The door opened with a fine jingle followed by a lovely sing-song, "Sweetie Belle, darling, I'm home!" Rarity entered the boutique with paper bags wrapped in a soft blue aura as they gracefully floated by her side.
But, to her disappointment, there was not a sound in response. No greetings, no ‘Rarity!’s. Not even a sign of her little sister's presence to at least make her feel a little more welcomed.
She rolled her eyes as she bounced up the stairs, down the hall, and immediately to the left. "Sweetie Belle?" she sang again.
"Oh, hey Rarity,"
That was it. That was all she got.
Foals these days, thought Rarity, It’s as if I was merely a substitute of sorts until she found her own friends!
It was not that Rarity did not like this. In fact, she could not help but relish in the sounds of the three high-pitched yells and giggles and sounds of thuds and rips, complemented by the ever-so timid voice of Fluttershy trying to calm the ruckus.
With a small sigh and a smile, she trotted back down the stairs to stock, recycle the bags, and even open the Boutique a little early. Maybe not. Maybe so? A lady can never predict how her mood would go.
It turned out she might open shop a little more on schedule. She could hear the tiny little hoofsteps down the stairs on cue with Rarity turning her sign.
She could hear the raspy voice of Scootaloo apologize. "Sorry about the mess, though,"
Rarity enjoyed seeing an improvement of Scootaloo’s manners. However, she still had plans to give Sweetie Belle a firm lecture about not letting a sleepover get out of hoof as they made their way through the stairs.
"Oh, it's fine. I'm sure Rarity won’t mind. It was already a mess anyway," Sweetie dismissed the matter on the way down.
Speaking of which, Rarity did mind—more than Sweetie Belle could have possibly imagined. Where the fillies played was her inspiration room. The room was not a mess, it was organised chaos. When will she learn? She was seething, but she tried not to dwell on that. She realized that, for some Celestia-given reason, she did not fully process or called out Sweetie Belle for playing in her inspiration room!
With Sweetie Belle and the foals giving their hugs to each other and Sweetie thanking Fluttershy, Rarity could not be angry anymore. She decided that Sweetie Belle would have to suffer another time.
To move on, she turned her head to where the real headache was: the orders to make. Knowing that art must always be done when one is in the mood, she decided to see if she could make a few new dresses to put up on display first.
---[({x})]---
Opal was particularly fascinated with the purple thread that morning as her little paws swiped at it with her tiny claws that hurt far more than they should. Her eyes were sharp and focused, like if she swiped it just right it might make something amazing happen. But, try as she might, Rarity could not figure out just what it was.
She wondered if Opal wanted the ball of yarn to fall a certain way: not too far to the left, and not too far to the right. Or perhaps that she had a target of some sorts. There were a few other balls of yarn, so Rarity supposed she was attempting to play some game of pool.
Unable to determine what Opal was up to in time, Rarity saw that Opal had supposedly hit the mark.
Or maybe she failed.
Who knows?
What Rarity was sure of, though, was that the ball of yarn had landed on a folded piece of white cloth. With a blank gaze, she was unsure on how to find it amusing. It did remind her a bit of her own colour pallet, with the violet yarn placed on top of the snow-white cloth. Perhaps that can be my next dress. Purple and white? Would it be based on me or would it just go with the scheme? Her eyes wandered to the window where she had a fine view of the Ponyville market. Applejack must have moved to a new spot, for some reason, she mused, Perhaps somepony wanted the spot she was at, perhaps she felt like shaking things up a bit. Perhaps it was a business tactic, or perhaps it was just her mood.
She then wondered what Applejack's colour palette would look on a dress and how it would be challenging to make a swirl of two similar yet ever so different colours. She then thought about two shades as Pinkie Pie came to mind for her bright and hot pink. Or perhaps two really bright colours that would normally look ugly and garish unless done right, like Fluttershy's bright pink and bright yellow.
Slowly, a grin formed—and, with her eyes overflowing to an expression that could make one wonder if she was going to maniacally laugh, her horn glowed as inspiration gave her its loving touch she oh-so longed for. She had always loved musing about what sort of dress would look good on a certain pony: how it could reflect their personality, compliment their colour pallet and in every way express what made that pony unique. But never before did she think about making a dress about their colour pallet.
Fabrics of yellow, blue, orange, and many purples and pinks began to dance around her boutique in an elegant dance. Paper and pencils covered every desk, markers with almost matching colour to the fabrics waltzed with each other as she compared their hues to see if they matched. So many designs, so many ideas…
Oh Sweetie Belle…
Everything faltered to a halt.
Every paper was left alone.
Every fabric draped the floor.
And every marker bounced once, twice before concluding their final movement.
It was like a symphony trained to perfection abruptly stopped by a director's hoof, but this time for a tragic reason.
She stared with horror at the tragedy that had halted her muse.
A ripped up ponniquin.
Deflated, she brought forth her sewing kit: she lost her mood when her inspiration was disrupted.
She was still at least a little excited about the new fashion line, of which she decided to call the Schéma de Couleur. The needles glided from hole to hole, stabbing into the ponniquin's felt only to stab into another portion to create a grip between the gaps.
She hummed peacefully to herself. There wasn't any melody to it, just three notes adjacent to one another without any real reference. All just for the sake of slightly amusing herself as she performed this simple, mundane task.
In a way, she felt like a mother tending to a foal. There had been times when Sweetie Belle had bruised herself and she would either kiss her boo-boo or actually take it seriously enough to attach a band aid. But she never really hummed like that when she did so. Instead, she always assured her sister that it was nothing to worry about—that it was simply a bruise or a cut that wouldn't take too long to heal.
Her eyes blinked lazily as she hummed, and hummed, until her mind started to clear and relax to practically nothing. Time started to slip away. And before she knew it, she began to almost sleep while still sewing her ponniquins.
This was getting silly.
She snapped out of her stupor. With a glance behind her, it was suddenly dark. How long was she sewing that ponniquin? Her head shook. "Oh, how late has it has gotten." She stretched, yawned, and blinked lazily, "I suppose it's already time to hit the hay..." With the dust settled, she carried herself up the stairs to her well decorated room and heaved herself onto her loving bed. She heaved herself into the covers, with a bit of a wiggle here and there.
Her bed was soft. It was warm. She could not be any happier.
Sleep was just about to take its toll when her bed shaked. She did not wish to bother. She only wanted to sleep. But it happened again, only this time it felt like there was a bit more weight on the bed. Slowly, reluctantly, Rarity opened her sleepy eyes.
All she saw was her ponniquin placed perfectly in front of her bed. Almost like it was staring at her.
How odd.
She didn't remember moving that.
She could be mistaken, but it looked like it leaned a little. In her eyes, with the lighting, it looked like an obsessive stalker.
She stared hard at the ponniquin before she felt safe enough to close her eyes.
Oh how silly it was to think that way.
But the push by a sudden force said otherwise.
She screamed, of course.
She backed away, reasonably.
And she was breathing heavily, indeed.
The head of the ponniquin twisted unnaturally towards her.
"What are you?!" Rarity covered her muzzle with a hoof. She backed as swiftly as she could, but that was not a good idea.
When her back almost hit the headboard, she felt two hollow hooves wrap round her underbelly. She screeched as her horn flared with panic, the captor and every single sharp object in the room trapped in her ever-gripping blue aura.
She threw everything everywhere with hardly any aim as she flailed off of her bed to run to the light switch. She flicked it, but nothing happened. She flicked it again, and still nothing. On and off, over and over, she desperately cried, "Come on, come on, come on!" completely off sync with her switching. With desperate measures, she flared her horn the brightest she could.
What she saw, was terrifying.
She cantered towards the window and jumped.
And then everything went black.
She floated amongst the nothingness. While most ponies would feel devastated in this state of existence; in a morbid way, Rarity was used to it. Amongst the void, her ever-louring eyes could make out simple objects.
Clocks, baby carriages, and even other ponies. But not exactly ponies.
What she saw before her were things.
They were there, yet she could not truly touch them. She would say hello; they would respond in kind. It was all in a simulation, a dreamscape. But still her guts and the objects around her begged and insisted that they truly were not in a simulation.
That's the strange thing about ponies: they have flesh, they can talk, they can look you in the eye and say 'yeah, I'm real'---yet the ponies' liveliness seems to only reside with other ponies they knew, ponies that are in their inner circle. An object would never turn like that. They admit with all honesty that they do not care for you. But because of that, it made them feel more real simply because of their silent honesty.
When you place them in a spot, they will stay and never move. When you push them to move, they'll move. When you cuddle with them, they don't make it weird.
Rarity couldn't help but scoff. Of course she associated with ponies, she talked with them all the time. She even served them, gave generously to them, and made their day by reminding them that they are beautiful in their own way.
But why do they not tend to her every need, like the ponies she read about in her books?
Well, the answer is simple: she's a drama queen. Every emotion is exaggerated, every tear easily bursts upon the lost of a single thread. So why take her sorrow seriously if she gets upset over a fabric with the wrong hue of pink? Why even bother?
Objects never question logic. They just do as you wish, they allow feelings to be shared, and shed no judgement.
"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" she desperately screamed as she held her hooves over her ears. "Get out, get out, get out!" Her eyes opened and what was before her was exactly what she saw before.
She didn't see grass, all she saw was floor and ponniquins. Lots of them. She flared her horn once again, and with anger she yelled, "Now what in Celestia’s mane is going on?!" There was no answer. Every head just stared at her blankly.
Trying a different route, she turned around and opened the door.
She ran down the stairs.
Then off to her main door she went.
But what she met on the other side wasn't grass; it was just her room.
Her horn flared once again and an onslaught of needless and diamonds were sent forth to shred apart the abominations before her.
A pony who was cut would fall upon a piercing in the heart. A ponniquin only fell upon the force of a diamond. But Rarity didn't care. She sighed when the last ponniquin was 'taken out'. Oh how silly was she getting, having to 'take down' a ponniquin. They were objects. Models for her dresses to be put on display, and references for how to fit her creations through a pony's hips and legs.
After breathing to calm herself for a minute, she ventured back down the stairs to assess the situation. Ponniquins surrounded the bottom of the stairs and every single head faced her. Taken aback, she turned back around to avoid the scene that had put her incredibly off ease.
But when she turned away, the ponniquins she had shredded apart were there, at her bedroom door.
Finding no other alternative, she stormed past the ponniquins to Sweetie Belle’s room. She knocked hard, and asked, "Sweetie Belle, dear, are you there?" trying in vain to sound calm and assuring only to come off a bit too desperate.
As she had desired, the doors opened before her. And there was Sweetie Belle.
She sat on her haunches.
Staring.
Seemingly deep in thought.
"Oh, Sweetie Belle, thank heavens you're all right!"
Sweetie Belle's head turned dully towards her with her neck leaned to the right, her eyes rolling around like they were just googly eyes. Her hoof slowly and awkwardly rose, then it waved. Simply like that. Then she slowly turned around and dragged across the floor towards the window.
"Sweetie Belle, what are you doing?"
Her hooves hugged the edge.
Her flank floated in the air.
Then dropped.
So instead, she dragged sideways to the edge.
"Sweetie Belle, stop this at once, please~..." Sweetie Belle lifted her chin and threw her head towards Rarity's direction but did not seem to be looking at her. Only forward.
"Sweetie Belle, don't—" And then she fell.
"Sweetie Belle!"
Rarity charged towards the window in hopes of catching her little sister, but instead she fell. And when she opened her eyes, she once again faced her captors.
As it was before, they all just stood there.
Watching her.
Mocking her.
"I don't know what you are up to, but as impressive as it all is, pranking a lady and scaring her off her wits is simply impolite! Let me guess; it was Rainbow Dash, wasn't it? What, did you and Pinkie feel like being a bit more morbid? Did you convince Starlight into this? I always knew she had issues, but if she had the nerve to go this far with her magic then I dare call it witchcraft! Now stop your foolishness, I'm quite sure you already had enough laughs tonight. Or today. Whatever in Tartarus the time it is."
The ponniquins did not respond. No pony or thing did. They only blankly stared at her. "Well then, I suppose I'm sure where you three must be… right here!" She slammed her bedroom entrance door behind her, only to yell and fall to the floor.
The ponniquins waited behind that door.
She curled up and wept her heart out.
She did not even want to know anymore.
She did not even care.
She wailed and yelled. And when she ran out of air to spend, she just instead breathed it all back in and wept silently.
When she opened her eyes, a ponniquin's head leaned in front of her.
A thread floated in a clear, silver aura.
Was it a threat?
Was it a message?
In the most sickening way, the ponniquin slowly stood itself back up. Rarity, having no choice, pulled herself back to her hooves to see what her dear children were asking for. The needle floated before her. The ponniquin looked at her with nonexistent, pleading eyes.
Rarity took the needle in her magic, still unsure what she was supposed to do with it. But it all became clear when the ponniquin slowly turned its head to present its neck, which carried a large cut.
Timid, she raised the needle near the shred.
All the ponniquin did in response was turn its head further to angle its wound towards her.
With shaking sigh, she calmed herself and sent the needle straight to the bottom of the cut to begin the procedure.
She screamed and ran again, for as soon as she placed a hoof on the ponniquin to keep it still, the cut became a wound of flesh and blood began to spurt.
She jumped out the display window.
Only to meet the ponniquins again.
It was no use.
"No, I can't do this! Please leave me alone!"
She ran out her door again.
She didn't care where she went, or how she went there; she just ran. The first place she ran to was to her main store, where ponniquins were still placed all around. In anger, her horn flared once again and took one ponniquin to throw against all the others to make a rough path. The ponniquin she had weaponized fell to the floor, and soon after its head twisted in her direction.
She would soon regret her decision.
Slowly, the ponniquins had risen one by one, and each turned their attention towards Rarity. In one silent thought, they all agreed. A goal they all possessed.
To catch her. To obtain her. To get things back in order.
One by one, they all began to walk—slowly, but surely.
When Rarity had almost made it to her kitchen, a ponniquin simply leaned in the way to block her path. Her horn ignited, the ponniquin’s forehead lit up . But it didn't move this time. She cried out in anger, but the ponniquin refused to move. While enraged, another ponniquin slowly made its way towards her. Slowly, carefully, like how their master would move her ever elegant needles, it wrapped a leg round Rarity's neck.
Feeling this, her first instinct was to shriek and grab the ponniquin by the arm to physically force it down before her before she aimed her horn towards its heart to stab.
She didn't even care if that seemed violent anymore, she just tore the ponniquin apart in rage.
She turned around and saw the other ponniquins stalking her behind. Taking the opportune moment, she dashed past the unmoving ponniquin and ran for her life in the kitchen. Again. And again. It took several loops for her to notice how she seemed to canter into one clone of her kitchen after another, adjacent to one another, like a conveyor belt rolling in an endless loop.
It finally ended when a ponniquin stood at the exit: perfectly straight, perfectly aligned to her direction. Without even thinking, Rarity levitated a knife from one of the thousands of drawers and sliced the ponniquin's chin then physically shoved it out of the way with a hoof. The ponniquin stood itself back up and turned in her direction. It now had a smile, one made with flesh and utter gore.
But it was certainly not a happy one.
Rarity found herself in the dining room at last, where she and Sweetie Belle shared many meals for many years. A sharp glare was aimed at the three ponniquins that dared to take residence in her beloved dining room, not to mention her very Boutique. One of them even dared to walk towards her. The ponniquins were shown no mercy at that instant.
Little did she know of the gore that formed upon walking on the shredded cloth and wool.
When she entered the shop, the ponniquins once again crowded the room. But she didn't care. Her horn glowed, and she focused on the nearest ponniquin and made it explode. Its force sent all the other ponniquins flying about to clear a path for her to head straight to the door once again. She stared, amused at the darkness that greeted her. With a dainty sigh, she decided to walk in anyway, and when she blinked, she found herself back in her main room.
Only this time, there was a needle floating by her head.
She froze.
She felt unsure if it was a bluff or if the ponniquins really were capable of actually drilling it through. Afraid, and unwilling to take any chances, she carried the needle once again in tears as she began to sew back together the disgusting, gory, and unnatural wound.
And soon after she had finished with that one, the next had trotted up with another series of wounds.
One ponniquin after another.
Bags under her eyes.
Her mind and soul began to tire.
Still, whenever she so much as sighed, so much as stopped, so much as nodded off, another needle would near her fragile head, or sometimes even one of her eyes.
So, she kept going.
Stitch, stitch.
Knot, sow.
Stack, show.
"They don't make them like they used too." Rarity murmured as she fixed the latest ponniquin that had fallen into disrepair.
Nothing a little sewing won't fix though.
It's not like she even had any choice...
Stitch, stitch
Please stitch
Oh dear Rarity
Come and stitch me
Knot, sow
Fix me like so
We never sought
For us to rot
Slaughter, slaughter
We love the pain
Its cost to gain
Our Dear Mother