Cosmic Breed

A great, howling wind tore away at the kicking shutters of La Carousel Boutique. Although Rarity did not have any intention to investigate the unnerving noise, she did huddle away from it on the safety of her velvet sofas. Sofas instead of sofa because one mare could not be satisfied with one seat for herself and her dearest house guests. No, there were several stations for the lounging customer and the venerated fashion messiah as well as supple seating for her loved ones.

An entrepreneur such as herself, what with the recent hiatus from her market in Canterlot, could not rest their eyes in the lonely dark. She couldn't stay in relative obscurity because she was no lone wolf. No, she was a social creature. And on days like those, whence the rain poured because it could not bear the esoteric nature of sky life, she wanted to huddle close with someone warm.

When nearby fluorescent light fixtures began to flicker, she gave a low, elongated sigh and wriggled away from her divine furniture. And so, her coat was subject to torturous cold, and her hooves, the insensitive embrace of chilling checkered tiles. Why oh why hadn't she worn any booties.

Although she couldn't understand how the boutique stayed so frigid, she marched onward to the nearest telephone.

"Yes, is this the Home Improvement And Architectural Affairs hotline?"

"... Well, I have a bit of a doozie here, dear. You see, I'm terribly cold here and I know I shouldn't be, because my boutique is supposed to be sealed at every window and every door. The chimney is pouring smoke and I'm still shivering. If you could be so kind and let me schedule an appointment for a routine checkup..."

Knock knock- knock knock.

"..." She stammered, instinctively clicking the phone against it's base.

Knock knock- knock knock.

She slid away from her telephone counter and slid quietly across the tile. And from her purse, she drew a familiar .44 revolver, releasing it from the seemingly random pile of hairbrushes and gems inside. No, that was to disguise her true treasure, not the prissy clutter someone like mother would drag around.

Rarity planted her hooves just before the door, crouching low and ready. She masked the sound of the hammer clicking by tipping a glass in the kitchen. An absurd amount of glass sprinkled the window area, it being her intention in the first place and much, much more.

But then there was a voice at the door. It anchored her ears against the sides of her skull.

"I'm still puzzled as to why I never got one. It would've come in handy a year ago." Said Sweetiebelle, her vibrant emerald eyes licking at the dark.

The breath was stolen away from her. How could she say- no, how could she even jest about that. There was no world in any universe where Rarity herself would ever even entertain the notion. So she turned her muzzle and her eyes, unlocking the latch to La Carousel Boutique. It clicked faintly before her sister and... a surprise guest glided in. Glided instead of walked or trotted because Sweetiebelle had literally levitated them in.

"No mud on the tile. I remember vividly. Would you mind fetching a glass of juice for our guest, dear sister?"

A soft, anxious chuckle blew past her teeth before she grit them. Rarity fetched it alright. She flooded her mind with pleasant times and little softball games, fighting desperately with memories of the month before. And as she rinsed a glass, having just swept the shards and granules from the incident. Rarity chanced upon lilac dish soap tucked in behind the lime-scented variety. So the girl took to lithe scrubbing in broad, circular strokes against the insides. And as she did, her disgruntled demeanor lead her eyes up.

With her sour, bitter glance came the inexplicable scene of soap bubbles floating away toward the window. And though they were desparate to do anything, to phase through the barrier, or even, to batter it and shatter themselves, they did so in vain. So she winced somewhere deep inside, reminded of a struggling little showpony in the making. Her eyes were somewhere between greyed emeralds, to an especially mild jungle hue. And on her own, makeshift stage of one mattress and two bedsheets, she sang her heart out to the audience that wouldn't know her for another decade.

Rarity undid that window and slid it open for the bubbles to go, hopeful they would survive the withering drizzle of the cumulus clouds. She watched them sail on invisible streams of gloomy wind and into the embrace of the mundane canvas above.

So she wiped the glass dry and trotted away, remembering where the bubbles go.