The final bell rang, and the students took their seats, plopping their colorful backpacks—designer or otherwise—beside them. The bell chimed a little more, but then, strangely, when it finally finished, it let out a sour note, as if it was releasing its last breath. This chime was sharp, but low, and ended just as quickly as it began; instinctively, the students cringed under the sudden change.

All except for one student; and Rainbow Dash noticed this. Even as her shoulders rose and she winced along with the rest of the class—Mr. Solil included—the young man next to her was withdrawn, hunched over in a different way, over a book. What book exactly was unknown, but something about the way he stared at it suggested he wasn’t really reading it.

Withdrawn. There was a word that Rainbow never thought she’d describe Artifex as being for a long time, if not forever. When she had first noticed it, it had been shocking; but, after all this time and all these days, she had regrettably gotten used to it.

Just seeing him like this made her frustrated. But each time she tried to confront him about it, he waved it off as “part of a cycle.” But what cycle? “It’s something that happens to me from time to time,” he would say. If it’s happening all the time, shouldn’t you be getting help? “Not necessarily,” he would say. Then he would turn away, and the conversation was over.

Her frown, developing as she glanced at him, began to eerily match his. Eventually, it was enough to cause her frustration to bubble, to incite her to act.

“Uh, hey, Artifex?” she questioned, leaning over to tap him. “That bell was strange, wasn’t it?”

He grumbled—or perhaps murmured darkly—but otherwise did not respond. He flipped to another page; his eyes did not move.

“Ookay, then. Talk to you later, I guess?” She leaned back into her seat with a huff.

She had a few guesses as to why he was acting as he did. One of them pertained to another part of her confusion.

No Clue’s seat would have been empty, had his seat still been there. A few days ago, when Rainbow had walked in, it was gone. When she asked Mr. Solil about it, he explained that No Clue had transferred to another class. “Along with some other students,” he had added, showing her the list. Only a few stuck out, and even then, she hardly really knew them.

It was a bummer; partly because No Clue was actually pretty smart, and was always willing to help her with classwork. She wondered why had he moved; was it because she had been holding him down? No, that didn’t make sense; he had been pretty well in the class, scoring fairly high scores. It was unlikely that she relying on him made him worse.

So if it wasn’t grades, then what was it?

She racked her brain, then quickly gave up. She was tempted to ask Artifex again, but, remembering his grumble, she thought otherwise, and resigned herself to simply sighing.

Sighing really loudly, as it turned out, much to her embarrassment. The entire class looked at her, and Mr. Solil stared at her behind his reading glasses. “Is there a problem with my role call, Miss Dash?” he asked.

She quickly shook her head. “N-no, it’s fine, Mr. Solil. I was just thinking, that’s all.”

“Well, while I do encourage thinking, please try to do so without interrupting something as simple as attendance.”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly. She sank into her seat, arms crossed. She waited for a snarky remark to come from Artifex’s direction.

Another student filled that role, but didn’t bring the same effect. She politely told him to shut up.

“Class, I have an announcement to make,” Mr. Solil said once he had finished his attendance. Everyone looked up at him with curiosity. “We will be starting our first project of the year.”

At the expected groans that followed, Mr. Solil raised a golden-brown hand. “Settle down. You haven’t even heard what the assignment is going to be.”

“So?” cried one of the lazier students—it sort of sounded to Rainbow like Snips, but she honestly doubted that he would be in this class. “It’s still a project that none of us are going to do until it’s almost too late!”

A loud hush fell over the class, as, in one motion, a good portion of it turned to glare at the student. Rainbow wasn’t one of them.

Mr. Solil offered a cool stare in the student’s direction. “Thank you for mentioning that possibility, Mr. Fens, but I have been aware of the slackers in my class for a good while.” He looked around the room. “Nonetheless, it is indeed a valid concern of mine, that in the midst of our course, there will be some who decide to be lax in their learning. Which is why for this project I’m instituting a special clause, if you will.”

Rainbow leaned a bit forward. A clause? What, like they had to do something special with the project? Make a video? Work in groups?

Mr. Solil sighed. “Look, kids, I’m going to be honest with you. I always make my first projects easy. This isn’t just a class for learning; it’s a class for living, as I said on the second day of school. There’s no need to look so despondent, I assure you.”

Unsure if she was part of that assuring statement, Rainbow nonetheless leaned a little back, trying to appear collected.

“I call this the ‘Quote’ project. It’s very simple. Please direct your eyes to the back side of the room, towards the bulletin board.” Everyone did so, even, to Rainbow’s surprise, Artifex Frost. “You can see that I have freed up some space for this year’s class to fill.”

Rainbow quickly read some of what was still pasted upon the board. “A long time ago in a galaxy far away…” “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.” “You may not deserve to live, but I’m not going to be the one to end you.”

That last one seemed way too… “edgy” to be real. And the others were mostly cliché lines ripped from movies and speeches.

“This project should be fairly simple to complete. I want you all to come in with a meaningful quote and explain it to the class.”

“Explain it?” asked another student, not Fens. “What do you mean?”

“Your interpretation of it,” said Mr. Solil. “Your ability to perceive what an author said and what the author’s words mean to you, and its relevance to the real world. These will be a part of your final grades for this class, alongside the likes of the typical reading and writing.”

Rainbow whispered, “Well, that doesn’t sound too bad.”

Surprisingly, Artifex murmured his agreement, causing her to look at him wide-eyed. He fell silent before she could respond.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“You will not get points taken off for taking a quote or two from some other form of media,” Mr. Solil continued. “Some of the greatest and most influential words ever said have, in some form or another, been ripped from somewhere else. I will only grade you on the originality of your interpretation, and whether or not you can support that interpretation adequately. However,” he added, a slight twitch to his lips, “feel free to come up with your own quote, if you want. I’ve had some amazing things that students themselves have said hanging up on that board.”

Murmurs rushed through the class like waves of intrigue. Some were already comparing their ideas of where to get their quotes; most, however, wondered how long the interpretation had to be, and how long they had to not only find a quote, but to interpret it as well.

“I’m glad you asked,” said Mr. Solil to these concerns, “because that brings me to the aforementioned clause. I am granting you the rest of this month of October to complete this project.”

“Woohoo!” shouted Fens from the back. “A whole month to slack off!”

Under Mr. Solil’s cold stare, and under something similar from several other students, Fens gulped. “Uh… I mean, a whole month to prepare! Yeah, totally…”

The teacher nodded. “I thought so. But in case the point has still not gotten across to the slackers of this class; let me give you a word of advice. If you’re early to something, it gives you extra time to think. Therefore, if you want to get the max number of points on this—100 points, by the way; that’s right, it’s very easy to get a good grade for this project—you ought to search for your quote as soon as you can. Then you will have a good amount of time to figure out what it means.”

A tan hand reached up, the sleeve around it slightly falling off. It didn’t reach very far; and it shook, trembled even, like it was exhausted.

“Yes, Artifex?” called Mr. Solil.

“If this project is meant to last a month long,” he said—Rainbow noticed that his voice seemed frail and weak—“then why do some of those quotes have dates from many other months?”

I didn’t see that. Maybe Artifex looked more closely at the board when I wasn’t looking.

The teacher nodded. “A fair question; and it allows me to better transition to another aspect of this project.”

“Another clause?” asked another student.

“In a way. You see;” At this, Mr. Solil picked up the yardstick that sat upon the shelf of the whiteboard, and pointed it towards the back. “This ‘project’ never was meant to be a project. Originally, it was simply something I allowed students to do, if they were willing. Only this year have I decided to turn it into a project.”

He withdrew the stick back, and rested it against his shoulder. “However, that is not to say that students aren’t allowed to contribute once this month is over. It is as I told Artifex when we first met: ‘In my years of working in the educational system, I’ve come across some students who could fill every empty page in the world with the wealth of knowledge in their own minds.’”

“So,” Fens interrupted, “if we do add a quote after October is over, it isn’t graded?”

“It is not, Mr. Fens.”

“Then what’s the point of even bothering?”

Mr. Solil sighed, clearly irritated. “Mr. Fens, there is no point to anything beyond what we make. Purpose has never been a universal constant. What people have to say—the lessons they can share through their words—can sometimes enrich our lives; and that, I believe is very important. Tell me, would you rather have a weak and boring life, fraught with disinteresting things?”

“No…”

“Precisely.” He pointed back to the board, and made a circular motion with the yardstick. “Far better off is the person who lives life to the fullest and takes any opportunities presented to further their education, enrich their being, and fulfill their dreams, than is the person who casts such opportunities away for them being simply in the guise of ‘work.’”

Fens raised his hand again, even though it was unnecessary. “So, what you’re saying is, if I do this quote thing outside of October, I’ll be able to play football professionally?”

“Am I?” Mr. Solil lowered his yardstick. “Theoretically, anyone who did this would be able to play their sport of their choosing professionally—whether that is football, soccer, lacrosse, whatever. What makes you think that you alone will be able to play that sport professionally? No, Mr. Fens, I am not saying that you’ll be able to play football professionally because of this project. You must work—you must practice—to even be able to grasp such a concept in your hands. No, Mr. Fens. This project is for the other parts of your life that are equally as important as football.

“Now,” he said, cutting off Fens before he could speak any more, “are there any other questions?”

No one raised their hands.

“Very well. Please turn in your books to page 54. I believe we left off on the second-to-last paragraph…”

As they pulled their books out and flipped through the pages, Rainbow began to consider what she could do for the quote board. As much as she didn’t like school projects, this one seemed easy enough. She could probably do it without much of a problem.

Her eyes looked up at Artifex’s back. Still he was hunched over. Was he busying himself in his work… or distracting himself with it?

She thought back to the project. Then she thought about Artifex. Slowly, a path began to form between the two thoughts.

The dreams have gotten worse.

Every time I rest my head upon my pillow and close my eyes, I can hear the sounds of the city roaring in my mind. Then, too, does that same truck roar with the city, and then does it overpower that same roar with its own.

But while what happens remains the same, mild details change.

Sometimes I’m in Manehattan. Sometimes I’m in Canterlot. Sometimes, I’m in front of the ice cream shop; others, the Sugarcube Corner. The streets are either packed, or their empty. And the noise, the roar, is either that of the city, or that of the squall of my high school.

The dreams always start the same. We—Ruby and I—we’re walking down the sidewalk, and make a turn down a crossroad. In front of us is that shop, that corner. I surge ahead, excited, not taking into account my surroundings.

Then I would hear that roar. Then I would hear Ruby’s scream. Then…

Then it is odd, because I’m not sure what is really part of the dream, or of the dreams, plural, and what is part of my confused mind.

Sometimes I hear a… a crunch. Other times, a low smack. More often it’s silence that fills that dreamy air. Silence that is quickly replaced with screams and cries; but whose they are is unknown.

At one point, I was able to look more closely at that beast, that crashing, thundering, monstrous, metal behemoth. The driver changes between a generic trucker, to a factory man, to sometimes nearly recognizable figurines.

In one dream, I thought I saw Superintendent Discord at the wheel. In the next, I thought I saw myself—or, at least something that I seemingly recognized as myself. Myself running my sister over… what does that mean for me?

Last night was the worst. I didn’t just see the truck; I suddenly was in the truck. Everything felt completely out of my control. I couldn’t move, couldn’t sharply jerk the wheel, couldn’t slam down on the brakes. I saw myself run across; heard Ruby scream; there was a moment of blackness; and suddenly, I was back in my own body, on the ground, clutching my left leg, looking back at the scene.

In other dreams, the scene would turn red before I saw everything. But in this dream, in last night’s nightmare… I saw Ruby’s mangled body, with blood pooling all around her.

I don’t think I’ve seen that in years. I don’t think I’ve remembered that in nearly forever.

I remember, right after seeing that, my wrists suddenly burned as they burned all those times I… well, you know too well, journal.

Then, I awoke.

It’s been like that since the party on September 6th. All these dreams, these nightmares, growing steadily and steadily worse.

What does it all mean?

The handwriting had gone wavy, turning into illegible scribbles. The vowels had become misshapen shapes, while the consonants had become harsh, slanted lines that blended with the next letter. It was hard to read through the mess; it was even harder to even open up to those pages.

While there were still a substantial amount of pages left, the young man quickly realized that he would need a new notebook soon. Unspoken dread edged across his face. He would soon be unable to “talk” with his sister.

“Hey, Artifex!”

He swiftly shut the book and shoved it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He rotated halfway around, and a moment later, met with Rainbow’s eager face.

“You bolted out of class pretty quickly there,” she said. “Did you have someplace to be?”

“Just lunch,” he murmured.

“Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Lunch,” he repeated, adding a bit of a bite to the word.

“Ah, right.” She crossed her arms. “Well, did ya have to run out without me? It’s like you want to avoid me or something.” She furrowed her brow. “That’s… not it, is it?”

Becoming suddenly more animated, he shook his head. “No, of course it isn’t.”

“Then what is it?”

“What is what?”

“You know what. You’ve been acting really strange for a while now, and I want to know why!”

He shrugged, trying to appear confident in his answer. “Like I said all those times you’ve asked before, it’s just a phase.”

Her brow remained furrowed, but her arms did uncross themselves. “Fine. Let’s go, then.”

They began to walk together, heading for the cafeteria. Throng upon throngs of students passed by, becoming blurs of multi-colored people. He saw blues and greens and even a few seemingly misplaced reds. Not once did he see a tangerine, or even a hint of pale yellow. Something distasteful rose in his mouth, causing his lips to morph into a frown, one that he kept carefully hidden from Rainbow. She didn’t need to know; and he didn’t feel particularly keen on speaking about it.

The notebook, even though it was behind a layer of cloth, suddenly felt cold.

“Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you,” Rainbow said, abruptly pulling in front of him, turning around, and walking in reverse.

He was not off-put by the sudden change in direction. “What is it?”

“The quote project that Mr. Solil gave us. Any idea what you want to do?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Really? I’d have thought that you, of all people, would have the perfect quote to say.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Duh!” She pointed to his chest, right where his notebook was. “You write, dude! I mean, come on. You’ve got to have a good quote somewhere!”

“Maybe…” He shrugged, avoiding her gaze.

He could just feel the smile slowly melting off her face, before it transformed into a concerned grimace. She suddenly grabbed his shoulder and guided them to a wall, away from the traveling students.

“Alright, seriously. I’m gonna ask again—”

“Don’t.”

“Why? I’m just concerned, man! This isn’t like you! Or—” She winced. “It isn’t like how you are now…” Her words fumbled; something incomprehensible came out of her.

“Rainbow…”

“Okay, listen. I’m your friend. And as your friend, I have a right to be concerned, whether you like it or not, okay?”

He remained silent.

“What’s wrong, Artifex?” Her voice dropped to a level of softness that he had not thought that the brash, confident athlete could have. “Please, tell me. Tell me something, anything. I want to help; I really do.”

He didn’t answer for several moments; but his lips trembled, and his body shook. Even as he didn’t look at Rainbow, he could feel her cringing under his silent stance. Only when he was sure she was about to shout, only when he felt he could not keep silent any longer, did his mouth open, reluctantly, for he knew that he should tell Rainbow something, anything, if just to even out the weight on his shoulders; and he opened his mouth, and he said—

“Hey, guys!”

Artifex and Rainbow jumped and yelped as a familiar, blue-skinned girl with an obnoxiously long ponytail appeared to their side.

“Sonata!”

“Sonata…”

“Yup, it’s me!” The ex-Siren grinned. “Did I surprise you two?”

“Surprise is one word,” Rainbow said, rolling her eyes. Artifex opted for a simple “yeah.”

“Coolio! Are you guys heading for the lunchroom?”

“We are,” said Artifex. “Would you like to join us?”

“Sure!” Sonata responded bubbly.

“But—”

Artifex cut Rainbow off with a wave of his hand. “Let’s go,” he said. Behind him he heard Rainbow let out a frustrated huff.

A strange feeling of morbid satisfaction crossed his mind, and he felt a tiny bit guilty. The guilt only grew when Rainbow muttered, “We’ll talk later, Artifex.”

He didn’t nod.