//------------------------------// // Chapter 5 // Story: The Cat Is Dead. // by shortskirtsandexplosions //------------------------------// “Ah... but of course...” The stallion is handsome, chiseled, and speaks in a thick accent. He gazes through the hazy air of the bar with equally smokey eyes. “A household name, no? Fashion... Rarity...” “Mmmmm...” Rarity smiles thinly, her painted eyes eclipsing the moment. She raises a glass of wine to her lips and sips as she looks the delicious specimen up and down. She sits on the stool in a fabulous robe, her tail flicking with slight punctuation from underneath the frilled fabric. Soft music plays across the hotel lounge, serenading just the two of them and a midnight bartender who right now feels miles away. “Just rolls off the tongue, does it not?” She licks some moisture off the glass' lid before placing it down on the counter. “Among other things.” He laughs with a noticeably Stirrupean lilt. The lights of Prance outside waft through the windows and accentuate his mane, his stubble. He's absolutely gorgeous as he finally says, “Judging from your... uhhhh... accent...” Masculine eyes narrow. “Mainlander, yes?” “Guilty as charged~” Rarity mewls. “I have always wondered...” The stallion gestures as he speaks, swiveling a bit on his barstool to face the fashionista. “There is such... how would you say... 'obsession' with Stirrup's art scene. Over in the Mainland, there is, I mean.” “You are not wrong.” “But all that you have done with... ehhhhm... with Fashion Rarity. The splendor. The...” He mumbled a few words in his own language before belatedly translating for her: “...the presentation... … … it comes across as so natural!” “Heeheehee...” Rarity leans back, loosening the collar of her coat—only slightly. “Now that is a divine compliment.” “Then truth compliments you, madame.” He winks. “You do not imitate. Far from it. Ehmmmm... you... you...” He scratches the back of his neck. “...I do not know Mainland Basic for the term. But to be an angel of higher quality of creation.” “Ah!” Rarity beams wide. “I think I'd rather keep it a poetic mystery!” Both share a mutual laugh. They lean in closer. “Your success, Madame Rarity... is... is...” He gazes beyond her for a moment, attempting to articulate correctly: “... … … most enviable.” “Oh, I'm not too terribly sure.” She looks at him... looks down... then looks up again. “The moment I saw you, I penned you as being... more than gifted.” He chuckles lightly at that. “I am... uhhh... afraid that I am only starting my career in art.” Rarity weathers a tiny sigh. She gestures to the bartender for another pouring of wine. “Is that so...?” “Mmmm. Quite—quite. I am aiming to be a painter. It is all the rage in Prance.” “So I've observed~” With a fresh glass of wine, Rarity pivots to face her acquaintance once again. She sips. Stares. Thinks. “Must be quite the competition—the Stirrupean art scene, I mean.” The stallion sits up with proud posture. “Surely you of all mares are well-aware~” “Humor me.” “Well, in just my first year alone, I've had to spend over—ehm—one hundred hours studying the complete works of Picassoats! Do you have any idea just how many different thematic stages that stallion went through?” “All in your first year, hmmm?” “Yes. For my second year... ehm... I am hoping to expand my horizons into—what is the Mainland Basic name for it—ah! Post Modernism! Yes!” Rarity finishes her latest sip. She tastes the remote corners of her mouth, squinting into some sudden distance. “You've yet to start your second year?” “Yes. Yes indeed. The Prance University of Art.” He points out a random window. “Just a brisk trot down the canal! Absolutely beautiful sights! Would be lovely to walk together, no?” “Heeheehee... yes, quite... but second year?” Rarity smiles. Humored. Curious. “Then that must make you barely past—” The cat is dead. Rarity's smile fades. Her expression pales over. Silence permeates the lounge. The moment. Clearing his throat, the stallion struggles to push things back on track. “Are you... ehhh... familiar with Picassoats? He spent the last few decades of his life in Cheval. He had a major... ehm... impact on the art scene there. As a matter of fact—” Rarity blinks. The wine in her glass ripples beyond her control. She sees the lights of Prance off in the distance. All faded and yellow and distant. The fashionista exhales in a shudder. Opalescence was over twenty years ago. “...is something the matter, Madame?” Her heart has already chilled over. She can't remember if she is sitting or standing. She places the glass down onto the countertop before she could utterly drop it. “Uhm...” Rarity strafes sideways a few inches. She bumps into her bag of things on the floor. Her horn flickers, struggling to grasp onto a lifelong telekinesis spell. “I... uhm...” She clears her throat. She reaches into a bit bag and drops several coins—inordinately—before the bartender. “I'm afraid I'm feeling rather... t-tired...” Her mouth is dry. The taste of wine has completely receded. Her eyelids hang heavy, trying to shut out the stars. “...a lady knows when to take her leave.” “Awwwww.” He sounds wounded, hurt—like a little colt. He is a little colt. “Won't you stay a bit longer, madame?” “I... I-I...” The cat is dead. “No.” She jolts. She moves. She fumbles, then turns to magically lift her bag—then limps her way out of the lounge completely. “T'was lovely. I hope to see you again sometime, d-darling.” “Soon?” He echoes sadly from a distance. Smokey eyes blinking. Vanishing. “Yes?” She says nothing. She looks ahead. The hotel lobby looms. Elevator doors like gravestones, sleek and familiar and lifeless. Rarity shivers at a stop before them. She fishes and flops through a fog to find a call button. The cat is dead. She sucks in her breath. With teeth clenched, she presses against the panel. The cat is dead. Rarity sweats. She struggles to keep her bag floating... to not hyperventilate. She presses the button again... and again and again and again. The cat is dead. The music is gone. Somepony across the lobby coughs. She swears she sees heads behind the front desk swiveling to face her. Locked on. Throbbing in waves. The cat is dead. Rarity clenches her eyes shut. The cat is dead. She wheezes against the doors. Fogging them. Her horn flickers— —and at last the doors open. Rarity stumbles inside on numb limbs. She turns around and immediately hits the number of her floor. The doors close. They're a bright metallic sheen and the elevator's lights are bright. Rarity gasps. The reflection blanches back. The old mare's face is wrought with wrinkles and her purple mane is peppered with gray. Rarity feels forward, but there's no warmth. No shining light. There are envelopes unopened on her bedside table; one of them is from Hemline's daughter. A funeral service is on the forwarding address. The cat is dead. The cold doors reopen like an unearthed sepulcher. Instead of Ponyville outside, there're hallways after hallways. Dimly lit and devoid of life. Rarity threads them like old tweed, and not in the same straight line that she used to. She teeters and bumbles, smelling hotel after hotel, each intestine reeking the same. Baltimare or Manehattan or Trottingham or Maredrid. All the shadows converge identically, entombing her in next week's schedule, always moving and yet always staying. The cat is dead. Rarity trips. She clasps her head, seethes, and forces herself forward. Always forward. The cat is dead. She reaches the door to her room. She's hyperventilating now. She fiddles for her key card. She jabs it at the door. She stabs. She murders. It doesn't die. The cat is dead. It doesn't die. Over twenty years ago. She doesn't— The door opens. She rushes inside, but there is no relief. Stirrup. The Ocean. Equestria. The whole world is spinning, closing in. She collapses to the lush carpet, surrounded by silk and luxury and gold. Everything is scented like flowers but all she smells is decay. The cat is dead. Where are your friends? Panting and panting, she runs— Into the bathroom, disrobing, whimpering— The cat is dead. Where are your friends??? The toilet— No. The shower. She falls in. She twists the faucet. She soaks herself in an icy deluge. The train car rocks but she can never sleep. Days and hours and months of meetings and shows and tours to exhibit. An ocean stretching her to the thinnest of fabric; no room left to fit. Not even an inch to scream. She chokes on one sob. Then another, until she's wailing into the frigid spray, feeling alive enough to die, but still never close enough. Not even for all her galloping forward. There are ever still mountain peaks to climb, and only enough room atop each for one. She hates it. She loves it. Everything in between is simply reflection, and it's simply too horrid to spare even a moment for that. Simply too horrid for tears. Rarity waits until she's properly submerged in the hotel tub before opening her eyes, when there's no way to parse the tears from the rest. Now—and only now—can she breathe easily.