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// Scene 13: Ext., Weather Factory, Late Afternoon. Age 20. 
// Story: My Sister Fluttershy 
// by brokenimage321 
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	“Hey, sis! Long time, no see!”
I smile and roll my eyes. “Skittle? What are you doing here?” 
She’s standing by the gate to the Weather Factory, wearing saddlebags and a warm smile. She shrugs. “I just wanted to see my sister is all. I knew you were getting off work about now, so…” 
She turns and walks with me for a little ways before she suddenly stops. I turn back to see her staring at something with a sly smile. She looks at me and jerks her head. “Do you remember that?” She asks.
I turn and look, and see and old shed by the factory fence. I have to stare at it for a moment before I smile. “That’s the shed…”
“Where I hid the night you got your cutie mark!” she laughs. After a moment, she grins wickedly and spreads her wings. “Race you home!”
We both land in our front yard at the same time. She lands a little too hard and collapses, laughing, on the clouds. She wipes away a tear. “Whew…I haven’t had that much fun in a long time.”
I let her in, and she trots to the kitchen. I get Mom a bowl of soup while Skittle puts some water on for tea. We sit down at the table, and Skittle starts digging in her bag. “Y’know, there is a reason I came over tonight,” she says. She looks up at me apologetically. “Other than to spend time with you, of course.” She resumes digging, and, with a triumphant “Ah-hah!” surfaces with a frilly blue skirt. 
I raise an eyebrow. “Wait—you actually brought it back?”
“Ye-e-ah,” she says slowly. “Weren’t you just lending it to me for the Gala?”
I shake my head. “Keep it. I haven’t worn that thing in years.” As she stuffs it back in her bag, I see a smile creep across her face. 
The kettle starts to sing, and we both get up. I get the mugs and pour the water, while Skittle adds some tea bags she’s brought with her. As I’m adding milk to mine, I look over at her. “So, how was the Gala?”
She gasps. “It was so. Much. Fun!” she squeals. She prances back to the table with her mug. “I’m so glad I wrote in for that silly radio contest. There were so many ponies there, and everyone was so pretty—“
We talk for over an hour. To be more precise, Skittle talks—about the Gala, mostly. She tells me about all the celebrities she’d seen, and how much fun she’d had, and so on. I don’t have a whole lot to say, so I just listen.
Finally, she takes a sip of her tea and seems to remember something.  “Oh, and that model was there, too.”
I raise an eyebrow. “‘That model?’ Which one?” I ask. 
“Oh, I don’t know her name,” she responds. “She was really famous last month, though. Didn’t you see her? She was all over the place—on all kinds of magazines and stuff...”
I shake my head, smiling. “Skits, you know me. I don’t have time for ‘magazines and stuff.’”
She sighs, irritated. “April, you know that’s not good for you...spending so much time working, and—”
“Anyways,” I interrupt, “you were talking about a model?”
She shoots me a hard look, then continues. “Well, there was this model at the Gala. She was so pretty, wearing a dress that was all green and covered in butterflies, and she was so graceful too! And, best of all,” she says, leaning forward confidentially, “I think she might be a Merriweather!”
I raise an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?” I ask.
She sits back, looking smug. “Well, she has the coat and mane, for one thing. She has Grandma’s temper, too. I don’t know what the deal was, but she burst into the ballroom, screaming at the top of her lungs. Scared everypony out of their wits!”
I bite my lip, thinking. I can't remember anybody in our family who models...of course, it has been a long, long time since I’ve been to a reunion. Since before Dad died, at least...
Suddenly, I remember that pretty Merriweather at the Competition. Maybe she’s the same one?
“...Do you happen to have a picture of her?” I ask. “I think I might have seen her when we went to the Best Young Flyer Competition that one time.”
Skittle starts digging in her bags again. “I think I might have something… Ah! Here it is.”
She pulls out a page from a magazine, folded into quarters. She smoothes it out, then slides it across the table to me. It’s an ad, with a model—a pretty yellow-and-pink pony—holding up a bottle of some kind of carrot juice and smiling.
I was right—she is the pony I saw at the Competition. I take a long, hard look at her. I feel like I know her from somewhere. Somewhere else.
As I set the ad down, I happen to glance at the clock. I stiffen. “Horseapples, look at the time!” I yelp.  I glance apologetically at Skittle. “Um…it’s been fun and all, but…”
She smiles kindly. “You need to get to bed, I know. Don’t worry about it.” She stands and puts on her saddlebags. “Actually, I wasn’t planning on staying so long… you know me, once I get started…”
I show her out and stand on the front porch as she takes off. I wave as she glides away. As I lock the door, I yawn. It’s way past my bedtime.
As I walk past the kitchen, something catches my eye. I stop for a closer look. It’s the juice ad, still on the table where I left it. 
As I glance at it, the model and I lock eyes. I know her. Where do I know her from?
I stare, entranced, until the clock chimes the hour. At the sound, I jerk away and stumble to the bathroom. I splash some water on my face, trying to clear my head, but when I look up at the mirror, the model stares right back at me. I shriek, then run to my bedroom and slam the door. I lay down but can't sleep; I try counting sheep, but a line of supermodels jumps over the fence in my head.
After what feels like hours of tossing and turning, I finally start dreaming. I’m a filly again, and I’m at school. All the foals in my class have done their manes yellow-and-pink today. My supermodel teacher asks me where my juice is, and I notice everypony has a big juice bottle on their desk. I suddenly realize that today is Carrot Juice Day, and I forgot mine! All the other models start laughing at me, and I cry carrot tears into my yellow-and-pink handkerchief.
I wake up screaming and covered in sweat. I run to the kitchen, grab the ad, and throw it in the trash, but somehow it flutters back out. I scream again, wad it into a little ball and stomp it flat. I run back to my bedroom, slam the door, lay flat on my bed and cry myself to sleep.