> And I Asked Why
>  by Integral Archer
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> And I Asked Why
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         I’ve never appreciated how comfortable my bed is. Just lying here, under the sheets, looking up at the ceiling . . . I’ve never just thought about how this position, this room, and the fabric of the quilt puts me in a total state of relaxation.

The room is warm. The sheets are snug and constrictive, but the temperature is just right. The creaking I hear, the howl of the wind as it passes through the rivets of my house, sends a shiver up my spine—a shiver, not out of fear, but of sublime security, the feeling that I’m protected by my fortress, as I pull in closer to the sheets and feel warm and secure against the elements.

The environment of this night, everything about it, is conducive to a good, long, hard night’s sleep, to rest, repose, and slumber. 

It’s a shame that I’ll never sleep again.

Today was supposed to be like any other Monday; and, for a while, it looked like it was going to be. On Mondays, I’m in the weather factory. I had punched in, just like on any normal Monday. I had said hi to everypony on my way in: Hi, Cold Front! Hey, Pitch! What’s happening, Velocity?

I was just walking, walking to my locker, going to grab my stuff, and—wait a minute . . . I think I passed him. He . . . he was unmistakeable: the fresh face, the pure white lab coat with no noticeable blemishes or stains on it, the hard hat without a single scratch . . . that was him. I . . . I walked right by him, and I . . . I didn’t even give him a second glance.

I walked up to my locker, opened it, and started to gather my equipment: an old hard hat, an off-white lab coat that I’ve been neglecting to wash, and some plastic work boots. For all I knew, I was heading to Boiling. 

Boiling is where the rainbow boiler is: that huge contraption that whistles and fumes with a myriad of sounds, that ingenious machine that extracts the spectrum from pure light and, through some quantum mechanics that I cannot even begin to wrap my head around and under temperatures so high that they would make Celestia herself blush with modesty, converts it into a liquid form, so that we may process it later and grace Equestria with the rainbows it deserves. It had taken me a month to fully learn how to maintain and watch it, and even now I still curse it audibly when I’m unable to understand its enigmatic rumblings; but what is beyond comprehension, to me, is that there was a pony who designed it. I struggled with the knobs and the dials to learn to use what a genius engineer created in his mind, which he then brought to reality. Sometimes, I think, if I had applied myself in school more instead of blowing off mechanics class to fly aimlessly around, I could have been a great engineer, could have designed a more powerful, more efficient boiler . . . a safer boiler.

Oh, well. No sense moping about missed opportunities. My life is satisfactory as it is.

He . . . he was smiling at me. Dear Celestia, that smile . . . so full of life and optimism . . .

—Hey, Rainbow! comes a voice behind me.

I turned around. It’s Microburst, the factory forepony. He stood right behind me. He gave a friendly laugh and heartily bumped me on the shoulder with his hoof, nearly knocking me off my feet.

—Hey, Microburst! I said back. I couldn’t help but laugh along with him. He’s technically my boss, but by the way he addresses us, the way he always dresses in the blue-collar work coveralls, and by the way he insists we don’t refer to him as “Sir,” you wouldn’t have thought it. He makes the work day really pleasant, but I can’t help but think that he’s destroying my chance at any other place of employment—he’s training me to be complacent, casual, and vulgar around my superiors.

—Any interesting news? I asked him.

—Administration wants to take some more control out of my hooves. They’re saying that it will help lighten my work load, but they’re just looking for an excuse to cut my pay.

I snorted at him in condescension.

—Oh, poor me! How will I survive with less than my six-figure income! I said, in a mocking tone.

—You laugh now, but you won’t be laughing when government bureaucracy, when done with me, starts telling you how to do your job and then starts finding excuses to cut your pay. Oh well, I guess them’s the breaks for employees of crown corporations. Praise Celestia, am I right?

His tone, that subtle amount of phlegm he puts into the words, makes even the most menial sentences in the world hilarious. I nearly had a heart attack; my sides tightened around me, and I couldn’t breathe. My laughs were completely quiet, for I couldn’t even expand my diaphragm to make a sound.

—Praise Celestia, I barely managed to say through tears.

When I had first gotten hired, I thought I was going to hate my factory time. I’d much rather preferred to be on the actual weather team all the time, but when they introduced me to Microburst, I had started to look forward to my days in the factory.

—Well, I like talking to you, I said, after I had recovered myself. But I also don’t like starving to death, and I fear that those two are mutually exclusive. I’m off to my post.

—Where are you going? he said.

I shot him a perplexed look. Some forepony.

—It’s Monday. I’m in Boiling.

He gave me a confused once-over and then slapped his forehead with his hoof.

—Ah, I forgot to tell you! No, Rainbow, you’re not in Boiling today.

—It’s Monday. My schedule says I’m in Boiling.

—I know; I know; but, like I said, administration’s been messing with us lately. They’ve taken almost complete control of worker training; and, for whatever reason, they’ve adamantly insisted that I moved the rookie into your slot today.

The rookie. I don’t even know his name. Why don’t I know his name? That’s something I should know. That’s something I should know at least!

—Microburst, I don’t like it when my schedule is changed without being told in advance.

I shouldn’t have assumed that tone with him. He is my employer; he had every right to do what he did, and how I reacted was inappropriate. He should have told me to shove it and to do what I was told. I would’ve complained, but he would’ve been right.

Instead, he just looked at me apologetically.

—I’m really sorry, Rainbow. If it’s any consolation, I did get you into Consistency instead. I hope that makes up for it.

Consistency is the part of the line right after Boiling. After the liquid rainbow has been cooled, we check to make sure that it’s the right color and viscosity—consistency. However, the joke is that we have almost no standards in place when it comes to rainbow consistency, and we’re literally just told to dip our hooves into it and “check to see if it feels right.” Thus, we’ve come to know Consistency as the other break room.

I felt a warm feeling in my chest.

—Thanks, Microburst. I owe you one.

He gave me a nod and a sort of gesture with his forehoof, a sort of salute. I don’t know why, but it was so delightfully humorous. Does he do that on purpose? Well, it’s funny regardless.

I hung up my hard hat and coat, stored my boots, and made off towards Consistency. It was going to be a good day, I had thought; perhaps I would’ve been able to catch a few extra hours of sleep and work out the dynamics of a flight move I had planned.

When I reached the room, my eyes were instantly drawn towards a chair sitting against the wall that separates Consistency from Boiling. I sat down on it and leaned my head against the wall. As I watched the stream of the rainbow, steadily flowing from a pipe through the wall into the pit in the floor, I could hear the dull rumble of the boiler through the wall behind me, and the heat it gave off wrapped me with its comfort. It had such a pleasantly soothing sound that when I closed my eyes, I fell asleep almost instantly.

I don’t know how much time had passed, but I do have a vague recollection of the sequence of events. First, I heard the boiler give some sort of outburst, like it was shooting out a compressed pocket of gas. Then, I thought I could hear a quiet yelp of surprise. A splash, and then I sprang to my feet, for a terrible screaming echoed through the entire factory, like it was in the very ventilation system.

It wasn’t just a quick exclamation, like what one makes when one stubs their toe or like that yelp I had heard earlier; this scream was one of abject terror and pain, and it tore through my very being with its horror for a full thirty seconds. For the first ten seconds with the sound filling my ears, I had stood there, frozen in place, the sound coursing through my veins, impeding my every thought, and subduing any call to action that I may have otherwise heard under normal circumstances. It was so raw, so soul-rending, that it pierced to a dormant part of my subconscious, stimulating the most primal fear registers of my brain; and, for ten seconds, all I could do was stand there and let myself be consumed by sheer terror.

When my rational mind had gained control once again, I immediately took to the air and rushed through the passage to Boiling. There were dozens of workers crowding around the machine, watching it churn on its merry way. There was nothing ostensibly new about it, but when I looked at it then, I could feel the sheer power of this machine, and I felt that any obstruction that got into its pipes would stop it no more effectually than a fly throwing itself in front of a freight train would slow the train’s inexorable advance.

I looked up at the top of the machine, at the gaping pit where the steam is allowed to escape, and the first thing that drew my eyes was the sign hanging alongside of it. In large capital letters, in a caustic bright red, were the words: “CAUTION: MACHINE CAN UNEXPECTEDLY DISCHARGE LARGE AMOUNTS OF HOT GAS. DO NOT FLY DIRECTLY OVER VENTING PIT.”

And then, when I saw the little pictograph underneath it of a crude, blocky, faceless pony hovering over an elongated ellipse and when I saw that the ellipse was shooting little black flames and engulfing the poor figure, I feared my most pessimistic suspicions were about to be proven true.

By now, the scream was starting to get slightly quieter, but I could still hear the last expressions of pain coming from its intonation. I had to go check.

I flew up to the edge of the pit—not over it, but just so I could peer into it. I almost fell back in shock and pain when I felt the heat wave blast straight into my face, but I gathered my composure and peeked over the edge with a single eye, just for a second. What I saw, I will remember for the rest of my life.

I saw a single, green hoof poking out from the surface of the molten light. As it slowly descended into the opaque depths of the boiling pit, I saw the burning rainbow creep up onto its skin, instantly scalding the flesh.

When the hoof disappeared completely underneath the inferno, I looked at the surface. I saw two or three shriveled little shapes, and when I squinted, I could tell that they were feathers. I hung onto the side of the edge and watched them until they completely dissolved away. The rainbow was still bubbling, and it had not changed color—as if nothing had ever happened.

The screaming had stopped. I can’t tell whether he had stopped screaming or whether it was just muffled by the liquid. I don’t want to think about it. 

Regardless, I can still hear it. Even now, when I pull my pillow over my head and press my face into the mattress, I can still hear—feel—it. Perhaps “hear” is not the right word. It’s like it’s in the very recesses of my brain; it’s like my internal voice has to compete with that sound, and I know my voice is not going to win. I don’t think it will win for a long time.

But that’s not what’s keeping me up. That’s not what’s unsettling me at this moment.

I can still see the pit when I close my eyes. I can still hear its bubbling. Years from now, I will be able to recall that scream, that image, with such accuracy that I’d be able to describe it to anypony with such detail that they’d be able to replicate it as a sound effect or be able to paint a picture of the scene, and I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the painting and the memory. But ponies see traumatic things every day, and it doesn’t turn them into heaps of anxiety for their entire lives. And it’s not that scream, nor that sight, that condemned me to a life of insomnia. It’s something far worse.

I felt something bite down around my tail. I could hear Microburst yell through clenched teeth “Get down, you feathers-for-brains!” and I felt myself pulled down to the ground. My spine slammed into the hard concrete. After shaking my head, trying to regather my thoughts, I looked back at him. He had not given me a second glance, and he was yelling something or other to another worker.

I looked around, and I saw the entire factory personnel crowded around the machine. They were frantic; a myriad of conversations, all blurred together into one sound, drowned out what Microburst was saying. They were shuffling towards the machine, slowly.

Microburst turned around, and I could see rage in his eyes. He clasped his lips firmly around the whistle hanging by a string around his neck and blew it as hard as he could for five or six seconds. After he let the whistle fall from his mouth he darted towards the approaching crowd, and they dispersed away from him like koi.

—Get back! he yelled, as he moved towards them, making angry gestures with his hooves. Get away! Move away from the boiler!

I had never seen him like that before. He’s never raised his voice before. I don’t even think he’s ever not said “please” when asking one of us to do something. We were then all aware of the gravity of the situation.

I got up, dusted myself off, and moved towards the crowd. They swarmed around me and inundated me with questions.

—Rainbow Dash, what happened?

—What did you see?

—Is everypony alright?

—What was that scream?

—What did Microburst say to you?

I wanted to yell at them, to scare them away, but I don’t think I would’ve been heard over the cacophony of voices. And I, above all, did not want my fear to be added to theirs. I did not want to succumb to the panic.

—What’s the deal, Microburst? came an exceptionally loud voice somewhere from the crowd. It was loud enough for Microburst to stop his conversation with the mechanic and turn towards us.

Once again, he blew on his whistle; but, this time, he didn’t stop until every single one of his subordinates were completely quiet.

—Listen up! he yelled, and his voice struck fear in us. There’s been an accident. We’re waiting for the union reps to get here, and the folks from the Ministry of Labor are on their way. But that’s none of your business! You’re dismissed from the factory until further notice. Retroactive pay will be given, but we will contact you when it’s time to come back.

He turned back towards the mechanic. When he didn’t hear the shuffling of feet, he turned back and saw that we had not moved from our positions.

—Go home, you voyeurs! he snapped, before turning back, once again, to the mechanic.

Crowds, unless there’s a fire or a shopping sale, are never in a hurry, especially if they feel that their haste would make them lose valuable information; thus, we started to mumble to each other again; and we, like a river on the verge of being dammed, slowly trickled our way towards the exit of the room. It goes without saying that none of us refrained from looking back towards Microburst and the boiler.

—Somepony fell into the boiler, came a voice, and the news was instantly spread through the mass.

Sobs and anxious voices could be heard in the midst of the crowd, and a few ponies around me were crying freely.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel tears in my eyes, but I would not consider that crying. I didn’t consider that this warranted full-out crying. Maybe it should have . . .

—I’d never thought this would happen here, said one.

—I can’t believe it, said another.

—None of our business? I think this is nothing but our business!

—He was so young! Why couldn’t it have been me instead? He didn’t deserve to go, not like this!

I shouldn’t have opened my mouth, but I couldn’t have just stood there like a heartless monster. It seemed like something should have been said, and I felt myself growing even more conspicuous the quieter I stayed.

I could feel their eyes on me, and I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. Be original, I thought; don’t say something mindlessly melancholic. Be creative; be heartfelt; say what comes from your very soul.

So, I opened my stupid, stupid mouth. I felt the sounds coming from my throat; and, instantly, their vibrations felt wrong. But they were already coming out, and I couldn’t stop them. Oh, I couldn’t stop them!

—Better him than me.

This was not the first time I’ve said something stupid, but any other time I’ve said something stupid, I’ve said it with an intent to be humorous. But what I had said . . . what I had said . . . that came from within. That was purely me.

And I’m terrified. I’m terrified that I could say something so heartless, that I could not recognize its selfish indifference within me. And I’ll never, ever, be able to forget that.

I won’t be able to hear anything else from now on.

If ever I were to become a wonderbolt, instead of laughing with glee when I perform a sharp radial acceleration, as any wonderbolt should when performing in front of thousands of her endearing fans, I’ll black out instantly, for the words “Better him than me” will be sitting heavily on my chest, crushing me with a weight tenfold than any g-force I might feel.

If ever I were to get married, when I stand there with my fiancé, I’ll see the love he feels for me in his eyes; and I’ll see his lips move, no doubt allowing the passage of words full of affection, something he put his heart and soul into—but all I’ll hear is: “Better him than me.”

If ever I were have children, and if ever I am to greet them from school, they’ll run to me, not being able to wait to tell me about their escapades, but that will be drowned out, as the rain comes pouring down on my mane, whispering into my ear: “Better him than me.”

And then, when I’m on my deathbed, surrounded by my children and my children’s children, who are holding my hoof, assuring me that everything will be fine—I won’t see any of it. Instead, I’ll see the factory, and I’ll be watching a stupid blue filly say, in spite of the sadness she should feel: “Better him than me.”

I’ll feel her pain when I see her colleagues turn their incredulous eyes on her, and I’ll wince when I see her realize what happened, and then I’ll want to die sooner when I see how she tries to fix the situation. But I won’t be able to look away.

—What did you say?

—What! How dare you, Rainbow Dash!

—How are you so unbelievably selfish!

—What was he doing there? Weren’t you supposed to be in Boiling today?

First, she’ll give a nervous laugh and attempt to shrug it off as one of those sarcastic comments that she’s known for making. 

—Come on, you guys; he was kind of a jerk anyway.

When she sees that this comment was worse than what she said before, when she sees that it exacerbated everything, and when the voices around her get more caustic, she’ll start to get belligerent.

—Why was he unsupervised, huh? Can you answer me that, Rainbow Dash?

—You’re an horrible, horrible pony, Rainbow Dash! How can you even think something like that!

—How is this my fault! she yells.

—You’re just trying to cover your own flank!

Then, when the voices start to get angry, when they threaten her with violence, she’ll burst into tears and throw herself through the crowd from the factory, not looking back.

—Maybe you should join him in the boiler. It might teach you a little humility and deference. I’ll help you.

—You’re all thinking it! Don’t pretend that you wish you were dead instead of him! is the last thing she says before taking off.

She’ll go straight home. After firmly closing the windows and drawing the curtains, plunging herself into complete darkness, she will then pace back and forth on the floor of her bedroom, mumbling to herself, arguing out loud with unseen opponents that she can still feel on her back, and she’ll try in vain to defend herself against their relentless attacks. After pacing for an hour, losing argument after argument, she’ll throw herself on her bed, and that’s where she’ll stay until nighttime.

And that’s when I’ll die. That will be the last thing on my mind.

It’s not so much that the comment per se bothers me; it’s that . . . that was the first thing that was on my mind. The first thing on my mind was concern for myself, disregard for others.

All my life, I’ve been told that I’ve been selfish; and, all my life, I’ve been told that I should be more considerate, more generous, and less proud. I’ve been told that that’s the kind thing, the moral thing, for a pony to be. In the superhero books our teachers would read to us as foals, the hero is always a selfless and altruistic savior of ponykind, while the villain is a selfish and egotistical destroyer of life. The hero would always punish the villain—and as we got older, the villain would die in more and more gruesome ways—and each of my classmates would breathe a sigh of relief, saying: “I’m glad I’m on the side of the good.”

When I was young, I never wanted to share my toys with my classmates, my classmates who would always return them slimy and broken; and I’ve never wanted to give up my last slice of birthday cake to ponies who mistreated me on any other days, despite how much the adults had told me that I was misbehaving and that sharing was the right thing to do.

I’ve never felt the desire to be generous or to put others before myself.

I look at my friends, my friends who I love so dearly, and I see that they thrive on being helpful towards others. They love sacrificing themselves, at times giving up their own happiness for others, and they are praised for their generosity and selflessness. Then, they’re called noble and heroic.

And I’m called selfish.

Why can’t I be like that? Why can’t I smile every time I lose something for somepony else’s gain? Maybe if I try; maybe it’s a learned thing—

And only right now do I realize the abject irony of that previous line of thinking: I saw somepony get boiled to death. Not only will his family be heart-broken, but that life, which had so much potential, is now completely gone. All that energy, just gone, vanished into the vat of rainbow, never to be realized—and I’m worried about how it affects me. My efforts towards selflessness ends in selfishness. Even my most noblest of intents, when they run through the corrupted machine of my body, are abased before they’re able to manifest themselves for what they really are. Why is it impossible for me, but so easy for everypony else? Why is being good so difficult?

What’s that noise? Is somepony at my door? Who in Equestria would come visiting me at such an hour?

“Calm down; I’m coming!” I yell, as I swing my legs out of the bed.

I open the door without checking the peephole, and my eyes are inundated with light of such intensity that I’m now blind. All I see are spots. I press my face to the archway of the door, rubbing my eyes with one of my hooves, until I can feel them again.

This time, I’m more prudent: I open them slowly and look to the light’s source.

The sun is up. It’s almost noon. Instantly, I can feel my skin pulling back on my face, as it shrivels, like the flesh of some sort of night demon, in the rays of the sun. Have I really been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, for that long?

Well, whatever happened, it doesn’t feel good. I’ve never stayed up until the sun rose, and I’ve always associated the sunrise with a fresh start, a day full of endless possibilities. The new day always started as soon as I woke up, my body renewed.

What an egotistical viewpoint, I realize now: The sun doesn’t care about me. It moves on, whether I’m ready or not; and this horrible feeling I have, the aversion to the light now as I see it, is caused by the discordance between my body and nature. My body is being pulled along at a speed that it’s not prepared for—and it hurts. It hurts more than I would’ve thought possible.

I shake my head and look at my visitor. When I see her face, I slam my head against the archway again. Hers should not be the first face I see in the morning.

“What do you want, Derpy?” I groan.

“Delivery!” she says, and I can tell in her voice that she had gotten out of bed, ready to seize the day by the throat and throttle it until she obtained everything that was worth getting from it. In her eyes, I see that she’s harboring no qualms, no compunctions, and she knows exactly who she is and why she does the things she does. She’s not torn up about conflicting emotions; she knows exactly what her place is in the world, and she knows that it’s good.

Instantly, I’m profoundly jealous.

“What’s this?” I say, as she passes to me a small white letter.

“Telegram from Ponyville. It’s urgent, you see.” She taps her hoof against the bright red stamp on the letter’s front which, indeed, says “URGENT.”

“It was sent twenty minutes ago, and I came here as fast as I could,” she says with a huge smile. “That’s the fastest I’ve ever delivered anything before. Are you happy, Rainbow Dash?”

I can feel her radiant, lively energy being emitted in all directions from her every pore. It bounces into me, but my lead exterior dilutes it, so all I feel in my fleshy interior is the hint of some way I could feel better, but I know that I’m unable to absorb it fully.

It’s tantalizing. I can’t stand this. I shut the door quickly, not saying anything else.

I set the letter down on the table I have next to the door and look at the return address. It’s from the Carousel Boutique—Rarity. What could possibly be so urgent that she would pay the extra to get the telegram expedited—oh, she probably heard about the accident. She must think that I’m in some miserable state, cast down into despondency after seeing one of my fellow ponies die right before me. I’m am miserable, but I have to thank her for giving me the benefit of the doubt when it comes to the reason.

Wait a minute . . .

I open the door again. Ah, yes, Derpy is still standing there. She cocks her head to one side, as if she’s expecting me to do something.

“Why are you still here?” I say.

“Aren’t you going to give me money?”

I can feel my brow furrowing. “Why should I give you money? I was under the impression that the sender of the telegram pays for delivery.”

She shrugs. “I dunno. The last pony gave me money. She said it was called a ‘tip.’”

I do not feel compelled at all to tip her. I tell her this, and she looks at me with a dejected bowing of her head.

“How am I the bad guy!” I yell, as I shut the door again.

As soon as the door closes, I press my face against its facade. It feels as cold as my skin. Not even my pulse, which I can feel in my temples, warms me or the door.

I need to do something mechanical, something unthinking, in order to distract me. Hastily, I unfold the telegram and look at it.

“Dear Rainbow Dash,” I say, reading the telegram aloud, “I heard about what had happened—how dreadful! How are you? Are you alright? Are you hurt? Do you need anything? Obviously, it goes without saying that my door is always open to you, and I’m always at your service. If ever you need anything, if ever you need a shoulder to cry on, feel free to drop by unannounced. My house is your house. That being said, if it’s not too much trouble, I would very much appreciate it if you could join me for lunch today at sometime between noon and one. I understand if you do not wish to talk right now and if you want to be alone, and the last thing I wish to do is to impose on you in your time of sorrow. I will simply be having lunch at my place, between noon and one, and you’re more than welcome to join me. Your dearest of friends, Rarity.”

Normally, I would tease her for being histrionic, but the telegram really hit me. When she heard there was an accident, the first thing on her mind was not how it would affect her, but how it would affect me.

Again, I feel envy. The Element of Generosity knows that her purpose is good and just. Goodness, altruism, comes naturally to her. She doesn’t wonder if what she’s doing is wrong. She lives for others; she’s inclined that way, and there are no questions in her mind.

How clear cut that is, generosity. They told me I was the Element of Loyalty, and I guess they considered it too self-explanatory to tell me the answer to the question that had been on my mind since the beginning, but which I had been too scared to ask in fear of them giving me incredulous looks and doubting me: loyalty to what and to whom?

Sure, it was obvious in the Everfree Forest, when I was with my friends, and I was asked to either help them or go with other ponies that I’d never seen before in my life. But I haven’t encountered such a clear-cut situation as then; and in any conflict thereafter, I’ve always hesitated, stuttered, as I pondered the eternal question: Where do my loyalties lie, truly and fundamentally? Am I loyal to myself ultimately, or to others? Where is the line drawn? Should I ever be loyal at the expense of myself? Should I have been loyal to the rookie? Did I fail him, for I was not there in Boiling, and I had not fallen into the boiler in his stead . . . No, I don’t want to think about that.

I really don’t want to leave my house, much less go all the way down to Ponyville, but as soon as I had read the word “lunch” in the letter, it felt as if I had been kicked straight through the stomach. I haven’t eaten since last morning, and I’m starving.

And I now realize that I have no plans for lunch.

Now, I’m sitting on my bed, debating to myself whether it would be more of a hardship to starve for a little while longer or to go down to Ponyville and have to put on a cheery face for Rarity and answer her intrusive questions. I love her to death, but I don’t know if I can handle her overbearing nature right now.

I need some way to cement this decision I have to make, some other variable which will incline me to take one course of action over the other. Maybe if I had something else to do in Ponyville . . .

I looked to my bedside, and I slap my face with a forehoof. A small paperback book with a purple cover sits there, and I can see a white bookmark sticking out of it roughly two-thirds of the way until the end, and I lean over to read the bold letters on its cover: To Murder a Mimus.

After Twilight had so vehemently insisted that I read it, saying it was one of the greatest books she had ever read, instead of checking out A Voyage to the Inner Core that day—a book that I had been dying to read for too long—I got this one instead; and, for the last month or so, I’ve been trying to plow my way through it, telling myself that I should be enjoying it immensely—but I couldn’t. Nothing in it grabbed my attention. I felt nothing between me and any of the characters. I did not identify with their struggles, and I honestly did not care what happened to them in the end. I tried to keep reading, but eventually I realized that my eyes found the paint on the walls more intriguing than the words on the page. 

I turn it over, and I can barely see the plot summary, for it’s hidden by an innumerable amount of quotes from highly respected critics and journalists, lauding the book for its creativity and ingenuity. One reviewer says that the book revolutionized her life, completely changed the way she looked at the world, and that no pony can call themselves truly a member of the pony race if they do not read this book.

I should like it. Everypony is telling me so. But I didn’t. And I feel I should like it, and the fact that I don’t makes me feel even worse, like I’ve failed at appreciating beauty.

I tentatively and slowly raise the cover page. I close my eyes, and I clench my teeth. Please don’t be overdue; please don’t be overdue; please don’t be overdue . . .

Due April the twenty-eighth. I really don’t want to look at my calendar, but I quickly steal a glance, and I bury my face into the sheets when I see that it’s April twenty-ninth.

I’m about to pay Twilight for keeping a book I hated longer than I should have. If this isn’t insult to injury, I don’t know what is.

So, that’s it, then: I’m going to Ponyville. No sense being useless all day. Besides, I’m sure that my friends will be able to lift my spirits. Perhaps, when I look into their eyes, I’ll see in their countenances admiration and joy, joy towards me, and that will mean I’m a good pony. I’m a good pony.

I slip the book into my saddlebag before exiting my house. Ponyville looks farther away than I remembered; and when I feel my stomach growl, for the first time, I actually wonder if I will be able to make it.

Stop thinking. Thinking makes you second-guess yourself and makes you regret and cringe over past decisions that you have no way of changing.

I step off the cloud.

There’s a breeze behind me, but I still feel that I have to flap my wings with a marked amount of vigor if I want to maintain my forward thrust. Every stroke I take feels like a desperate gasp of air, and I’m propelled forwards towards my goal but not nearly enough to be satisfactory.

I didn’t try hard enough, and I realize that I’m going to land about two blocks away from the Carousel Boutique. It would take more energy to gain the appropriate altitude and fly the rest of the way there than it would take to walk. There’s nothing wrong with landing here.

I hit the pavement, and the impact force from my hooves travels up my body, rattling my spine. That hurt more than it should have. That was clumsy; I deserved that whole-heartedly.

I cast my eyes down the road, and I take a deep breath. It’s not so far.

But, as soon as I take a step, I feel the pit in my stomach again, and I’m forced to clumsily hobble forwards, to staunch the pain. I’m having a hard time distinguishing the fine line between hunger and a stomach ache now.

The faces of all the ponies around me are starting to blur, and I can’t hear what they’re saying. My mind is in a haze, such that I can only see the road in front of me. Are they greeting me? I would say hi back, really I would! If only I wasn’t so hungry! I’m not doing this to be rude; I’m not looking into your eyes not because I don’t care for you. Believe me! I can barely see your faces. Are you even there?

I find myself staring straight up at the Carousel Boutique now, and its facade seems so bright and unwavering. I feel even if a love wave were to come coursing down the street just now, playing with the earth as if it was its personal accordion, ripping up the flimsy merchant stands without a second thought, it wouldn’t be able to perturb this building. It’s as firm, as undoubting, as the Element of Generosity should be.

I press my body against the door, and I lean on it with my eyes closed. I’m in this position for nearly thirty seconds before I realize that I need to pull it to get in. Stupid building code fire regulations.

No, no, good fire regulations. Fire regulations keep ponies from burning alive, and that’s a good thing. When ponies don’t follow standards . . .

I pull the door open, and the sound of a brass bell resonates in my ears. I take a breath, cautiously, for the atmosphere of this place is usually inundated by suffocating perfumes and incense; but when the first smell hits my nose, I suck it in heavily, grabbing as much of it as I can.

It’s a familiar smell, full of good memories and jubilant times; but, most importantly, it’s the best thing I’ve ever smelt in my entire life. What’s it from? I know what it’s from! I even remember thinking, very distinctly, that the last time I smelled it, that it was the most pleasant aroma that existed on this earth. It’s . . . it’s—

“Potatoes and lentil soup!” comes a sing-song voice from the kitchen.

I think I’m drooling. My absolute favorite.

“So glad that you could join me, Rainbow Dash!” says Rarity, as she emerges from the kitchen. In front of her, she’s levitating a huge stainless steel pot with a plastic yellow ladle lazily swinging against its circumference as the pot moves. Oh, she even left the lid slightly ajar. The smell reaches my nose sooner, and I can see the marvelous liquid inside.

The entire universe has just been condensed into that one single spot, that is the space around the brown liquid which is sloshing back and forth, as if beckoning me to come forward. Nothing else exists except that.

As soon as she sets it down on the table in the middle of the room, I pick up the pot with both hooves and, without using the ladle—I have no time for that—I pour it directly into a small piece of porcelain that looks enough like a bowl. When I started to eat, I may have spilled some on the cloth, or on my lap, or on the floor; but, if I did, I didn’t notice it. I don’t care. I can feel warmth starting to return to my body, and the cloud in front of my eyes is slowly starting to dissipate.

As soon as I notice that the bowl is nearly empty, I hear: “Hello to you, too, Rainbow Dash. You’re welcome, for the food and for my hospitality. I’m going to go get the potatoes. Please, start without me.”

That was unusually sarcastic, I thought, as I looked up at her. When I see her expression and when I see the mess I made around me, I feel the soup start to burn my insides. I think my face is starting to turn red, and I can certainly feel sweat in my mane.

I put my face in one of my hooves. My higher brain functions, now that they’ve gotten their energy back, now tell me that what I did was horribly inappropriate. Where is that part of my brain when I need it? It seems to disappear at the most crucial of moments, only to come back and make me feel bad about what I did. “I’m sorry, Rarity,” I say, and my voice sounds strained and flustered. “This is a beautiful meal. Everything around here is beautiful. Thank you for taking care of me.”

She smiles sweetly. “Not a bother at all, my dear. Please continue. I’ll be back in no time at all.” She leaves the pot on the table and prances back into the kitchen, humming some tune that I don’t recognize, presumably from some classical composer I don’t know.

I have her permission, now, to continue; but, for whatever reason, and contrary to how I felt when I first came here, it would not feel right to continue eating, not after what I’d just did. Besides, the pain in my stomach has been dulled now. It wouldn’t kill me to just wait a minute.

As I lean back in the chair to take in this room and this moment, I look at the multitude of decorations she has here, and I’m truly impressed. There’s a lunar rock; there are some decorative plates that will never be eaten off of; there’s a weird sort of hoof-carved figure from some remote region of the planet. Everything in this room has an individual story, a separate origin; but, most importantly, none seem to clash with the room’s theme, nor the personality of its owner. There is nothing in the room that does not seem a part of her, nothing that seems unlike Rarity. Yet, part of me senses that there is something slightly off here, something I can’t put my hoof on.

When I smell the lentils another time, it occurs to me.

“Rarity,” I yell to her in the kitchen. As I say this, she instantly comes back with the potatoes, mashed, steaming, and with a faint yellow color. “Why did you make this? You hate lentils and potatoes.”

“What?” she says back, as she sets the pan down on the table in front of me. My mouth waters, and I’m dying to just start digging in while ignoring her answer. Thankfully, that stupid part of my brain decides to keep quiet, and I sit there silently, giving her the attention she deserves. “No, Rainbow! You misunderstand me. I don’t hate lentils; I just think they’re rather . . . well, how do I put this? They’re rather crude and . . . lazy. There’s much better, more palatable, ways for one to get her protein. Don’t get me wrong; Celestia forbid that, if we were starving to death on a desert island, I would be that one pony that refuses to eat the food in the cans—only fit for savages under normal circumstances, of course. But, for a normal, proper lunch, I’d prefer something that requires a bit more effort on the cook’s part and more nutritionally balanced, certainly. For example—”

“Then why did you make it?”

She looks at me with a raised brow, as if I’ve said something to offend her. Did I?

“Why, Rainbow, because you’re my guest, and I invited you over.”

“But I didn’t respond. How did you know I was going to come?”

“I didn’t, but the last thing I would’ve wanted is for you to show up and have nothing to give to you. Besides, if you didn’t come over, I’m sure I’d find”—and she disdainfully pushes the potatoes towards me with a strange grimace—“some use for them.”

I feel my heart start to swell, as a lump in my throat pushes water into my eyes. What did I ever do to deserve her as a friend? There’s been some mistake, I’m sure. I’ve conned her. Some part of me that I don’t care to admit to myself conned her into being my friend, just so she might be of benefit to me in the future. What other explanation is there? How could I ever have come across such a wonderful soul as this and not driven it away already?

“Rainbow Dash?” I hear her say. “Why are you staring at me like that? Please, enjoy yourself. If you delay any longer, I might come to think that you think there’s something wrong with my food.”

I look over to the pot on the table, and only now do I realize how much there is. It’s massive; there must be five, six liters of soup in there. I look at Rarity’s face through the steam rising from the gap made by the slightly ajar lid: she’s smiling at me, simply content to watch me.

“Is anypony else coming over?” I say.

“None whom I invited,” she said. “Don’t worry, Rainbow; this belongs to you, first and foremost.”

Good enough for me.

This time, I had planned to be a bit more modest, reserved, in my method of eating. I’ll just take a sip, I had thought, as I raised the bowl to my mouth once again; but as soon as it touched my lips, it was as if my throat pulled with an unfathomably large force at the soup, and the bowl was emptied in a second.

I lost track of time. All I remember is one of two sights: either I was looking at a near-constant stream of murky liquid flowing towards me, or I was looking at the pot, watching my hooves clumsily fiddle with the ladle until I saw Rarity’s horn glow and calmly and deliberately maneuver more of the miraculous food into my bowl. This repeated until my the throbbing in my head stopped; the colors in the room became more vivid, and a warm feeling rose up into my chest. I sat back, allowing its heat to disperse evenly, and as I felt it warm my body, I gave a loud sigh of contentment.

I look back to the table and the pot. Two-thirds of the soup is gone, and Rarity’s bowl and utensils are bone-dry.

“Don’t forget the potatoes,” Rarity says to me, gesturing towards the yellow-white mashed potatoes. Why are they yellow? No, she didn’t put butter and milk in them, did she? That’s . . .that’s . . .

“Rarity,” I say at length, “this is amazing. Never have I been treated more hospitably in my life. I just . . . I can’t even begin to express—”

“I do not want to hear a single word of it,” she says, looking away and waving her hoof at me. “I’m your friend, and that’s what friends do for each other.”

I nodded, as I started towards the potatoes. The potatoes curl around my teeth like a quilt, and it slides through my mouth almost like a liquid. The butter makes all the difference in the world.

“So, now that you’ve been rejuvenated,” I hear Rarity say, “why don’t you now tell me how you’re managing? Can you sleep even after seeing what you saw?”

My chewing stops, and I can feel my cheeks start to sag as my eyes start to droop. Instantly, the warm feelings that the potatoes had brought me vanishes and is replaced with that cold, dead feeling that had occupied my heart for the past day.

“What?” is all I can say.

“News travels fast around here. I saw the article in the newspaper this morning. I was worried sick for you, and the details about the event were so sparse that I had to see you at once, just to make sure you’re alright. Are you alright, Rainbow?”

This is the part that I feared: talking about it. I knew that this food wasn’t going to be free.

“I’m fine.” My voice rumbles out in a very low and very quiet monotone, but it feels like thunder.

“What happened?”

I set the plate down. “Well, I was working; then, I heard a scream; then, I went home.”

“I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now! You heard a scream? What did you see? Did you know him? What happened exactly?”

Keep cool. Don’t freak out. Don’t get mad; and, above all, don’t cry.

I clench my teeth together, take a deep breath, and start to talk. I try to control the volume and the intonation of my voice; I try to not make myself come across as angry and perturbed—but I couldn’t help it. “You want to know what happened? I went to work, like I always do. I took up my post; and then, when I heard a scream, I flew to where it was coming from. And you want to know what I saw? I saw a pony—a young pony, recently hired—die right before me. I saw him boiled alive. He was screaming as he was being scalded, and the scream is still rending my heart. You also want to know what I’m feeling? Well, I didn’t get any sleep last night; I stayed awake all night listening, in my head, to the sounds of the desperation around the accident site. I couldn’t drown them out; and, even now, when you talk to me, I can still hear it. So, can you imagine what I’m feeling now? I’m feeling terrible, absolutely terrible.”

I made sure to leave out the truly frightening details.

I was quite pleased at seeing the effect that my rant had produced on her, smugly satisfied that I had shut her up, for once; but when I see her relent, when I see her proud posture slump into one of submission, and when I see that a trickle of my built-up agitation and torment has leaked onto her, I shudder. She’s feeling a taste of what I’m feeling right now.

Never have I wished that on anypony, to any degree. So why did I say it?

“Rarity, I’m sorry. I’m just very tired.”

She smiles weakly. “Oh, that’s alright, Rainbow. You’re right; I shouldn’t have pushed the issue. I invited you here for a pleasant lunchtime, and the last thing I wanted to do was to pressure you in any way. It’s me that should be sorry. Please, continue enjoying your meal.”

I can’t tell whether that last sentence was genuine or not, but I continue on the potatoes anyway. For whatever reason, they don’t taste as good anymore.

And then, in that instant, I see plainly the saint sitting in front of me: She prepared all this for me without a second thought, without a question, without a nagging doubt—because that’s who she is. Her being is not affected, unlike my smile, and it’s not strained or doubting, unlike my will. And I see this saint through the eyes of a demon.

She’s real. This is who she really is. And it’s wonderful.

“Rainbow?” I hear her say. “Do you want to say anything to me? I’m always here to listen.”

I’m not thinking again, just talking. “Rarity,” I say, “what’s it like?”

“I beg your pardon?”

What did I want to know? Oh, yes, that’s right. What a stupid question. Well, it’s too late now; the words are coming out on their own. “Being the Element of Generosity—what it’s like?”

She sits up straight, like she was doing before, and she begins to beam. “Oh, it’s wonderful, truly wonderful!” she says. “Being able to help, to know that I’m making a difference to the lives of those I love—I can’t imagine any other way of life. Truly, I pity any creature that can’t feel the joy that I feel every single day when I wake up and the first thing on my mind is: ‘And how can I make somepony’s day better?’ That was a good question! I’m interested now, Rainbow: what’s it like being the Element of Loyalty?”

I’m not thinking about that at all. The fact that I’m an Element seems the most irrelevant topic of conversation right now—and also, the most unsettling and disingenuous.

I don’t even know.

“Well,” I say, “lately I’ve been thinking about how everypony acts towards each other. Do you ever think . . .” I pause, trying to find the words that won’t betray me or offend her. “Do you ever think that I—no, everypony in general—do you ever think that everypony would be . . . I mean to say, what do you think the world would be like if everypony woke up and thought how they could better their own lives?”

She looks at me patronizingly and makes a sort of tsk tsk sound with her teeth. “Rainbow,” she says, “are we having thoughts of arrogance again? Do I need to pull out the Mare-Do-Well costume again? I still have it.”

“No!” I shout, and I’m surprised at how loud that came out. She looks surprised, too. “No, no, don’t get me wrong!” I stammer, trying to recover the situation. “Hypothetically, of course. How do you view ponies who strive for their own interests as opposed towards others’?”

“Well, if we’re speaking bluntly, Rainbow, then I must say that—well, let’s be honest, I do see the benefit in it.”

“What?” That wasn’t the answer I was expecting at all. Really? Surely she isn’t saying that generosity and selfishness can coexist? “Really?”

“Well, I mean, depending on the situation. For example, being concerned with one’s own interest can really help in certain situations, say, commerce. When I’m sewing my dresses, I need to make sure that they’re better than my competitors’. I need to strive to make sure I’m better than them, that I’m always one step ahead. In a situation like that, well . . .”—and she leans closer to me, as if she’s worried that she might be overheard by somepony—“generosity would mean losing my business.”

Huh, I never thought about it that way. Perhaps there’s nothing wrong with it after all. Perhaps I’m fine. Perhaps—

“But, outside of that, that attitude is simply off-putting. I consider it a necessary evil, something we simply have to live with in order to accomplish little things. But, outside of business, you know me: I always consider others, above all. The business attitude is not good for fostering long-term relationships, nor is it healthy as a guiding principle. The world would be a worse-off place if we all woke up and decided to care nothing for those around us, and we just marched through the street, sticking up for only ourselves. How dreadful! I know some ponies like that, and let me tell you: egoists are always the rudest of ponies and, whether they care to admit to others or not, are always the most miserable ones.”

Egoist. The word resonates in my mind, and it bounces off as if it’s a brand of shame, a sickness, a mental aberration: egoist, egoist, egoist . . .

My stomach churns.

“Rarity,” I murmur, and she has to lean in closer to hear me, “do you think I’m selfish?”

Why did I ask that? What was I expecting her to say? Could her answer possibly be good?

She’s about to say something. I feel like I’m going to throw up. 

I stand up quickly. “I’m . . . I’m not feeling so well,” I say. “I’m sorry, but I . . . I have to go.” 

I turn around and fly as fast as I can towards the door. I make a humming noise in my throat, as I fiddle with the locks, using the sound of the bolts and my vocal chords to drown out anything she might be trying to say after me.

I fly out into the street and turn a corner, finally out of sight of the Carousel Boutique. I wipe the sweat off my forehead—crisis averted. Did I even close the door? I’m not going back to check. I have better things to do. Where am I going now? I know there’s somewhere I need to be. Ah, yes, the library. I’m going to see Twilight and return the wretched book. The library is this way.

I turn in its direction, and it just now occurs to me how abominably I acted and how Rarity must feel. She makes me a gorgeous lunch; I eat it, barely say anything to her, and then just run off? How, under what circumstances, could I have done that? I don’t remember. I remember some vague notion that compelled me to leave her house as soon as possible, but I can’t recall it completely, and it seems to me now that there was absolutely nothing that could have warranted such an abrupt exit, nothing so viciously important that I couldn’t have stayed a bit longer just to say my farewells.

It’s not too late. Perhaps I could go back and say goodbye—no, no. I can’t do that. That would be even worse. And then she might say . . .

It’s to the library for me.

I feel rejuvenated in body; but, for whatever reason, I don’t feel like flying to the library. There’s not one single thought I can attribute this lethargy to—it just seems like it would be more appropriate to walk. It’s only about six blocks, so I wouldn’t be saving that much time by flying. Should take me no more than ten minutes—but if I were to fly, it would only take a few seconds . . . No, I’m walking. I’ve made up my mind.

As I walk, I stare at the gray concrete in front of me. If I slow my pace, I can see the aggregate chunks of gravel, those black pebbles that had been crushed and swirled around, each one doomed to an eternal existence as a part of a bigger mass of which it has no concept and to never learn what purpose it serves. A lone pebble could be brushed away by a careless foot tomorrow and roll away from the concrete, and the cement would be no worse off.

I can see the individual cracks and holes in the cement, and its intricacy is so overwhelming that I feel nauseated by the sight. Just those twists and those turns, wrapping themselves around my brain, squeezing my heart . . . must walk faster.

When I walk faster, the pebbles disappear, and all I can see is a single sheet of gray running past my eyes, as if from some projector in the sky. And I can see my thoughts on this film, playing out in quick flashes, so quick that they’re not noticeable to anypony else—even if they were to look for them—but long enough that I can see them bright and vividly.

Rarity had brought up Mare-Do-Well, and I had instinctively recoiled like a prehistoric creature at the sight of fire.

I was sure what I was doing was right, sure that my heroism and my enjoyment of it was just, that there was no shame in being the best—on the contrary, there was pride—but my friends had surrounded me and told me, in unison, that what I was doing was, unequivocally, wrong, and that I should have kept my mouth shut and done the deeds without question. They were all glaring at me, dressed in that outfit and having went to all this trouble to teach me a lesson, and then I came to the horrible realization that my instincts, my judgment, had been wrong. As they closed in on me, I could feel them silently judging me, and I saw myself on the precipice of a giant cliff, being edged towards the abyss by they who intended to push me into it if I refused to fall back the other way into their hooves. 

And what would anypony do? There were five of them, and there was only one of me. I, against my better judgment, told them that they were right. They said that they were glad that I realized just in time, and that I had something to write to the princess about. I told them I would, and then I hastily dismissed myself from the scene.

I had flown back to my house, fully intending to write the letter, fully intending to show them that they were right and I was wrong—but then I wanted to fly donuts around my house; then I wanted to practice a new trick; then I wanted to have dinner. And, by that time, it was late; I was tired, and I went to bed instantly.

And I never wrote the letter.

I vaguely remember trying to bring my pen to the page—I even had the “Dear Princess Celestia” and the “Your faithful student, Rainbow Dash” at the end of it—and I remember knowing exactly what to say to show her that I had learned a lesson. But I found that my mind immediately went blank the second the pen came within a centimeter of the letter. Indeed, I remember that as soon as I drew it away and scratched my head in contemplation, the words had come back to me; but, like before, when I brought my pen down again, they instantly disappeared from my mind, like they never existed in the first place.

And I have not performed a single act of heroism to date.

Applejack told me that a real hero is modest, and Twilight said that grace and humility are the defining characteristics of a champion—but there was one word that I was just dying to say, one word that should have clarified everything and solved this first and foremost, but I was too afraid. I was too afraid that they’d look at me like I was some sort of deviant, a deviant that would say something that only somepony with no social skills or sense of societal responsibility would ask. And then I would blush, look away, and then try to change the subject, but that scene would make me slap my forehead with my hoof for nights to come; and, in any case, I would still be left with that word still pounding in my head:

Why?

Why is a hero modest? Why are champions humble and graceful? Why shouldn’t a hero revel in the adulation of her fans? What kind of a miserable creature performs amazing acts and then, not only shrugs off the just praise she receives from those who love her for the things that she did, but also, to herself, says nothing and does not give it its rightful place in her mind?

Since then, after they had told me that their heroes don’t brag, that their heroes don’t say a word as they perform the deeds that are expected of them, I did not want to be a hero. I have no desire to prostrate myself at the feet of ponies who consider it my duty, my purpose of being, to bail them out of whatever turmoil they got themselves into. I was never fit to be their hero in the first place, for I was a hero for myself, first and foremost.

The film stops. I see a coarse-threaded welcome mat in front of me. I step back, look up, and I see the giant tree of the library. I can feel it yawning over me, and I’m suddenly aware of my own fatigue. My legs start to shake, and I sway from side to side. There is nothing more that I want to do than just to get home, curl up in my own bed, and sleep forever—a reassuring feeling, after spending a sleepless night in turmoil. But I have a long way ahead of me to do that. I’m sure Twilight would let me take a nap for few hours in the library; but, as tempting as it is, I know that it would be ultimately uncomfortable, and that it is always worth it to hold out until I can get home. 

I shake my head and try to keep myself conscious, as I pull on the door. The door feels heavy, but when I wrap my leg around the handle and lean my body back, it opens with very little effort on my part.

The smell of books almost drops me to the floor at once; for I associate it with the smell that fills my nostrils right before I go to sleep, my face buried in the pages of a book, after I’ve spent countless hours reading into the night. But a “Hi, Rainbow Dash” that I hear is sufficient to keep me awake just until I can do whatever it was I needed to do here. What was that? There was something I needed to do here! Ah yes, the book.

“Hi, Spike,” I say back. He’s standing on a ladder, and next to him is a large stack of multicolored books balancing neatly on top of each other. He’s trying to squeeze a rather thick volume in between two tightly packed books on the shelf. That’s never going to get in there, Spike.

Something is . . . off, about Spike. He looks strange. I can’t put my hoof on it, but he doesn’t look right. He’s the same color, same size, same shape, but he doesn’t look like the Spike I know. What’s wrong with him? There’s something . . .

“Hello, Rainbow Dash!” says Twilight. “So nice of you to drop by! I wasn’t aware that you were in Ponyville today.”

“Hmm?” I mumble, rubbing one of my eyes with my hoof and still staring at Spike with the other. I watch him climb down from the ladder. The second he touches the ground, he looks completely normal, and then I instantly realize why the sight of him on top of the ladder looked so disconcerting: I can’t remember the last time I’ve looked at an upwards angle towards him. 

Looking back to Twilight, I continue: “No, I’m not in Ponyville today. I’m just here to return a book.” I reach into my saddlebag, pull out the book, and put it on the desk she’s standing behind. As she opens the cover of it, I say: “I’m terribly sorry it’s overdue. What’s the fine per day? A bit, right?” I reach into my bag again.

“Oh no, Rainbow, that’s alright,” says Twilight. “No pony brings back books in better condition and quicker than you, and I know that you didn’t mean it. Consider that extra day as a gift for your loyalty to me and this library.”

“No, no,” I say, having only clearly heard the first sentence. “Rules are rules. They’re there for a reason, and when rules are broken, ponies get hurt.” I, with a bit of disdain, drop the coin onto the counter. I hear it clatter on the wooden desk, spin around a few times, until it finally drops into some unknown and desolate corner.

Twilight speaks again, but her voice sounds to me apprehensive and tentative: “Well, Rainbow, your integrity is definitely noteworthy.” After this, her change in tone is so jarring that it makes me recoil slightly and makes my heart skip a beat. “What did you think!” she exclaims. “To Murder a Mimus is one of my favorite books of all time. Did you like it?”

Oh no. I knew this moment would come. What do I say? Do I tell her the truth? That seems like the right thing to do, but since when has my instinct been right? If I say no, she’ll get all disappointed and ask me to justify my answers. I may make a slip, and she’ll tear me apart for it. I could say yes, but then she’ll want to talk about it, and I really don’t want to. And then she’ll recommend more books to me, and then I’ll never get around to what I want to read, and then—

“Rainbow?”

“I didn’t like it,” I blurt. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She frowns, and I cringe, bracing myself for the attack. “Oh,” she says, her voice dropping in pitch and volume, “that’s too bad. I thought you’d really identify with Recon; she reminds me a lot of you. Anything in particular you didn’t like?”

I shrug. I have a complex opinion, so thoroughly worked out in my mind, and it makes sense to me—and now I regret that I do not have the ability to put it into words. “I don’t know . . .” I say. “It just seemed kind of . . . outdated.”

Boring. It was boring, Twilight.

She gives me a funny look. “Outdated? Come now, Rainbow! I seem to recall that last time you were here, you wanted to check out A Voyage to the Inner Core, and that book is nearly a hundred years older than To Murder a Mimus—and in a different language, I might add!”

What do you want me to say, Twilight?

“Well,” she continues, “that’s unfortunate. If you want, I actually just got a new hardcover edition of A Voyage to the Inner Core—a completely new and unabridged translation. I’m not really a fan of the story per se, but I really do have to praise the translator, simply for his attention to detail and the natural flow of the writing that results from it. And the footnotes! There are footnotes everywhere, and some even span for pages! The book now reads like—”

“I’m not really looking for anything to read right now, Twilight,” I interrupt. “I’m really tired, and I just came to return your book. Sorry.”

She nods sadly and then turns her back to me and towards a file cabinet. I’ve clearly disappointed her. Perhaps if I wasn’t so tired, I would’ve been more tactful—no, what should I have done instead? Asked her for a recommendation for something that I have no desire to read and then come back a month later knowing nothing about it? That would’ve been even worse.

What a terrible day; it really seems like it has consisted entirely of dilemmas, where I’m always forced to pick the lesser of the two evils. The right choices, the wrong choices, they all seem to blur together in my mind.

I step back, and I look all around myself. So many books, so many compressed ideas. The density of thoughts and feelings in this room is amazing, really. Each one of these little collections of paper has an individual’s passion, his life, contained in thousands of blotches of ink. I can almost hear them all speaking at once in my head, and it’s wonderful. If I listen closely, I can hear one individual above the rest for a short second before his words are seamlessly tied with another’s, and so on. The combinations and permutations here are endless. And I wonder . . . I wonder . . .

“Twilight,” I hear myself say, and I feel almost no connection with my will and what’s coming out of my mouth, “what do you know about egoism?”

She turns around and looks at me with an incredulous stare. My face burns, and I can see that she’s thinking the exact same thing I’m thinking: what in the world did you say?

Not the worst thing I’ve said, but certainly not the best. This is still salvageable. “Yeah,” I say, “you know, egoism: how we’re all motivated to act in our own interests above all, and stuff like that. What do you know about it?”

She squints and looks up at the ceiling. “To be honest, Rainbow, very little. I’ve only heard other ponies talk of it and very briefly. In fact, actually, there’s one book I think I remember—Spike! Do we have The Valiant Egoist?”

My heart jumps up into my throat, and it gives me an elated rush to my brain. Really? There’s an actual book? A list of my conditions and a diagnosis of my feelings? There’s another pony who, like me, felt this way about herself and the world—except she maybe had the talent to put it into writing.

“Actually, yes,” says Spike, “I remember shelving it a little while ago. I put it in the T section. Just give me a sec!”

Twilight raises her brow. “Spike, don’t you ignore articles when it comes to sorting by titles? Are you sure you didn’t put it in the V section?”

Spike stops dead and his mouth falls open. “Ugh, that’s right! You know, come to think of it, I remember having this exact same problem when I was shelving, except you weren’t there to answer my questions, so I think I—may have put it in the U section. Can’t be sure.”

I let out a breath of air of amusement.

“What?” says Twilight. “Why on earth would you put it there?”

“I don’t know if  I put it there. I think I may have.”

“Why?”

“I dunno,” says Spike. “I didn’t know whether to put it with the T’s or with the V’s, so the U’s seemed like a good compromise. Don’t worry, though; it shouldn’t take me too long to find it. The U and V sections are very small.” And he starts up the ladder.

I shake my head and laugh. 

Twilight groans and is about to return to her files, when she quickly spins back to Spike and says: “Wait a minute—isn’t non-fiction sorted by the last name of the author?”

Spike slaps his forehead so hard that he nearly stumbles off the ladder. “Oh no! That was another question I wanted to ask you! I remember! That would mean it would go with the R’s, but I remember thinking that it should have gone with the T’s, and I may have compromised and put it with the S’s as well. No! The S section is the biggest section we have!” He sighs and groans, as he looks at the towering shelves of books. “Twilight, this might take a while.”

Twilight rolls her eyes and then turns back to me. “Well,” she says, “if you really want it, Spike can find it for you, but I personally wouldn’t recommend it.”

Oh boy, here we go. Still, might as well hear her out. “Why not?” I say.

“Because, from what I can recall, the author was . . . well, insane.”

I can feel the exact moment my heart drops from my throat and all the way to the soles of my feet. No, this can’t be true. Was it because of what she thought? Was she preconditioned to lose her mind, and was her book just a warning sign of it? Because that would mean that I only have a few years left, and I . . .

Stop speculating. When has that been any good?

“You mean,” I stammer, “like, insane insane? Like, in a hospital and everything?”

“Well, not exactly in a hospital, but almost. Her personal life was a mess. For the better part of her life, she was taking some very heavy drugs, and she was unfaithful to her husband at one point. But is that really surprising? She considered altruism the worst evil on this planet and selfishness the highest of virtues. Do I really need to explain to you how lonely that is? Can you imagine that depressing of a life, where there’s no pony else you live for, and there’s no pony you can look up to besides yourself? I used to be somewhat like that, and in hindsight, it was awful. I can’t imagine a worst way to live, and I pity anypony who thinks in the same way—Rainbow, you don’t look so well. Are you alright?”

I put my hoof to my chin in order to stop my teeth from chattering. “I’m . . . I’m fine. Just tired, is all. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Oh, really? Why?”

Barely has she time to finish this last sentence before I’m out on the street again. The door slams behind me with a satisfying bang.

It’s a clear day for the most part—and it will be for a while, at least until the factory gets up and running again—and I can see Cloudsdale from here. Up there, somewhere, is my comfortable house, and it’s waiting for me to come back to it, so it can protect me from all the harshness of the world and surround me in a comforting darkness, from which it will be difficult to emerge. It’s there, waiting for me, but it’s so far away, and the earth seems to be pulling me with more force than it usually does. I’m standing here now, in front of the library, not going towards Cloudsdale, but simply looking up at it, trying to find, in my mind, the strength to take that first leap home.

I jump in place a few times, kind of like a runner preparing to start a marathon she has trained for for months, except I sincerely doubt my chances of getting to the end. One way or another, I eventually start to flap my wings, and they move slowly, as if they were lined with lead; until, at last, I remind myself of the reward, the bed at the end of the track; and slowly, but surely, I move towards the floating city.

Perhaps I was never worthy of my friends in the first place. We’re just too fundamentally different. They care for each other implicitly, and I only liked them for the way they made me feel. It felt good; but even I, the stranger that I am to this concept of duty and intrinsic, unconditional love, realize that it’s unhealthy, both for me and them, to have this kind of relationship, this relationship from which different and conflicting values are held and expected.

It’s not so bad being alone, now that I think about it. Being an egoist, I guess, has its perks. How many ponies slow me down to begin with? I can count off the top of my head the ones who don’t . . .

And those ones are my friends.

I, with my judgment alone, had found the best of the best of ponies, of individuals, the only ones worthy to be by me and the only ones who rightfully deserved my respect and admiration, and now I’m forced to recognize the disturbing fact that what I found noteworthy in them was effected by values completely opposite to my own.

Now, realizing this, I wonder how I will be able to function in this world, this world that was not built for a creature such as me. Is there even a world that I can think of which is? Yes, I can: a world that’s completely uninhabited and devoid of life—except for me. Me, all, all alone.

Something lightly brushes by my shoulder, something warm. A body, perhaps. “Sorry, Rainbow Dash,” is all I hear.

“Sorry, Fluttershy,” I hear myself say back. Wait, what?

I turn around; and, all of the sudden, the lead is removed from my wings, and they feel lighter than they had ever felt before. Fluttershy is flying away from me at a slow, carefree pace, and she is drifting along as gracefully as a cloud.

I fly towards her and overtake her in under a second. Her eyes bulge wide with surprise as I overwhelm her with the tightest of hugs.

“I’m so, so, sorry, Fluttershy,” I say, still holding onto her for dear life.

“Rainbow Dash,” she wheezes, “it wasn’t that big of a deal. It’s fine, really.”

“No, it’s not fine.”

I hold onto her for a few more seconds until she finally says: “Rainbow, would it be alright with you if I could breathe just a tiny little bit?”

I open my eyes and let go of her. I put a few wingbeats between her and me, and she smiles at me while greedily sucking in air. “Thanks,” she says.

“I was just heading home, going to do nothing and be bored out of my mind,” I said. “But I’m really glad to see you. What are you up to?”

“Oh, you know, same old things. I’m just heading back to the farm from the marketplace.” 

I see she has a bag, and it’s overflowing with assorted vegetables and fruits. I can smell them from here; and, despite having eaten a hearty meal, my mouth starts to water. “Those smell fresh,” I say. “Those must have cost a fortune!”

“I don’t care about that, really. My animal friends deserve the best.”

I nod, and I’m about to continue on my way, to go home and have the greatest slumber of my life, until the question, once again, pops into my head.

Fluttershy, the least judgmental of my friends, won’t give it a second thought. This time, it’s worth asking: “Why?” The word finally finds freedom from within me, and it’s there, out in the world. It’s a liberating feeling.

She gives me a weird sort of look. “What do you mean?” she says.

“Why do they deserve the best? Why do you sacrifice so much for them, sometimes even at the expense of your own happiness?”

“Because they need me.”

I should have been satisfied with that answer. I should have just nodded, said thank you, and continued on home. But I can’t be. I have to know more. “But why is that your problem?” I say.

She starts to shake, and her eyes avoid contact with mine. “Well, who would if I didn’t?”

This time, it’s as if it’s pushing itself out of me with a force so strong that I’m powerless to stop it. Be nice, be nice . . . 

“But, again, why is that anypony’s problem but theirs? Who says that it’s your duty to take care of them?”

Her face starts to twitch, and she backs away from me. Stammering, she says: “I . . . I don’t know, Rainbow Dash. Sorry, but I’m kind of busy right now. I have to go.” And she drops quickly in altitude and rockets past me. I’ve never seen her fly that fast before.

And as I watch her fly away, I think about the raw power and mystery of that question. It’s so simple, a single syllable, so easy to say, but there seems to be no satisfactory answer to it. It seems to me that if I were to ask everypony I know, none of them would be able to answer it. Am I the only pony who’s unsatisfied by this? Is that just part of my vice—that I’m burdened with this question, like it’s some sort of invisible staff I’m chained to, which compels me to bring it down upon any idea? Will I ever be able to let it go, even if it is doomed to swipe at nothing but air for as long as I live?

Surely I’m not immune to it? I need to turn it on myself. Why must I ask why? Why does everypony seem to be content with the status quo but me? It’s probably just another one of those things I will never understand.

And, at any rate, I’m not going to try for some time. My brain seems to be at its end right now, but I’ve made it to the door of my house.

I throw my bag somewhere—I don’t care where it lands—and I collapse on the bed. But, the second I touch the sheets, my eyes refuse to close, and I stare at the wall.

I hadn’t realized how much the blur of things in the light of the sun distracted me from the scream and what I’d said. Here they come back now, just as loud as before, and I’m wide awake. Don’t say that . . . Don’t say that . . . Ugh, why did you say that! Now, everypony hates you, and you’re going to have to go back to work eventually and have to endure, for forty hours a week, them staring at you with disdain and sabotaging your work and the stuff in your locker when you’re not looking.

Now everypony knows who you really are.

Better him than me . . . Better him than me . . . Better him than me. It loops in my head like a saturated thought in a feverish sleep, and the inside of my mouth tastes more and more rancid with each iteration.

I can’t think about anything else. I toss, and I turn, but my eyes won’t shut. I get up, pace around and have arguments with the same unseen souls as last night, lose the arguments again, and then collapse back on the bed when I’m exhausted, thinking I’ll finally sleep now, and then my eyes will jerk open as soon as the voices in my head start up again. Rinse, lather, and repeat. Occasionally, the night will be broken up by a few sips of water, and it tastes just as bad as my mouth.

And the worst part is that, for the first time in my life, I’m unsure of who’s right. I used to just brush off ideas I thought were stupid, without giving them a second thought—but as soon as they concentrated on me, as soon as the ideas were all focused upon my own opposing one, they crushed me with the sheer weight of their numbers. I can no longer firmly stand on my own rectitude, as I’ve done before, and they’re making me check and guess myself. And now I’m forced to reconsider my whole life, how I’ve went about my affairs with my idea; and how I’ve so adamantly opposed so many ponies in the past, when they might have been right all along. And now I don’t know what to do, or what’s coming, or . . .

And now my alarm clock rings with that horrible, grating, caustic sound. It’s now nine a.m. My heart jumps as I scramble out from under the covers and fumble with the switch. I knock over the clock, and it falls to the floor with a crash that causes me to reflexively grind my teeth together.

Why is that even on? I always remember to turn it off if I have nowhere to be, and I’m very careful to only set it if I absolutely have to. And I was so close to falling asleep, too! But that sound is tied inextricably to the act of getting up, and I must—but that doesn’t stop me from feeling even tireder than before.

What a stupid thing it is, the body: when I need to go to sleep, it insists that there’s too much to do, and when I need to wake it, it compels me with the strongest of forces to go back to sleep when it knows that I have obligations.

What obligations do I have now? None! So why did I set the alarm? I’m very careful about that!

It’s not until I look over at the calendar, sitting on my wall across the room, that I slap my forehoof on my forehead—my forehead which is painfully sore and red from doing that all night—when I see it’s April the thirtieth. Months ago, I had promised Pinkie Pie that I would help her bake the absurd number of cupcakes she needed for the sale the bakery has on the last day of April.

The more I think about it, the more dreadful the concept of going down to Ponyville, yet again, and listening to Pinkie’s hyperactive voice blaring in my ear for hours becomes. It wouldn’t be too difficult to blow just this off. She’s so unreliable as it is when it comes to things she has to do for me, and she would understand if I just explained to her why I didn’t want to go.

I stand in my room, between my calendar and my bed, turning my head rapidly between the two, as my mind jumps from choice to choice, considering both. It would be so easy to just lay back down on my bed and go back to sleep—but really, would I be able to? What would be different? The knowledge that I didn’t keep my promise, certainly.

Yeah, that will help me sleep: shredding the last iota of integrity I have left.

April thirtieth. Last day of April and the first coming of May. These cultural customs are profoundly stupid. What makes the beginning of the month any different than any other day in it? What is so special about the beginning of May in particular? May, the month of the onset of summer and the comings of humidity, droughts; and the rotting smell of old ponies dead in the street, collapsed due to heat exhaustion. Do they forget how, seriously, that the summer is truly dreadful? In our day and age, one can choose how warm he wants to be in the winter—it’s simply a matter of how much coats and layers he’s willing to wear. May and summer are the bearers of force, compelling all to suffer with no respite. Even with all your sunblock, even if you walk naked and allow heat to vent off your body from every pore, you still certainly feel the merciless radiation when you walk outside, that pernicious weather which had made ponies suffer from the moment they came into existence, and which no amount of technology and ingenuity will ever mitigate. At least in the winter, I can wear the finest of coats and scarves outside, satisfying my desire to feel comfortable—but the coercive summer strips me of the means to that right.

Let’s go make cupcakes for it!

May hasn’t come yet; and the breeze, admittedly, feels good on my face as I step out. The sun is up, of course, but I take the precaution of shielding my eyes, the unpleasant memory of last morning still fresh in my mind.

As soon as I step off the cloud, I feel my body plummet like a rock, as I’m seized with a fatigue of a magnitude that I’ve never felt before. It’s so powerful, that I feel, while falling, that I could pass into the deepest of sleeps as I accelerate towards the earth, and I wouldn’t even feel the impact of my body on the gravel. Only by spreading my wings at the very last second do I slow myself to a survivable landing speed; but that adjective, deceptive as it is, bears a lot less comfort than one would think, and I can almost feel the upper-most disc of my spine break through the skin right between my shoulder blades. It’s far to Sugar Cube Corner, and it certainly doesn’t help that I have to walk with a haunch.

I don’t even know where I am, and I’m propelled forward by pure navigation instinct. The blur of gentle green grass beneath my feet and the sight of the consistent, smooth, periodic motion of my legs is so mesmerizing, that more than one time I almost fall face first into the ground, where I would’ve probably gotten a fair amount of scratches, but it would’ve been worth it from how much sleep I would get from the endeavor. If the sound of nature did not dissolve away as quickly as it did to allow for the sound of voices, activity, and business, I probably would’ve been sung to a most pathetic sleep by the song of the birds, who seemed to be urging me to leave all my grief behind me and just surrender myself to the bed of nature—and, with a startling realization, I understand that that bed, which is so appealing right now, is the same one we all go to in the end.

Not just yet.

Thank Celestia I’ve made it. I can hear a cacophonic calamity coming from the store, even through the shut door. As soon as I open it, it’s as if the force of the sound is so great that I can feel it pushing me backwards: the Cakes are running back and forth between their ovens, trying desperately to balance their profession with the incorrigible wailing of their twins; timers are going off here and there; the sound of the sizzling of strudels on the stove is intermingled with the occasional drop of a baking tray; and, to top it all off, Pinkie is blowing loudly on a noisemaker.

This is going to be a long, long, day.

“Woohoo!” yells Pinkie Pie, resulting in the noisemaker falling to the ground and rattling the marble tiles with an excessively loud bang, “Dashie’s here! Come this way—we have a lot to do!” And she puts one of her legs around my neck and virtually drags me into the kitchen. I choke and sputter on the way there, but the sound of that is not nearly loud enough to compete with everything else.

When she lets go of me, we’re in the kitchen. I try to use the small window of opportunity I have to take a breath; but, as soon as I do, Pinkie slams an inordinately heavy toque blanche onto my head. The thick flour coat on it breaks and rains in fine particles onto my face and nose. My eyes reflexively snap shut, and my nose starts to tingle. I can feel a sneeze coming on; and I stand there with my mouth open, trying to usher it forward, but it refuses to relieve me.

My face and mane are now completely white, covered as they are in flour. I look over to Pinkie Pie, expecting her to say something in reconciliation, but she’s turned her attention towards other things now. She sashays back and forth between the oven and the counter, and she’s humming some insipid pop tune that, knowing my luck, is probably going to get stuck in my head.

“Pinkie,” I say.

“Hmm?” She stops and turns to face me.

I stare at her with a scowl that I imagine an injured plaintiff would use in a tort court; and, with my heavy breaths and my rapidly blinking eyes alone, I try to speak the damning words to her: res ipsa loquitur. 

Instead she just cocks her head to one side and stares at me. 

“What am I supposed to do?” I say, when I realize that my subtlety was lost on her.

“Over there, there are some bowls. Flour, sugar, vanilla—two parts, two parts, one part. Easy!” she says, and she turns back to the oven.

I sigh, and a whiff of flour jumps up in front of my face. It hovers in the air, and I stand in place watching it, waiting for it to fall to the ground and move out of my way, but it doesn’t. It just floats there, and I can see the little particles spinning around themselves, their movement chaotic, but there’s a certain kind of strange organization in them that keeps them from falling out with one another and a harmony that lets them stay in this seemingly impossible mass. Thus, it doesn’t move away from me. The specks of dust, as they roll towards me, seem to dare me to break them up. I don’t want to start a fight; I just walk around them.

I look over at the bowls; and, sure enough, there are some boxes of sugar and flour around them. A few of the boxes are open, and there are about ten more on the table, completely sealed, and at my feet and over the whole floor of the kitchen, I can see that there’s about fifty or sixty boxes in total. As for the vanilla, there are a four or five enormous bottles of the stuff near the bowl, probably eight liters each. But, in the meantime, there’s a small bottle of it, already open and next to the bowl.

I reach for this smaller bottle, but my hoof feels heavy, and it skims the bottle, knocking it over and spilling its pathetic contents onto the table and the floor. It wasn’t that full, but it drools out miserably and in a slow run, not seeming to be in a hurry for anything in particular. I stare at it as it collects in a small little pool on the table. I feel my eyes grow heavier at the same rate as the pool gets larger.

I notice that my most primal feelings are heightened—namely, pain. When I bite my teeth together, each and every one feels as if they’re riddled with cavities. When I brush my ribcage across the pointed edge of the table, it feels like a knife searing through my body. Even the dull edge of the bowl, as my hoof runs into it as I pour the vanilla, seems to hurt more than it should.

How many parts of vanilla, sugar, and flour? Two, one, two? How many did I put in this one? Does it matter? I’ll deal with it . . . I’ll deal with it at . . . well, maybe some other time.

I lean my head on its side on the counter, and I can hear the lulling rumble of the oven, chugging away, and I hear the door of it being opened and closed as Pinkie puts more goods into it. I can’t hear the Cakes, or their foals, anymore. That rumbling is so soothing, such a dull, pleasant sound, and the vibration that it sends through the table rocks my head back and forth . . . back and forth . . .

My eyes snap open as I feel a hoof tap me, hard, on the shoulder. I turn around and look at Pinkie. 

I was expecting her to get mad at me for neglecting my job, but she’s looking at me with a sort of sympathetic and sorrowful stare. “You really don’t want to be here, do you?” she says.

“Hmm? No, no, no,” I say, while rubbing my eyes with my forehooves, “just a little tired, is all.”

“It’s alright, Dashie,” she says, and there’s absolutely no hint of reproach in her voice. “We’ll be able to manage. Go home, and get some sleep.”

She means it; and I see now, fully, the true veracity of my friend. It’s not one of those social tests society insists on putting every individual through—a deceptively rhetorical question, where the individual is condemned if he answers the wrong way, and where the trappers harbor feelings of permanent antipathy if their victim mistakes their intentions for that of kindness.

I look at Pinkie, and then I look around the kitchen. The place is a mess, and the grinding screech of the wailing foals comes rolling back to me along with the despondent yells from their parents towards each other.

I turn back to Pinkie, and when I see that she’s completely unfazed by everything, I raise myself from the counter, stand up completely straight, use the little bit of energy I have left to open my eyes as  wide as I can; and say, without hesitation, irony, or obligation: “Pinkie Pie, there is nothing in the world I want to do more than be here with you.”

I expected her to jump up and scream in that manner which is peculiar to her, but, to my great surprise, she doesn’t. She simply nods and says: “That’s good to hear, Dashie. I’m glad.”

There’s a moment of silence, as I stand there and look at her, completely in awe. I feel inside me, just for a second, that small little spark that has been my guiding light my entire life, which had been dead for two days. In that moment, I forget my fatigue; and I experience an absolute, and quite overwhelming, feeling of jubilation. Being at the low and then being brought up, within a fraction of a second to the ultimate high, is dizzying, to be sure; but as I stand on the summit, looking down at the base, my vertigo instantly vanishes, and I look still upwards, with outstretched hooves, waiting for the world to deliver the best it has.

But reality, as usual, is never truly defeated, and the need for sleep is one of the most basic and powerful urges that a pony has. Just as quickly as before, I’m thrown from my position, and I slam into the rocks below. I almost collapse with exhaustion, and I only manage to stay on my feet with more vigorous rubbings of my eyes and an audible groan coming from my throat.

“Why don’t you take a break?” Pinkie says. “Here, there’s a batch done right now; come share it with me!”

Presented in front of me, on the table, are cupcakes with vanilla-white bases and an odd swirl of red and blue icing. Before I can pick a good one, I see Pinkie snatch up two and shove them in her mouth, whole, at the same time. “Try them,” she says. “They’re good!”

I pick the one closest to me; and, after fumbling with the wrapper, I take a small bite. I reflexively inhale as I taste it. It’s not one of those horrible, fake, plastic ones that are mass produced and sold at convenience stores; this one has all the love and care that only Pinkie Pie can put into them, and it makes all the difference in the world. She truly does deserve her title as a professional.

As such, I take slow bites, making sure that no amount of its taste or the feeling is unappreciated. The icing is quite original, a bit odd, but it complements the vanilla so well and is such an integral part of the whole flavor that I can’t imagine the taste without it. I’m not a cupcake pony, by any stretch of the words, but still I have to enjoy this.

It takes me a good five or so minutes to finish it; but, when I do, it leaves such an impression on me that I’m dying for more. I look back at the tray; but after I see only a solitary cupcake, surrounded by crumbs, I look back at Pinkie Pie: Her cheeks are bulging, and sprays of crumbs erupt from her mouth every time she bites on them. Soon, she swallows; and she grabs her chest as the mass makes its way, just barely, down her throat.

She lets out a satisfied moan as her eyes roll upwards—but then they dart back to the tray, and when she sees the cupcake, she looks back at me, and then back at the cupcake, alternating between contemplating me and contemplating it.

Her mouth is slightly ajar, and her tongue hangs out its side as she says: “How many have you had?”

“Just one.”

Her breathing starts to get rapid and shallow, and her eyes start to widen as she concentrates on the cupcake. Her body shudders, barely held back.

And for once, I completely understand where she’s coming from. The cupcake was delicious, and  I ardently want another one; but when I see how desperate she’s growing, how hard she’s struggling with herself, I sigh relentingly and say: “It’s alright, Pinkie. You can have it.”

She looks back at me, smiles sweetly, that look of animalistic fury gone in her, and she says: “No, it’s fine. I had too many. You can have it.”

I’m struck with a disturbing thought, a traumatic thought, and I think Pinkie might be thinking it too. I lean closer to her, trying to drive it away from within the two of us; as I say, loudly, boldly, and fully convicted: “Pinkie, I mean it—have the last one. This issue is so trivial, that I really don’t care. I harbor no feelings towards the cupcake; and I mean it, unequivocally, that I will think no less of you regardless of your decision. If you’ve never believed me before, believe me now. I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

She sputters incredulously and then bursts into that tinkling laugh of hers. I feel ridiculous. What on earth did I just say?

“Well, of course you mean it!” she says, at length. “Come on, who would ascribe such feelings to a cupcake? That would just be silly.”

“What? You don’t want it?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong; I want it very much. But . . . but I want you to have it even more.”

I sigh with despondency, as I look back towards the cupcake. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem so appetizing anymore. “How . . . how selfless of you,” I say under my breath.

“Selfless?” says Pinkie, as she cocks her head to one side? “No, that’s not selfless at all! It’s quite selfish, if I do say so myself.”

My ears perk up at these words, and I look back at her. I give her a good stare, trying to find the ulterior motive under these words, but all I see is that same placid countenance I always see in her. “What? Giving up this delicious cupcake to me that you want for yourself—how is that selfish?”

“What, isn’t it obvious? Here, in front of me, are two things that I really, really like: you and the cupcake. But I like you more than the cupcake. I would get more happiness letting you have it than having it myself. I don’t make the decision based on your thoughts and feelings—I make it based on mine.”

I’ve never heard Pinkie talk like this before. Her voice sounds alien to me, like something’s possessed her. What is she saying? How can she say this? “But . . . but,” I sputter like an idiot, “that’s not . . . really selfish.”

“Well, it certainly feels selfish,” she says. But she says it with no hint of doubt or disappointment. And she’s still smiling. “And it feels good.”

“But you’re the least selfish pony I know! Who suddenly bursts into song about how much she likes to make her friends smile?”

“Yes, exactly: how much I like to make my friends smile.”

I stumble backwards, dumbstruck.

She raises her brow at me, as if confused. “Don’t you know this already? Come on, Dashie, that should be a no-brainer! I mean, sure, if you’re not watching, it could be easy to see how many acts would seem selfless; but really, when you really thinky-think about them, they’re selfish. And also, when you really, really thinky-Pinkie-thinky about it, is that bad, really? Every year on this day, I look at the amount of baking goods that are shipped here, and my tail shakes just at the thought of how much there is to do. But, I tell you, Dashie, at the end of the day, when I pull that last tray out of the oven, I feel very proud for accomplishing the task that I had set for myself. I feel happy, because I tried to achieve the best, and I did. Because of only trying to get the best for myself, I now only have the bestest of friends, like you—and I love you. It makes me happy to love you.”

And she comes towards me, puts a hoof on my shoulder. My body feels like stone, and her hoof feels firm and unwavering. “Believe me,” she says, “when I say that you’re my friend and I do things for you, because I like doing things for you.” Her eyes seem to protrude out of her head, and mine seem to slink backwards into my skull. “I want to be clear: I value you more than a cupcake.”

And now all my feelings, all my thoughts, desires, and fears, which seemed to clash so oppositely with each other, merge into one, and they fill my entire body with a feeling of deliverance. A small cry escapes my throat; it sounds like it’s full of fear, and it is indeed: It’s the bit of doubt in myself finally being evicted from my now-immaculate being. There’s a lot of it that escaped at once; but it was so crushed, now, by the weight of my new-found certitude, that all that’s left of it is a pathetic little sound. I rise, like I did shortly before, but I’m now indescribably higher than I was then, and I can feel myself rocketing towards the sky. It feels like there’s no end to how high I can rise, and I don’t seem to be slowing down. I just get higher . . . and higher . . . and higher . . .

I burst into tears, and I hug Pinkie Pie. “Thank, thank you, Pinkie,” I choke. “I value you more than a cupcake too.”

“Sheesh,” she says, in a sarcastic voice, “calm down. It’s just a cupcake.”

I laugh loudly and let go of her, tears still on my cheeks. “Yes,” I say, wiping them away and still laughing, “yes, it’s just a cupcake.” I grab the knife on the table near the tray, and I part the remaining pastry in two. I grab one of the halves, and I put the entire thing in my mouth. When the flavor meets my tongue, I laugh again. Pinkie laughs too, as she grabs the other half.

As she chews, she says, crumbs flying from her mouth: “Thank you so much for coming to see me, Dashie. I really appreciate it. I can make all these cupcakes myself, but it can get boring. It’s fine, now; I’ve had cupcakes with you, and now I’m happy. That’s really the only job I wanted you to do, but it was the most important job to me. You look really unhappy; you really should go home and take a nap.”

“No,” I say, having just swallowed. “I came here to do a job that I promised to do, and I’m going to do it for—”

I stop myself short. Then, I continue: “For my integrity.”

And as I reach for the vanilla, time seems to kick into high-gear. I stopped noticing the passing of the hours, and I didn’t notice that the packages of raw goods at my feet were becoming more and more empty. I do, however, remember laughing at something Pinkie Pie said, throwing icing at her, dodging the flour she flung my way, and then slipping in a puddle of vanilla. But, in any case, as I was cleaning that up, I noticed that there were no more boxes in the kitchen; the sound of the foals had gone silent, and the kitchen was noticeably darker. 

I look at the mounds of cupcakes, stacked one on top of the other, inundating the kitchen with their presence, and through the small gaps in between them, I could see outside. The sun has just sunk below the horizon.

“Good job!” says Pinkie Pie, happily munching on a cupcake. “That took a lot quicker than I had expected.”

I laugh, as I try to maneuver my way through the swamp of cupcakes.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” she says.

I look at her sardonically. “Do you have anything to eat that’s not cupcakes?”

“Uh . . . maybe,” she says, looking around.

“Sorry, Pinkie, but I have to go do something before I go home. I’ll catch you later, alright?” While I was saying this, she stuffed five or six cupcakes into her mouth, such that she couldn’t respond to my comment and could only nod and mumble.

Somehow, I manage to find my way to the door, and I fling it open. A cool, nighttime breeze of spring greets me, and I fling myself headlong into it. My locomotion starts off as a trot, but it suddenly breaks into a canter, then a full gallop, until finally I find my feet are no longer on the ground, and I’m barreling down the street in full flight.

The world opens up to me now. Through its shining doors, I can see the long road that goes through them, the mist hovering over it completely gone. There had been nothing wrong with the vehicle taking me down that road. I had mistaken one of its important sounds as a defect; and, on the advice of untrained hooves, I had tried to messily patch it together, and the more it choked and sputtered, the more toxins I had fed into it on the advice of the same ponies. It’s all gone now, all clear. It’s running as its manufacturer intended, and it has never felt as fast or as good.

I now realize why the other definition of “good” had been so difficult, so impossible: because it required me to immolate myself—something that my uncorrupted subconscious would not allow me to do—and gave no justification, no arguments, no explanations other than that nebulous circular reasoning of immolation for the sake of immolation. 

There was nothing wrong with me all along. The pride I had felt was not a symptom of a disease, but rather a reward for my virtue, a reward for the fact that I had achieved what I had expected of myself, and that emotion was the sign that I had finally earned the right to call myself “me.” I had been acting in my own interests—and is there any reason why that is bad per se? Can any reason, any valid and sound argument, ever be given? I am great; I’ve done great things through my life, and I should be proud of those things—and there is nothing that anypony could ever say that would take those things away from me, nor make them out to be any less than they really are.

My friends, the ones whom I love and whom I hold indescribably higher than any others in the world, will love me for who I am, not for somepony that I would pretend to be.

If everypony else is allowed to judge my actions, then I’m allowed to as well. I promise that I’ll be fair and impartial; I’m judging the being I hold up to the highest standards, after all. But I will never say something is less significant than it really is, simply for appeasing the ones around me who—for some mystic, unfounded reason I will never understand, nor do I want to—tell me that holding my life as the standard of all the things that I value is anything less than the essence of existence and happiness.

Wisdom from Pinkie Pie—who would’ve thought it! 

How pitiful I had been for the last two days. When I think back, I cringe not at what I said on the morning two days ago, but how I acted afterwards. Truly despicable, Rainbow Dash. You were so pathetic, sulking in your room and at your friends’ houses! How could you ever doubt yourself? Don’t let it happen again. From now on, you hold your head high—not like you used to do, in that way which was somewhat feigned, somewhat doubtful—and you stand, not on arrogance or exaggeration, but on the certainty of yourself and your values.

What do you say to those who tell you that your convictions are wrong, that you’re arrogant and egotistical, that what you hold dear is immoral?

“If this is immoral, then judge me for what I am,” I say aloud, as I approach the door to Twilight’s library.

I pull on the door. It yields so easily to my hooves. I walk—no, walk is the wrong word—it’s more accurate to say I prance through the threshold and between the rows of shelves. 

I can see Spike shelving something. How charming is his way of going about things! “Hi, Rainbow Dash,” he says to me.

“Hi, Spike!” I say back. I can feel my smile getting wider. My cheeks are starting to hurt.

“Rainbow Dash is back?” I hear Twilight say from behind a shelf. “Oh, hello! So good of you to come two days in a row to see me. What can I get for you?”

“I’d like to check out The Valiant Egoist, please.”

She moves towards the check-in desk; and, from behind the counter, she produces a small paperback book. “I had a feeling that you’d be coming back for it. Spike found it, eventually, and I reserved it for you.”

“Thanks, Twilight!” I say. “I greatly appreciate that.”

Her horn glows purple, and the stamp on the desk is surrounded by similar color as it starts to levitate. The book glows as well, as its first page opens, and the stamp is brought down upon a grid imprinted in the cover.

I lift myself a few feet off the ground as the book sails towards me. “There you go, Rainbow Dash—due back May the thirtieth.”

I look at the cover of the book in my hooves. On it is a drawing of a stallion. His face looks like it was chiseled from marble, and he’s looking headlong into the wind, his long mane being blown alongside of it; and his expression is firm and implacable, as if to say, to society, to Celestia: Try me. I dare you.

He’s the most beautiful pony I’ve ever seen.

“Now, remember what I said, Rainbow,” says Twilight. “Remember what you’re reading. I warned you that the author was insane.”

I look at her with a smile; and I say to her, my voice steady, low, but intransigent: “Maybe she was; maybe she wasn’t. I don’t know. But, in any case, I’ll be the judge of that.”

She nods, as if she understands. I nod back before turning to face an open window near the roof of the library.

This maneuver is tricky. You have to judge the height of the window meters before you actually get to it, and at an angle at that; and before you can pitch into the roll, you have to be certain that that your calculations were right—because that will be the only thing you can rely on and the only thing that will be able to carry you successfully through the opening. Your judgment alone has to determine the optimal speed and angle of attack while you’re oriented right side up; for when you finally commit into the spin, until you make a full revolution, you’re carried forward only by your own inertia, and you’re accelerating downwards due to gravity, with no means of generating vertical lift. You have little control, and the choices of the past determine whether you clear the barrier or not. If you made a poor decision, if you judge it too low or too high, your head smashes into the unrelenting wall, and I’m ashamed to say that that’s happened too many times to me.

But I have learned now that if you doubt yourself for even a second while going into the spin, you will crash, guaranteed. If there’s even the slightest amount of doubt in your mind that your senses are off or your math is wrong, then you have no chance of clearing it. However, if you make the right decision and, above all, are convicted in it, then . . . well, it doesn’t guarantee you’ll make it, but I do know that  if you question yourself when you start to roll—or worse, you abandon your own judgment to those who are watching—only embarrassment and disaster can ensue. 

But not this time. After doing a bit of the trigonometry, I start into the roll, and not once do my eyes see the redness of the brick; all I see are the clouds outside. I pass through the window seamlessly: a perfectly executed spin while threading the needle.

Cloudsdale seems close from here, and I take off towards it. On the way, I think back to that morning two days ago, and I think about the poor rookie—Yaw, his name was Yaw. It’s unfortunate that he’s no longer around, but I’m happier than ever to be alive, able to live life and to take in what it has to offer. I’m prepared to live life twice as hard and enjoy it doubly, for there’s one less life to reap the benefits of this world.

As Cloudsdale closes in, I see my towering house in the clouds. Is it my house? Of course it is. I know I live there, because Rainbow Dash lives there, and I am Rainbow Dash. I am the Element of Loyalty. 

Loyal to whom and to what? That I can now say unequivocally and without hesitation: I’m loyal to my life and to the things that make it wonderful. And I need to start planning straight away what would be the most efficient and expeditious way to cherish those things.

But, before anything, I need to go to sleep. Dear me, am I tired.