> Moot Model
>  by Sarcasmo
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Moot Model
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	On the train, Daisy already avoided eye contact with other passengers at all costs and spoke only when spoken to. In Canterlot she behaves no different. All around her, ponies scurry through the busy streets in dense crowds, although she doesn't dare to pay them any heed. With a little luck, they would do the same and not realize how out of place she really is.

Despite this, she keeps to the more arterial streets of the city. They may be the busier ones, but also deliver more pointers, helping her find her way through the unfamiliar place. If possible, she wants to spend as little time outside as possible, lest she does something imprudent to get her cast out of paradise.

The houses and sights around her look like nothing she has ever seen or heard of, except in fairy tales. They possess all the tender beauty of a snowflake. If she isn't careful, she may melt them with her touch or even a casual glance, destroying this wonderland before she has a chance to do what she came for. She picks up the pace drastically and arrives at her destination utterly prostrated, although still happy to have hurried, not allowing herself time to catch her breath.

Every fiber of her being screams as she reaches for the door handle. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows how foolish the idea is, that it can't possibly work, and that she'll only needlessly embarrass herself trying. If she really thinks about it, she should stop this folly now, while she still has the chance.

Yet she doesn't. She could have backed down, turned around, walked away before at any point of her journey and lived with the consequential 'what if' for the rest of her life. But she didn't then and she doesn't now. She has made the irrevocable decision to go through with her plan, no matter the outcome. With a staunch resolve, she enters the building and heads straight for the reception desk on the far side of the lobby.

The desk itself is an impressive piece of furniture, at least as wide as pony and twice as long. Any other day it may have proved an insurmountable line of defense to her attempts at approaching the receptionist behind, but today she may just conquer it. Even though the receptionist looks no less intimidating. With a futuristic lab coat-like white dress and her straightened red mane that covered half of her face, she seems strangely out of this world. By the time she reaches the reception desk and puts a hoof on top, she struggles to find the right words that came to her so easy a mere second ago.

Fortunately the receptionist helps her out of her predicament. She looks up from her papers, and with undivided attention, turns to Daisy to ask: “Is there something I can help you with?”

Daisy though has not collected herself yet. She can feel her previously iron-clad resolve vaporize in an instant as the world starts slowly spinning out of control all around her. For support, she clings to the counter, fearing her legs to give in at any moment and make a complete and utter fool of her. “My name...” is all she can mumble before her throat constricts and cuts her short.

The receptionist remains unexpectedly calm at all this. “Take your time, doll,” she tells Daisy as she rests her head on her folded front hooves. With an encouraging smile, she patiently waits until Daisy is ready to speak.

Which does take a while, although she tries her best and the receptionist's friendly demeanor helps a lot. Only with a minute of meticulously carried out breathing exercises can Daisy calm herself to a point where the spinning in her head stops and at least some of her confidence returns. She is willing to give it another try, this time for real. “My name is Daisy and I'd like to become a fashion model,” she says the same way she has practiced in front of her mirror so many times before.

Her worst fears vanquish when the receptionist doesn't laugh in her face. “Certainly,” she says as with one hoof she flips open a schedule and places it on the page with the current date. “Do you have an appointment or would you like to make one?”

All color vanishes from Daisy's face. “A-a-appointment?” she stammers in a volume she hopes nopony around her can hear. “I was hoping—” she begins but cuts herself off. In her head, the words sound too judgmental, too demanding. She needs to take a more reserved approach. If at this point she is to get her chance, she needs to stay on the receptionist's good side at all costs.

“Is there any way I could get an appointment today?” she asks, very well aware that the odds for her success are slim at best. “Please, it's very important.”

The receptionist closes her book. Her eyes reveal just how much pity she is actually taking on Daisy. Maybe more than is appropriate and more than she deserves, but at this point Daisy has to take what she can get. “I'll see what I can do for you, although I can't make any promises,” she says and Daisy thanks her lucky stars.

After shuffling around a couple of papers, the receptionist emerges from behind her desk. “Why don't you take a seat while you wait,” she suggests, pointing to two opposing benches in the middle of the lobby Daisy hasn't noticed before. Then she leaves for a corridor to the right.

Another pony, who she hasn't noticed either, is already sitting there, looking at her curiously. The pony's appearance irritates her greatly. She always believed for all ponies to wear long and fancy gowns that elevate their natural elegance to new heights. Here sits one completely nude, even though she has to admit it doesn't look all that bad on her. Her smooth, long tail, her shiny golden coat, and her glossy turquoise hair that playfully curls back on both sides, make it very clear to Daisy that she doesn't need any clothes to be pretty; this pony's beauty is au naturel.

Far too bewildered to sit down right next to her, Daisy takes a seat as far away from her as possible. She briefly considers the opposite bench, but is afraid she would end up awkwardly staring at the pony the whole time if she does.

Still, she can't help herself shooting the pony a glance every other minute. Eventually, the pony takes it as an invitation to scoot over and strike up a conversation. “Are you here to see Photo Finish too?” she asks, stopping just a hoof's length away from her.

Daisy almost jumps when she realizes the pony is talking to her. She hasn't fully caught the question, so she simply answers “Yes” by intuition, without knowing who Photo Finish is exactly.

“I'm super nervous about meeting her,” the pony admits as she inches still a bit closer. Too close for comfort. Daisy tries to even things out a little, but doesn't really have space to move around on the bench anymore.

The pony continues as though she hasn't noticed. “I heard she can be incredibly blunt when she sees something she doesn't like. I hope that doesn't happen to either of us. I'm Snapshot by the way, although all my friends call me Snaps.” She reiterates the introduction with a hoof extended in greeting.

“Daisy,” Daisy replies, briefly shaking her hoof. She didn't have any incentive to talk the pony before, and she still doesn't. Talking to somepony so marvelously good-looking is only bound to make her even more nervous. In the hopes it might kill their conversation, she turns away from her to face the wall.

However, Snaps reads the situation very differently. “Oh my gosh!” she says, covering her mouth at a sudden realization. “We're not competing for the same position, are we? That would be horrible. I wouldn't want to steal this opening away from you.” Although she brightens up again a second after, even cracking a smile at Daisy. “Nevermind. It's silly. I'm sure this agency is big enough to take on the both of us.”

“Sure...” is all Daisy has to say to that. Outwardly, she is keeping her composure. Inwardly, she is laughing like mad. If she is to compete with a creature as gorgeous as this, she doesn't stand a chance in the slightest. Even Snaps' smile is perfect and would have managed to win Daisy over in an instant if she hadn't done so before. Compared to her pearly-white teeth, Daisy's massive jaw gives of the feeling of a simultaneous over- and underbite. At this moment she would have given the world for a mouth as tiny as her rival's. She consciously bites her lower lip, making sure she doesn't show any of it unless she absolutely has to.

“Would you mind if I take a look at your pictures?” Snaps asks out of the blue. At first it sounds like a harmless request, but the way she starts fidgeting with her hooves, she seems afraid Daisy may take it the wrong way. “I can show you mine if you want,” she hastily adds. “I didn't mean for you to, you know... I just wanted to see what your technique is like. I'm still pretty new to this.”

It comes as another shock to Daisy. She has to admit it makes sense that a model would have to bring in some of her work as part of her résumé, but she hasn't even considered that she could need photos. She wouldn't even know how to get any. All her life she has never known anyone who possesses a camera.

“I didn't bring any,” she shamefully admits. She doesn't really know where that puts her, but she's afraid it may very well be the final nail in the coffin for her pathetic endeavors.

“You didn't!?” As expected, Snaps is completely shocked at the revelation. “But what are you going to show Photo Finish? How is she supposed to tell if you're a good photographer or not?”

Now it's Daisy's turn to be flabbergasted. It sounds like a bizarre and cruel joke if she thinks about it. But the way Snaps said it, there's no way she wasn't sincere. “You're a photographer? But you look just so... so... beautiful. I was sure you wanted to be a model too,” she spurts out, immediately regretting having revealed too much.

Snaps is visibly flattered. “A model? No I—” Her short little giggles are suddenly interrupted for something far more important. “Wait, you want to be a model? For real?”

Daisy isn't sure how to respond to that. Of course she does, more than anything in the world, but she doesn't know if she should tell her. The mockery that may follow isn't something she thinks she could live down. Still, since she effectively has already revealed this secret to Snaps, there is probably little point in denying it. “Yes,” she replies, trying to sound as proud as possible. “Yes, I do.”

To her surprise, Snaps reacts much more favorable than expected. “Oh my gosh, that's so cool. I've never ever met a real model before. I could never stand in front of a camera and have the whole world just see me like that. I think that's really brave of you.” She blushes sheepishly. “Who knows: maybe if we both get the parts I'll get to take pictures of you very soon. Wouldn't that be great?”

Daisy is at a complete loss of words. But before she can figure out what exactly just happened, the receptionist returns and calls for Snaps to come with her. The photographer quickly gets up, saying goodbye to Daisy and wishing her luck, to which she responds in kind, before the pair leaves for the same corridor on the right.

For some twenty or thirty minutes, Daisy is left alone with her thoughts, and although they have played some tricks on her in the past, this time around they're generally positive. Slowly she starts to believe that this can actually end any other way than in disaster. Maybe she won't get chased out by an angry torches and pitchforks wielding mob who disapproves of her looks. Maybe she won't get laughed at by ponies who think the idea of her becoming a fashion model is utterly ridiculous. And maybe, just maybe, if things go right, she could even become an actual model in the end. It's a long shot, but in Snaps she has already found someone who believes in her. With herself that now makes two. Suddenly things are looking up.

She is more ready than ever for an interview, when another pony who she hasn't seen before enters the lobby and takes a long, hard look around the room. She has a brush in one of her hooves and doesn't wear anything either, except for a small bee-shaped hairpin that keeps her pinned-up lilac hair in perfect position.

The new arrival stands in the middle of the room for a minute, until she realizes that what she is looking for just isn't here. When she finally gives up, she turns to Daisy. “Excuse me, I'm looking for a certain model. Have you seen her?” she asks.

“Maybe you're looking for me,” Daisy replies, reflexively, as an instant extension of her encouraging thoughts. But she immediately regrets doing so when she sees the pony's face transform into a mocking grimace.

“I don't think so, honey,” the pony says with a small chortling whinny. “That frazzled black mane of yours alone would take me days before I could turn it into something even remotely presentable. No, what I'm looking for is a real model. Somepony actually beautiful. Her name is Butterscotch. You haven't seen her perchance, have you?”

Of course, she has seen Butterscotch before, but only on the cover of magazines. Subconsciously, she starts to play with her mane. It really is frazzled, she realizes. That's probably the reason why she never gets it to stay up the way it's supposed to. Unlike Butterscotch. “No,” she answers truthfully, trying her best to choke back a couple of sobs she feels coming up.

“That's unfortunate,” the pony says, playing around with the brush in her hoof. “Thanks anyway.” She then turns around and doesn't bother to look at Daisy a second time. As she still hasn't found her model, she walks off to some other part of the modeling agency and leaves a completely devastated Daisy to sulk by her lonesome.

In a way, she is happy to finally hear those words. Those are the words she has always feared the most, because she secretly knows them to be true. She is no model and she isn't beautiful. At least now she knows for certain. All her life, she has been fabricating this elaborate facade, in which there was some trick, some loophole through which she could belong in this world, this world of perfect-looking ponies, that if she only tried hard enough, she may actually be able to fool enough of them to believe she's pretty enough to even be a model. But that was a lie. There is no place and no hope for her in here anymore, because there never was.

She doesn't run towards the door. Running only attracts unwanted attention, she knows, attention that would only get her to feel worse. If she has to go anyway, she will at least try to walk out of here with what little grace and dignity she has left, until she is finally back home or at least back on the train, where she could bawl her little eyes out without a worry in the world.

On her wobbly legs she makes it only halfway to the door, before she is interrupted by a voice from behind. “Miss Daisy?”

It's the receptionist's voice. She looks back at her through the corner of her eye, hoping she won't notice the one tear in it she failed to suppress. “Yes?” she asks with her back still turned.

“Photo Finish is willing to see you now.” Daisy can see the receptionist coming a little closer. She looks genuinely concerned. Apparently, Daisy hasn't masked her misery enough for her not to notice. “Is something the matter? Are you feeling alright?” she asks.

Daisy quickly wipes away the tear. “It's nothing,” she lies. Then she wordlessly turns around and takes a place right beside the receptionist, waiting to be brought to wherever she's supposed to go. The only reason she is willing to come along is that the shame of turning down the receptionist, telling her how she feels, and admitting to how pathetic she really is would be even greater than whatever that Photo Finish may have in stock for her now.

The receptionist gives her an unexpected pat on the shoulder. “Don't worry, I'm sure you'll do fine,” she says. “When I told her about you, Photo Finish was very eager to see you. She's actually sacrificing her lunch break right now, just to do so.” She keeps her hoof there the whole time while she leads the way. Daisy doesn't want to admit it, but it's exactly what she needs at the moment. Without the comforting touch of another living soul, she probably wouldn't have kept herself together long enough to reach Photo Finish's office

On their way over there they meet Snapshot. She smiles and waves at them and wishes Daisy luck for her own meeting, but Daisy can't respond. She doesn't feel like herself anymore, just wishing for it all to be over as soon as possible.

Really, it must be only minutes, but to Daisy it seems like they've been walking for hours. The receptionist takes her to to a spacious corner office at the end of a long hallway and opens the door for her. Inside Photo Finish, a mare with a silver bob cut, wearing a black and white dress and big red shades, is waiting for them already. She looks strangely plain and atypical for a fashion expert, although she definitely exudes an air of authority befitting of the position.

“Thank you, that will be all,” she lets the receptionist know, who takes a quick bow, then leaves the room and goes back to work. When the two of them are alone, Photo Finish points Daisy to a large cushion in front of her desk and offers her a seat. She gladly takes it.

The desk in here is much less of a monstrosity than its counterpart in the lobby, for which Daisy is very thankful. It's also surprisingly empty, with only a glass of water and a cup of tea on her side and the same plus a small lunchbox on Photo Finish's. The only thing she has eyes for right now though is the glass of water. She reaches for it and greedily drinks down about half of it in one go before putting it back down. Afterwards she feels somewhat sane again and ready to talk.

However, Photo Finish isn't as ready. “Do you mind?” she asks, pointing to the open lunchbox. “I forfeit my lunch break after all.”

Of course Daisy doesn't, and if she did she wouldn't dare to say so. “Sure. Go ahead,” she says and Photo Finish takes out a daffodil sandwich.

In no rush to finish her sandwich, Photo Finish takes her sweet time to expertly examine her guest from top to bottom like so many applicants before while eating. She has an absolutely denuding stare that makes Daisy feel as though it peels off her skin and stares down all the way into her very soul. And worst of all, the big red shades don't even give a hint to what she is truly thinking.

After an agonizingly long amount of time, Photo Finish finally takes the last bite of her sandwich and stops her examination. “So,” she begins as she wipes her hooves on a napkin from under the desk. Once she's finished and has thrown it into a wastebasket on her right, she gives Daisy her truly undivided attention. “You want to be a fashion model.”

“Yes,” Daisy answers like a shot. Now is not the time to be modest. And even though she can feel her fetlocks getting sweaty and the butterflies in her stomach starting a hurricane, she knows she needs to go through with this.

Twice she can see Photo Finish open her mouth to say something, but immediately close it again. By the third time, she leaves behind all sense of tact and simply spurts out: “But you're a mule!”

“A donkey, yes,” Daisy corrects. She's heard it on her trip before, several times in fact. She knows it's not meant as an insult but stems from genuine ignorance about her kind. And from what she can gather, it wasn't supposed to sound as harsh as it did.

Photo Finish nods as if to make a mental note in her head not to confuse these words anymore in the future. “You can see why that makes me curious,” she says. During her little outburst, a small strand of hair has come loose and she quickly fixes it before she follows up with the question that, most likely, has been burning on her mind the entire time. “Tell me, why does a donkey come all the way to Canterlot to work for me, Photo Finish, as a pony fashion model?”

Daisy gulps in response, because she has asked herself the same question time and again. It's a question she's been dreading her entire life. She knows that, really, it was her saving grace all along, presumably the only reason why Photo Finish was willing to see her in the first place, but she simply never found an answer to it that made all too much sense. “Because models are pretty,” she more guesses than anything. “They get to wear fancy dresses, they get to be on magazine covers, and everyone admires them. And—”

“No!” Photo Finish interrupts her quite harshly. “You misunderstand me. I can go out on the street and ask any filly to get the same answer. I want to know why you, you in particular, want to be a model.” At this point she taps the edge of her desk just a little too forcefully, sending the saucer next to her spinning for a second. “After all, I'm taking this time specifically for you.”

By now Daisy can feel just how sweaty her fetlocks have gotten. She tries wiping them on the carpet as discretely as possible, but to no avail. Within moments, they are exactly as damp as before, and she no closer to a response.

She tries scanning Photo Finish's face for any pointers, anything she maybe able to use to learn what kind of an answer she's looking for, but the fashion expert gives away nothing. “I don't know,” she crushingly admits. She can feel herself getting close to crying once again.

Photo Finish shows neither sympathy nor contempt. “Perhaps you should tell me about yourself,” she suggests when she realizes that waiting for an answer isn't going to get her anywhere.

Daisy blinks away a tear. “Like what?” she asks, just as uncertain as before.

“Like who you are and where you're from,” Photo Finish replies. While her tone is indifferent, she still hasn't lost any of her patience, which, to Daisy, is a good sign. It's her last glimmer of hope that she may get through this after all.

In her need to get it back together, she reaches for her cup of tea and takes a long, comforting sip. It doesn't taste all that great, but still has the intended calming effect that gets her almost to the point where she is able to form a response. She puts the cup back down and draws a deep breath. Then she begins talking without really knowing what she's going to say.

“I'm from El Paca, a small village at the foot of the Macintosh Mountains. You've probably never heard of it. It's very small with a population of only about a hundred. I'd be surprised if you found it anywhere on any map.”

She pauses for a second. The goings a little rough, but overall Daisy feels like she's on the right track. She can see Photo Finish listening intently.

“Like I said, it's a small village,” she continues. “We're mostly farmers who live of the land, growing carrots and lettuce and sugar beets and so forth.” She briefly considers elaborating her daily chores, how she would help Pop pull carrots in the morning and help Mom cook them in the evening, but decides against it. “It's a pretty quiet and recluse life. Except farm work and sleep, there really isn't all that much to tell.”

“Are there any ponies living in El Paca?”

She's almost too surprised by the question to catch it. “Yes,” she hastily replies before she corrects herself. “I mean no.” A lock of her mane, wet from sweat has fallen into her face and becomes too big of a distraction for a moment. She quickly brushes it away before she continues. “There is 'Pony' Pedro, but he's actually a donkey. We just call him that because he lives with ponies in Appleloosa. Even has a pony wife over there. He brought her with him once or twice. She's really pretty.”

Photo Finish leans a little to her left to get a proper hold of her teacup. “But you say he lives in Appleloosa,” she remarks before she takes a sip of tea.

Daisy smiles. “Yes, but he was born in El Paca and he still visits us about four, five times a year. We certainly still consider him part of the family. You must know, we don't get many visitors and mostly keep to ourselves.” In truth, this trip is the very first time she has left her village, although that isn't something Photo Finish needs to know.

She shifts around on her cushion a bit. While she was talking the sweaty lock had fallen into her face two more times. By now the fourth time, she has gotten weary of it and decides to simply dangle it into a position where it isn't too discomforting.

“It's always exciting when Pedro comes home. He always brings with him the most exotic things, like peaches and cherries, walnuts and oranges – everything you can't get in our village.” Her mouth begins to water as she thinks about it and she has to be careful not to drool on the carpet. For a moment, she forgets completely what she's talking about.

Fortunately, Photo Finish draws her back into the conversation. “That sounds delicious.”

“Oh it is,” Daisy replies, quickly wiping her mouth. “But fruit isn't the only thing he brings with him. He gets us whatever we want from Appleloosa if we ask him for it. Of course I always ask him to bring me—” She only barely catches herself before she reveals something she doesn't want to. “—things.” Really, it's not a big deal, but still, it's something she'd somehow rather not talk about.

“Things? What things?” Photo Finish asks, naturally. Of course 'things' isn't good enough a euphemism to hide something embarrassing. Daisy should have realized that.

Daisy sighs, “Fashion magazines,” she admits and feels a little silly for it. “One time, when I was a little jenny, he brought one with him by accident. I thought it was a fairy tale book, because of how elegant the pony on the cover looked and wanted to have it at all costs.” She blushes. “When he told me what it really was I wanted it even more. I mean an entire magazine filled with the most gorgeous ponies in the most magnificent dresses?” She sighs again, but this time much more dreamily. “So I asked him to bring one with him every time he came. I always got so furious with him when he returned before the next season was out.

“I kinda started infecting all my friends after that. They all got interested in fashion and we would browse through the magazines together, deciding which dresses and accessories we liked best. It became our one and only hobby. All our free time revolved around fashion. Of course we would always have to wait for months before we got the next magazine, so we had to amuse ourselves in other ways. We'd try to guess new fashion trends or recreate our favorite dresses at home. I got quite good at sewing because of it.” 

Daisy pauses for a moment, afraid she may be rambling on too much, but when she sees Photo Finish contently nipping on her tea, she simply continues.

“The part I liked the most is when we dressed up. We would try to make our own little fashion show, like the ones we read about in the magazines. Every one of us would throw on the dress she made. I guess in those moments we could really feel like those models. Not all plain brown donkey farm girls like we really are, but colorful like ponies.”

“Did the dresses fit?” Photo Finish asks.

The question legitimately confuses Daisy. “Yes,” she replies. “I mean, not always on the first attempt, but we would tailor them until they did.”

She waits to see if Photo Finish has anything else to say about that. Since she doesn't and Daisy still doesn't know what to make of her strange question, she simply resumes telling her story.

“When I put on the dresses, I guess it made me feel as if I belonged in a better place. As if I could join the models in their trips around the world to the top of Smokey Mountain or the Baltimare lighthouse or the Manehattan Fashion Week. I felt like I was right there, inside the pretty pictures.” Of course in her heart she knew that much of the settings in the magazines were cardboard cutouts, but nevertheless, when she looked at them, she could always feel the white snow beneath her hooves and smell the salty taste of an ocean breeze.

But all that doesn't matter, when Daisy finally realizes something. By accident or by Photo Finish's clever guidance – whichever it was, she has found her answer. “I guess what I really want is to explore, to meet ponies, to meet other donkeys, and to see all the things Equestria and the rest of the world has to offer. That's why I want to be a model,” she concludes, finally at peace with herself and proud that she managed to figure herself out. “That and because I get to wear pretty dresses.”

Photo Finish has nothing to respond. She merely puts down her tea and sits there, completely lost in thought, until after a minute she finally breaks the silence. “That's a very interesting story,” she says, “but I still have one question. In the fashion magazines you always read, how many donkeys were in there?”

It's another odd question, but Daisy doesn't have to rack her brain for long to find the answer. “Zero. Why?” she asks, but doesn't receive an answer.

“Just like I thought,” Photo Finish says to herself as she gets up, walks to a certain cabinet at the back of her office, takes out a stack of paper, and puts them on her desk. Then she quickly skims through its contents, decides to keep a few pages and puts the rest right back into the cabinet.

She repeats the process two times over before she turns back to Daisy. “Let me get one thing out of the way first,” she briskly states as she straightens her papers. “You're not going to be a pony model. The very idea is ridiculous. No matter how you style their mane, what makeup you use, or what dress you put on them, a donkey always remains a donkey.”

Somehow it doesn't come as a shock to Dasiy. After all, she has come a lot further than she would have thought, and the way Photo Finish puts it, it makes a lot of sense. And who knows, with a little luck, she may find a way to travel the world and wear fancy clothes that doesn't involve being a model.

“And that is a good thing,” Photo Finish adds, dropping the newly formed stack of pages back onto her desk. “You make it sound like donkeys would need all the make up, that they need dresses to be as colorful as ponies. But let me tell you something: for somepony to travel from the Macintosh Mountains all the way to Canterlot to follow her dreams to become a model – I never met a pony like that, only a donkey.”

“Thank you,” Daisy replies although she doesn't know what to make of the compliment, especially so since she has still absolutely no idea where Photo Finish is going with this.

Photo Finish picks up on her skepticism and decides to dispel it with a little more direct enthusiasm. “There is something wrong with fashion. It can't just be for ponies. Every creature on this earth has a right to know how beautiful they really are. And if they can wear a dress to make them even more beautiful, then all the better.

"My meeting with you has taught me something: there are donkeys that can make dresses, there are donkeys that want to wear dresses, and by Celestia, you have shown that all donkeys deserve them. They have a right to fashion.

“And it is us who will bring it to them.” Photo Finish leans over, almost walking onto the desk to come face to face with Daisy in an eery overly familiar fashion where they're almost touching. “I can't have you be a model. I need you for something far more important. You must help me find donkey models. You must help me find donkey designers. You must help me find photographers and makeup artists and everything to create donkey fashion from the ground up.

“We will bring out the true beauty of the donkeys. We will not rest until every donkey is wearing one of our dresses! Together we will revolutionize fashion! I, Photo Finish, tell you, together we will spread the magics!”

Everything after that becomes just a flurry of events. Photo Finish briefly discusses her ideas for the upcoming weeks until she runs out of time and has to go to a photo shoot. The receptionist from before introduces her to a bunch of other ponies who are supposed to get involved with the project and Daisy makes all kinds of proper appointments to work out the details. She even gets a room at the Canterlot Inn when she admits that she doesn't have a place to stay. Somehow she ends up back on the streets of Canterlot, with Photo Finish's business card in her hoof along with the plan to change fashion as she knows it forever.

She still can't believe all that has happened. Part of her tries to convince her that it couldn't have, that it's just a dream she imagined when she fell asleep on the train ride to Canterlot or while waiting in the lobby. But the card in her hoof is very much proof that it's all been real.