They reached Lucky’s quarters about then—their shared quarters now. There was a shelf near the entryway, cast in sturdy red wood and filled with little treasures on pillows. Each one of them was a gift from another faction or important pony, gifts of gratitude given once they’d started fighting for the rebellion. Lucky seemed proud of each one, though she never would’ve admitted it. Lucky hung her gun on a hook, then flopped sideways onto an overstuffed cushion as though she were going to deflate.