//------------------------------//
// Chapter 2 
// Story: The Cat Is Dead. 
// by shortskirtsandexplosions 
//------------------------------//

It's a Friday.

Or perhaps Tuesday?

Whatever the time may or may not be, Rarity finds herself in a fashion frenzy.  There are five separate commissions that need to be finished by the end of the week, and there are even more clients lining up with oodles of bits to spare.  These are projects that can only be done by a professional.  Coco Pommel and Sassy Saddles have offered to help, but Rarity simply can't afford any mistakes.  At least—she assumes that's what they were writing her about.  There's a stack of envelopes at the front door of her Manehattan apartment with her business partners' names on it; Rarity hasn't opened them.

There just isn't any time.

Rarity levitates a veritable forest of pins, needles, thread, and silks all around her.  She finds herself zig-zagging between multiple bundles of unfinished outfits.  The mare is somehow working on all at once, so that it feels more like a grand tapestry instead of a myriad of different tasks.  She can't stop now.  She has to concentrate on finishing these and nothing else.  The blinds to the city are closed.  All doors are locked.

At some point—in the middle of a dark cloud in the blurred eye of the dense hurricane that is her work—the fashionista feels her stomach growling.  When was the last time that she had eaten?  It's getting harder and harder to tell.  There's just so much to do and her health has taken a back seat.

So—if only to help herself concentrate—Rarity plans to make a fitting meal that will satiate her demanding belly.  She sets it up in the kitchen between dashing trips back to her work area.  Sliced lettuce.  Seasoned potatoes.  Boiling rice.

Boiling rice...!

Rarity gasps.  The half-finished dresses fall to the floor all around her.  Panicked, the mare spins and runs breathlessly towards the kitchen.  Her eyes lock on the boiling pot of water on the stove.  The water is hot and scalding and within perfect jumping distance of—




The cat is dead.




Rarity skids to a stop.

She pants.

She stares wide-eyed at the steam rising from the stovetop.




The cat is dead.




She swallows a lump down her throat, eases her muscles...

...and exhales with relief.  She almost even rolls her eyes.

Turning, the mare catches the flash of something in a picture frame.  She reaches to the table and pivots the image—not to see the ponies photographed thereupon—but in order to see her reflection on the sheen of glass.  She sees a purple mane that's been frazzled into disarray from hours of work.  Bags hang under her eyes and her makeup has faded.

She clenches her jaw in consternation, places the picture face-down onto the table top, and trots briskly back into her work area.  She will tend to her hunger soon enough.

Rarity accomplishes everything eventually.