Hans was gone by the time Jack returned to the main road. It was just as well, it seemed like the town had flooded with new and youthful faces pouring from the train station.

Must be people comin' in at the last minute, Jack thought.

She stopped moving briefly, watching the parade of people from the sidelines of the road.

Above her, a flock of sky-folk traveled in a V formation, all of them holding backpacks, suitcases, and other traveling supplies.

“Wonder if they ever drop the crap they're carryin'?” Jack pondered.

Her question was answered when a book fell from the heavens. Jack's reflexes gave her just enough time to hop to the side as the object crashed into the ground.

“My bad!” a blond haired woman called out, diving and grabbing the book before taking to the heaven once more.

“Amateurs,” a scratchy woman's voice said from Jack's side. The farmer spared a quick glance over, and noticed Dash, leaning easily against a brick wall and watching the sky-folk up above. She unwrapped a cheeseburger, taking a large bite from it.

“Where ya come from, Dashie?” Jack asked, astounded on how the athlete had snuck up on her.

“I was on the rooftop eatin' breakfast. Saw you walking down this alley, and thought I'd pop in.” Dash muttered through her full mouth.

“Breakfast? It's almost twelve,” Jack stated.

“Then it's lunch. You're killin' me, hayseed.”

The farmer grumbled under her breath, tilting her hat forward as she stared at the athlete.

“How about you, cowpoke? What are you doing in town?”

“Not much. Jus' had ta make peace with Rarity.”

“You made her mad?” Isabelle questioned, taking another hearty bite from her rapidly diminishing burger.

“Eyup.”

The athlete polished off her meal and crumpled up the wrapper. She tossed it to the ground and stretched her lanky arms over her head. Jack scoffed, bending down and grabbing the trash then moving over and tossing it into a nearby bin.

“Goodie two shoes,” Dash grunted, cleaning out her ear with a pinkie.

“Some of us ain't lazy an' know how ta take care of ourselves,” Jack countered.

“Whatev,” Dash easily replied, wiping her hand off on her tracksuit. “I'm getting ready to go back to the school—want a ride?”

“Ya got a cart comin' fer ya?”

“Something like that,” Dash evasively answered, moving closer to the farmer. Jack soon felt hands wrap around her waist with all the gentleness of a man preforming the Heimlich maneuver. The blonde glanced behind and her expression quickly turned to one of alarm.

Dash had her ethereal wings opened out and an exceptionally wide grin plastered on her face. “Hold onto your hat,” the athlete suggested.

Isabelle blasted upwards, holding the farmer tightly in her arms. Jack screamed in equal parts euphoria and overwhelming terror, drawing the glances of several sky-folk going casually about their way. Dash lifted the girl far above the throng of fliers—soon they found themselves alone.

Once they leveled out and Jack had yelled herself nearly raw, Isabelle spoke up.

“Open your eyes.”

Jack reluctantly did and took a sharp breath in surprise.

Through the clouds that were close enough for the farmer to skim her hand over, she saw glimpses and peaks at the countryside below them. The grass looked akin to a green, swirling sea, and the nearby river and dirt road crowded with people were but runaway colors on a canvas. In the distance, far past the school, Jack could see a set of craggy mountains, their white-capped teeth jutting proudly towards the sky.

For Jack, it was one of the most beautiful things she had ever witnessed. For Isabelle, it was just another Tuesday.

“Wow...” the farmer eloquently muttered. Dash said nothing, a slightly harder embrace the only reply to Jack's words.

After a moment of soaring easily through the winds, the sky-folk broke the mesmerizing silence.

“So, uh, we're at the last quarter. Can we walk the rest of the way?” Isabelle adjusted her grip slightly. “You're heavier than you look.”

Jack looked up towards the sky-folk with a slight glance over her shoulder. “I'd smack ya fer that, but I don't wanna fall.”

The landing took them off the road's path—despite Dash's devil-may-care attitude, she didn't want to risk a chance at hitting anyone. She came down with the grace of a bird, placing Jack softly on the ground and fluidly dispelling her wings. The blond haired girl glanced at Dash and debated kissing the ground—it felt fantastic to be back on her feet again.

“So, bro... we're about five miles or so from the school...” Isabelle trailed off, arching her fingers together and cracking her knuckles. “And I still owe you from yesterday. How about a little rematch? First to the school fountain.”

“No wings,” Jack replied, taking off her plaid overshirt and tying it around her waist. She fanned the neck of her gray tank top, silently wishing for a glass of water to cool her down.

“Lame.” The athlete zipped up her baby blue track suit and stretched at her legs, limbering up. “But fine, have it your way.”

They booth stood side-by-side, Jack leaned forward slightly, and Isabelle was nearly flat on the ground, she was stooped so low—her hands were grasping the dirt tightly, a leg was fully extended behind her, and her other was bent low near her stomach.

“Count it, Jack.”

“Yer mark.”

Dash dug her heels in deeper, grinning arrogantly.

“Get set.” The southerner bounced on her feet slightly, psyching herself up. She took a breath then shouted.

“Go!”

The two took off in an all-out sprint—the grass blurred at the sides of their vision, and the dirt road swarming with people grew closer and closer. As they sprinted, neck and neck, Dash took off slightly to the left in order to skirt the side of the road. Jack wasn't able to turn her body in time and nearly plowed into a man hauling a large traveling case behind him. With no hesitation, Jack focused her legs and propelled her body up and over the case, clearing it by a good two feet. She landed back onto the ground with a grunt and used her height to scan through the sea of people.

Jack watched Dash almost casually snake through the throng of students, dodging and weaving through the crowd with a dancer's grace. The farmer tried to do the same, deftly bending and twisting her upper body as she dodged past dozens of people in the blink of an eye. But for all her attempts, Jack just wasn't as fast at clearing through the group as Isabelle was—the girl had widened the gap already, turning to run backwards as she gave a smug grin the farmer's direction. With a quick wave of her hand and a loud laugh, she flipped around, focusing her attention back to running. With an even deeper concentration, she ran her legs like mechanized pistons, pumping them fast and high. Jack lost more and more ground, until that girl was nothing but a rainbow colored speck in the distance.

It was a good forty-five minutes later when Jack dragged her way to the fountain at the front of the school. Dash was laying down on top of the fountain's base, nearly asleep. On seeing the farmer through her nearly closed eyes, she gave a small wave.

“Geez bro, what kept you?” The athlete yawned, adjusting her unzipped tracksuit. “I've been waiting here almost twenty minutes.”

Jack gazed at Isabelle, slack-jawed. “T-twenty minutes? There's no damn way...”

“Ok. Seventeen and a half. Pretty close though.” Dash allowed with a shrug, hopping off her improvised bed.

“T-that's ridiculous,” Jack said under her breath, taking off her hat and briefly fanning her face with it. “That's 'bout faster than I've ever seen anyone run, if yer bein' truthful.”

Isabelle's face grew grim. “No way would I lie about a race time. I've got standards, hayseed.” After a beat, she returned to her usual cocky appearance, taking a step past Jack and heading towards the front entrance of the academy. “But you're right. That's probably one of the fastest times you'll ever see—I am pretty awesome, after all.”

The two walked for a minute, battling through the crowd standing around at the front. As they traveled past the throng of people, Jack had a question pop into her head.

“Dash?”

The briefest flick of Isabelle's rose colored eyes were the only clue she was intently listening as they battled through the new students.

“What sorta degree ya goin fer? Physical Fitness?”

Dash bounced the word around her head briefly. “Not exactly, hayseed. It, uh, ain't exactly a degree you can get most other places. Battle Expertise.”

Jack paused in her walking, staring at the woman as if waiting for the punchline to a joke. “That's a degree?”

“Yep. Cloudsdale has quite a few niche degrees you can't find anywhere else—weirdest one I've seen so far has been ballroom dancing—who honestly does that anymore?” Dash asked, cackling at the thought.

“I've been in more dances than I have fights,” Jack mused, rubbing her chin. “But if yer wantin' fightin' experience, why not join the army? They're always lookin', an' the pay's good enough.”

“Because I don't like the idea of anyone bossing me around, duh.” She gave an exasperated look towards the farmer.

“What in the sam hill are ya gonna use a degree like that for then? Start up yer own trainin' school or somethin'?”

“Pfft, as if. Why would I want to spend time teaching snot-nosed kids how to be awesome like me?” She moved in closer to the farmer, reaching up and slinging a hand up to Jack's shoulder as they entered the lobby. “Nah. I'm gonna be a Wonderbolt, bro!”

Jack raised a brow. “Ya make it sound like I'm supposed ta know 'bout them, sugar.”

Isabelle retraced her hand and leaned against a wall. “They're only the best stuntmen you've ever seen! They're, like, a fringe military group when Princess Celestia needs 'em for scouting or whatev, but what's totally swag is their stunts.”

The farmer made a noncommittal grunt.

“And I'm thinking about getting a minor in Physical Fitness.”

Why not jus' get the Physical Fitness degree if yer lookin' ta join that group fer jus their stuntwork? Jack pondered, briefly thinking about making her thoughts vocal, but Dash continued the conversation before she could press on.

“What about you, Jackie? What sort of degree you looking at?”

“I dunno,” she admitted. “Agriculture, I'm thinkin'.”

Though I might have found my minor... Jack thought, imagining the look on Dash's face when the athlete was one-upped by her at Battle Expertise. That thought brought another one to the forefront of the southerner's mind.

“Tiebreaker tomorrow, uh...” Jack crossed her arms under her breasts and gave quick thought. “Horseshoes.”

“Oh it. Is. On,” Dash quickly agreed, flicking her nose with a thumb. “You're lookin' at a champ here—I've never lost at horseshoes.”

“Luck eventually loses ta skill. Jus' be ready fer a slice of humble pie after class,” Jack disinterestedly said, looking over her nails.

“We'll see, bro.” the rainbow haired woman shrugged. “You can talk the talk, but just you wait.” She pushed off of the wall. “I gotta go take care of a few things. Guess I'll catch you later tonight, dude.”

“Take it easy,” Jack said, giving a small tilt of her head in acknowledgment as the girl left the lobby behind.

She decided to grab a book from her room and make use of the lounge—the sunlight coming through the windows seemed like it'd be perfect for reading under. As she walked deeper into the lobby, she heard the receptionist call her name.

“Mmm?” she replied, sparing the twiggy man a glance.

“Ms. Shields is waiting for you in the theater room.”

“Ms. Shields?” Jack repeated. “Oh, Twi. Yeah, alright.” She nodded. “I'm on my way there.” The woman took a few steps forward before pausing. “Where's that at, again, sugar?”

The theater was a beautiful room in the northwestern wing of the school. If the lounge and lobby had class, this place was soaked in it. Brass banisters lined the balconies at the far end of the theater room, and the private boxes overlooking the stage at either side had intricate and precisely designed work done onto the brash finish. Jack wasn't a theater goer often—she preferred stories that didn't involve boring songs in a fancy language every second, thank you very much—but she was surprised by the main floor being completely open without a chair in sight, it's well glossed wood lay bare to the world, nearly glowing under the polish job someone had done to it. The farmer guessed that maybe the room functioned as a dance hall in addition to its duties in the performing arts.

Jack tread slowly and carefully on the wood; boots were about as subtle as she was, after all, and, if she marked the floor, she doubted all the money in her bank account could compensate for ruining the wood. The blonde considered it a miracle that she made it to the theater stage proper without scuffing something up. She glanced at either side and noted doors alongside the stage. With a shrug, she ignored them, easily hoisting herself up. The farmer casually put a hand at her hip and looked around. It wasn't often she got to see a stage from this end, after all.

The wooden set backdrops were only halfway done, and while they were drawn and painted with an obviously professional eye, a half-done painting would never give the same emotions a finished one would. Above her, on the catwalk running along the stage, she saw a blond, nervous looking man with a compass rose mark on his cheek reaching up and checking over a set of sandbags. Several areas had tools of all shapes and sizes tossed about, from monkey wrenches to hacksaws.

She took all this in and honestly wasn't impressed.

Granted, what would be on a stage? It wasn't like the place was a gateway to another dimension, after all. It just had a certain... mystique that Jack liked.

No. It's not the mystique you like. It's the everyday magic, she thought. That's the right word for it. That's why you like some plays. They make you feel special. She accepted that answer, moving behind the stage.

There, she found Twila, flopped down on the wooden floor and using her magic to read three books at once. As she flipped a page with a slight motion of her index finger, she used her free hand to guide an apple into her mouth.

The farmer coughed, drawing Twila's attention away from her studies, albeit briefly.

“Salutations, Jack.” The dark skinned woman brightly smiled, standing up and dusting off her conservative dress. “How are you?”

“Ain't bad. A bit ragged 'round the edges at the moment, but I'll be good as new after a shower an' a drink.” Jack took a glance past the scholar, eyeballing the books. “What ya readin'?”

Jack knew she'd regret asking the question as soon as she saw Twi's face light up in restrained excitement.

“I'm reading about the Scale theory! It's a fascinating hypothesis penned by Sagan Hawking! His theory is that our world is akin to a balanced scale, and, with the slightest of pushes, we could alter the future as we know it. He suggests that if the magic within Earth fluctuates too much, it could alter the entire evolution of our species!”

Jack could feel a headache forming in the far corners of her mind, but decided to bite. “How so?”

Twila gestured to one of the books. “If the Earth lost its supply of magic, or if the magic had never existed in the first place, Mr. Hawking says humanity would have evolved without any significant powers. They would be akin to an average earth-folk in strength, and, if Sagan's theory is correct, they would be masters of technology, inventing everything from functional flying machines to space-faring vehicles.”

“Sounds pretty nifty,” the farmer admitted.

“I doubt I could function without my magic, so I wouldn't classify it as 'nifty,'” Twila replied, adjusting the glasses she wore. “On the other hand, if the Earth's magic had an approximate increase of fifty percent, the world would be saturated in a substance similar to radiation. It's doubtful humanity would have came to be in a world like that—Sagan suggested that another creature would gain sentience and become the predominate species, with mutations in a certain percentage of the populace akin to our soul and sky-folk.”

“A new species? Like what, rats?” Jack drawled, smirking slightly. These hypothetical fields of research always amused her. It was usually nothing more than a tall-tale contest.

“No,” Twi mused, putting a finger to her bottom lip and looking to the catwalk in thought. “It would most likely be something with a brain of similar design to ours—perhaps a monkey or dolphin.” Her smile grew wide, as if she had a secret she wished to share. “Wanna see his mathematical formulas regard--”

“No!” Jack shouted in a near panic. The tanned woman blanched. “Uh, I mean, no thank you.”

“A-alright...” Twila replied, shutting the books close with a small brush of her magic.

“So, uh, did ya want ta see me fer somethin'?” Jack asked, trying to steer the conversation back to salvageable ground.

“Indeed I did, Jack.” She nodded. “I was wondering if you had classes lined out yet, or if you even had an idea on your degree choice.”

“Agriculture. Though I want a minor in Battle Expertise.”

Twilia took off her glasses, breathing on the lenses. She wiped at them with a handkerchief from her breast pocket, and put them back on. “Usually you assign your minor to complement a weakness with your major. Selecting something like that seems to be a waste.” On seeing the farmer's glance, Twila gave a slow shake of her head. “However, judging by your respectable scores in physical education, maybe you would be adequate with a weapon in hand.”

“Darn tootin',” Jack agreed, cracking her knuckles.

“Well, I won't stop you. Just be careful.”

“Always am.”

The scholar gestured to the scenery. “Do you like what you've seen so far?”

Jack glanced over at the scattered supplies on the stage. “Uh, I guess so. Things still bein' built ain't exactly nothin' ta write home 'bout.”

“I don't.” Twila frowned. “We're days behind schedule—I wanted the scenery painted yesterday, and I haven't even finished all the woodwork for several of the sets we'll need.” She turned to face the farmer head on. “Which is why I was hoping to recruit you for a few days. You know your way around a hammer and nails, correct?”

“Well as anyone else, I guess.” The farmer adjusted her hat, tilting it back a bit from her brow.

“It would be a fantastic boon if you could spend a few hours after school working on this with me and Rarity—we're hoping to present a fantastic showing for the Princesses when they arrive on Friday.”

Jack felt a cold stone in her gut at that. “Ya mean like Luna and Celestia? Those Princesses?”

“Only ones I know of that would travel here,” Twila easily said, not noticing Jack's sudden blank stare. “They even meet with the student council after the play, if you wish to engage in conversation with them.”

Man, this school is too fancy fer me, Jack thought. I break into a cold sweat jus' meetin' up with our town's mayor. Who knows how bad I'll be 'round two livin' legends.

“Great...” Jack said with false enthusiasm. “Can't wait ta meet them.”

Twila moved over to a set of boards. With a quick flick of her finger, a purple aura surrounded a small handsaw and brought it to the scholarly woman. “Now, would you care to help me by cutting these to length?”

The farmer swallowed her dread away for a moment and nodded.

They worked in silent harmony together, Twila giving orders and helping with the less complex jobs and Jack preforming the heavy manual labor. After two hours of the work, both took a moment to sit down on a pile of blankets at the corner of the stage.

“Whew, I've worked up quite a sweat,” Twila said, panting as she leaned against the concrete wall.

“Dunno how, ya been twirlin' those fingers 'round, mostly,” Jack easily replied as she leaned back on the blankets, smiling despite her words.

“Magic is far more taxing on the body than you would believe. Every minute of using it would be the equivalent of five minutes hard labor for your kind.”

“But ya get yer stuff done in about a fifth of the time it'd take us,” Jack countered.

Twila blinked. “I suppose so,” she admitted, surprised at the farmer's quick wit.

Jack crossed her hands behind her neck and stared up at the ceiling. “Hey, Twi?”

“Yes?”

Jack turned onto her side, resting a hand on her face and looking at the bookworm. “Rarity told me a bit 'bout the school ya'll go to fer a few years. I was jus' wondering what yer take was on it.”

“My... take?” the soul-folk repeated.

“Yeah. Ya know—if it's a good idea or what have ya.” Jack briskly said.

“Of course it's needed. If we had no actual education on our limits and how to suppress our emotions during casting, we could easily lose control of our magic.”

“What happens if ya lose control? Rare wasn't too up fer divulging information on that aspect.”

Twila let out a small exhale. “It's not pleasant, I will say that.” She rose from the blankets and stood at attention. The woman began to speak in the semi-detached and dry tone of a doctor. “When a soul-folk goes past the internal boundaries his or her body places on their magical prowess, it results in their heart and brain rejecting the magic that flows inside their pulmonary and temporal artery, respectively, causing numerous defects to rapidly develop along the frontal lobe, in extreme cases, you can see the extent of the damage externally, including such--” she paused at seeing Jack's borderline comatose state.

“Care ta dumb it down jus' a hair fer me, sugar?” The southerner asked. “All of us don't speak like we're teachin' a doctorate program.”

“Right,” Twi coughed quietly into her hand. “To put the actions into more layman terms: If a soul-folk taxes their body with too much magic, it begins to overheat the brain, potentially causing damage. If they channel a large amount of magic at once, well, the effects are magnified.” Her reserved demeanor fell slightly, exposing the unnerved woman underneath the scholarly tone. “There was a girl in my class who pushed herself t-too much at once.” She stared off to the distance for a moment, taking in a few shuddering breaths while clutching hard at the sleeves of her dress. After a beat, she tried to speak, but it came out in a low, croaking whisper. “Jack... she—there was blood coming from her mouth and eyes. She ha--” Twila stopped herself, putting a hand to her mouth and flinching away from the farmer. “I'm sorry. I... I thought I could talk about it now. I thought I had... had moved on.”

Jack shook her head, rising to a sitting position. “Ya ain't got no need ta apologize. It was right foolish of me ta pry fer information, ya know?” She stood and put a gentle hand onto Twila's shoulder as the dark skinned woman sniffed and stared blankly at the ground. “Now, how 'bout I treat ya to an early dinner? We can work on this junk tomorrow,” Jack offered.

“Ok,” Twi said, slowly coming out of her morose mood.

The two left, neither paying any heed to the blond man still perched up on the catwalk.

Rarity leaned forward on the front counter of her shop, smiling weakly as the sunset gave everything in her boutique a golden glow.

It had been a long day after Jack had left; clientele swarmed her establishment, all asking for different things; suit adjustments, perfume suggestions, dress orders for Friday's soiree, even a long, drawn out order over the phone with a lady regarding custom extensions for her hair (and having to vehemently deny that she herself used extensions. The nerve of some people—with the exception of giving it curl on occasion and washing vigorously with a lemon-milk shampoo, Rarity's hair was au naturale.)

It had been so busy that the violet-haired woman hadn't even taken a lunch break, a fact her stomach was currently announcing to the entire world. She was thankful that the last customer of the day had left mere moments ago. If the man had heard her stomach growling like a feral beast, it would have been the worst possible thing to have ever happened in this store. So it was with a small amount of joy that the well-dressed woman went to her front door and flicked her sign over.

“I'm dreadfully sorry, but we are closed,” she said to herself, mimicking her sign's words.

Rarity glided over to the back of her store and sat at the kitchen table, examining the box Jack had brought. She hoped it wasn't anything greasy—grease was a nightmare to clean off of her hands and face, after all.

With a quick breath, she tore off the wrapping and opened the box.

Inside was an entire pan of lemon bars. What really drew her attention, however, was the design on top of the delectable treats. Directly in the center was a rainbow colored heart made of jam. Rarity didn't have to taste the rainbow to know that it was zap apple jam—one of the rarest jams in the country. Doubly so, considering that zap apple season wasn't for at least another month.

This dessert must have cost a fortune. And Jack brought it for her.

The woman smiled coyly, moving from the pan to her kitchen counters. While Rarity was quite used to receiving affections from men and women alike, there was something touching about this gift. Maybe it was due to its straightforward nature, or the fact that the woman in question simultaneously enraged and amused her to no end in the short time they had spent together so far.

Rarity produced a small plate, knife and fork, then sat back down at her kitchen table. She cut off a square (A serving size, mind you. A lady doesn't overeat past what would be considered the social norm) and took a bite, nodding in quiet appreciation at the melody of flavors in her mouth.

Uncivilized ruffian or not, that farmer knew what she liked. Which was something. Not a lot, but something.