On the Run with Nicolas Sarkozy
Cosmos (n): a complex orderly self-inclusive system; the opposite of Chaos.
It was Sunset Shimmer's fourth detention that month, and she was spending it thinking about the universe.
Baryogenesis (fundamental particles condensing out of the post-Big Bang quark-gluon plasma) led to an imbalance of matter and antimatter, and that was responsible for everything (absolutely everything) that came after it. Microscopic overdensities in the first picosecond of cosmic time grew until they spanned light years. Within those overdensities, stars formed, burned, died. Their effluence - heavier elements - formed the building blocks of life.
Planets condensed out of disks of dust. As they cooled, their surfaces crusted into rock, while the deeper layers, mantle and core, remained molten. This led to plate tectonics, and topography, and geology. This led to oceans, and mountains, and the water cycle. This led to single-celled organisms, and that led to this. To Sunset Shimmer, bored in detention, disbelieving the sheer coincidence that she was right here, right now.
The door was kicked open with a distinctly bourgeoisie flourish.
"Hey!" Neighsay barked from her desk. "You're paying for that!"
In came a well-dressed French man; tall and gangly, with a square jaw and curly hair just the wrong side of suave. His Armani jacket gave the first words out of his mouth a roughly hundred percent chance of being simultaneously racist, sexist, and homophobic. He was followed by a mustachioed man in a similarly immaculate but distinctly less premium jacket. Then, a bald man with black sunglasses, a poorly-concealed earpiece, and khakis. Then another. And another. And another.
Together, they moved towards Sunset's desk, then split off to take seats on either side of her.
Sunset sat up in her chair. "Who the fu-"
"Allow me," the mustachioed man interrupted. With a flourish, he produced a business card from a hidden pocket and passed it to her between two fingers. "Introducing Nicolas Sarkozy, former President of France."
Sunset took the card and stared. Off-white. Floral scent. Times New Roman. Sarkozy for Class President.
"Bonjour, madame," Sarkozy said, and when she extended her hand for a shake he kissed it.
"...cool." She wasn't sure if wiping her hand after a kiss was an insult in French culture, and she wasn't in the mood to be jumped by the secret service anyways, so she filed away the slimy sensation as something to investigate later. "Why are you here?"
The Translator relayed her question. Sarkozy glowered, then shot off some rapid-fire French.
"Ah, because of a miscarriage of justice!" The Translator shook his head in conjunction with the secret service members; twelve in the room, one blocking the door, one in the courtyard with a boombox and baggy shorts, and one manning a sniper rifle from an adjacent building. "A travesty! A Kangaroo court of the highest order! Money laundering, pah. Why would I launder my money when the Qataris launder it for me?" The Translator rolled his eyes. "Alas, the sham trial found me guilty, and the European Union - those slavering leftists - decided that I would spend a semester at Canterlot High to 'relearn the magic of cooperation and friendship.'"
Sarkozy beamed a politician's smile, and continued.
"But what they do not realize is that by banishing me, they have played right into my hands! Here, in the state of Quebec, I am among my people! Canterlot High is the perfect place for me to regroup, restrategize, and rebuild my legacy. First? Class President. Then? Mayor. Then? King of Canada!"
He threw his head back and laughed, voraciously, in French. The Translator laughed, voraciously, in English. The secret service men blended in by scratching their names into their desks and trading notes with other students. Sunset clicked her tongue. "Yeah, good luck with that." She took a second to process the absurdity of it all - permitted it to pass over her and through her - then squinted against the glare of the fluorescent lights. "Why are you here, though?"
She raised her arm, intending to sweep it across the water-stained ceiling, the many broken chairs, the chalkboard that said, in large letters, DETENTION. The sound of approximately fifteen safeties being flicked off made her reconsider.
"Well," the Translator wiped at his brow, then his mustache. "There was an... ehhh... campaign finance violation - not his fault! Not his fault, Canadian laws are confusing - ehh, we just lobbied Vice Principal Luna and she -" He bowed his head. "She gave us detention for the week."
Sunset hid her snort with one hand. "You tried to bribe Luna. Wow. Did you at least win the election?"
"Yes." The Translator held up an index finger. "As long as you don't count all the illegal votes."
Sunset supposed stranger things were possible. The Human World was a cat's cradle of bizarre, seemingly arbitrary but entirely interconnected rules. Flights connected every major city in the world, and empires were distributed over vast geographical distances. The Anglosphere drew in the world's elite, dragging along working class immigrants by sheer power of mythmaking. France had laid claim to a pizza-slice of the Antarctic - in the face of all that, it almost made sense for their former president to be sitting beside her, in detention, bored.
She rattled her pen on the table, takatakatak. The clock ticked forward. Detention should have been halfway over, but it had barely even begun.
The Translator leaned over to her and whispered, "Miss Shimmer, we have a... proposition... for you,"
Sunset hummed absently, the same frequency as the buzzing lights. "I'm listening."
"We heard you were once Queen of the school. Perhaps you can... coach us? 'Show us the ropes,' so to speak. There is a... reward." A secret service member brushed his Hawaiian shirt aside to reveal a Diet Coke holstered at his waist. "There's more where that came from."
Sunset laughed, and beckoned the agent for the Coke. "Sure, why not?"
Sarkozy and his Translator high-fived as she caught the bottle and cracked it open. "Perfect," the Translator said. "Perfect, perfect. When can we start our training?"
"After detention," Sunset took a swing, then returned to the ceiling. "Detention is more for being than for doing, ya feel? Kind of like life."
Sarkozy and the Translator looked at one another, shrugged, then leaned back to stare at the fluorescent lights that ran in identical rows along the ceiling. They blinked on and off at regular times, syncopating with one another. One light, in the corner of the room, fluttered several times a second; leaving a ghostly imprint on the window beneath, like a holographic butterfly.
Sarkozy twiddled his thumbs. Awkwardly, he mumbled a jumble of syllables.
"Madam, if I may ask, what are you in detention for?" The Translator relayed.
"I drew some graffiti." Sunset threw her hair back and tried not to flinch when she saw the sniper's laser dance across her face. "Too revolutionary for the establishment, I guess."
The Translator relayed the information. Sarkozy was blushing, eyes focused on his hands. He said something; the Translator gave him a judgemental look, then turned back to Sunset. "Well... we French, we have had many revolutions. Perhaps... perhaps we could revolt after school, together?"
"Hmm." Sunset considered it. "How handy are you with a Molotov cocktail?"
"Hey!" Neighsay threw her book down on her desk and jumped to her feet. "No planning revolutions on school grounds! Especially you, Sarkozy!"
"The election was stolen from us!" Sarkozy's Translator protested. "All I want is vote recounts in the fourth floor classrooms -"
"No revolutions, or you'll be in detention for the rest of the month!" Neighsay shot them a final glare, then sat down, grumbling about election interference and the good old days of monarchy.
Sarkozy muttered something no doubt unkind under his breath. Sunset rolled her eyes and considered her place in history.
The universe had begun thirteen billion years ago, and it had led right here. Every second, stretching out to infinity, was as precious as the last. Galaxies, stars, planets. Surface, species, people. Groups, empires, civilizations. They were on the precipice of an interconnected global consciousness. For the first time, the entire Human Race could, collectively, decide where they wanted to go.
Sunset pulled a Mentos out of her backpack and dropped it into the Coke.
"Hey, Sarkozy?" She pulled her arm back, winding up to throw the bottle to the front of the room. "If you want a revolution that badly, get ready to run."
Author's Note
The whole oneshot a week plan really messed with the pacing and feel of this story. I want to maybe revise that commitment down to a oneshot every two weeks.
For now, I'll take any feedback y'all have, polish this chapter, and work on the rest of the story for a tentative weekly release. There's only two other chapters, so it shouldn't take too long.
