...screamed Rarity, driving her stiletto heels into the door. The inches-thick hinges squealed in protest as the door flung open.
"NOW," Rarity growled, waving her pistol in a wide arc at a crowd of hooded figures. "Which one of you is The Anon??"
A tall figure stated firmly, stepping forward. A wicked grin flashed just below the edge of the villainously large cowl.
"Hiya, I'm an Anon too!" said another in a high-pitched girly tone, flanking the previous figure. She smelled vaguely of a name-brand toothpaste.
"The Anon is me, and I welcome thee," said another in a vaguely African accent. The top of her hood stretched skyward by her massive mohawk.
"I-I'm one too," stuttered a short figure, her pudgy face barely obscured by the same sort of garment worn by others.
Those hooded robes must be one of those despicable one-size-fits-all mass productions, Rarity decided. She fought back an urge to vomit.
"Tell me," said Rarity, trying to decide which hooded figure to aim her gun at. "Why am I waking up next to strangers every morning? Why do I still dream of Applejack?"
"Because you're a fluke, my dear," said the tall figure, biting off every syllable. "I can't believe... You of all people..."
Rarity raised an eyebrow.
"I beg your pardon?"