When you decide to run away from your home and the only life you’ve ever known, plan it out first. For all the reasons it felt like the right thing to do, I didn’t even think to take anything with me.
 
So I had nothing. No food, no money, no plan, and worst of all, no skills. Don’t get me wrong, I still had all my baking and cooking skills. In fact, the sensible thing would’ve been to get a job at another bakery. But when you’ve fled your home with the identity you grew up in left behind in shambles, you tend to not do the sensible thing. That was me, I avoided every café bakery and bread shop I came across. I never wanted to see a bakery ever again, much less work in one. I could’ve easily made quality food for myself form the most basic ingredients, but the very thought of such a thing disgusted me to my very core, literally.
 
Speaking of things that disgusted me to my core, the two eyesores on my flanks were an absolute abomination to think of. I never wanted to look at them, or for that matter, let other ponies look at them. But, I quickly discovered that if you want to avoid talking to other ponies about your Cutie Mark and being reminded of its existence, its best to not hide it. Ponies are incessantly, morbidly, curious about anything they see as mysterious. And a pony hiding their Cutie Mark counts as a huge mystery that they just have to go poking their muzzles into until the solve it.
 
I found that the best way to avoid Cutie Mark related encounters, was to just leave them visible and right out there in the open. Ponies make so many assumptions that they never bother to ask questions to confirm or deny those assumptions, and that worked out just fine for me.
 
I’m exceedingly thankful my little stabbing tantrum did nothing more than poke a bunch of holes in my flank. The scars are hidden quite nicely and nopony’s ever suspected a thing. It’d have been quite a pain to explain that away.
 
Unfortunately my attempts at making a career were nowhere near as successful. There’s a small problem with trying to make a job out of activities you’ve only ever practiced once. That problem is that you have absolutely no real skills what-so-ever in that area. Again, that was me. To top it off I had no knowledge about how to actually run a business.
 
Now in those months after I ran away I did find one thing I was actually good at besides baking, and that was fighting. By fighting I don’t mean I was able to beat the living crap out of anypony I wanted. No, I got my ass pounded in every fight I was in. By good, I mean that I got back up. Every. Single. Time. No matter how many times I got knocked down I just kept getting back up again. And eventually I won. That’s pretty much how I won every fight I every got myself into.
 
Now I typically got into the fights because of the spectacular failed attempts at business I would try to make with particularly . . . physical, dissatisfied clients. Part of it was because I was trying to sell a pretty bad product. The other part was because I was not the nicest pony around. During those months I also expanded my vocabulary significantly, and I exercised it regularly. That’s probably the biggest reason those fights even broke out.
 
Now I know this all sounds pretty bad but bear with me. Cause its because of one of these fights that my life took a turn for the better.
 
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It was one summer day, I had tried to sell a wooden something-or-other, but the sale went bad fast. The dang mare knocked me down about four times or so. The fifth time I got up she looked like she’d seen a ghost.
 
I mean, wouldn’t you have? She’d given me a good buck in the gut, not enough to break anything, but enough to knock me down pretty good. I had a good dark black eye, several deep bruises on my chest, and some distinct hoof marks on my left flank. Not to mention my feathers were ruffled to shit and I was covered in scratches and dirt from the ground. So yeah, I looked like I had no business standing, much less walking.
 
As soon as I took that first step forward she turned tail and ran like a chicken.
 
I nickered, “Heh, coward.” As soon as those words left me so too did all my strength to stand.
 
Falling to my haunches I looked to the stomped remains of the wooden thing I’d been trying to sell. I poked my hoof through the broken pieces, seeing if I could salvage any of it. I’d just determined that it was all garbage when a shadow fell over me.
 
I paused, figuring it was either; 1 the mare come back to get revenge; 2 her buddies sent to finish me off; or 3 the local guards come to arrest me. That had happened a few times.
 
I glanced back and caught a glimpse of gleaming golden armour. So it was option three then, great. I calculated my chances of escaping, and quickly found them next to none. I could barely stand and I doubted I’d get far flying. Not eating for several days tends to take the energy out of a pony.
 
Whoever was in that armour, they seemed pretty content to wait and let me stew over my options. Probably waiting to skewer me with a spear the moment I made a pathetic run for it. Well I wasn’t going to give them that satisfaction.
 
“So, are you here to affetht me?” I meant to sound nonchalant, but my voice turned to a rasp at arrest making me sound like I was begging.
 
“No, I’m here to arrest you. If that’s what you were going for.” The same gravelly monotone voice that every guardspony possessed responded to me.
 
“Oh? The why are you just standing there?” I think I was finding my voice again.
 
“I saw your little scuffle just now-”
 
“Heh, is that what you call it?”
 
“-and how you got back up long after any normal pony would’ve stayed down.”
 
My chuckle turned into a cough. “What can I say. I don’t like staying down.”
 
“Clearly.”
 
Clearly, this guy was going somewhere with this, so I decided to find out.
 
“So, what exactly do you want? You’ve gotta be staring at me for some reason other than visual molestation.”
 
Either my voice went raspy again or he just ignored that last comment as he went on, “What if I told you, I know of a place that’d be better for you than your current . . . situation.”
 
“I’d tell you you were a pretty shitty foalnapper.” This guy was clearly not the best conversationalist.
 
“Funny. But this place would be able to put your . . .unique skills to good use.”
 
“Oh?” Of course I was skeptical, “And what exactly is this amazing fantastic place you seem so fond of?” I didn’t really believe it could be as ridiculous as it actually was.
 
“There is a training center. Designed for especially skilled ponies such as yourself.”
 
I responded with lots of raspy coughs. I was beginning to worry I may have received something worse than a few bruises.
 
“You, hah, you want me to become a guard?! Hehe! Yeah, cause you really need to be able to stand back up when you go into statue mode!”
 
“It’s much more than that. You’d be trained to be somepony greater than a guard.”
 
I swear this guy had used no voice inflection since he started talking, “And what makes you think I want to be anything greater than I am now?”
 
“It’s not hard for anypony to tell you’re lost.” I determined this guy was a bastard. “When you see a pony attempting to pursue woodworking when their cutie mark suggest their talents lie in baking, its not a hard conclusion to come to.”
 
To this day I am still surprised to find that I still had plenty of strength left to whirl on this cocky bastard who thought he knew me. I tactfully shot down his dumbass assumptions.
 
“I AM NOT A FUCKING BAKER!!”
 
I also got my first good look at this prick and was immediately surprised at how tall he was. Everypony knows that the Guard’s armour is enchanted to make the wearer look and sound like the same dumb white or gray stallion with a blue mane. Except, the enchantment can’t conceal the wearer’s height, which is usually a dead giveaway to the user’s gender. And the stallion in front of me was a fucking giant! I’m no small mare mind you; I’m actually taller than most, and this guy was at least a full head taller than me. At my little outburst I was practically craning my neck to stare down his stupid muzzle. He also didn’t budge an inch. He just kept that same stoic pose and expression. Staring at me like I was a damn newspaper, like he knew everything just by looking at me. I also noticed he was unarmed, no weapons at all.
 
After a few moments he finally responded to my outburst with that same dull voice.
 
“Obviously.”
 
That response kinda stunned me more than anything els about him. His lack of reaction was, well, I didn’t know how it felt. Up until then my typical reaction to ponies who assumed I was a baker was either anger or barely seething tolerance. But this guy wasn’t doing that; it was, interesting. After letting me stand there stunned for a few seconds he continued.
 
“How about you come and see the facility, then make your decision there. At the very least our doctors could look at your injuries, fix that rasp in your voice.”
 
I considered it, and it wasn’t a difficult debate. As it was I had nowhere to be, nothing to do, and no home to go to. There I could get my wounds fixed, maybe get a bath and a bed to sleep in. And maybe even some actual food to eat. To that thought my damn stomach loudly voiced its agreement.
 
I sighed, my decision made, “Well, I don’t really have anything else to do. Sure, I’ll check out this place of yours. Lead the way.”
 
He simply grunted, stating, “Good choice.” and turned to start walking down the path. I found that with something to actually look forward to for once, I was able to make my tired injured body keep up. It would take me a long time to realize just how much that choice had saved me.