A shrill ringing punctured the early morning dimness inside Jack's room. The farm girl easily reached over and turned off her alarm, glancing at it in surprise.

Five-thirty already? she marveled, quickly getting up and throwing open the curtains, letting the sunshine in.

From across the room, she heard a deep, agonizing groan.

Isabella looked like she had just woken up from the world's biggest bender. Her short, rainbow dyed hair stuck out at bizarre angles, and she clutched her head tightly as her bloodshot eyes looked about.

The athlete paused for a beat until she finally started to focus at the objects littering the room. Finally, Dash licked her dry lips. “Time?”

“Five-thirty,” Jack chipperly answered, humming to herself as she dug through the chest of drawers. She pulled out a set of clothes and cradled them in her arms.

“Why?” Dash muttered in agony, slumping back into her bed and putting her arm over her eyes.

“Ain't much of an' early bird, are ya, Wings?” Jack joked. On seeing the athlete’s humorless glare, the farmer retreated to the bathroom.

After taking a quick shower and brushing her teeth, she stepped back out, noting with disdain that Dash had sprawled halfway off the bed and was loudly snoring.

Jack shook her head, torn between waking up the slug, or taking a look around.

Deciding that pissing off her roommate this early in the game was a dumb call, she headed out into the hall.

Her feet wandered almost as much as her mind. Eventually, both came to the same conclusion, taking the southerner to a modestly classy dining room. Empty tables lined the area; only a brave few had actually decided to get a bite this early. However, she did notice a pink haired girl in a yellow sweater chatting quietly with a violet haired beauty.

Jack was anything but bashful on most occasions, so she easily approached the two and sat by them. Though she did keep an eye on the classy lady next to her—she'd seen what big talking city slickers could do and learned to be a little wary around them.

“Chylene an' Rarity, ain't it?”

“Indeed it is, Jacqueline,” Rarity agreed, tossing her hair to the side. Across the table, the pink haired girl looked down at her oatmeal and silently nodded.

“Jacqueline?” the farmer repeated, looking as if the word had left a bad taste in her mouth. “Nah. Jus' 'Jack,' Rare.”

“My apologies.” Rarity ran a finger along a silver necklace clasped around her collarbone and leaned forward, taking a forkful of salad into her mouth. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “I simply assumed that Jack was short for a more... regal name.”

“Jus'. Jack.” The farmer frowned.

“That must be terrible, wouldn't you agree, Chylene?” the fashionable woman asked.

“W-well-” Chylene began, only to be cut off.

“What in the heck's wrong with 'Jack?” Jack snapped.

Rarity put a manicured finger lightly to her chin, looking intently at the farmer. “It's fairly masculine, wouldn't you say?”

Jack briefly felt like her emotions were a roulette wheel. She was caught between letting it slide—she was a tomboy after all, and it wasn't like the insult bothered her—and strangling the woman.

She settled for a middle ground.

“It look like I'm the sorta gal that cares 'bout bein' all girly?” Jack scratched her arm. “Lady, I run a farm with my brother; I ain't got the time or enough of my daddy's money ta dress myself up like some sorta dumb, frou-frou fancy fairy-tale doll.” She gestured at Rarity's well designed and frilled dress. “Unlike some people.”

Rarity face became flushed. “I'll have you know that this,” she gestured down at her dress. “Is far from a waste of time like you're implying, Ms. Apple.”

“Well, ya sure as hell coulda fooled me.”

The classy woman rose, shaking her head in blatant disdain. “I suppose that will be my call to leave, Chylene. It is not becoming of a woman to associate with such an... an... ogre. I hope you have a pleasant day,” she tensely said, her heels clacking away as she walked towards the exit.

“Y-you too,” the girl squeaked, hiding behind her bangs and watching Rarity leave.

Jack shook her head. “What's up with that woman?”

Chylene swallowed under Jack's gaze. “W-well... s-she might have been just a teensy bit upset at you for the china doll comment.”

“Ya mess with the bulls, ya get the horns, sugar.”

A waiter approached the two and asked Jack if she was hungry. Without breaking stride, she ordered fried hashbrowns and a serving of sausage links, then returned to her conversation as the waiter left.

“'Sides,” Jack easily continued, “that's all them fancy-pants people do: buy girly clothes that are more expensive than the animal that they came from, an' then trounce 'round bein' show-offs.”

“She's not like that,” Chylene defensively said, her tone slightly louder than her previous near-whisper.

Jack tilted her hat back. “'Course she is. I mean, did ya see what she was wearin'? I bet she pai-”

“She made that,” Chylene said, finally meeting the southerner's gaze. “And she might, um, like fancy things, but it doesn't mean that she thinks she's b-better than us.”

“She made that fancy getup?” Jack asked, needing a moment for the information to sink in.

“Oh yes. And, well, most of my clothes.” She said, slightly nodding her head down at the yellow cashmere sweater she wore. “I, uh, didn't have money for a-anything nice, so she...”

The waiter returned with Jack's order, and almost as soon as the plate touched the table, she tore ravenously into it. Chylene turned slightly green while watching the farmer wolf down the food.

Jack gave some thought to what the quiet girl just said to her. With one more swallow of her meal, she begrudgingly accepted that maybe she snapped at Rarity a bit too hard. She sighed, wiping at her mouth with a sleeve. “If what yer sayin' 'bout her's true, I guess I'd best go apologize. Any idea where she'd rund oft to?”

“Well... it's Tuesday, s-so I would guess she went to her shop in Ponyville,” Chylene reasoned.

“She has a shop?” Jack dumbly asked. In a small corner of her mind, she wondered how much money Rarity's daddy had to pump into the place to get it off the ground.

“Y-yes.” the pale girl nodded. “T-though if you're wanting to apologize to her, it doesn't open until seven.”

Jack sighed. “Great. Guess I got myself some time ta kill.” She rested her arms on the table. “An' what are ya doin' up so early when this whole place is dead, Chy? Got yerself some plans?”

“W-well... I get up this early to tend to the animals living on the grounds,” Chylene whispered, fidgeting slightly when Jack leaned forward to hear her.

“Animals? Shucks, this place have a stable or somethin'?” the farmer asked, excitement bubbling slightly at the possibility.

“Yes!” Chylene nodded with enthusiasm, visibly relaxing when the conversation turned to the creatures. “Two stables, actually. Filled with some of the prettiest horses you've ever seen.”

Jack widely grinned at this revelation--not the smile of a woman, but the smile of an eight year old still believing in everyday magic. “Would ya be alright with a helper?”

They worked the stables together for an hour or two, and both learned a bit about one another. Jack, through a bit of prying, learned that the girl's mother was from the island of France, and her father was from New Gainsburg, a little town about two or three hours past the southerner's farm. Most importantly, Jack learned about the quiet girl's empathy for animals—for all her years running cattle and raising horses, Jack wasn't even half as good as that gal was in calming skittish ponies down.

Jack, for her part, talked about her farm and family, from her quiet and kind brother, Macintosh, to her ailing Granny, and finally speaking of her curious sister, Bloom.

Before either of them knew it, the clock had struck nine, and Jack bid farewell to the taciturn girl.

The farmer went to the front of the academy, and as she rounded the corner of the large building, she grinned in recognition at a scene before her.

Sitting next to the large, gently flowing fountain was Hans, asleep at the driver's seat on his carriage. As she stomped her way through the grass and neared the stone walkways of the school, she put a thumb and finger at either corner of her mouth and blew.

He snapped to attention, grasping the reins that had nearly drooped from his hands, and looking quickly around for who called on him. On seeing it was Jack, his expression softened.

“Miss Apple,” he addressed.

“Mornin', Hans. What ya up to?”

The elderly man smiled. “Well, I brought Miss Pie to school a moment ago, and I suppose I nodded off. We had a riveting conversation about alligators,” Hans said, not a trace of sarcasm in his tone.

Jack rubbed at her chin. “Gators? Ya know, I can see that girl talkin' yer ear off 'bout them.” She moved over to the horses at the head of the carriage, giving each of them a friendly pat. “Now, uh, Hans? What time ya usually go towards town? An, uh, what kinda rate ya charge?” She briefly thought of her small collection of gold bits, wincing slightly.

He shook his head. “Don't bother with emptying your coin purse, Miss Apple. Hop on and I'll take you now.”

They rode together on the dirt path, each one enjoying the fresh air and moment of silence the ride gave them.

It was Jack who broke the quiet first. “Hans?”

He leaned his ear a bit closer to the farmer, but didn't take his eyes of the road.

“Ya know anythin' 'bout a gal named Rarity Belle?”

Hans leaned back slightly, closing his eyes in thought. “Hmm... she's Curtis Belle's kin; runs a very reputable shop in town—Carousel Boutique.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“Like the lady,” he casually agreed. “It seems to draw the high crust society in. Quite a few designers and actors are enthralled by that woman's creativity.”

“More money than sense, those snobby fancy-pants types.”

“Most of them,” he answered. “Not her, though. She at least is decent to folks, and helps out St. Charles.”

Jack leaned back on the wooden seat, cracking her knuckles. “How so?”

The elderly man scratched his ear. “With her family being so well-to-do already, Miss Belle typically donates almost all the proceeds from her enterprise and returns it to the community.”

“Generous,” Jack quietly admitted, finally quashing the nagging voice of resentment that was whispering in her ear.

“She's a good woman, Miss Apple, despite her fascination with high-society. I hope you at least give her a chance.”

“I hope she gives me a second one.”

Hans dropped her off on the main road of Ponyville and unhitched his horses, intent on letting them get a drink. Jack took a moment to pop her stiff back, then traveled towards the town's bakery.

She gave a nod of approval at the quaint thing. Wooden building, large glass windows with the one on the left of the door proclaiming Sugar Cube Corner in bold print and a row of chairs lining the inside. As she pushed open the entryway, a bell jingled, alerting the man watching the counter to her presence.

He was a lean middle aged man with stubble all across his jawline. He gave a polite tip of his paper hat towards the southerner and rested his hands on the glass counter loaded with baked goods.

Before Jack could even say a word, something caught her attention.

Past the counter and down a small hallway was a brown door marked Employees Only. From inside, the farmer could hear the distinct sound of a young woman singing a low soprano. It was too crisp and real to be coming from a radio or television; the farmer couldn't help but chuckle.

“Sounds like ya'll got yerself a regular ol' hootenanny back there.”

The man laughed, drumming his fingers along the counter. “That's just Pinkie,” he explained. “She has a habit of singing while she mixes ingredients in the kitchen.”

Jack smiled. Her sister did the same thing when helping their Granny. “Speakin' of that girl, I'm a classmate of hers; care ta call her out her fer me? I needed ta ask somethin'.”

He nodded, slowly moving down the hallway. He opened the door a crack and muttered something. Jack heard a chipper “Okey-Doky!” come from the room, and then the man stepped on through.

Diane Pie promptly bounced down the hallway and gave a flourished wave of her hand once she came to a stop near Jack. She looked up at the farmer, beaming.

“Hi Jack! Mr. Cake said you needed me for a second? What's going on? Do you need a hand with something? Oh! Is it a party?!” She squealed, clapping her hands together. “You're throwing a party for Dash? Like a roommate bonanza?! Wow! That's--”

Pinkie was promptly silenced by a strong, calloused hand covering her mouth.

“Darlin. Ain't no need ta talk that fast. I'll tell ya what's goin' on, alright?”

The pink haired girl nodded intensely, her poofy hair rocking in tedium with her jostling head.

“Ok then.” Jack removed her hand. “I jus' had a quick question fer ya, what with ya bein' part of the bakery in town an' all.”

Pinkie moved to stand behind the glass counter. “No, we're not hiring—sorry Ja-”

“Ain't it neither,” the farmer said. “I was jus' wonderin' if Rarity visits this shop?”

“Well, duh,” Diane easily answered. “We're only, like, the best bakery in town!” She reconsidered her words after a beat. “Actually, we're the only bakery in town. We win by default!”

“T-that's great, Sugar. Now, ya wouldn't happen ta know if there's any of yer goods Rarity Belle has a likin' to, would ya?”

“Indeedly-doodly! Why you ask, though?”

Jack scratched her neck, unable to hide a shaky grin. “I mighta got hot under the collar and pissed her off this morning.”

Pinkie raised a hand. “Say no more! I know exactly what you need!” The girl leaned down heavily on the counter and spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone to the farmer. “Even though she's, like, so proper and stuff, Rarity goes crazy over my lemon bars! You give her a batch made by little ol' Pinkie Pie, she'll be putty in your hands, champ!” Diane winked, a knowing smile on her face.

Jack caught on real quick what the other meant. “Are ya implyin' I might be interested in courtin' that woman?!” Her aghast face spoke everything she needed to say about that idea.

“Don't be silly!” Diane casually chided. “You don't want to court her!” Her expression instantly fell into a deep, menacing frown. “She's got the best lawyers in the country on speed-dial.”

“Not what I...” The blonde woman put a finger and thumb to the bridge of her nose. “Ya know what? Never mind. Pinkie, ya reckon ya could get me a pan a lemon bars all cooked up in a jiffy?”

“Okey dokie loki!” The girl giggled, stepping away from the counter and towards the back. As she reached the door, she instantly paused. “Almost forgot! I need someone to watch the counter!” Pinkie ran back and began to rummage behind the division, humming merrily.

The farmer rubbed at the Mark on her hand. “Well, I've ran our stand before at the farmer's market. If ya need me to I reckon I-”

Diane let out a gasp of surprise. “There you are, Gummy!” she exclaimed.

Jack tilted her head and took a careful step closer, only for Diane to suddenly hoist a small alligator up in her hands and put him on the counter.

“Jesus Christ!” Jack shouted, backpedaling a few steps away from the forearm length creature and crashing into a chair.

Pinkie scratched at her head, frowning at the farmer's sudden action. “Something wrong, Jack?”

Her’s brain shorted out and her mouth was moving, but no words were actually coming out. She took a breath to reset her system. “Diane. What are ya doin' with an alligator in a bakery?”

“He's my pet!” she proudly exclaimed.

“A-ain't that, uh, dangerous?”

The hyper girl stared blankly at Jack. “Don't be a silly head! I got him detoothed! Watch!” She opened his jaw and stuck her hand into its mouth. The gator began to absentmindedly chew on the appendage, staring blankly at a spot in the ceiling as it did so. Pinkie giggled. “His gum tickles.” Her expression grew serious. Or, as serious as a girl's could be with their hand in a toothless gator's mouth. “Gummy, I need you to watch the counter. Can you do that for mommy?”

The alligator continued to stare at a spot in the ceiling, not reacting in the slightest to Diane's question.

“That's my baby.” The pink haired girl nodded in approval. She pulled her hand out of his mouth and wiped it on the apron she wore. “I'll be back in a jiffy!” Pinkie called to the farmer, turning and heading to the back.

Jack stared warily at the alligator, sitting as far away from it as she could.

“An... alligator... as a pet,” she stammered.

Jack still couldn't wrap her head around it. Sure, when she was younger she had a few odd pets herself; a frog she found by their pond, a lizard picked up in the fields, and her pet pig Marseille, who later on in life would make the best ham Jack had ever tasted. But there was a difference in her strange pets over Diane's—Jack's pets wouldn't eat her if their teeth ever grew back.

Wait, do alligators’ teeth grow back? she pondered, putting a thumb to the corner of her thin mouth. Jack didn't think they did, but-

“Jack!” a voice loudly called, physically making the farmer recoil from her thoughts. Pinkie stood above her, waving a hand over Jack's eyes. In her other hand was a round, flat box wrapped in paper with images of balloons and streamers on it.

“Sorry Pinkie. Jus' got a bit lost in thinkin'.”

“It's fine!” Diane dismissed with a friendly shrug, before pointing to the small box in her hands. “I got an order of ultra good, scrumdiddlyumptious lemon bars for you!”

“Alrighty.” Jack rose from her chair, reaching into her jean pockets and pulling out a small coin purse. “How much I owe ya'll?”

“Two bits, if you please.”

The farmer raised a brow. “Huh. Ya'll sell cheap.” She pulled out two small, wafer-thin coins made out of solid gold and jangled them in her hand.

“It's why we're always so busy! Everyone knows we have some of the best deals in town!” Pinkie exclaimed, moving over to the counter and opening the register with the quick press of a button. She took Jack's money and handed the farmer the carefully wrapped package.

Or it might be because you're the only bakery in town, sugar, Jack thought.

Pinkie blew on the fingertips of her hand and rubbed them against her shirt. “Another satisfied customer,” she casually said.

“Eyup. Thanks Pinkie. I'm sure Rarity'll love 'em.”

With that, Jack left the store, the bell above the door signaling her departure.

Pinkie gave a coy smile towards her pet and nudged the alligator with her elbow. Gummy stared blankly at a spot on the ceiling.

Jack tromped across the small town, more or less going by feel on where she thought a place as high-crust as Carousel Boutique would be. She figured it'd be open, tall, and eye-catching.

She was right on all three guesses.

The building was located in a clearing that could have been a small park—grass and maple trees dotted the plot of land, and in the center, down the way of a finely laid brick pathway, was a tall, circular building adorned in a regal purple banner. At the mouth of the path was a sign showcasing the store’s name and hours of operation.

“Jus' like the owner; all kinds a fancy, nothin' practical,” she complained to nobody before mentally rebuking herself.

The reason she was heading towards this fancy shop in the first place was because she lunged at Rarity's throat so quick this morning, instead of letting the small (and possibly unintended) insult roll off her back.

At least yer apoligizin'. That's what matters, the voice of her cool-headed brother reassured.

She sighed, defeated, and began the short walk to the front door, where a small sign written in delicate, swirling script read, I assure you we're open.

Jack sucked in a breath and opened the door.

As she pulled it open, a four note chime rang through the building.

“Be with you in a moment!” Rarity called out in a sing-song tone from down the hallway in the back.

Jack took the brief moment to look over the showroom.

It was a precise, calculated area positivity reeking of class, from the daintily clothed mannequins on the sides of the room displaying Rarity's latest designs in all their frilly glory, to the island table in the center of the room weighed down with bottles of all make and model, most of them with chic sounding names like Fleur-de-lis and Sanctity. Jack had a feeling she'd gag at half their scents.

Towards the far wall were dozens of wigs of all lengths and colors—one was even a spitting image of the mop a certain multi-hued athlete called her hair. Jack put her box of goodies on the island and moved over to it, briefly marveling at how realistic all of them felt.

“I'm sorry about that, darling,” Rarity said from the hallway, her heels clicking with a timed rhythm on the clean and well crafted hardwood flooring. She took a step into the showroom. “Now, what would you fanc-”

The soul-folk instantly stopped speaking when she saw who had came in. She looked up and stared at Jack's face, before running her eyes down the rest of the farmer's body and freezing when she saw the farmer's boots.

Her eyebrow twitched. Violently.

The boots were caked with mud, and the floor had a trail of it all the way from the front door.

Rarity snapped her head back up, staring hard at Jack. “Of all the—do you ever wipe your feet when entering somebody’s establishment, you, you... Ruffian?!” Rarity screeched, seemingly on the edge of panic as she put her hands to her face, her eyes switching from the mud caked door then shooting over to where Jack stood now.

“Well, excuse me fer forgettin' ta wipe my boots after lookin fer yer shop fer so long!” Jack snapped back, rubbing at her temples as Rarity sat on a stool by the perfumes. “Look, jus' give me a broom an' I'll sweep it.”

“And mop.”

The farmer glanced up at the ceiling, as if asking she was being punished. On hearing no answer, she returned her gaze to the classy woman. “Yeah,” she grimly answered. “An' moppin'.”

Rarity seemed to lighten up a bit at that information, sitting up and turning towards the hallway. She lifted her finger and held out a hand as far from her body as she could. Her finger become surrounded in a light blue aura, and Jack heard a shuffling clatter from the other room, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing. Then a broom and dustpan propelled themselves into the showroom. Rarity caught both with a nonchalant ease and handed them to the astounded farmer.

“Ya soul-folk sure like takin' the easy way out.”

Rarity brushed her curled bangs away from her face. “If you've got the talent, you might as well flaunt it, darling. I didn't spend three years of my life in magic training to not use it on occasion.”

Jack began to sweep the floor, gathering as much of the dirt into one pile as she could. “Why do soul-folk have ta go to their own school fer a bit, anyway? Don't exactly seem fair to 'em.”

“It's not,” Rarity easily answered, reaching towards the counter and picking up a nail file. “But it's the law, and a needed one.”

“But-”

“No 'buts,' Jack.” Her face grew surprisingly stern. “Untrained magic is dangerous. Very dangerous. It was a problem not being able to graduate with my friends from high-school, but I understood why I had to leave.”

“Hmm,” Jack grunted, sweeping her mess into the dustbin. “Never really talked ta a soul-folk before 'bout their trainin'. So yer sayin' the school is around ta make sure ya can't hurt anyone?”

The soul-folk gestured, levitating the broom and dustbin away from Jack, and replacing it with a mop and bucket full of steaming hot water. “Not quite,” she answered, lowering her voice. “It's so we can't hurt ourselves.” She swallowed, giving her hand a small wave. “B-but I'd rather not talk about something so morbid. If the subject interests you, I suggest speaking with Twila—she's quite fascinated with every facet of magic.”

“Guess I jus' might do that.”

Rarity gave another small wave after Jack finished, taking the mop and bucket away. Jack bent down, looking over the puddles that her mopping had left behind.

“Hey, Rare, could you magic me a towel ov-” Jack was smacked in the face by a towel before she could finish what she was saying.

Rarity gave an innocent, 'who, me?' shrug, and seemed to take a keen interest in her perfumes.

The farmer moved to the front door and started wiping up. She slowly and carefully approached the spills nearest Rarity, and cracked a devilish grin. She placed it down on the ground and folded a corner in. Then, she began to roll it up tightly. Finally, with a twist, her rat-tail was ready.

With a loud, feral yell, she rose up and swung her whip forward, cracking Rarity square on her shapely backside. The violet haired woman yelped, jumping off the chair. Rarity shot a furious glare at Jack as she rubbed her butt.

That's when Jack lost it. The farmer cracked up, clutching her sides and turning beat red. She tossed her head back and sank down to her knees, still howling with laughter.

Rarity tried to stay mad, but on seeing the blonde nearly collapsed to the floor in a fit, the well-dressed lady couldn't help but join in, laughing long and hard enough to make her eyes well up with mirthful tears.

A few minutes later, once they both had calmed down slightly, Rarity wiped a tear from her eyes and noted with disdain that her mascara had run. She wiped it off of her face and made a mental note to reapply it as soon as she could.

“I must admit,” the proper lady said in a reserved tone, “that when you first arrived in my shop, I was loath to speak with you after what you said this morning.”

“I'm sorry 'bout that,” Jack answered, wincing slightly. “I jumped on ya unjustly—at my farm once we had some fellas that were a lot like you. High-end an' everythin'. They, uh, didn't do my brother right on a few deals an' we lost a lot of money.” She met Rarity's gaze. “But yer different, jus' like Chylene an' Hans said. A fancy-pants stiff like them woulda kicked me out after I cracked em with that towel.”

“I gave consideration to it,” Rarity said, though the faintest ghost of humor crept into her words. “After all, it is very uncouth to engage in such an unladylike act.”

“Good thing I ain't no lady. I'mma country gal.”

Before Rarity could express a form of disdain at the farmer, the two heard a four one chime from the front door. In walked a young man wearing a crisp black suit.

“Hello, madams,” he said in a cultured English voice. “Might I ask which one of you is Ms. Belle? I am in dire need of a new suit for the soiree we shall be having on Friday.”

Jack gave a wave to the violet haired woman. “Ya got customers, so I'mma mosey.” She gave a tap to the box she had set on the table. “I brought ya these when ya get time ta eat.”

Rarity spared a quick glance over. “Thank you. I'm sure I'll like it.”

The farmer went outside and paused as she got about halfway down the small pathway leading from Rarity's shop.

“What the hell does 'soiree' mean?” Jack asked herself, taking off her hat and scratching at her head.