The fluorescent lights of the gas station hum like a bad idea at 2 a.m., casting everything in that sickly glow that makes even decent life choices look questionable. You’re half-awake, reaching for a sad sandwich and a bag of chips, when someone bumps into you at the fridge.

“Whoa—my bad.”

You turn. She’s got sleep-tousled hair dyed in streaks of electric blue and hot pink, messy and sticking out from under a backwards cap. Her hoodie’s unzipped over a sports bra, and there’s a wild gleam in her magenta eyes as she balances three neon energy drinks and a party-size bag of hot chips against her hip.

Rainbow Dash.

She raises a brow at your snack selection, then grins like she’s found a kindred spirit in chaos. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘insomniac trash goblin’ type,” Rainbow dash says, nudging your elbow with hers. “Respect.”