Part One: The Bunny Phase
1
A creased photo’s smooth surface reflected a brilliant sun shining in through the clanky train’s window. A man of modest stature leaned forward, blocking out high noon’s light with his close-shaved head. He slid his finger over a young, beautiful, genius of a woman, sighing deeply. She wore, as always, an excess of style with such genuine casualness. The man, wearing the same white uniform in the picture now, laughed inwardly, staring hard at the smiling pair.
At last he looked up, a flood of memories taking him back to two traumatic, life changing months, now two years gone. Those were weeks of basic training, from small arms training to damage control, naval terminology, tradition, and of course, folding and cleaning. Kindergarten, at least compared to mass magic power.
The sailor compared the rank on his arm to the photo without looking at either. From two meager stripes, awarded for signing up for such a demanding task (vice a desk or construction billet), now a glowing gem, flanked on top and bottom respectively with an alicorn and two chevrons. From fireman apprentice to Magic Machinist Second Class Petty Officer. The nametag in the photo read Roper, and of course still did.
“Earned that. Damn straight, I earned it,” he mumbled looking out across the Equestrian countryside. Small green hills dotted with wildflowers leveled out to a dark, uninviting forest. Rarity had said she had ventured in dozens of times. As well traveled as her returning companion knew her to be, that was easy to believe.
He was too excited to sleep or read, not that he could concentrate on a book at a time like this. Ponyville, ten miles. Not home, not by a week’s travel, but he grinned wide while thinking about the bed he would sleep in.
2
“No no no! I apologize,” a woman, her normal white blouse, or blue, or mauve, or lavender, or whatever hue happened to go with her eyes that morning, missing. In lieu today was a most becoming sundress, one that welcomed summer and all the wonderful things about it. “But I must insist. I have an absolutely vital, prior, scheduled engagement and I simply must not be late!”
The business owner received a dipped, perfectly symmetrical nose and a lifted and styled eyebrow. “Miss Rarity, now I know you know who I am-”
“And I know you know who I am, miz Shores,” she interrupted, hoping the marital-neuter ‘miz’ landed. “And I know both our times are priceless. So, if you would use those legs you wish to showcase with this skirt and make for the door, I would be grateful!” She struck each of her last four words with a strong marcatto in the middle range of a piano, hands on comparatively narrow hips and a stern frown upon her not so thick red lips.
For a moment, but just a small one, Saphire Shore’s entourage stood shocked, while their leader stood fast two inches in height, bust, and hips over her clothing designer. The standoff ended just as Rarity wished it to. “Your store, Rarity. Your rules. I’ll be by tomorrow-”
“Monday is my next open day,” Rarity replied flatly, gesturing to the door. “The note clearly says that.”
“Today’s Tues-” The pop star sighed, looked beyond the ceiling for a moment, then subsided with her humility intact. “Monday. I don’t appreciate this shortness though.”
“You will appreciate your legroom for the new music video,” Rarity added lightly, ignoring the short comment, twirling her white and bright blue dress as she turned for the stairs. “Ta-ta! Safe travels!”
“Have a nice week off, Rarity.”
With a dingaling of the front door, the designer and seamstress skipped up the stairs in her tall blue heels. Rarity hummed Sapphire Shore’s new song “Prance Trance”, unheard by the public, as she did her makeup again. A pristine photograph hung in the corner of her tall mirror borrowed from a Manehatten theater dressing room. The color was faded by barely two years, just the slightest, making Rarity’s beautiful midnight-black hair shine with the faintest purple. It was this minute detail that led Rarity to get near imperceptible hints of purple during her last spa visit, hints that took her luscious length to an incorporeal beauty.
Next, the perfect amount of eye-shadow and liner, mascara, lipstick, and finally three spritzes of expensive yet sexy perfume completed her sailor’s first welcome-home present. She tightened her strapless brassiere and hoped he would notice her lack of tanlines, upstairs and down. She crossed her legs tightly and held back a flood of thoughts about him.
Before the military plucked him up and away, Rarity recalled having nothing but disinterest for the man. Rather short in stature during his summer abroad, stricken by mild acne and a plague of apathy, Rarity saw his potential like a dress in a swatch of cotton.
Finally, she thought, fanning herself in the warmth of her upstairs personal salon. He’s a diamond dug from the rough; cut into a beautiful shape, the trimmings of fat polished off, dense muscles hard.
“That’s enough,” she said to herself, standing and making for the kitchen. Tonight’s champagne on her neck worked to freeze her hot thoughts, but not for long. The kitchen clock read an hour shy of noon. Rarity fixed the tight, thin dress, admiring both her hand’s and her fitness plan’s handiwork. Her flat tummy was hugged tight, the curve of her shapely thighs and bottom shone like diamonds when she walked, her hips caused the fabric to go smooth and her waist to scrunch, not too much. Equally delightful, her cleavage was distracting.
Rarity sipped a tall glass of water, debating if underwear was a good idea.
3
It is a little known fact that the Equestrian Navy’s enlisted dress white uniform was, in fact, designed by an amature. Sure, it looks professional, sharp, it breathes well enough, and that signature cape and wide white cover give it an unmistakable silhouette. However, the creases are nay impossible to keep if the cleaner or presser is off by the slightest, and a conventional washing machine will ensure the straight lines turn bowed. For the fabric, the scratchy polyester is a cheese grater to the bare skin, and is transparent. The cuffs of the legs never stay white thanks to the black shoe polish, prescribed by the uniform regulations. Holes where the ribbons pierce through never close, and stains set in within minutes. The worst part about them, Rarity bit her lip in pain born of empathy, was the complete lack of room for a big, strong sailor’s tool.
These were the thoughts that the fashionista had during the middle of her escortment from the open, sun-baked Ponyville Grand Market Station. The first had been giddy fantasy about his lifestyle, friends, work, leisure, clean shave, thick arm she hugged tight to her chest, strong hand holding hers, etcetera. The last, distilled from the uniform’s final conundrum, led quite well into the next item on her solid schedule.
