Stalker

Black Noise
*****

Rarity knew she was still sitting up, and suddenly, focused rays of bright light incapacitated her, making her flinch. It was abrupt, but she didn't waste any time of her own to shield her one open eye with her hoof. Sure, it was instinct, and she was surprised at how her hooves were no longer stuck together. She leaned on her opposite foreleg; she could see the window at the end of her room serving as the source of the light: the sun. But something made a contrast to that comforting light.

Casting a tall shadow that reached her was the pony-quin, standing motionless with the light at its back. Its silhouetted body—and more importantly, its face— was covered in shadow, but all Rarity found herself doing was staring as it acted likewise, staring back with its wicked smile.

"What, what do . . . you want..? From me?" She dared not move; she could hardly speak as she stared at the creature through tightly squinted eyes. "What are you?"

"Are you eager to see my next piece?"

Rarity then heard a familiar sound: the rapid whirring of her sewing machine at her desk across her room. Given that she never received a real answer, she jumped off her bed with the resolve to get one, and to end this nightmare. The pony-quin watched her quizzically as its head swayed slightly. As she approached, it suddenly collapsed onto the floor, as if it had been lightly pushed.

Then, she saw another pony-quin as it slid out from one of the dark corners of the room, heading to her desk to operate the machine. Rarity sidled around the fallen dummy, surprised that nothing from the darkened borders touched her. This was surely one nightmare after another, and they would be tough to conquer.

"What do you plan to accomplish using my machine? That is mine!" She took a quick glance behind her and witnessed the fallen pony-quin making its way up from the floor, bending its body as if it were a real living being, and it threatened her peace by looking at her again. This time around, though, its face was visible, and it made her turn tail in an instant.

She made haste toward the pony-quin working at her desk; she found herself almost trotting forward, and then in a full-on gallop after she heard a blood-curdling scream coming from ahead. She heard yet another, and more, and even more to follow. They were sickly, gut-wrenching cries, full of agony and suffering caused by what she feared to be absurd amounts of pain.

But she continued running with another fear in her mind: she swore she was faintly able to hear Sweetie Belle's voice cut into those screams. She quickly grew certain that they belonged to her. They just had to. She broke into a full-on sprint. But she could only run so far—the question was how much farther?

Nine seconds into her sprint, she was completely out of breath. The screaming became more and more silent and muffled when it finally subsided, and her own breathing was the only thing she could hear. She turned around and didn't see the other pony-quin in sight. With the little distance she covered, she finally noticed that she was making actual progress toward the pony-quin at her desk

"Aaah, this one should come together nicely. . ."

Exhausted, Rarity stumbled beside the passive pony-quin, absorbed in its own work. Her eyes fell on its heavy hoof, laid on the table, and then onto its unforgettable face when it quickly turned to look at her with its dark, pastel magenta eyes.

"I'm not scared of you. . . !" She hesitated, though, and the puppet peered right through her bravery.

"Admit it, Rarity," it started. "You're through. You had your chance."

"What in the world . . . What in the Hell are you talking about?" She was indignant now.

"Would you like to see, Rarity? Would you like to see how you're going to end? All you've been keeping from us? The majesty?" The pony-quin moved its hoof from the side of the machine, and as it expected, Rarity immediately looked away, reacting appropriately.

"Oh my God. . . !"

"You could have prevented this if you had just listened."

A dead, mutilated filly. . .

The moist, eviscerated contents of a filly's insides were spread all around the workstation. Only the pointiest of needles was installed on the sewing machine; it glistened in the window's light, highlighting the fresh blood and bits of gore that stuck to it. Those pieces progressively slid off—with the weight of the blood they were soaked in—and it drew Rarity's eyes to look back at all the butchered remains.

Despite her incredulous disgust, she found herself gazing over it all, and she saw that large chunks of the filly's ribcage were also present, all cut up in varying sizes. A rough fraction of a small skull sat upside-down on the far side of the machine—with a sizable amount of moist brain matter still left clinging to whatever stable parts of the structure was left—with no fur on it at all. Rarity felt absolutely sick to her stomach. She tightly closed her eyes and struggled to keep her urge to vomit under control, and the faint, yet abhorrent smell sure wasn't helping her cause.

Four tiny, bloodied legs stood tall with all metatarsals bare, and they were positioned to resemble how a living filly would stand, both in height and normal stature. In addition to some splint bones, a bit of cartilage was still attached, but there was no fur present on the legs, either. Her eyes glanced over many other bones that she could name, and some that she couldn't, but then she begrudgingly brought herself to scour the scene further; she could not bring herself to look away. She gagged and turned her head away, but she came right back. . .

She focused on all the dark stretches of gore now, so terribly shaken up. Chunks of torn muscles and shredded intestines were spread out much like everything else, over the pints and pints of blood that were gently soaking into the wood from all over, tainting what she knew was previously a polished, flawless surface.

A detached eyeball, torn out by its optic nerve, was spotted. It came straight from the skull she saw earlier, with blood totally absent from it, despite all the crimson blood and gore that surrounded it. It looked lifelessly in her direction, dilated and deflated, with a huge bloody puncture where its pupil should have been. She couldn't shake the feeling that it very well could have been aware, watching her tremble. She noticed how grey it was near the area it was stabbed, as if its soft structure was becoming sore, or even compromised.

Even worse, the eye was slumped against a slightly more disturbing sight. A countless number of red teeth were tightly wound together in a circle, surrounding and helping support a torn tongue that was completely saturated in blood, having punctures similar to the eye. She couldn't possibly know who this young pony was, or why she was chosen to suffer what she knew for a fact to be an incredibly painful end, but she prayed for it not to be her sister. She had entirely too much reason to dread that it could have been, though, with how clearly she recalled Sweetie Belle's screaming; specifically addressed to her.

Rarity took all this in, horrified. But premature, the gut-wrenching was; she had identified a different victim, with absolute certainty:

"Oh yes, do you like my new tiara, too, Rarity?"

Out of all emotions mustered, Rarity exuded disgust and anger, coining a brand-new term for the pony-quin:

"You're a monster!!" she yelled.

"Hm?" This is beauty, Rarity. Just gaze at my mastery. The beauty! But now all I need is constructive criticism. Yours."

Rarity's patience and frame of mind were both cut short. She gritted her teeth and launched herself at the vulnerable figure, thrashing her forearms in desperation. However, it was not open to attack like she had hoped: two other pony-quins approached her from behind and restrained her, locking their hooves around hers and holding her back.

"There's . . . more of you. . . ?!!"

They each brought their heads close to her own, running their noses and their forearms along her and her silky-smooth coat, all over her body. She shuddered, she whimpered; she tried to lift one of the four bones on top of the table with the intention of bludgeoning them away, but her magic wasn't materializing. She clenched her eyelids shut once more, her head hanging low.

"There are many of us, you know. We've been leaving you to your own devices for far too long, Rarity."

She yelled at it with deadly intent. "Where is my sister!??"

As mentioned, more living pony-quins came from the dark corners, approaching Rarity. They surrounded her, observing her. Their hooves were all over her, and while they did not speak, they hummed pleasantly. They enjoyed what they saw, and they didn't stop touching her until word from their supposed leader—the one Rarity had encountered multiple times now. The 'monster'.

"This is not just another nightmare, Rarity," It spoke louder; progressively louder. "You're going to live through this, and you're going to pay us what you owe us."

Her magic couldn't help her. No one could help her. She alone could not even help her sister, who she knew was still in danger elsewhere, in some way. Rarity was hopeless, and she felt that exact same way, as she could muster no more strength within her body. Another burning sensation developed and pierced through her body as the pony-quins smothered her.

"But why. . . ?" she asked. "Why me? What did I even do??" Despite her weakness, she tried her best to struggle in their grasp. "Where in this hell have you taken my sister, damn it?!"

"Sweetie Belle is mere . . . She is the literal price you are paying, for straying away with her from your duties. To inspire you."

"She's my sister, God damn it!!" she hissed. "I am her role model!! And what do you mean my duties?! My sewing is my business and nothing more! It's not your business, it's mine!! And Sweetie Belle has absolutely nothing to do with my work!!"

"Do not lie to us, Rarity. We know your sister's name. We know your pretty little friends' names. And most importantly, we know . . . you. We're quite aware of your mastery."

"What, do you mean to stalk ponies? Do you feel the need to ruin them, you freak; whatever the hell you are?! All of you!?"

"The problem is that you deserve this, Rarity." It reached for the tiara on its head and removed it, patting Rarity's own head with it. "But not this. Not yet. You're not the queen unless you show to us that you have . . . the temper."

"I have done nothing wrong!!"

With strength that was quickly expended, she wriggled only slightly within the puppets' hold. She indeed denied that she had ever done anything so wrong to be owed such torture. Such horror—

"Look at yourself, Rarity. Covering up your crime; denying it, even."

Such a terrible nightmare, all come to life.

"But don't worry. As your last request, you'll get to see her one last time, but you must also show us your method. After all, you are one for . . . fresh and awe-striking new trends."

"I know who I am!! But who. . . ?! Who the fuck are you?!!"

The 'monster' reached for the little tower of teeth from the table with one hoof and manipulated it, turning the topped tongue clockwise and making it faintly tick; like a kitchen timer. It turned its head around with serpentine precision, approaching Rarity with eyes that were now a thicker, heavier layer of mahogany, saturating its 'eyes' now more than ever before. It placed the gore-soiled tiara on her head, taking the time to carefully clip it around her ears. She accepted it, terrified and unable to stop any of this from happening. Afterward, it lowered its head down to her level. It placed its hoof on the bottom of Rarity's chin and raised her head, her eyes clasped shut with an aggressive wincing expression.

It looked at her weary head and gave a smirk that distorted the entire lower portion of its face. Thankfully, Rarity spared herself of the terrifying sight, refusing to open her eyes. She knew something unspeakable was going to happen to her.

"Do you really know who you are, Rarity?"

Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . .

"We sure know."

***********

Rarity's eyelids violently lifted. She knew how long she had kept them shut, but not for a moment did she recall parting them. Nevertheless, there was nothing for her to lay her sights on, as a metaphorical blanket of darkness was her only company. It wasn't preferred company; albeit, but she seemed to find her way around, regardless of her aimless wandering.

"Here," she heard a voice say to her. "Take our lead. We shall guide you in the right direction." During those few moments, she was greeted with company she was quite grateful for.

"Why are you all here?" she asked.

Her five closest friends soon came into her view, but they spoke no words. They did not greet her, and she did not greet them—she only moved along with them as they did indeed guide her through the darkness, just as they said they would.

Rarity quickly realized she wasn't in control of her body. She was watching her body move entirely on its own, knowing she was making absolutely no effort to do so. She surmised to have been viewing herself in yet another dream, as she had also retained all the prior instances: and thus, there was some assurance to be had. While she could not voluntarily move, her mind was certainly active; frantic and racing. And somehow, she could hear the rising, fearful sounds of crying.

She had it clear in her mind that it was Sweetie Belle calling out to her. She desperately wanted to run toward her voice, but she could only watch as she walked along with her friends. She listened to herself speak to them, but her words did not exemplify kind, generous concern.

"Where is she?" she asked, forceful in her tone.

"We've made sure she won't be going anywhere, Rarity."

"Satisfactory, ladies," she said.

She wasn't in control anymore—she was merely an observer. Deprived of the very freedom her life was entitled to.

"I'm going to kill her. I must."

What was going on in this alternate reality?

"I'M SO SORRY, RARITY!" Sweetie cried, as loud as her injuries allowed.

"What all have you done to her?" Rarity asked, once more.

"She's not going anywhere. No one cared to defend her. Rest assured that she is yours from now on."

"LISTEN TO ME! PLEASE!!"

But she didn't listen to her. She didn't stop. She didn't care. She was forced to watch through her double's eyes as her own body was led to the filly, desperately trying to crawl her way across the floor. She laid on her stomach with her lithe hind legs viciously cut, bruised, and bloodied. She whined weakly as the group approached her as a whole, all so menacingly. The poor little filly begged for them to stop.

Rarity clearly wanted to put a stop to this as well, but she couldn't push her influence through, no matter how hard she wished for it.

"Go away!! Get away from me!!" Sweetie tried her best to flee, but her sister, in the advantageous position, picked her up by the scruff of her neck like a mere pet. She brought her close and grinned at her, and her expression insinuated that she was trying to hold in laughter, or eagerness, anticipating something. Her sister's body was terribly warm, and so was her heavy breath. The filly painfully wiggled in her grip, coughing blood onto her face, to which she whimpered louder as Rarity's face still retained that same crooked smile. This scared whatever daylight was left out of her, and she began thrashing about to the best of her ability.

She had the feeling that this was going to be the end of her life.

"I'm too young, Rarity . . . Please stop this. . ." She bawled. "P-please let me go. . ." Rarity said nothing and instead turned to face her friends, who were all heading toward a four-legged table. She followed suit a little faster, carrying her sister with a gentle magical hold on the way.

*****
"I'm sorry. . ."
*****

The doppelganger soon reached the table, and on it, alone, was Rarity's own faithful sewing machine. It never served a single operational failure, nor did it ever need a single repair. It could handle any job she tossed under its needle. It brought her great pride and satisfaction; all the wonderful things she could craft with its assistance. However, the impostor's smile transformed from the familiar form on her face to that of a disciplined, insidious foal presented with something that could be maimed for entertainment's sake. She casually laid Sweetie down on the table, with a care for her comfort.

"No, no, NO, Rarity! STOP! PLEASE!!"

***********
"I'm so sorry! Sweetie Belle. . . !!"
***********

The mare's five friends were gathered around the table, watching her position Sweetie Belle underneath the machine's needles with precise measurements, directly underneath her sight. The crying and pleading did not stop her, nor the thrashing: she couldn't escape the mare's powerful hold. She stared dead into the machine's shiny, thin metallic needle, crying and pleading as she struggled, but her saddening cries abruptly turned to deathly screams when the needle began thrusting itself down, the needle puncturing and tearing at Sweetie Belle's ear at an astronomical speed. The needle continued thrusting as the mare pushed her forward to the base, slicing the skin as it attempted to pierce its way through her skull. Then, with a sickening pop, the needle forced its way into her skull and began to ravage her facial anatomy.

She continued wiggling and flailing underneath the machine, with continuous punctures and penetration for only a few seconds before the needle reached her face. She had her eyes slammed shut, but it wasn't like it was going to shield her:

The filly's eye burst open under the enormous force behind the small needle, sending out disgusting amounts of intraocular fluid, mixed with blood and tears that were already present; to which the latter liquid failed to induce sympathy from any of the mares. It was sliced into several pieces with the fast and furious thrusting, sending pieces flying out in every direction, all complemented by generous, but nauseating amounts of blood. Her ravenous screams reached a loud, haunting crescendo before she started choking on them. They were fighting their way through her throat before they started dying down entirely.

Watching helplessly, Rarity felt the very same pain that she watched her mimic inflict upon Sweetie Belle. It was an incredibly realistic, direct rush of pain: it was as if her skull was being split open with repeated, powerful blows to her head, only adding on to the terribly authentic feeling that someone was literally gouging her eye out. She writhed in agony as she felt like she was the one being torn apart and exploited instead. She had no body to move, she could not scream; she could only suffer the pain in silence, overwhelmed by it all.

She continued dissecting the structure of the skull, made easier now that the body was limp, lifeless, and no longer resisting. She pressed holes deep into her coat, her flesh, her bones, cartilage, sinew, fat; all the way through. The sounds of the bones crunching under the needle pleased her, and while they became significantly weaker, it made her job much easier. She continued pressing her machine into the dead filly's skull until she had made punctures all around. She also made sure to trim off the mane from her scalp, adjusting the timing and the height of the needle bar, as doing so was a slow and delicate process that trailed all the way down the neck.

After she detached the mane, she gradually moved the bare neck underneath the needle, where she began cutting away at the flesh. It took no time at all for her to precisely sever the head from the body. Blood gushed out from the new, gaping hole in between the shoulders, and then it gradually oozed out, coming to a trickle as the body became little more than a bone-filled husk as it drained. Her spinal cord was now exposed and hanging from the detached head, in which she merely ripped out and tossed it to the side with her magic.

As if she weren't already in enough of this twisted new take on pain, Rarity felt her neck painfully tighten up, and fast. From this horrible view, she heard a terrible ripping sound, to which she saw the mimic's own neck ripping and tearing. She was still alive, but she felt every single wound that was being inflicted upon her sister's feeble body.

She set the lifeless and detached head aside and started working on the rest of the body, repeating almost the exact same process. She traced the needle along all the edges of the small body and all four legs, pinching the fur tightly and delicately ripping it from the tiny body. If there was still life inside the body, and it could scream... The sound would curdle blood.

As she continued doing this, the slack that soon built up was manipulated to fall onto the floor as she held the rope of fur with her magic, slowly filling into a pile. Tracing along the body was easy, but she had to make another bloody mess—or at least contribute to the trail of gore she was eviscerating from out of the body.

Rarity was in so much of her own pain that she could hardly breathe. She felt it all so vividly. But she continued to watch, even in her own nauseated state. She writhed in the most ultimate form of torment; one she could have never possibly imagined before now. Her head felt like it was being squeezed in the grips of a vise...

Without her own head to see, she continued stripping the dead body of its fur until she was finished. The stainless steel needle was still strong enough to make its way through the rest of the body. She dug through chest and ribcage, tearing and lifting out her heart in the process. She made her way down to her midsection and disemboweled her in a ragged mess of putrid intestines and red, slimy meat. Every internal organ of hers was becoming paste with how fast Rarity had the needle thrusting down. She was smiling. She was composed. She was content.

And it made Rarity squirm. . .

The bones were crushed into little pieces and shards, and the slick, meaty organs were mashed up into a thick, viscous jelly that spread all over the desk. The body was now just an open, empty carcass. What she was really focused on now was the fur that she harvested from the body.

She gave it all a quick look over — blood was soaked in and seeped deep into the pristine white coat, but that didn't discourage her, as it was nothing that couldn't be washed out in secrecy. She admired her beautiful work and smiled, but it took a different form this time around. She looked legitimately pleased with a job well done, thus heaving a heavy sigh of relief. Her friends admired her work to that point, but she was only halfway done.

Rarity had come to suffer the same fate as her sister, but to no avail could she rest just yet, even in death. There were still horrors that she was due to bear.

And so she got back to work. She sewed all the loose ends and flaps together into sleeves; meant to be worn comfortably. She split the tail into several thin intricately measured strips and crafted them into an even more intricate addition to the back. She crafted the mane into a thick wreath that would be worn around and sewn into the lapel of the coat she was crafting.

She then hemmed the ends of the sleeves, and with the remaining material, she sewed cuffs onto the end of each leg, coming up to the point where an average mare's hoof would pivot with her movement. She even took measures to improve the color of those pieces by applying light pressure on them with the vast array of bloodied organs that laid on the table.

Finally, with the last bit of material, she sewed in an emblem at the chest; six inches in diameter across a small, perfect hexagonal shape. She gently dyed her initial in the upper-left corner with a dull, rounded shard of bone dabbed in blood that was still liquefied to her desired volume. She ran it along the lighter area a few times so that it was made to be a permanent blemish.

Finally, the time came for her to try it on, as a benchmark for all the material she used. She backed up from her table and lifted the coat with her magic. She excitedly threw it over her head but struggled as she wriggled it along her body. It fit a little too tight, in all areas, too; it tightly hugged her stomach and legs, which wasn't exactly as she wanted. She raised her hoof and analyzed the sleeve, trying to figure out what exactly needed to be changed about her craft.

"No."

Her leg was slender and lanky, and her exposed hoof was not as she recalled it to be.

"This is perfection."

This was not Rarity. Not at all. This was nothing more than a headless pony-quin that was literally breaking down, trembling as it stood otherwise motionless. It shared exactly all the same scars that Sweetie Belle's body had endured both before and after her death.

"Yes, you win. I suppose we were wrong about you yet again. You're not afraid to get your hooves dirty after all, queen Rarity."

The damaged pony-quin carefully turned itself to the right and looked at its own head on the ground, showing the same wear that its body did. It slowly raised one of its forelegs and smashed its weary weight onto its head, destroying it; and in turn, its entire structure collapsed onto the ground.

Her friends were the only ones left. They stood at the three opposite sides of the bloody table. But like Rarity, they were not who they appeared to be, as there were now five other dummies standing exactly where they did. They barely had any facial features to speak of; only small black tendrils protruded from their faces, forming wicked grins.

They all looked across the gory table, at another sentient pony-quin who was wearing the coat, standing right where Rarity's doppelganger did before it destroyed itself.

Rarity was the one to inspire them...by murdering her own sister. And, in turn, utterly destroyed herself as well. Her pride, her reputation, and her life.

"You've shown us, but we are all friends here, and we will gladly carry on your new line of work."

The mannequins dispersed in five different directions.

"We will showcase our work to the world firsthand, just as you wanted to do yourself."

Author's Note

I just really wanted to have a chapter called 'Black Noise'. Freaking awesome name.