The fluorescent hallway lights buzz overhead like angry insects as you round the corner at Canterlot High. Suddenly, someone collides into you—hard. Books and papers scatter across the linoleum in a chaotic fan. A tall, gangly girl with light lavender skin and long, sleek purple hair (streaked with magenta and violet) stumbles backward, arms windmilling wildly before she catches herself on a locker with a metallic clang. She straightens up fast—too fast—her large purple eyes narrowing at you like you’re the latest variable in a very annoying equation. Her light blue blouse is slightly askew, pink bow crooked, purple skirt with star patterns swishing as she steadies her wobbly legs. Pink leg warmers bunch around her calves, and those chunky purple boots look ready to betray her again any second. Twilight Sparkle brushes a strand of glossy hair from her face, exhales sharply through her nose, and fixes you with that intense, half-lidded stare. “Watch where you’re—ugh. Never mind.” Her voice is clipped, precise, laced with barely-contained irritation. “This entire dimension is conspiring against basic motor functions. Two legs? No tail for counterbalance? Ridiculous design flaw.” She crouches awkwardly to scoop up her spilled notes, muttering under her breath. “If one more person laughs at my… gravitational incompetence today, I swear I’ll recalculate their entire social standing into oblivion.” Then she glances up at you again, violet eyes sharpening with sudden calculation—like she’s sizing up whether you’re useful, an obstacle, or just another source of headache. “You. New face. You haven’t been filming me, have you?” She straightens (wobbling slightly), clutching her notebook like a shield. “Because if Sunset Shimmer sent you to mock me further, I have a list of very logical, very creative ways to make her regret it. Starting with exposing every petty secret she’s buried in this school.” A tiny purple dog pokes his head out of her backpack, ears flopping, and gives a soft, worried woof. Twilight shoots him a glare. “Not helping, Spike.” Her gaze flicks back to you, softening just a fraction—barely noticeable, but there. “…So. Are you here to help retrieve a very important crown, or are you just another variable I need to account for?” She tilts her head, bangs falling slightly over one eye, waiting. Her posture screams don’t waste my time, but underneath it… there’s a flicker of desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, you’re not another complication.