Applejack takes a deep breath and grips the side of the polished sink as hard as she can. Her knees feel weak and her whole arm trembles, from wrist to shoulder with the heaviness in her lungs and throat feeling like quick drying cement mixed with sand.

She exhales slowly and lifts her eyes to meet her reflection in the mirror that has been cleaned to be crystal clear, but is still tainted by the blackness that dots its edges. Her green eyes study her light orange skin, the white freckles that dot her cheeks and her surplus of light blond hair, which she has tucked underneath her red shirt since there is no way her black hat with the smiling star can cover it. It feels strange, but she has yet to get a write up and she is not going to get one because her hair will not fit underneath her hat.

“Ya can do this, AJ,” she says to herself. “Ya can do this. Ya can do this. Ya can do this. Think of the truck.”

Her mind wanders to her dream vehicle. A 1984 Mustang pickup truck, painted red with custom orange stripes beautifully faded with age and pieces of wooden boards bolted to its bed. Sure it may have some rust spots on it that looks like an animal might have chewed on it, and its window may be cracked and its seats torn, but beneath all that is a beauty no one else can understand. It is rugged, it is hard working and has been with the Apples for over thirty years. Her father wants to sell it, but how can he sell a beautiful family heirloom?

It is a madness she cannot comprehend, and she remembers how the conversation with her father regarding the truck went.

“But, pa, how can ya sell it? You know its a good truck!” says Applejack, nearly at tears for hearing the news.

Her father, a massively buff, red skinned man with a scraggly set of dirty blond hair and a small goatee, says to her in a deep, rumbling voice: “It is a good truck, but we already got a newer truck and a car. We don't need another vehicle. Especially an old one.” He then flashes a toothy grin and adds: “Unless ya wanna buy it from me for two thousand bucks. Then you can keep it.”

Fifty applications and one interview later, Applejack has found employment with the fast food giant, Hearty's Junior, and is now getting a taste of Hell every time she clocks in.

Applejack takes another breath before reluctantly reaching for her backpack to pull out a black apron. She slings it over her shoulder with her backpack and marches to the bathroom door where she pushes it open as hard as she can and stomps to the front counter.

She has to weave her way through the bustling crowd of patrons in the small food establishment and ignore the dozens of conversations and agitated faces. The guests ranging from uptight businessmen and casually dressed, cool cucumbers, to snotty lawyers that like to wear their sunglasses indoors to ragamuffins who can't keep their pants up. Then there are the employees, forced to smile through the chaos and ignore all negativity because that is how excellent customer service works.

Applejack has to sidestep a few of the patrons, and does a small spin around a sunglasses lawyer in a fancy suit glaring at his watch. She apologizes with every intrusion of personal space, regardless of the suffocation and the jackhammering heart telling her to flee! Flee and never return to this hole!

'You can always reapply at that Home Improvement store and never return here!' says her heart, practically screaming in her ear out of desperation.

'No you can't. You're too young to apply, remember?' counters her brain solemnly.

Applejack groans inwardly and squeezes between an obese couple with four chins each, with each of their chins slapping against each other when they move a mere three inches for her, which does nothing. She swears she hears them wheezing for air just for their slight movements, and after that, she passes Gilda. Canterlot High's resident emo is sitting at a table, begrudgingly filling out an application with an unlit cigarette bobbing up and down in her lips. For the life of Applejack, she can't figure out if she is uncaring or just stupid about the process of looking for a job. All she can really hope for is that the recluse does not turn in that application with that cigarette in her mouth.

Applejack turns into the entrance to the “face of the store”, doing a little dance with one of the red-shirt workers carrying a tray as they spin past each other, both offering quick apologies and antsy smiles. She hurries past the drive-thru station, passing Fluttershy along the way. She is actually surprised that the timid girl has stayed, especially after hearing about a fiasco with a colossal dick in the drive-thru on her first day. Seeing her work, Applejack can't help but admire her. It is amazing how quickly meek, little, all around fragile Fluttershy answers the dreaded BLEEP and taps away at the screen as she takes the customer's order with a lot of professionalism for someone so new. However, Applejack does not have time to gawk. She needs to get to work. She needs to-

“Hey, Applejack!” greets Blossomforth brightly.

Not have Blossomforth randomly greet her when she has to clock in.

“Howdy,” replies Applejack, politely tilting her work hat as if it is her stetson despite her building anxiety.

All the voices, all the crowds, the hot temperature, whirring oven fans, clanking, sizzling, BLEEPs, busy bee movements, its all suffocating!

Blossomforth hands out some change to the customer she just took care of, and the pair of morbidly obese customers Applejack passed earlier step forward, gulping and wheezing for air. Applejack also spots a layer of sweat on their foreheads and darkening spots on their shirts by their armpits. She has to turn around to hide her disgusted gag, but it does not hide her shudder.

Blossomforth taps Applejack's shoulder, getting her attention. “Fry Oil wanted to talk to you before you clocked in.”

Applejack nods. “Kay, thank ya.”

Blossomforth turns to the pair of customers. “Hi, welcome to-”

“Gimme a double half pound low-carb burger with an extra large diet coke, chili cheese fries and a salad. Hold the mayonnaise,” interrupts the first living blob Applejack passed.

“And I have a coupon for buy two double cheeseburgers get two free,” says the second customer, which Applejack honestly cannot tell if they are a man or woman. The customer quickly adds snidely: “And I'll take large curly fries and a large sweet tea with those, as well.”

Applejack heads straight to the office where her boss, Fry Oil, is sitting, wearing his all black uniform and name tag. The office is barely big enough to fit the needed desk, safe and chair, and the computer they have is at least ten years old. The bulky monster is whirring like a jet engine and the faded buttons on the keyboard clack obnoxiously as Fry Oil jabs at them to type out his report.

Applejack watches him quietly, sparing just a second to look at the kitchen to see the only worker back there zipping madly back and forth between dropping meat and bread, to going on the make line. When her boss sighs, she looks back at him and sees the middle aged man run his oily, yellow fingers through his dirty gold hair.

He looks out of the corner of his eye, minimizes his screen, then turns to look at Applejack, reclining coolly in his seat.

“How's it going, Jackie?” asks Fry Oil.

Applejack shrugs and leans against the door fame. “Well, I'm here.”

Her emerald eyes flick to the clock above her boss's head. Three minutes until she has to clock in.

“Good to hear.” Fry Oil sighs and puts his focus on a spreadsheet and starts moving his finger down the list of numbers. “Jackie, as you know, we've gotten reports that our sales have dropped.”

Applejack looks at the crowded lobby, frowning skeptically, then rolling her eyes and sighing dreadfully as a group of four more customers walk in.

“They say the biggest complaints we have are about customer service and service time, which ties into customer service, anyway,” continues Fry Oil. “Now, some of the complaints are not too bad, very understanding of what we go through, in fact, but others, the ones we actually care about, those are a bit more... vocal.”

The General Manager places one leg over the other and folds his hands together on his lap.

“Now, unless sales pick up-”

“Fifteen guests in!” calls Blossomforth, completely derailing Fry Oil's sentence.

The big fish of the fast food establishment breathes explosively through his nose and beats his thumbs together, looking agitated by the call. “Unless the sales go up, we're going to have to cut hours. I know you're a good worker, Jackie, and I like having you around, but with our sales going down-”

“Seven guests in!” hollers Blossomforth.

Fry Oil's eye twitches, and he says through his grinding teeth: “With our sales going down, we'll have to cut hours. Including yours and Tape's. I actually have to send Tape home early because he is about to reach his twenty nine hour mark, so that'll leave you alone back there for...” He checks the schedule. “Four hours.”

The unrighteous hammer of dread smashes Applejack's soul right on the spot, and her arms drop to her sides as her colors drain from her face and her body shakes like a leaf in a wind tunnel. She can already feel a panic attack coming in from her quickening heartbeats and shallow breathing. It is bad enough that she has to sacrifice fresh air and open environments to a hot, stuffy box that is supposed to feed a constant stream of people for hours on end with a said time limit in mind. But now she has to be in the box, trying to beat the clock with absolutely no help whatsoever? That is cruelty like no other.

“How can ya complain 'bout service time when yer guttin' the workforce that makes the food!” says Applejack angrily.

Fry Oil cocks a brow. “Like it or not, but budget is budget. Corporate draws a line for labor costs, mine are exceeding and sales are down, so I need to do some slashing. When Tape goes, you'll just have to work harder and faster than you normally do. Maybe when our sales aren't down-”

“One bus in!” yells Blossomforth.

Fry Oil growls and slams his hands on his knees. “Oh, fuck it! Go clock in, Applejack! Don't forget to call out your service times so I know if I need to come out and help or not.”

“One double for front, dine in! Five fifteen!” shouts a man with a Scottish accent.

Applejack looks at the source of the noise, then at Fry Oil with an expectant, raised brow. Her boss, however, just sighs irritably, pulls out a deposit sheet, a pen, and a calculator and starts punching in random numbers.

“Go clock in,” grumbles Fry Oil.

“Gotcha,” says Applejack, giving him a dose of enthusiasm that rivals his.

After she clocks in, she pins her name tag -which has “Jackie” printed on it- on her apron, and she washes her hands with scorching hot water, puts on her large plastic gloves and takes her spot across the make-line from Tape.

Tape is a tall gentleman with a thick mustache, a thick head of light brown hair and light red skin. Though, this color can be due to his high blood pressure more than anything else. He is wearing the same red uniform as Applejack, and is currently making a line of Hearty's staple one third big burgers. Four to be exact. He has a line of thick, sourdough buns covered in mayonnaise, ketchup and mustard, and he is now digging his fingers into the line of veggies to throw on the pickles, lettuce tomatoes, and red onions.

“How's it been today, Tape?” asks Applejack, already sure of the answer.

Tape starts slapping the cheese on the burgers, saying with an angry, Scottish accent: “It's been Hell ever since the doors opened! For Faust's sake, what the hell are people going to do when society ends and Hearty's isn't around to make them their damn biscuits or burgers! Fucking slackers need to learn how to cook for themselves or pack their own damn lunches! Faust knows I won't be around to cook a damn burger for them when civilization goes bye bye!”

He grabs his green handled tongs and grabs the four one third pound patties for the burgers and slams them on the buns.

“AJ!” barks Tape. “We need: twelve double cheeseburgers, eleven kid hamburgers, ten kid cheeseburgers, nine third burgers, eight quarter burgers, seven spicy chickens, six turkey burgers, five big birds, four cheesy meltdowns, three cod fish, two barbeque chickens, and one double half-pound low-carb, ASAP!”

Applejack nods and nearly snaps her ankle as she slides around to the other side of the enormous charbroiler machine where the buns and patties go to be cooked. Once in her spot, her hand reaches for the patty cooler, which is just an industrial mini-fridge, but freezes when she sees the back screen. The little, flat screen hanging from the ceiling is full of orders, all flashing in various colors of red, black, white and green as their timers go up and up and up, like the unstoppable force time is. She actually feels a seizure coming from all the flashes and beeps, which, a sadistic part of her will not mind having if it means getting out of this hole.

'No!' scolds the sensible part of her brain. 'Get those patties cookin' and start thinkin' 'bout the truck!'

Getting a burst of determination, Applejack yanks open the meat cooler... only to find it empty, save for half of a half pound patty. Growling, she slams it shut and hurries towards the main cooler of the building, swerving past another red shirt carrying a box of honey mustard packets.

“Tape, I gotta get more meat!” hollers Applejack.

Inside the big fridge, she slides to a stop in front of a tower of meat patties, all labeled by the color of their trays. Red for one third pound, teal for one quarter pound, dark blue for one half pound and turkeys, and orange for barbeque chicken and fish.

She quickly gathers the needed food, and with her hands full she resorts to kicking the fridge door open. Sure kicking the large metal door is uncomfortable, but so is being stuffed in a heated box with no way to get fresh air or being locked inside a subzero room. A sore foot is easy to deal with. Becoming a meat popsicle? Not so much.

Applejack scurries to the meat cooler by the char-broiler and throws in meat patty after meat patty, chicken after chicken, and fish after fish. She wants to count how much she is putting in, that is the honest truth, but the constant beeping, sizzling, yelling, clanking, screaming, buzzing, crackling, whirring, blowing, flashing, cha-ching-ing, clattering, fizzing, banging, sliding, and rumbling turns her brain into mush. If anyone asks her what the critical control point of chili is, she would probably say tomato from how damaged her thought process has become!

With all the chaos around her, numbers become nonexistent, accuracy becomes a myth, and all there is, is getting the food out. Four minutes or less be damned! Customers will get their food when they get it!

“Applejack, I need kid patties!” yells Tape.

Without saying a word, Applejack opens up another meat cooler, and finds half an apple pie and an onion ring held hostage inside the metal interior by chunks of icky, white and gray ice, but no meat. Growling, she slams it shut and-

“Applejack, where are the buns!” says Tape.

“I ain't got 'em dropped yet!” says Applejack.

“Why not!?”

“'Cuz ya ain't got nothin' back here and I had t' restock for ya!”

Applejack hears a particularly loud bang, and as soon as she grabs the empty container that holds the kid patties, she peeks over to the make-table and sees Tape's jaw ready to shatter from how tight it is. Even his hands look like they can rip apart the metal table, and if the pulsing vein on his forehead and twitching eye does not say enough about his current state, the growl coming from him should do the trick.

“Get me the kid patties, I'll drop the buns,” says Tape, his fingers scraping against the metal to create a terrible screech as he pulls away from the table.

Applejack nods and runs to the freezer, right as one of the front-line workers turns their wrath on the back-line.

“Oi, it's been four minutes for a quarter burger!” scolds one the front-line workers with that snotty Trottingham accent that does a great job of pissing off Applejack.

“Ya wanna come back here and feed the whole city by yourself?” snaps Tape as he walks sort-of backwards with brisk steps to get to the buns.

The door to the office opens up and Fry Oil pokes his head out with his outdated office phone pressed against his ear. “Hey, stop complaining! Four minutes or less for any order, got it?”

The boss slides back in his office and slams his door shut before any response can be made, and Applejack enters the frozen hell of the freezer. At negative ten degrees, she can feel her skin cells shrivel and turn to little ice cubes. Even frost gathers in her nose quicker than she can reach the tower of kid patty boxes, and as she claws at the taped up box, her fingers become numb and her teeth start to chatter.

“C'mon, ya stupid box, open!” says Applejack, resorting to punching at its top until it caves in.

With the tape broken loose, she forces a laugh and shreds the top with the ferocity of a starving honey badger. Once the top is decimated, she sees hundreds of thin, pink patties stuffed inside, waiting to be condemned to a fiery demise, and with as much speed as her frozen fingers can muster, she shoves them in their new home. Unfortunately for her, though, since they are frozen, most stick together in large clumps that don't make it easy cramming them in the container.

Try as she might, Applejack does not collect as many patties as she hoped, and she run out of the freezer, barely managing to put the metal's biting cold behind her. She does not even take the time to put them in their designated cooler when she reaches her destination. Instead, she uses brute strength to pull apart the stubborn slices of meat and tosses them on the super-heated chain rolling down the flaming passage.

One after another, little pink patties go through their Gates of Hell, flames bursting from underneath and their sizzling cries falling deaf on Applejack's ears. All she cares about is getting the food out, and with the insane number of orders on the screen, demanding her attention in the most obnoxious way possible, and Tape nearing a homicidal state, she goes to drop the buns. Only to find out that the butter wheel is as dry as a piece of bark in the middle of the Mojave Desert.

“Faust-damn it!” swears Applejack through gritted teeth.

“Hey, Tape, what's the time on the big chicken sandwiches?” asks Blossomforth with a nervous smile, her fingers drumming just as anxiously against the metal counter. When Tape gives her an annoyed look, she meekly adds: “It's going on five minutes...”

“We ain't even started yet,” replies Tape. “What'd you guys expect to happen when you scheduled only one person to work back here on Saturday on the first of the month when all the slackers get their government checks, anyway?”

Blossomforth frowns. “Hey, come on, now. Try to be sensitive to others. We don't know what situation they could be in.”

“WHERE ARE MY DAMN BURGERS!” shouts a very angry, impatient customer with a black eye and nose bandage. The customers around him smartly move away, save for Gilda, who just face palms with her application in hand while the said customer makes his feeling known loud and clear. “I'VE BEEN WAITING FIVE MINUTES FOR MY BURGERS!”

“George, I swear to Faust if you make another scene, I will punch you in the balls,” says Gilda.

Applejack, by this point, has grabbed a jumbo sized bottle of thick, liquid butter and starts pouring it on the butter wheel, watching this particular customer and Gilda argue while simultaneously keeping an eye on the butter levels.

Blossomforth cringes and smiles pleadingly at Tape. “Do you at least have-”

“Two double cheeseburgers with no pickles and a salad?” interrupts Tape.

“...Yeah.”

Tape silently slides a plate holding two, blue wrapped double cheeseburgers with red special stickers on them, and then he pushes a sealed, black bowl with a salad inside next to it. Blossomforth mouths a thank you and puts on a painfully forced smile as she turns to the obnoxious customer. It is then that Applejack has finished pouring the butter and has put it away, and as soon as she gets to her feeding station to put the buns through, Fry Oil pops out again.

“Five minutes for two double cheeseburgers and a salad!?” he says furiously. “Come on, Tape! You're better than that!”

Tape wordlessly points to the full, flashing screen and Fry Oil's harsh expression melts to wide eyed shock.

“Well, shit. You should've told me that you needed help before all this happened,” says the boss, ignoring the snarl Tape is giving him. “Applejack, drop those buns like when we bombed those commies in that jungle country nobody cares about!”

“Errr... Okay,” says Applejack, not really sure if the analogy is appropriate, but she still drops the buns.

Big buns, seeded buns, wheat buns, every type of bun they is swiped against the butter wheel and pressed underneath the heated plates, where they are tugged inside by the metal belt that drags them to their crispy end. The process is short and simple, and soon liquid butter has splashed all over Applejack's gloves, her uniform and the area around her, but she does not really care about cleanliness at the moment. There are buns that need to get dropped and the quicker they get out, the better!

“Hey, AJ, we need still need some big chicken dropped, ASAP!” says Tape.

As soon as those words reach her ears, her world comes to a dead halt. If only time stops with her, thing will have at least been slightly better, but since that is not the case, her body locks up with her mind and Hearty's Junior carries on around her. That halt, however, changes allows a lot of unkind, self inflected wounds to haunt her thoughts as the easily avoidable error laughs at her lack of intelligence.

“Hold on, I'll be right back. I gotta get more chicken from the freezer,” says Applejack, her voice bubbling with annoyance and anger against herself for making such a stupid mistake in leaving those two behind the last time she was in the freezer.

“Hurry it up! Our scores are shot, as it is and I don't want them to get any worse!” says Fry Oil.

"Yes, sir!"

Applejack puts one last bun in the toaster, then she does an about-face and walks towards the freezer, her brain completely fried at the concept of her forgetting the big chicken fillets and spicy chicken patties. The cold assaults her entire body when she enters the freezer, and the clunky cooling unit blasting out negative temperature air sounds like it is laughing at her.

“Do it for the truck,” whispers Applejack to herself.

She snatches a small, red bag of big chicken fillets, then wrestles with another box to yank out a big bag of spicy chicken patties.

With the two types of chicken in her possession, she runs outside, teeth chattering, and she stops by the oil vats, yanks open each bag, and starts putting the chicken pieces in the slots of the cooking utensils. She has to use a whole holder for the seven spicy chickens because it is all one big order, with each one being different, and she does the same for the big chicken because she does not want them running out soon.

As soon as the chicken is dropped, Applejack turns to Fry Oil and Tape and yells: “Chicken is down!”

“Thank you!” replies Tape.

“Front line, pick up the pace! We only got four minutes or less to get this stuff out, no matter what!” says Fry Oil, his focus going between the food and the crowded front, stopping when he sees Fluttershy's lips moving but barely a sound coming out. “And for Faust's sake, Fluttershy, it isn't that hard to speak like a normal person into a headset!”

“Sorry,” squeaks Fluttershy, shrinking slightly by her drive-thru station in search of a place to hide from the swarm.

Fry Oil shakes his head. “Aye, aye, aye, that girl, I swear... Applejack, get over here! Tape, go home!”

Applejack gulps. “I beg yer pardon?”

“You heard me!” Fry Oil finishes a row of burgers and slides them all out, one after the other like an automatic burger gun. “Tape needs to go since his hours are maxed out, and-”

The phone in the office rings and Fry Oil growls as he folds up another burger to send out.

“Oh, son of a- We aren't a call center,” says Fry Oil through his teeth to no one in particular. “Applejack, get on the line right now and Tape get out of here before I throw you out!”

Fry Oil yanks off his cheap, plastic gloves and speed walks into office, and Tape also throws away his gloves while Applejack puts on a pair of her own.

“Good luck,” says Tape, giving her a pat on the shoulder as he exits the back-line.

“Thanks,” replies Applejack glumly.

Applejack gulps and stares at the full screen, watching with crushing dread and a looming panic as the orders accumulate. All of them have reached well past the three minute mark, with a good number going past four and five minutes, and each of them is flashing from red to green to blue to yellow in different increments.

“Ho, boy,” says Applejack, her hands going by muscle memory alone to slide half a dozen buns to her.

She grabs the mayonnaise spreader and covers them in the delicious white stuff as fast as she can, moving on to the ketchup and mustard right after. But no matter how fast she moves, no matter how quickly her feet carry her back and forth between feeding and making, the customers keep coming, the orders keep stacking, and the desire to scream from pure stress and burn the whole place down grows.

The madness of the never ending stream of orders is bringing tears to Applejack's eyes. She does not want to get teary eyed over something as stupid as a burger, but she can't help it. Every order past four minutes is a failure and every failure is a disappointed customer which is a poor review which reflects on her skills and dependability as a worker.

It is stupid to cry or get stressed over something like this, her parents have made that abundantly clear. But here she is, feeling the cracks growing with every order past the four minute mark. Her lungs are stuffed, her throat is tight and her vision blurs from the constant wetness and blinking of her eyes. But even though the cause is lost, she still carries on. Even though her hands shake and the ingredients barely stay on, and even though her feet nearly slip out from underneath her every time she moves between the front and back of her station, she carries on.

Crying will not solve anything, and with the time completely shot, she can only get the food out as fast as she can by her own lonesome and hope they are understanding. Faust knows some are craning their necks impatiently to see why they aren't getting their instant gratification with only one teenager working the entire back half of the fast food restaurant by herself.

“Four guests in!” calls Blossomforth.

Applejack sniffles and wipes her nose against her sleeve while marching towards the back to drop more food. Along they way, a growing flame of determination lights up her eyes, ready to carry her through another lost battle, but bring her one step closer to winning the war to obtain her greatest goal.

“Do it for the truck...”

Applejack enters her home at the tail end of the day, eyes devoid of life and her steps sluggish like a reanimated corpse with her face coated in a layer of dried grease, sweat and tears.

Her home is brightly lit, nice and cool, and decorated with the rustic touches of their old home back in the country, but right now, she is too fried to embrace it or the people inside. She lazily ignores Apple Bloom and her friends playing a Go-Kart racing game on their big screen, is oblivious to Big Mac and his painting of wooden figurines, and barely returns a wave when her parents greet her from the kitchen. From the sounds and smell of it, they are cooking burgers.

Applejack has had enough burgers for one day.

The teenager's feet barely have the strength to carry her up the stairs, and when she reaches her room, marked by a big apple, she pushes her bedroom door open, shuffles across her carpeted floor, and goes straight to her bed. Her sturdy, quilt covered bed with its thin pillow is beckoning her to come to it like the boyfriend she wishes she had, and the curtains are pulled apart to let in the orange and rose colored light of the setting sun bathe her sanctuary in a warmth she so desperately needs. Once in front of her bed, she falls stiff as a board and face plants her quilt, groaning tiredly and falling limp seconds after.

Applejack closes her eyes, replacing the patterned quilt with darkness, and her tired mind prepares to use whatever energy it has left to take her to a happy place, when suddenly banjo music starts playing from her pocket!

Applejack groans again and without opening her eyes, her hand reaches in her pocket, she removes her brick of a cellphone, and flips it open, barely finding the strength to press it against her ear, much less lift her head or brush her hair from her face.

“Hello?” mumbles Applejack.

“Hey, AJ, its Rainbow.”

“Uh huh...”

“I was just wondering, since you worked today, what the deal was with the wait time at Hearty's. I mean, its supposed to be fast food, right? And it took you guys like fifteen minutes to give me seven spicy chickens. What happened to all that four minutes or less stuff your commercials bragged about?”

With a large frown, Applejack flips her phone shut with one hand and slams her face against her bed, and soon after, the muffled whimper she makes turns into a long, drawn out snore. With that snore comes a pleasant dream of knocking in some teeth.

On the other side of the neighborhood, Rainbow Dash snickers at the beep signaling the end of a phone call and puts her flat screen phone, the sPhone-17, in the safety of her heavy duty duffel bag, which is crammed with spicy chicken wrappers.

Rainbow Dash then stretches out her legs on the cool bleachers and folds her hands on the back of her head while leaning against the concrete wall, watching the setting sun in the comfort of the cool air, smiling at herself. Beneath her is Sunset Shimmer reading a book with a kid wearing glasses and a preppy school uniform holding a goblet and a wand as its cover. She does not seem to be too impressed with its contents.

“You're terrible, you know that?” says Sunset Shimmer without taking her eyes off the book, a look of disgust growing on her face as she turns the page.

Rainbow Dash's grin grows. “Oh, yeah... Next time, we should totally order fifty double cheeseburgers when they're busy like that again and complain about the wait time!”

Now Sunset Shimmer grins and she chuckles deviously. “Yeah, we should.”

Author's Notes:

If only they knew.