//------------------------------//
// Chapter 6 
// Story: The Cat Is Dead. 
// by shortskirtsandexplosions 
//------------------------------//

Warm.

Soft.

Fragrant and inviting.

Rarity's cloak eases her dry fur as she strolls across the hotel suite.

It's a comforting feeling.  It should be.  She created it... like so much else.  Calming, assuring, familiar artifice.

She makes a quick stop in the mini-kitchen.  Pulling a bottle of wine from a cooler, she pops the top and pours herself a liberal glass.  Upon the first taste, there's little to no effect.  Rarity's grown more familiar with wine than blood at this point.  There are times when Rarity wonders if there's actually any blissful buzz to be had from drinking anymore.  She's long settled for the fact that it's something that she needs.  And needing something creates the illusion of something needing her in return.

Another artifice, but so far it's carried her well enough.

Even carried her this high—in towering luxury—aloft among the stars.

Deadpan and contemplative, Rarity trots towards a window overlooking the affluent districts of Prance at night.  The world below is a pinprick matrix of gold and platinum, twinkling up at her with admiration and approval.  She might as well be flying; the mountaintops of the fashion scene are her only perches.

Still room enough for only one.

For a moment, her thoughts drift to the stallion she saw downstairs.  In hindsight, his stubble was quite ghastly.  Unkempt.  She ponders designing a jacket for him, but all she can muster up is adding rows upon rows of dangling belts—only because she's absolutely certain the delicious ruffian would leave them unbuckled.

This elicits a slight chuckle from her lips.  Between tastes of wine, Rarity thinks of turning around and sharing an anecdote out loud—




The cat is dead.




She exhales calmly.  Then, after another sip, she purrs at the dwindling lights of Prance down below, vanishing one after another, like tears down a sterile drain.

“All for the best~”

There's no time for distractions.  There simply isn't.  Rarity is tired, aching, and more than a little bit inebriated.  But instead of going to bed, she hobbles over to a work desk, hunches over, and reviews her schedule for next week.