Rarity's eyelids blink. The gesture's slow, a very liquid thing.
There's a reason for this. Pan the invisible camera around and we see a less than fabulous scene unfolding across the studio of the Carousel Boutique. All of the ponyquins stand naked, barren. Rarity's dresses—it would appear—are currently shredded into silken tatters, forming a pile of fashionable detritus across the tile floor. If we look closely—just squint, really—we find that the ripped fabric is covered in a fine white sediment, spread around into a solid circle that resembles an assortment of arcane runes. Just imagine a bunch of two-dimensional cave drawings that depict extinct lizards locked mouth-to-anus with one another.
"Huh," Rarity utters.
Her eyes travel up. Eventually she sees what we do: a persian cat crucified to the dress mirror on center-stage. It's okay, though. Opalescence's arms and legs are bound to the glossy surface by duct tape, and she's not bleeding. Not yet, anyway. Still, the little puss doesn't appear to be enjoying herself, judging from the frantic twitch in her slitted eyes. If it weren't for the mess of thorned roses stuffed in her fuzzy maw, the damned thing would likely be meowing up a storm. I mean, just look at her.
"Huh."
Rarity's eyes cascade back to the floor. There, we see three ghostly fillies standing side by side above the hastily drawn reptilian daisy chain. Why "ghostly" you ask? It probably has something to do with the copious amount of baby powder dumped over their flanks—or perhaps it's the pale expressions on the children's muzzles for having been caught mere seconds before this so-called narrative started. Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle are wearing matching feathers in their tightly-bound mane. Meanwhile, Scootaloo's dressed in a stupidly fluffy white ballgown that trails no less than three ridiculous feet behind her haunches.
Seconds drip by with the grace of kidney stones. The silence in the room could crush an elephant into gravy. We can't help but notice a mutual fidget among the cutie mark vandals, though they don't dare move too much or else they'll loosen the baby powder onto the floor and ruin the crocodilian sigil formed beneath their hooves. Somewhere outside, leaves fall past the window. Entropy and all that.
"Huh." Rarity swallows a whole lot of oxygen, and it's none too filling. Her eyes waltz around the settling dust between her and the holocaust, and eventually her gaze falls on Sweetie Belle.
With a monumental gulp, the twice-white creature opens her mouth. It scratches like religious sandpaper against our ears, so just bear with her.
"Okay, before you say anything, hear us out."
Apple Bloom joins in. "Ya know how ya wait all yer young life for a whizzbangin' cutie mark?"
"And then, like, one day you get it?" Scootaloo adds. "And at first you think it's super awesome 'cuz you got it at the same time as your BFFs?"
"But then, when you really think about it," Sweetie Belle squeaks, "You realize that you've been inexplicably robbed of your individuality?"
"And so..." Apple Bloom shakes white grit off her left rear leg, then her right. Like a puppy, only with more countryisms. "...in existential fear of losin' yer one chance at personal agency in this here world..."
"...you figure that—buck it all—maybe you got the wrong cutie mark!" Scootaloo fluffs the sacramental flowers in her mane and smiles past us. "I mean, it can happen, right?"
"There was a white ballgown here," Rarity murmurs, her eyes sweeping the dirtied floor. "But it's gone now."
"We're getting to that," Sweetie Belle says, gesturing at the fashionably adorned horse-bird-thing standing atop the powdery dais. "So, as Scoots here was saying..."
"You get to thinkin' that maybe all isn't right in the world."
"And perhaps the way Celestia and Luna have been doin' it is wrong, ya reckon?"
"And if there's a way for us to exchange our nigh-identical cutie marks for ones that are way more awesome and better suited for us..."
"...then the key is to appeal to some other all-powerful being whose supremacy supersedes the royal alicorn sisters!"
"And who else would possess such power except for some aloof, high-gallavantin' old god that time just plum forgot?"
"So we went to Zecora for some advice on how to find ill-forsaken tomes of pagan origin."
"But she wasn't in the mood for helping us call upon the power of an eldritch god and all..."
"So we snooped around in her house after she done fell asleep from... sickle stripe anemia or somethin'. Shucks... sure beats me how that smarty-pants zebra gets so darned pooped all the time."
"Anyways, then Apple Bloom here found this killer sweet hidden map to the Temple of the Old Alligator Gods!"
"And guess what!" Sweetie Belle throws a puffy smile over at Scootaloo and Apple Bloom. "It was just two miles south of Fluttershy's cottage! Can you believe that?"
"Eeyup! We followed the trail of dead crocodile birds and then the rest was easy peasy!"
"That's how we knew that we were on the right path. Cuz—like—what self-respecting modern-day alligator would kill its own Neighyptian Clovers?"
"Especially after forming a ten million year old symbiotic relationship with them!"
"Darn tootin'."
"But..." Rarity swallows an invisible watermelon down her throat. We see the formation of tiny, diamond tears along the fringes of her eye sockets. "...my ballgown."
"Shhh! All good things, sis," Sweetie Belle chirps. "Anyways, we approached the Temple of the Old Alligator Gods."
"And it's really darn huge!" Apple Bloom's eyes widen with emphasis.
"Soooooo huge," Scootaloo adds. "Like, twenty unregistered hippos could dance in the doorway and not get arrested."
"So... y'know how you knock on the door to somepony's house and there's no answer? And your first recourse is to trot off and come back another day?"
"Well, we didn't do that."
"It was Sweetie Belle's idea."
"But you gave me moral support, Scootaloo!"
"Actually, if I recall, we just fell into the gul-durn crematorium chamber via the smoke chute."
"Ohhhhh yeah! Apple Bloom has it right. You see, apparently they used to sacrifice bobcats and cougars in this place."
"Which is what we found out, because we landed on a big stone altar covered all over with cat bones."
"Ya sure they was cat bones?"
"Pretty sure, Apple Bloom. That or really really skinny donkeys."
"Well, we didn't have much time to think about it, because that's when the cursed frozen eidolon of the lizard queen poured out of the porous walls of the place and manifested itself before us."
"The walls? I coulda sworn the regal spook poured out of the smashed-up bone meal of the feline dead!"
"Whatever. Anyways, the spectre of the lizard queen showed up. We could all tell she was a ghost because she was covered in chains."
"Lots and lots of chains."
"We ain't kiddin'. She had them comin' out of her poop holes'n'everythang."
"I had just finished the bodice last night," Rarity murmurs. She's looking at us, or maybe her nose just itches. "Ponyrisian lace and everything. My stars and garters..."
"I know you're curious, big sis," Sweetie Belle wheezes, holding up a powdered hoof. "But just hold on. We're getting there." Clearing her throat, she looks aside. "Apple Bloom?"
"Uhm, Scoots?"
"Opalescence?"
"Mrmmmfffmmmfff!"
"Ungh." Sweetie Belle rolls her eyes. "Fine. I'll start." She fluffs the feathers in her mane and coughs guiltily. "So... you know how you do something that you sometimes regret? Like stealing from a cookie jar or lying about who broke the kitchen vase or osmotically selling your souls to the manacled clutches of a newly resurrected reptilian god of yesteryear?"
"We kinda sorta did one of those thangs," Apple Bloom added with drooping ears. "Not like we meant to, of course. It was gravity that done pulled us down that chute."
"And of course you know how angry a pagan lizard queen can get when she receives penitent visitors for the first time in ten millennia and they're NOT bearing the scrumptious flesh of feline virgins as a humble sacrifice..."
"And you know how they threaten to place an apocalyptic curse on all equine civilization if you don't sacrifice a fitting cat soul for them?"
"And we ain't talkin' about no regular schoolyard prank of a curse."
"We mean something more akin to... all orifices of every mammalian creature melting inside-out with boiling lizard blood while having one's eyeballs devoured by razor-skinned salamanders for five centuries." Scootaloo yawns. "While the continents collide with one another and several islands sink into the godless sea. Y'know. The classic stuff."
Sweetie Belle nods. "And you know that feeling you get when you're kinda sorta tasked with staving off Reptilian Ragnorak by... oh, I dunno... crucifying the prized cat belonging to somepony's older sister, stuffing her mouth full of roses, and then chanting the name of the lizard queen three times in a row so that some filly with wings can glide through the fresh hole ripped in the nether void and wrangle up the souls of every feline that's died in the eons since the last lizard epoch?"
"Only, like, that filly has to be wearin' a super pretty dress so that she'll blend in with all of the brave winged maidens who've attempted the same feat in the past but failed." Apple Bloom gulps. "Or else she'll stand out from all them floatin' carcasses in formal gowns..."
"...which means the necrotic feline guardian tasked with protecting the spirits' eternal slumber might find me—erm... find HER and eat the filly whole before she has a chance of bringing the souls back through the trans-dimensional fissure to satiate the newly-awoken eidolon of the lizard queen?"
"Erm..." Rarity raises her hoof. "If you could clarify just a teensy bit."
At last, there's a substantial belch of silence as all three crusaders glance at one another. Then we see them squint back at Rarity.
"Which part?"
Rarity opens her muzzle again. Nothing comes out, so she thoughtfully strokes her chin in concentric circles instead. Dead eyes lock on the deader fabric clinging to Scootaloo's petite figure. More leaves fall outside the window. Minute hands, dust mites, respiration. Somepony feels like sneezing, but she holds it in.
And that's precisely when we hear the loud, rhythmic chime of the front doorbell ringing. The powdered runes on the floor shift slightly. Opalescence's panicked eyes flitter across the room amidst a sea of sweat.
"Just one moment," Rarity says. She turns tail. Elegantly, of course. The mare leaves the crusaders, the fabric, the powdered rune, the cat urine. With a simple shuffle, she reaches the front door and opens it. "Welcome to Carousel Boutique where every garment is chic, unique and—oh it's you."
"Package for Miss Rarity," Derpy drones, shoving some cardboard... thing through the doorframe. "Standard shipping."
"Mmm. Yes. Most things are, nowadays."
"Please sign here."
Derpy passes Rarity a clipboard and the dressmaker scribbles her name. It's an elegant exercise—long enough for a pointless conversation to ensue. Or perhaps some fractured facsimile of one.
"How are your eyes, fairing, darling?" Rarity mutters.
"Still dead."
"And your parents?"
"Also dead, thank you."
"Well, I hope they get better."
"And how is your day, Miss...?"
"Oh, you know. Entropy."
Derpy sniffs the air coming out of the Boutique. Her gray nose wrinkles. "Why do I suddenly crave crunchy hay fries?"
"Because sometimes even a genius needs help finding inspiration late at night."
"You know, they're going to legalize it soon."
"That's the government for you." Finally finished, Rarity passes the clipboard back. "Taking all the fun out of things." She grabs the package and backtrots. "Ta."
Derpy's eyes blink in opposite direction. "What, no tip?"
"I was born in Whinniepeg." And Rarity shuts the door in her face. We watch as she crosses the length of Carousel Boutique. The dress horse only makes it about halfway before she's forced to stop in her tracks. Maybe it's due to exhaustion. Or perhaps it's because of the sudden rift in space time that's been ripped wide open in front of her.
Rarity drops the package, and we can see the flimsy cardboard rectangle shoot off into a bottomless chasm of red and black fluctuating bloodlights. The wailing voices of a hundred million ponies all chant out the same royal name in unison. Meanwhile, high upon a celestial pedestal, a scaly bipedal spectre draped in chains is being coronated with a crown of cat fangs. Between that sight and us, we bear witness to winged crocodiles spouting fire over droves of enslaved ponies drawing stones up a volcanic hill to complete the giant edifice of a reptilian deity.
One would expect Rarity to be looking at this. Instead, she's a bit too entranced with the burning skeleton of a persian cat hanging upside down from a shattered mirror frame to her left. Her eyes dart to the right. There, we see—as she sees—Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle standing on a floating remnant of the Boutique's floor. The circular burning sigil of limb-locked lizards smolders before their powdered fetlocks.
"Okay," Sweetie Belle starts. "You know how you get really impatient for big sisters to come back from answering the doorbell?"
"It might seem at first like jumpin' the gun," Apple Bloom lisps. "But... silly thangs have a way of happenin' on their own, y'know."
"Huh." Rarity blinks. It's about all she can christen the moment with.
"But don't you worry!" Sweetie Belle smiles from ear to ear. "The lizard queen says she's happy enough to enslave equine civilization for only one hundred and fifty years! And about your ball gown. It's being borrowed for a little bit! It just has to float around in the ether for a decade or two. Maybe three. I promise it'll come back!"
We hear a gross vomitous noise. Scootaloo's burning skull falls out of nowhere and then rolls to a stop across the Boutique's floating floor.
Sweetie Belle nods. "That too."
