figure out what this imp of a unicorn would take. Several hours and bowls of spilled food later, she had her answer. It turned out the little she-devil enjoyed her meals spicy. Her wild nature extended to places beyond meal time also. Swan had seen this before; foals did not always take so well to new locations, let alone without the presence of their caretaker. Interactions with other foals yielded just as poor results. She hoarded toys, and when another child - or adult - attempted to take them from her, she threw the hissy fit to end all hissy fits. Blocks were thrown, dolls ripped apart, many an infant left crying, and a mess for the matrons to clean up. Meeting with those matrons one afternoon, they discussed what was to be done. The conclusion they came to was to isolate the child, until she could behave around others. The tipping point came with her magical outbursts. Common knowledge spoke on the power of a baby unicorn's magic, but Sunset was something else. The worst of it happened when one of Swan's assistants - Mayflower - tried coaxing a train from the filly's grasp. All seemed to be going well, until Mayflower's hooves touched the toy. Then, Sunset teleported her straight inside a wall. Luckily, it was Mayflower's front that stuck out the wall, leaving her able to breathe, but it took an hour to get her out. Now, they had to cover the hole up and wait for a repairpony. No less chaos marked the weeks following. Sunset proved herself a ticking time bomb. It was a matter of when - not if - she blew up. "She's a firecracker," one mare said, not meant as a compliment. Another smiled, amused. "Have you seen her hair? It's no wonder she's got such a fiery personality, ha!" For a few months, Swan worried the foal might have to be moved elsewhere. She hated transfers. In other orphanages, she couldn't know that a child was being treated properly. Sometimes though, no other choices remained. This did not come to pass. They learned, pouring through various methods, that Sunset most consistently behaved for Swan. Said consistency was relative, but better relative than not at all. She took full responsibility for the filly's care. The hope was this position would be temporary. In the meanwhile, she played with her, read to her, taught her the things a small one needed knowing. One thing a pony could not say about little Sunshim was this - she was not a dumb filly. She learned fast. Round pegs in square holes? Forget it. That toy set got tossed out before the week's end. Swan pulled out the mazes. Then the puzzles. Finally, they settled on construction sets, the sort that a pony could mix and match to their heart's desire. Only then did Swan sate Sunset's endless demand for rigor. More months passed, and Sunset spoke her first word. "No!" She said it when Swan placed the peas porridge on her table. Confused, Swan investigated, sniffed. She forgot to spice it. At least Sunset didn't throw it in her face anymore. Time continued its inexorable march. Swan handled the orphanage's duties, as always. In them she managed Sunset's paperwork, and got her in the system. That dealt with, they could wait a few years and find her a placement in school. Once Sunset became capable of speech, Swan instructed her more personally. She taught her the concepts any pony young or old should know - boundaries, kindness, empathy. These Sunset took to less easily, but she managed. By the third year, she could interact with others without too much incident. That wasn't to say she was perfect about it, though few children were. She got into fights. Nothing serious ever occurred, but she'd embroil herself in the occasional spat over what toy belonged to whom, or if said comment was meant as an insult. And she loved competition. Wherever she could make one, she did, with peers and matrons alike. Staring contests, tower building, speed reading - nothing lay out the realm of possibility. There was nothing wrong with that, not necessarily, but Sunset despised losing. If she blinked first she denied it, would turn it into a whole debate. If her tower toppled first, she smacked the other down in anger. If her competitor finished reading before her, she took the book for herself, or ripped it up in front of them. On this matter, Swan had two comforts. One was that Sunset rarely lost. The second - the children soon learned not to participate in Sunset's 'games'. It wasn't that Sunset meant to be mean. While she had issues interacting with others, she meant welll. When push came to shove she could be the friendliest, most charming little filly this side of Equestria. Yet she was so easy to upset. Any friends she made she' inevitably pushed away, often without intending to, because of her explosions or callous disregard. Other times, she got wrapped up in her schoolwork and own ambitions, forgetting the friendship existed to begin with. From the reports Swan received, the story went the same way in school. Teachers lauded her performance, but lambasted her attitude. She was mouthy, they said - loud, egotistical, disruptive: a troublemaker. Sadly, Swan couldn't disagree. She knew the label that applied to Sunset Shimmer: Problem child. She'd dealt with those in the past. A fact of working with children meant you would inevitably come across at least one. How you chose to deal with that was up to you. Swan handled hers with patience, compassion, and understanding.. She saw how it went with those who preferred punishment and retribution. It rarely went well. She always reaped better rewards from expressing empathy, and getting to the root of the problem. Bad behavior wasn't the sickness on its own, but the symptom. If you could determine the underlying cause and tackle it with care, the sickness would cure itself. In this way, Swan acted as a kind of therapist. The challenge Sunset presented was she refused to talk about her problems. Oh, Swan knew they were there. There was no denying that. Where other ponies cracked under Swan's gentle words and earnest reassurances, Sunset clammed up. No pony that had nothing to hide did that. "Are you doing okay?" Swan might ask. "I'm fine." Sunset would always say. "What did you do that for?" "He looked at me funny!" or "She was being stupid!" "Is there anything you want to talk about?" "No." The pattern stuck on repeat, over and again. Sunset was an enigmatic filly, a blackout puzzle box Swan wanted to piece apart, but could never so much as remove the exterior shell. She had her guesses, thinking that Sunset did what she did as some form of self-imposed expectation, but Swan couldn't say anything for certain. Sunset was exhausting, simple as that. Perhaps Swan might not concern herself to the same extent in another's case, but she'd taken responsbility for the foal. She took that oath, she swore the filly would be her charge and under her care. That she'd met Sunset's mother or not didn't matter. It had to mean for something, and Swan would die before she saw the filly enter her father's custody. Worse, she saw the potential in Sunset. Smart, determined, ambitious, talented - she bore the traits of somepony who could become great. Just as much, she lacked discipline, forethought, and self-reflection. Then one night Swan glimpsed Sunset's mind, if only for a moment. Up late again, she busied combing through documents the same way she'd done that night Sunset arrived. Only the evening lay still, no rain or storm to be found. The filly's voice pulled her from the papers. She glanced up, and smiled. Tears ran down amber cheeks. Sunset never cried. Celestia knew she had plenty reason to with all the injuries she gave herself playing. Swan remembered her scraping her knees once, like that colt had, yet despite being nearly half his age she shed not a one tear, gave not a one sniffle. "Sunny," she said, stood. Moving towards her, Swan extended her wing. "Sweetling. Is everything alright?" She half expected the girl to say 'Yes, I'm fine', like she had every time before. Instead, she shook, and cried harder. Kindfeather frowned, and swept her in close. She laid her chin atop Sunset's head, careful to avoid the horn, and stroked a hoof down her back. "Shhh," she soothed, the way she'd done with that same boy. "It's okay. I'm here. I've got you." It took several minutes of calming before Sunset could speak. When she did, she blubbered over the words, struggling to compose herself. "I-I had a nightmare. I've had it a bunch of times and I thought they would go away but they keep happening a-and, and this one was the worst." She nodded, shushing her further, nuzzling at her cheek. "Tell me, sunshine. I'm here for you." "On any other night, Swan would meet with denial, obstruction, walls upon walls upon walls. That night was different. "I'm i-in the rain. It's nighttime, and raining really really hard. Somepony is... somepony is above me but I can't see them, b-but I know they're trying to keep me safe. B-b-but I can't see anything else, and I don't know what's going on, and then they put me down. I keep begging them not to leave me alone but they won't listen, o-or can't hear me, I dunno which. And it's dark, and I can't see anything, but it's cold and raining and it's stupid and I'm stupid but it just keeps making me cry and I don't know why." Blubbering out the final words, her body wracked with sobs. Swan understood. And in that moment her heart broke, just a little. She didn't push for more. The dream was clear - a half-forgotten memory, twisted and tainted by time, festering with the implaceable sense that something was missing. That someone was missing. After that night, she thought often to the letter she had not read, and whether she should bring it up to Sunset. Ultimately, she decided to keep it from her. When Sunset was older, more mature, and would understand such things, then it would be time. Until then, she would do her best. Sunset knew, by the early dawn's blue through her window, it was time to get up. She didn't want to. School was boring, and her classmates didn't like her. Besides, she was way ahead of her grade. Why couldn't they move her up? At least she'd be interested in the schoolwork again. Stupid. It was stupid. And dumb. She closed her eyes. Maybe, if she couldn't see the light, the time wouldn't matter. Maybe she could pretend to be asleep, or trick Matron Swan into believing she had come down with a cold. There was no point in the last one though. Matron Swan was a smart mare, and an old one. She knew those sorts of tricks. Listening to the gentle rise and fall of her chest, she chose the first option. And if that didn't work, she'd whine and resist for as long as possible. She'd sstill be made to attend, but she'd be getting there late instead of early. That, for her, was victory enough. Knock knock knock. "Sunseeeet." Matron Swan's voice wafted into the room, like the pleasant smell of honey. "It's time to get up." Sunset huffed. Obviously it was time to get up. She didn't need to be told that. A pause lingered, then knocking again. "Sunset!" She didn't stir. As much time in bed as she could get, that was what she wanted. And what she wanted, she was determined to get. "Sunset, I know youre awake," said the Matron. Quiet briefly, before she heard a sigh from the other side. Then, "I'm coming in." The door knob, an ugly, weathered brass thing that was probably centuries old, rattled. Hinges creaked, and without Sunset having to see Matron Swan entered. "Sunset, you can't stay in bed all day. You have school to go to. It's important." Psh, Sunset thought. Important for dumb ponies maybe, but she wasn't dumb. "Okay, last chance. Get up now, or I'll make you get up." Sunset remained defiant. Hoofsteps echoed around her. She felt the Matron's presence near the bottom of her bed, then something grasp the bottom sheet. ...and rip it away. Sunset flailed, groaning as the cold morning air seeped into her fur. "Nooo, that's not faiiir!" "All's fair in love and war my dear Sunset." The Matron seemed pleased with herself. Sunset glared. "Now get up, you. Time for school." "School is dumb," she said. "Everything is easy." "What is or is not easy is no matter to me. I and everypony working here is responsible for getting you an education. If you truly wish, I could look into petitioning the school for moving you up a grade." Sunset gasped. "Really?" "Yes, really." Her tone shifted, becoming stern. "But only if you get that little butt of yours out of bed." That was enough for her. Nodding frantically, Sunset unfurled herself and scrambled upon her hooves. She gathered her books and supplies in her magic, the ones she'd taken out for homework last Friday, and shoved them into her bookbag. "I'm ready!" she said, chest puffed out. "No." Swan shook her head. "You're not. You need to brush your teeth, and you need to eat breakfast." Sunset stamped her hoof. "But whyyyy? I hate breakfast. And why would I brush my teeth before eating, shouldn't I do it after?" Frowning, Matron Swan walked behind her, and pushed her forwards with both wings. "Because I said so, Missy. Now hurry up. If you hate breakfast so much, it's about to go cold and you'll really hate it then. You're already late." Reluctantly, Sunset did as she was asked. She brushed her teeth, angrily. She didn't know why because nopony was around to see or hear it. She guessed she just liked the feeling of defiance. Breakfast was also lame, as usual. Scrambled eggs and hay sausage, boring. The hot sauce helped, and she did admittedly like the orange juice. Then she was out the front doors. Matron Kindfeather watched her go, waving and smiling, wishing her fun and good luck. Sunset tried to be on good behavior after that. She gave room for other ponies to raise their hooves, didn't speak unless spoken to. She didn't even play a single prank, not a one! Her patience wore thin by Math class. Recess came next, and she itched for playtime. Ponies might not have liked playing with her one-on-one - 'too mean' they called her - but when teams formed up she provided an invaluable asset, 'cause they knew she was the best. But until then, she endured math. The teacher, Mister Cosine, talked on about longer form arithmetic, using two-digit numbers instead of one. Sunset yawned. She learned how to do that on her own ages ago. Fidgeting, she searched for something to hold her attention. She could draw, but whenever she tried outside of Art class she'd be scolded for it. Stupid, she thought. She could still focus on what the teacher was saying when she was doodling. Thoughtful, Sunset gazed at her bag. It leaned against the desk's leg beside her. Inside lie her lunch, including a big bottle of juice and a straw. An idea sprang to mind, and a wicked grin followed. Her horn twinkled with tealish magic, and she teased the straw within. Sliding it out, quiet as you please, she tore a piece off her notebook paper and chewed. Next, she surveyed the room. She had a big class, two rows on either side. Front and back there were ten rows, so fifty in the whole room, though not every desk held a student. There! A dorky-looking colt, with big round glasses and the chocolate hair. He sat far enough away she could avoid detection. Darting her eyes back and forth, she checked to ensure nopony was looking. Nopony was, so she lined up her shot, wrapping her lips around the straw, and blew. "Heeey!" Mister Cosine's peppered orange hair jostled. His mustache quivered as he spoke. "Mister Fudge, what is the meaning of this interruption?" "Someone spat paper at me!" Snickering, Sunset hid the straw in her desk's cubby holder. She tried to tamp down on her satisfaction, didn't want anypony to see her smirk. To avoid suspicion, for as much good as it'd do, she bore holes into her notebook. She felt his eyes on them, before settling on her. "Miss Shimmer." "Yes, Mister Cosine?" "Did you have anything to do with this?" "No, Mister Cosine. I was reading my notes from Friday." It was a two-pronged lie. If she was lucky, he'd pay more attention to the second than the first. "You should be taking notes on this class, not reading notes from last, Miss Shimmer. You may do excellent work but that does not excuse you from following directions. Now, as I was saying-" It worked! It usually did, except on Matron Swan. She always saw through her lies, somehow. For the rest of the period, she entertained herself by shooting more wads at ponies. She was too quick, too stealthy for anyone to catch her, so she got cocky. Ten minutes before the bell rang, she slipped up. Thinking she could get the filly to her left, one seat up, she spat. Her thinking proved wrong. Before she could hide the straw, the filly noticed. "Mister Cosine, Mister Cosine!" "Yes, Miss Tinsel?" "Sunset is blowing paper wads at ponies! She just shot me with one, look look!" Mister Cosine came by, investigating the wet glob of paper in Tinsel's hair, a weave of silver and gold. "Hm. And do you have any proof it was Miss Shimmer?" "Beyond the obvious?" one pony said, a row to Sunset's right. "She's always the one doing stuff!" "I saw her hiding a straw," accused Tinsel. "Look in her desk, you'll see it!" "Miss Shimmer, is this true? If you admit your troublesome doing now I'll let you off easy." "I didn't do anything!" Frowning, Mister Cosine went to her. He peered into the darkness of the desk's cubby, and spotted her straw. His frown deepened. "Please move your things to the back of class, Miss Shimmer." Head down, she nodded, obeyed. Grabbing her things in her magic, she teleported them and herself to a lone desk at the back, tucked into a far corner. "Show-off!" Tinsel jeered. "Quiet, quiet! I've had quite enough interruptions today. Since we are finished with the lesson, I will assign you your homework. I expect it on my desk by tomorrow. I'll be leaving for a little while and there will be a substitute in my stead." A cheer rose from the crowd. "Oho, don't think you're getting off easy, ponies. She'll be checking to make everyone has turned their work in. If it's not there, no recess for you for a week!" The cheer became a collective "Awwwww..." After explaining the assignment, he cut class early. Ponies were all smiles. Any amount of extra recess time was precious. Grining, Sunset packed her things and hopped off her seat. He stopped her as she made for the door. "Not you, Miss Shimmer. We need to talk." Trotting towards his desk, she waited. Unspeaking he graded papers, from a class she didn't recognize, but stood one grade above hers. She could've known that by the long division. She learned about that from a math textbook Swan gave her. Finally he finished. His orange eyes met hers, and she could see the lines of his scowl beneath the bushy mustache. "Miss Shimmer. Are you aware of why you are here, instead of playing out there?" He gestured to the window, outside the view of the schoolyard. "No," she lied. "Because you were causing trouble and interrupting my class. Several times, might I add." "But I-" "No buts. This is a pattern of behavior I've noticed from you, Miss Shimmer, and I grow weary of it. Troublemakers are something I am accustomed to, and you have officially crossed that line for me from mere troublemaker to delinquent. If you do not shape up your act, I will be forced to report you to the Principal's office." She pouted. "And furthermore. As punishment, you will not be going to recess today. You will stay here, and you will write 'I will not blow spitwads at ponies' on the blackboard until I tell you to stop. With!" he punctuated. "Your mouth. I do not want to see a single solitary twinkle of magic. Am I understood?" She lowered her gaze and answered, "Yes, Mister Cosine." "Good. I will be here to make sure you do your job. Now get it done and be quiet aboutt it. I have papers to grade." Without reply, she walked defeatedly towards the blackboard. She took the biggest chalk piece there was, knowing she would need it, and began to write. I... will... not... blow... spitwads... at... ponies... Used to her magic, the words came slow and clumsy. They scrawled in jagged, ugly lines, not like her usual elegant curves. To herself, she glared at Mister Cosine. He was a big jerk. He knew she used her magic to write, not her mouth. Stupid, Sunset thought. Stupid Tinsel, stupid Mister Cosine, stupid school. What harm was there in what she'd been doing? She hadn't meant any harm or ill by it. It was just a bit of fun, that was all. SHe wouldn't have even done it except for class being so dang boring. That was their fault for not placing her correctly, not hers for being too smart. Surely, her parents would understand. She tried not to think about them too often, about why they left her there. They must have had a good reason for doing it, right? That's what she told herself, anyway. She thought about asking Matron Swan regarding that once or twice. She never gotten the courage to actually do it, though. One day, she would. After what felt like forever, forced to listen to the sounds of play from outside, the bell rang. Another forever passed, and the bell rang again. By then she'd had to pull out a stool and balance upon it to reach the upper heights of the board. Don't look down, she told herself. Don't look down, or you'll fall. "Mister Cosine, the bell rang." He gave no acknowledgement. "I'm gonna be late for class." "Yes, you will." Minutes passed before he spoke again. "You may leave now, Miss Shimmer." She said nothing, dropped the chalk in the holder, and entered the hallway. Outside the classroom, she grumbled under her breath. "Well well well, look what the cat dragged out!" Sunset glanced up. "Oh. Hi, Tinsel." Tinsel sneered. The expression made her pretty face ugly. Her light cream fur, dusted by silvery and golden freckles, wrinkled in contempt. Flanking her stood two fillies, Gold Foil and Emerald Eminence. A broad, toothy grin split Foil's deep sandy face, over which hung swooping blonde bangs. Emerald in comparison looked bored, eyes vaguely focused, but her brilliant green eyes shone with enthusiasm, matching the jewel-like colors of her pelt and mane. "What do you want," Sunset asked. "I'm late for History class." "What I want is revenge. You spat at me." "I was just trying to have fun." "Yeah, well, maybe you should have picked someone else. Orphan girl." Sunset glared. "Hey, you take that back!" "Nuh uh. Orphan girl, orphan girl, orphan girl!" The trio inched forward. Sunset stamped her hoof, flaring her nostrils. "Don't come any closer or I'll zap you!" she threatened, warning them off with her magic. "Ooooh, woooow, sooooo scary. Emerald? Teach her a little lesson in humility." Tinsel grinned. "Spit on her." Sunset reeled as the glob of saliva spattered her cheek. It stuck to her fur, warm and tacky. "Stop!" "Gold." "Gold Foil spit on her again, hitting her eye. It stung, and she squeezed it tight. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't ever let them see you cry. "I-I'll zap you, I'm serious." "Aww, looks like Orphan girl is scared. Poor widdle baby," Gold Foil mocked. Sunset wanted to slap her. "Can't even stand the taste of her own medicine." "Maybe we should chew up her note book," suggested Emerald. Then spit the wads back at her." Tinsel gasped. "Oh my gosh, Emmy. You are so smart," she gushed. "Girls, get her." "No!" yelled Sunset. Before they took another step, she made good on her threats. She lit her horn brighter, and threw a spark of concentrated magic at each of them. Tinsel shouted. Gold managed to dodge, but wound up knocking Tinsel into the line of fire, and threw Emerald onto her side. "Teacher, teacher!" Sunset's eyes went huge. Terrified, she turned tail and fled. Thank Celestia History was on the other side of school. When she arrived, panting, sweaty, Miss Globetrot gave her a skeptical look. "Sunset Shimmer," she said. Her coat was a splotchy mix of vanilla and chocolate, with a straight, blonde and braided mane. Her eyes, soft and understanding, reminded Sunset of Matron Swan. Today, they did not seem so kind. "You're late." "I-I know, I'm sorry. I really am. Mister Cosine held me up in class, and, and-" She stopped. Should she tell her about Tinsel? "I had an accident in the hall. I'm sorry." Globetrot considered this for a moment. Eternity passed in which Sunset's heartbeat thrummed in her skull before she sighed and answered, "Okay. But don't be late like this again or I'll have to speak with your Matron." "Yes ma'am." Taking a seat on the spot closest to her, Sunset thought about what happened in the hall. She shouldn't have zapped them, she could tell that right away. Without a doub in her mind, they were going to report her to Mister Cosine, and he would bring them with him to report to the Principal. Assuming things went bad, she'd be called into the office later this class. If she was lucky, she'd have to face Matronn Swan later. Either way, Sunset did not look forward to the rest of the day. That evening, Sunset sketched in her sketchpad. Unlike the notebook, it was for her eyes, her doodles only. No math, no notes, no nothing. Just her art. She hadn't been called into the office, thankfully. That probably meant the Principal had some suspicion Sunset wasn't fully to blame. Tinsel was a nasty filly, and devilishly good at making herself appear innocent. But the Principal was smart. She could tell an act when she saw it. In that way, she wasn't unlike the Matrons - the older ones, anyway. But Matron Swan hadn't spoken one word since she got home. Sunset hadn't seen her either, so she figured she must have been going through papers in her office. The more the hours went by, the more Sunset started to believe there would be no confrontation. Perhaps she'd been especially lucky today, and the Principal had dismissed Tinsel's accusations off hoof. The moment Swan entered with dinner, Sunset's hopes fell. She knew that expression anywhere. "Hello, Sunset," she said. "Hi, Matron Swan." In her left wing Swan cradled a bowl, gently steaming. The scent of roasted peppers and tomatoes rolled off it in waves. Her nostrils burned, and Sunset's stomach rumbled. She realized how hungry she actually was. "What is it you're working on there?" Matron Swan, placing the bowl and spoon on the desk, looked over Sunset's shoulder. "Nothing." "Doesn't look like nothing to me. I think it looks very pretty. Did you draw this yourself?" That was a stupid question, Sunset thought. Of course she drew it, who else? She didn't say that out loud though. Instead, she gazed down at the drawing, two ponies made of flame dancing together. "Uh huh." "Have you finished your homework?" "No." The Matron sighed. "Sunset, please. You need to do your homework. I already received a message from the Principal today about you acting up." Sunset chewed her lip. "I don't know what you're talking about." "I think you do. You were blowing spitwads at ponies, and you zapped three fillies in the hall." 'Liar,' Sunset thought, though not directed at Swan. Tinsel lied. She only zapped her and Emerald. Sunset kept her mouth shut. "Is everything alright, Sunset?" Ugh, that question again. "Yes. I'm fine." Swan's face scrunched. Sighing, she continued, "Could you at least tell me what happened?" "I wasn't doing anything wrong," Sunset explained. She did believe it, honestly. Why did nopony else? "The paper, the spitwads I mean. I was just bored and trying to have fun. I don't get why it's a problem." "It's not very nice to spit on ponies, and you should have been paying attention in class to begin with." Sunset returned to what Tinsel and her goons did to her. She remembered how her eye stung. But no. That was different. She had been doing it for fun, no other reason. They did it to be mean. "I know," she said. "I'm sorry." "And what's this about you attacking three girls? Tinsel, Gold, Emerald - do those names ring any bells?" Sunset blushed. She maintained her focus on the drawing, staring hard enough to make the fiery ponies catch fire for real. "They were bullying me," she said, barely a whisper. "Bullying you?" "Uh huh. I blew a wad at Tinsel, and she caught me and got me in trouble with Mister Cosine. Then Mister Cosine made me write "I will not blow spitwads at ponies" on the board, and wouldn't let me use my magic. He held me back ten minutes from History too." Sunset glanced at Matron Swan. Her expression betrayed no emotion. "Go on," she urged. "I'm listening." "And when I left for History, Tinsel and her friends were there. They called me Orphan girl, and-" The Matron's brows furrowed. "Does that name bother you?" "Uh huh." "Why?" "I... I dunno, but they were using it to make fun of me." Swan sighed, brushing feathers across Sunset's back. "Sweetling, there is nothing wrong with being an orphan. That is just the situation some ponies find themselves in. It's not your fault. But still, unkind names are not a good reason for hurting other ponies. If someone is bullying you, tell a teacher, or try to get away. Escalation of conflict does no good." Sunset huffed. "You didn't let me finish! They called me Orphan girl, and then started spitting on me. Emerald, or Gold, I don't remember. She spat in my eye, and it really hurt. Then they were gonna steal my notebook, and eat the paper and spit it on my face." A scowl creased the Matron's features. "Is this true?" Sunset nodded. She hoped the honesty in her eyes shone through. "I'll speak with the Principal about this then, and Mister Cosine. We'll get to the bottom of this, alright honey? But that changes nothing about what I said." She leaned in, and kissed Sunset on the forehead. Instinctively, she nuzzled against the Matron's chest fluff. "Thank you." "Of course. Now be a good girl and do your homework. When you're done with dinner, bring the dishes to the sink." "Okay," she promised, and Swan left. Fortunately, homework took little time for Sunset to finish, because she was so smart. Unfortunately, Monday meant she had lots of homework to do. But she persisted. While she worked, she ate. The peppery stew burned delightful on her tongue, running creamy down her throat. She loved spicy food. It made everything better. Swan told her once, when she was a baby, she would throw her food if it wasn't spiced enough. Sunset thought that was funny. When shee finished up, it was late, and there was no time for reading or doodling. So she went to bed, and pulled up the covers. Looking to the side, she found her plush. Matron Swan told her it came with the basket she arrived in, a gift from her mother. She pulled the stitched, smiling sun close. Hugging Mister Sunny to her chest, she stared at the ceiling and the bleak blue glow of night. She tried not to think about it often, but sometimes she couldn't stop her mind from wandering. How different would things be if she wasn't an orphan? If she had her parents around? What would they say? Surely they'd take her side, right? That's what parents did. Matron Swan was nice, but Sunset was just another filly among dozens to her. She didn't really matter in her eyes. But Matron Swan was there, and her parents weren't. She squeezed Mister Sunny hard. They should be there. She liked to believe they had good reasons for abandoning her, but she didn't know that. Maybe they were lazy. Maybe they hated her, or didn't want her. An idea sprouted in her mind. It blossomed, peeling outwards like a sickly, diseased flower. If they were good parents, she wouldn't be here right now. She quashed the thought as soon as it sprang. No, she said. That wasn't true. They had reasons, good ones, honest ones. She just knew it. Yet, the inkling lingered. Yawning, Sunset turned on her side. Magic fluffed her pillow, and she cradled her plushie tight, like she would her mom or dad, if they were there. Wetness beaded at her vision. Only alone did she dare to cry. Tomorrow was another day, she told herself. Tomorrow was another day.