Miss Harshwhinny suspected the universe resented productivity. If the acrid clouds of smoke billowing out of the East Equestrian Express were any indication, the universe despised punctuality, too.

It was barely an hour past sunrise, and already Miss Harshwhinny could feel the beginnings of a frown simmering under her otherwise-indifferent expression.

An overall-clad stallion emerged from the smoke with a hacking cough, covered in soot and looking rather apologetic.

"Sorry, fillies and gentlecolts," he said, pushing back his hat and wiping his brow (which really only served to spread the grime more evenly over his forehead, in Miss Harshwhinny's entirely professional opinion). "Look's like this baby's not going anywhere anytime soon, I'm afraid. We've sent for another engine, but the closest one's just left Appleloosa and won't make it to Ponyville for another hour."

He then proceeded to regurgitate a manual's worth of technical jargon under the pretense of explaining the problem, peppered with meaningless condolences that further convinced Miss Harshwhinny of the rarity of equine competence.

Perhaps the universe merely resented her.

Fine. If it wanted her to be late for the pre-Games summit in Manehattan, she would be late and well-fed. With an indignant snort, Miss Harshwhinny grabbed her single suitcase, turned her back on the sorry excuse of public transportation accosting her eyes, and marched into the slowly-stirring town.



Within minutes, Ponyville's only redeeming factor came into view. How such a backwoods town managed to acquire a bakery like Sugarcube Corner continued to elude her, but after suffering through hundreds of lackluster, bland pastries, Miss Harshwhinny wasn't about to discount a business simply for its unfortunate location. It didn't matter that the Cakes could be making millions in Manehattan; all Miss Harshwhinny asked was that they demonstrated some competence in their supposed area of expertise.

It was a request that went unfulfilled in a depressing proportion of restaurants.

But not in Sugarcube Corner, the mouthwatering aroma of freshly-baked bread assured her as she entered the bakery.

Filled with expectation, Miss Harshwhinny marched up to the grinning mare at the counter, set her suitcase down with a thud, and ordered a lightly-sugared poppyseed muffin with all the authority of Princess Celestia banishing her enemies.

"Okie-dokie-loki!" the mare beamed. "Didja want coffee with that?"

Did she want—

Miss Harshwhinny nodded curtly, suppressing the urge to weep for the fate of Equestria (how cruel, to live in a world where the desire for coffee was even a question).

"Alrighty! What type?"

"Medium-roast hazelnut with one cream, if you please."

The mare adopted that oh-so-familiar apologetic expression that Miss Harshwinny oh-so-despised. "Aaaaactually, we're kind of out—"

"Never mind, I am in no mood for hazelnut," Miss Harshwhinny interrupted hurriedly, before the mare forever tarnished Equestria's last bastion of competence. "Instead, I'll have, ah, the—"

Oh dear.

Caramel would be too sweet, the breakfast blend too strong, and dessert-flavored coffee was an atrocity she overlooked in order to maintain her sanity. Perhaps the pumpkin blend? Or maybe a cappuccino? A bead of sweat rolled down her brow.

The universe was mocking her— Miss Harshwhinny was sure of it. How else would she—a mare charged with selected the perfect location for the biggest event in Equestria—be foiled in her own area of expertise by a cup of coffee?

For five minutes, the Equestria Games Inspector stared at the coffee options, biting her lip and becoming increasingly frazzled.

What about a mocha? Nonono—

As the tides of panic began edging into her mind (but before she could begin properly questioning her purpose in life), Miss Harshwinny was poked. Hard.

"What is it?" she snapped, glaring at the mare behind the counter.

The mare handed her the poppyseed muffin. "If you're having a hard time, why don't you just do eenie-meanie-miney-moe? That's what I do."

"That is no way to make a decision," Miss Harshwhinny huffed. "Honestly, have you any idea as to how terribly wrong things can go when left to chance? Of course you don't."

The mare blinked. "I mean, if you don't like it, you can just get a different type the next time. It's not like you're choosing the type of coffee you'll be drinking for the rest of your life, y'know? The choice isn't permanent, even if it feels like it."

Miss Harshwhinny turned and left the coffee shop, without the muffin. Clearly, she had misjudged the intelligence of the bakery's employees.