“At two fifteen in the morning, the Canterlot City Press has called the election for Governor Sombra. This follows similar calls by Channel 10 Action News, and canterlot.com. While the last few ballots are being counted, most news organizations do not expect any significant change in the numbers, as current counts put the incumbent Governor at a commanding six point lead over challenger Celestia Solaris. While the Solaris campaign has yet to release a statement, candidate Celestia is expected to concede the election soon. Stay tuned to—”

Rarity clicked the feed off on her laptop, rising from her seat at the cubicle desk. It didn’t matter what else the news said. Other eyes would be watching; Twilight, probably. Flash, as well. The others in Celestia’s command center.

Denial. That’s what she was feeling now. That’s what she’d been feeling for weeks. Only now there was nothing left to deny. Now she just had to figure out what came next.

The cubicle was lit only by a small desk lamp, and the glow of her laptop’s light. Idly she looked at the place that had practically been her job for the last few months. Dress and business suit designs drawn by her hand, pinned to the cloth walls. A desk, hastily assembled with homey bits and tchotchkes from the apartment she shared with her wife. A wedding photo; no matter how many times the photographer had tried, he’d been unable to get a single picture where Rainbow wasn’t crying with joy. Even now, the sight of the two brides, holding each other in complementary (but not matching!) white gowns, with tears streaming down Rainbow’s face, made her smile.

Rarity, of course, cried all the time. She felt like crying now. But nothing came.

Looking at Rainbow, even in pictures, always energized her, but it was a false energy, and Rarity knew it. Idle thoughts danced across her head. Legal challenges. Recounts. Grassroots protests. Maybe even grounds for a recall. What if—

No. They’d lost. They’d tried, and they’d lost.

Rarity just had to accept that, and move on, and sort out what came next.

She stood from her desk, looking around to all of the other empty cubicles. Tomorrow they’d start cleaning out the desks, taking down the temporary cloth walls, and removing the wiring taped down onto the floor. It would become some other kind of temporary office. A tech startup, maybe, one of those crypto things. Or maybe some kind of financial service. Whatever it was, Rarity was sure it would be sterile. Boring.

Nothing like the heartbeat of passion and hope she’d felt over these last few weeks.

She strained her ears in the dark room, trying to see if she could hear the command center. There would be press there, demanding to know what was left for Celestia, asking if she’d concede, asking if she’d challenge. It was faint, but she could hear a small murmur through the thin walls.

She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to see them, to see the fake, strained smile on Celestia’s face. She didn’t want to hear the words of hope and inspiration that the former school principal would certainly give as part of her concession speech. She didn’t want to hear her congratulate the vile bastard who’d beaten her. And she didn’t want to see the sympathy in Celestia’s eyes.

Because that was who Celestia had been. She’d lost the election, of course, but she’d comfort the rest of them.

Sunset Shimmer, her campaign manager.

Twilight Sparkle, her chief speech writer.

Flash Sentry, her security head.

Pinkie Pie and Trixie, who headed her social media team.

And, of course, her fashion consultant.

Rarity needed to delay heading back to rejoin the rest, so she started to pack. The trash can under her desk would be good enough; with hands that felt numb she started to pull sketches and photos off the wall, shoving them inside. The crunch of the papers sounded deafening to her ears, but it tdrowned out the noise of whatever was still happening with the rest of the campaign.

For the hundredth time, Rarity wondered if staffing was part of the problem. Maybe hiring so many of her former students had been the mistake that had cost her those last six polling points. Oh, Rarity had plenty of confidence in her friends. But they were barely in their mid-twenties, too young and inexperienced to run a gubernatorial campaign.

She’d mentioned it, once, to Celestia. Not speaking of her friends, of course, but of herself.

“Don’t you think you should hire somebody a little older?” Rarity had asked her.

Celestia had only smiled that serene smile of hers. “I have complete faith in all of you.” She’d spoken with Trixie and Twilight, as well. They’d asked the same questions, and gotten the same answers.

That faith seemed so worthless now. A sketch tore as Rarity ripped it off the wall, the sound of paper parting filling the room.

She was being too careful, she realized. None of this mattered.

Rip.

Rip.

Rip.

Soon the walls were clear of her drawings, designs, magazine clippings, and more, until nothing remained.

“You know, those were still good drawings.”

The voice, even in its familiarity, made Rarity jump. She spun, already readying her glare and a sharp retort.

“Rainbow, how many times have I asked you to please not—”

Rainbow Dash was silhouetted by the light streaming from the hallway. She wore a button-down blouse (her only typical concession to ladylike fashion, regardless of how often Rarity begged her to wear dresses) and denim capris. Her arms were folded as she leaned against the doorframe in an indolent pose of graceful casualness.

“I called your name three times,” her wife said, smirking. “So no, I wasn’t sneaking up on you. This time.”

Rarity huffed. “That’s no excuse. You still didn’t have to—”

“Why are you wrecking your office? And your designs?”

Rarity stared at her, unable to keep the consternation out of her expression.

“It won’t be my office any longer after today, darling. Don’t you realize—”

“Well, yeah, but the pictures are still good. You could, I don’t know. Put them as part of your portfolio.”

That was silly. She’d include photographs of the finished outfits she’d assembled on the campaign trail for Celestia, not the preliminary drawings. Besides, there was a part of her that didn’t even want to do that.

She wanted to forget.

It hurt to realize she’d reached for the sun and gotten burned.

“Rainbow, you know I won’t—”

“Here, if you’re just gonna rip them, lemme save ‘em at least. I like your drawings.”

“Rainbow Dash, would you stop interrupting—”

“I came to see why you were still here,” Rainbow interrupted again, smirking at Rarity’s scowl. “Ya know. To check on you. Cuz you shouldn’t be alone. Everybody else is here. Pinkie’s throwing a party.”

“A party?”

“Yeah.” Rainbow shrugged. “I mean, it’s not the same as winning.” Not by a long shot. “But it’s nice to be together with people when things go to sh—”

“Language,” Rarity said, giving her own pale ghost of a smile. This time it was her turn to interrupt, and Rainbow’s turn to glare at her.”

“It’s nice to be together with people when things go to poop. Damnit, Rarity, do I really gotta—”

“If you want children someday, you’re going to have to learn to control your mouth,” Rarity said. Rainbow blushed. “And as for why I’m here, well, the noise was getting to be a bit much for me, so I came to watch the results in here.”

“In a dark room, by yourself,” Rainbow noted dryly. Rarity stared at her, and Rainbow gave a snort of laughter. “Right. Mope drama queen.”

“Callous brute,” Rarity shot back. The exchange was comforting. Familiar. They’d only been married three years, but the teasing made it feel much longer.

“Right,” Rarity said, still chuckling. “Well, I don’t wanna see you trash those just yet. I’ll help.”

Rarity didn’t see the point, but Rainbow stepped over anyways, moving into the small cubicle. This close, Rarity could smell her wife’s perfume; a mild, floral scent Rarity herself had picked out. Rainbow barely ever wore it.

“You’re—” she began, but Rainbow cut her off as she carefully pulled a push-pin out of the wall to remove a sketch Rarity had done. It was a gown, not a business suit; an elegant sloping thing with a round neckline and graceful lines, nearly all the way down to the floor. Rarity had sewn it up herself in white linen, and Celestia had worn it to a charity dinner and auction for the CSPA.

“I really liked this one,” Rainbow noted. It irritated Rarity, and she let it show.

“So you’d wear something like that if I made it?” she said, but Rainbow only laughed.

“Nah. It’d just tear or get grass stains,” Rainbow said. Rarity frowned. “Besides, white’s not my color.”

“It was once,” Rarity said, as her eyes drifted to the photograph of their wedding day. “Or are you going to try to convince me that’s why you were crying?”

Rainbow blushed a little, but she’d matured in the last few years. It wasn’t quite as easy to bait her. “Nah. I was crying because it was the best day ever.”

And her eyes held Rarity’s, long enough that Rarity felt her own cheeks heating up a little at the intensity she saw there.

She blinked, and the spell broke. Rarity looked away.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“What’s that?” Rainbow asked.

“Distracting me.”

“Well, duh,” Rainbow said. “You’ve had a f—”

“Ahem.”

“...freaking difficult day, Rares. I was kinda hoping I could help you smile. At least a little.”

“You realize that we lost, right? And that it’s perfectly acceptable to mourn when you lose.”

“Nope,” Rainbow said, shaking her head.

Rarity glared.

“Whatever are you talking about, darling? You know I’m right, and—”

Rainbow held a finger over Rarity’s lips. “No, you’re right about mourning. That bit’s okay. It’s just that you’re not doing it right.”

“What is this, some kind of psychoanalysis from a high school teacher? Rainbow, I’d say this is a little out of your—”

“Iron Will always said a coach has gotta be one half teacher, one half babysitter, one half actual coach, and one half shrink,” Rainbow said. “So, nah, it’s pretty much in my job description. And I know you’re doing it wrong.”

“But—”

“You’ve got friends, Rarity. And they’re worried about you. Sunset’s wondering where you are. Twilight was asking you to help her proofread Celestia’s concession speech, but I could tell she’s also worried. Pinkie’s literally on pins and needles and refuses to let us break out the sympathy cake until you get there. Even Trixie said that something was missing without you there.”

“You don’t even work for the campaign.” Rarity was trying to deflect, and she knew it. She didn’t want to see everybody else. She didn’t.

“Nah, but it’s kinda my fault this whole thing got started,” Rainbow said.

That, Rarity conceded, was true. Nearly ten years ago now, in fact, when Governor Sombra had signed some questionable things into law, and a bunch of high school students had started to fight, all centered around one woman.

Besides, she liked it when Rainbow was at campaign headquarters. Most of the time. When she wasn’t pushing Rarity to do something she was not ready to do just yet.

“That’s as may be, but I still—”

“C’mon, we can do this later.” Rainbow grabbed Rarity’s hand with one of her own. With her other, she closed Rarity’s laptop, leaving the lamp the only bit of light in the room. “Besides, you don’t want to sit all by yourself in a dark room.”

“That’s up for debate,” Rarity muttered. “Besides, it was less dark before—”

“C’mon,” Rainbow repeated, tugging on Rarity’s hand hard enough to pull her out of the cubicle. She stumbled on her modest heels, and Rainbow had to slip a hand around her shoulders to steady her.

“You did that on purpose,” Rarity scowled up at the taller woman, and Rainbow merely smiled smugly. Of course she had. But Rarity’s complaints were half-hearted; even in the circumstances, there was something in Rarity that loved feeling her wife’s strength, loved feeling Rainbow’s possessive squeeze around her shoulders, and looking up at Rainbow’s graceful, athletic figure.

“Yeah, sure,” Rainbow said. “Let’s go.”

But she didn’t take her arm from around Rarity’s shoulders, and Rarity found herself needing that strength.

The hallway was lined with signs; blue and white and red, with bold letters.

“Celestia for Governor.”

“A New Sunrise For Canterlot!”

“Hope For Our Future.”

Simple little slogans, accompanied by a blazing sun motif; something Sunset had designed at the start of the campaign, complete with a wistful sort of look that told Rarity Sunset was probably thinking of another home, another world, maybe even another Celestia.

Five minutes ago Rarity might have started to tear the posters down, ripping their flase hope to shreds. Now she just felt tired.

Well, to be fair, it was nearly three in the morning.

The noise of the command center rose from a buzz to a murmur, and Rarity watched the approaching doors with dread. The sense of denial was back; the familiar thought of blind defiance that ahad reared it’s head every time they’d seen bad poll numbers, or heard the cheers of the crowds at Sombra’s rallies. Maybe..maybe if she didn’t go through that door, maybe it wasn’t all over. Couldn’t be all over. Wouldn’t…

“C’mon,” Rainbow prodded yet again, pulling Rarity into the room and away from her spiraling thoughts.

The noise was now a babble, a low cacophony of voices and videos playing on multiple laptop screens. Even with the noise it felt subdued to Rarity; as if everybody in the room had been able to accept the stark reality that she herself was keeping at bay.

Sunset and Celestia sat on one of the couches, leaning towards each other, heads practically touching as they whispered frantically about something. Flash Sentry was over by the press; cordoned off behind a pair of retractable belt barriers. His expression was stern as he watched them all milling about. Their eyes, of course, were fixed on Celestia herself, who was ignoring them.

Pinkie and Trixie were both setting up a food table. Pinkie’s eyes lit up when Rarity and Rainbow entered the room, and Rarity saw in them what she’d been dreading. Sympathy.

No. Not for Rarity. She didn’t want sympathy.

It was Rainbow who deserved it. Rainbow and the thousands of others in Canterlot, in the whole state, who would be impacted by that moron’s ridiculous policies. Bathroom laws. The repeal of anti-discrimination statues. Book bans.

“It should be—” Rarity began at a whisper. She could feel her heart racing. Anxiety. Fear for the future. Rage, as well. Devastating loss, especially for her wife. How could Rainbow be so calm? She stood to lose more than Rarity did.

“A lot of this was because of you,” Rainbow whispered in her ear. “It’s okay. They’ll help, I promise.”

But it wasn’t Pinkie who approached first, as Rainbow maneuvered Rarity to another couch. It was Twilight.

The young woman kept adjusting her glasses, even fiddling with the bit of cording that looped over the arms of her glasses and behind her head. It made her look much older than she was; like some kind of grandmotherly librarian.

She looked lost, like Rarity felt, and slumped into the couch next to them.

“So—” Twilight began, but was interrupted, not by Rainbow this time, but by the large television that dominated the room.

The image had flickered to Sombra, standing in front of a podium. The gubernatorial podium.

Rarity’s heart pounded with fury. He’d won. Did he have to flaunt it?

“The bastard isn’t even gonna wait for Celestia’s concession?” Rainbow noted. “What an asshole.”

“Language,” Rarity whispered halfheartedly, but the sentiment was the same. Sombra was a weasel, though she suspected Fluttershy would object to the characterization. She felt physically ill as the imposing man, in his off-the-rack business suit and terribly tacky red tie, smiled brightly to a wave of camera flashes.

“My fellow Canterlotians,” he began, turning his vile grin on the press and the electorate. “My office has just received news that the results of this election are practically clear. It is with pride and gratitude in my heart that I humbly—”

Suddenly the TV muted.

“Not gonna listen to this shit any more,” Twilight scowled, brandishing the remote like some kind of weapon.

“She doesn’t get called out for swearing,” Rainbow whispered from her spot next to Rarity, who only nudged her with an elbow. Rarity did note, though, that tTwilight had left the subtitles on. Somewhere interns would be noting down what Sombra was saying.

“Well,” Rarity sighed. “Um.” She was at a loss for words. She hated that. She felt empty; cored out and hollow and bleeding. She should probably be crying. But still no tears emerged. “What next?”

Twilight and Rarity stared at each other a moment, oblivious to the sound and chatter of the room. Twilight’s own eyes were wet, and Rarity felt a stab of… jealousy? Because Twilight was crying? Because Twilight was handling this better than she was? Maybe because everybody was handling this better than she was. Sunset, hurriedly making plans with Celestia, probably discussing next steps. Pinkie Pie, still strained and with her hair a mess over business attire that looked oddly out of place for her, but smiling. Rainbow, of course, dealing with her adversity as if nothing could hold her back. As usual.

And even Twilight, finding ways to let her emotions out through her tears.

Not numb or empty, like Rarity.

“I…I don’t know,” Rarity admitted.

And suddenly it was there.

A floodgate, held back by a structure of denial and anxiety. A great, vast dam, concrete and cement and steel, built up by months of subtle lies. Maybe with the right speech. Maybe with the right suit. Maybe with the right answer at a debate. Maybe with the right poster.

No.

They had lost.

And there was nothing they could have done to change it. Not this time.

Tears poured from Rarity’s eyes, as big, gasping sobs wrenched from her throat. She was gasping and panting, and suddenly her face was pressed against something.

Cotton. A blouse, button down, dark blue. Subtle floral perfume. Hard muscle underneath, and strong arms around her shoulders.

Her pillar of strength.

Rarity sobbed and shook and cried and broke, and Rainbow Dash held her together.

Rainbow Dash would pick up the pieces. She always did. They always did, for each other.

“I don’t know,” Rarity sobbed. For months they’d struggled and fought. They’d tried everything. Ads. Interviews. Posters. Policies. There had always been an answer. But now, nothing. I don't know what comes next!”

“Hey. It’s okay,” Rainbow said softly, and Rarity felt another hand on her shoulder. Then a second. A third.

Twilight.

Sunset.

Pinkie.

Others would be here in spirit.

“It’s okay to not know what comes next,” Rainbow said, “It’s okay, Rarity. Really.”

“But—”

“No, Rarity,” Rainbow interrupted again, and this time Rarity couldn’t be upset at her. “No ‘buts’. It’s okay to not know. Just… live with that, for now, and cry. Okay? That’s Tomorrow Rarity’s problem. Now, it’s okay to just mourn.”

It was just like Rainbow had said earlier. She’d been mourning wrong. Stuck in the past, and the future. What came next? What went wrong? It was all too much.

So she let it go, let herself be held.

And cried.