It was no secret that Rarity heard voices.
Oh, nopony actually knew it, and she’d certainly never bring it up in conversation unless absolutely pressed on the matter, so that while Rarity was the only one who knew this titbit of gossip, it was just oh so much coincidence that it was only her. It was hardly a secret, really. Nopony had just asked the right questions, with the right inflections, and certainly not with the right amount of gin, darling, oh absolutely not.
And voices were only a sometimes thing, like checkered patterns or scarves or, woe betide the town: checkered scarves.
The thought of such things flapping free on the necks of the deluded and innocent scared Rarity from her reverie. Her eyes were twitching, but she didn’t notice. She was only nominally aware that her eyes kept swinging to the upper-left corner of her vision, and that she seemed to have stopped blinking entirely several minutes ago.
The smile fixed onto her face was completely beyond her notice.
Oh, the timetables! Tables of time! Dead lines, where ponies died, lines ended and fashions failed. Why oh why did she keep setting them?
Punch-swish punch-swish went the needle and thread. Rarity dimly remembered having abandoned her sewing machine to the corner: it was neither fast nor precise enough to match her.
Deadlines! Was it folly? Was it madness? Masochism? Madnissochism?
“That, I’m afraid, isn’t even a real world. Darling, you’re really skirting the line this time.” It was Rarity that said this, albeit a tiny, red, two-horned Rarity that dangled from the curls of the rather more well-known unicorn. She carried a tiny trident, tipped and accentuated with gold spurs and highlights.
The devil got the slightest “uhuh,” of acknowledgements. Punch-swish went the needle, uninterrupted in its unending slog.
“Oh shush, you. We should be helping her in this trying time, not pulling her down.”
This was said by the other tiny Rarity, who was wingéd, dressed in a white robe that, while very posh was undeniably last millennia, and sported a little halo. She floated by Rarity’s ear, bobbing gently in place despite never actually flapping her wings.
The devil waved dismissively at her counterpart. She nudged Rarity with a suggestion and the unicorn’s hoof fell seeming by chance on a bolt of cloth. “Oh darling this fabric is simply devine. Practically a winner. And might I add rather playful.”
The angel gasped as the selection was drawn up. It was, to give it a modest word: bright. “What?! Are you seriously suggesting that this is a good fashion choice? And ‘devine’ is not how you say it, so there.” She turned the other cheek, but this being the first time she’d done that, it was really just turning the cheek.
The cheek of her.
“It’s a portmanteau, you white-washed simpleton, of ‘devil’ and ‘divine!’, in blasphemous gesture that I really had expected you to appreciate!” The devil stuck out her red tongue.
There was a shift in the perfect punctuality of Rarity’s sewing, as the new cloth was drawn into the fold. "What did you say to her?”
“Nothing,” said the devil, nestling into her chosen curl of hair and blowing a tart raspberry.
The angel ignored this, her attention elsewhere. “Is that... no! You wouldn’t! Not even you could call that a good choice!”
The devil tittered. “Sometimes a pony just has to indulge. You should try it!”
“Indulge in fashion suicide? Never! Rarity, I need you to hear me on this, darling for the good of your life, your well-being, your immortal soul and more importantly your standing in the fashion industry, for the love of Celestia do take out the neon pink ruffles right now! Stop that needle!”
Punch-sew went the needle, and every stitch sealed the aberration more firmly into existence. “Simply...divine,” mumbled Rarity.
“Cute try,” mused Raridevil, “but appeals to her better nature won’t work! Indulgence without restraint IS Rarity’s better nature!”
Raridevil cackled, because if you can’t cackle when you were an embodiment of a pony’s worst self, than when could you?
“Hey, hey! Don’t ignore my victory cackle!” Wavinng a hoof angrily, Raridevil had to pin her trident through Rarity’s hair to catch herself from falling. “You can’t just ignore evil’s ultimate victory over good! It rather spoils the whole thing.”
“Yeah yeah,” mused Rariangel. “It’s just, I have to admit that, while definitely bold...and certainly provocative... very avant garde... this black and red trim dress with pink ruffles is actually starting to grow on me.”
“What? No! Don’t endorse my evil creations!” Raridevil clambered her way up the hair curl and, taking another in hoof, swung boldly to jab at her rival. “You’ll get your icky virtue on it!”
Rariangel bobbed just out of the the devil’s pointy reach, and worse still to the devil’s pride, didn’t even acknowledge the struggle as she continued to appraise the bold creation. The angelic figure nodded and smiled. “No really, I mean it. I’m really starting to mean it. So that while nominally I’d consider you a low-born, base apparition of terrible sense and even worse judgement, I simply must concede - to the greater good that is fashion to whom we must bow - that this dress is something...” She finished brightly, with a smile, “notable.”
“Told...you,” muttered Rarity, who was now turning her needle and scissors - simultaneously - at angles so instant, so unrelenting and perfect as to scare lesser beings.
She still hadn’t blinked, and her eyelids were twitching in earnest. There was a clock on the wall - or there had been, but some time ago a sewing machine had oh so suddenly slammed into it, smashing one to pieces and slightly scuffing the other.
Rarity bought industrial strength tools for a reason. She might have possibly retired her sewing machine to the corner just that little bit aggressively, was all. Nothing to see there.
“I mean it,” said Rariangel, pulling at a curl and helping Raridevil to her footing. “What’s fashion without advancement? Statement without risk? You may be - and certainly are a good for nothing, double-crossing, over-red, phallus-acessorized pony, but...I confess that you do have a modicum of inspiration swirling about in all that tacky evil you tout about the place.”
Raridevil glared. “You’re complimenting me? This is some kind of ploy, isn’t it?”
“Oh darling, paranoia isn’t becoming of you. You know I cannot tell a lie.”
“Just white lies!”
“But they go so well with my palette!”
Raridevil hesitated. “This is true. Tell me more.”
Rariangel hoovered up higher and Raridevil climbed. “Well? Look at ourself. She’s certainly coming a little bit, oh, undone, shall we say?”
Rarity was giggling. Two more needles and another pair of scissors had joined the anarchy of creation beneath them.
“You may have a point,” conceded Raridevil. “Which is something I do not lightly say of a high road, self denying hypocrite wing flaunting sugar plum fairie. But a point you may have.”
“Truce?”
“Truce.”
“Splendid! In that case...” Rariangel snuck up on the distracted Raridevil’s back. “I simply have to inspect your horns in detail! You know, I’ve never had the chance?”
Rariangel traced the curvature of a horn. Raridevil was jolted and stammered, but Rariangel cut her off. “Ah! Silly me! I’d always assumed you were wearing some tacky headwear. Now I see, the au unnatureale look suits you much better, now that I can appreciate it. Still abhorrent and repulsive,” said the angelic being dutifully, “but not without a certain degree of recognizable thematic scheming.”
A white hoof traced the other horn’s length. Raridevil shivered. She bit down on her lip. “Scheming, I am known for. I’ve always been jealous of your wings,” she admitted. “So bold.” Reaching around herself, Raridevil groped the feathery extrusions behind her. “So...evocative.”
“Aren’t they just?” beamed Rariangel. “I never considered how smooth your tail would be! And so supple, too. Why, I could just wrap myself in it all afternoon!”
“Ee!”
“Oh, does that hurt, darling?” Rariangel sounded far too beatifitic for Raridevil’s sensibilities.
“N-no,” she stressed, as the white Rari’s hooves alit on her shoulders. “It does not hurt," she anti-lied. "You really like my, ah-ah! My colour choice?”
Raridevil could actually feel her opposite’s breath in her ears. “It could be marvellous.”
“Oh my... Forgive me, I...I usually have something more biting to say...”
The pause and the silence fell heavy. Raridevil squirmed in Rariangel’s embrace until they faced one another.
“You will forget that I ever asked for your forgiveness! It was a slip of the tongue! It did not happen! I am immaculate evil!”
“Oh, darling, I love it when you talk evil but just this once with the pleasentries aside...do shut up and play with my wings.”
There was sudden motion and the bobbing of purple curls. “Mm!?”
There was more motion. It went on quite a bit longer. There was some bobbing. Not of curls. A devil was dragged down.
Punch-sew, Punch-sew, Punch-sew...
The intended recipient of The Creation walked a narrow road indeed. Things had started straight forward enough. Applejack had shown up, talking before seeing. Then there was the seeing.
Applejack spoke very carefully. “Rarity, this is... nice.” She gestured the dress - if it was a dress - but refrained from touching it. Just in case.
Rarity’s eyes twitched. Not ones to be left out, so did her eyelids. And eyebrows. It created an effect rather like something achieved by winding up a spring just a wee touch shy of that point at which metal screams and shears violently. “Don’t you like it?”
“Don’t I like it? Don’t I like it? That is definitely a question. That you asked. Rarity please stop staring like that, you’re distressing me.”
“I am not staring. I am appraising. Entirely different.”
“Um, I don’t mean to cause offence but, when was the last time you slept?”
Rarity tittered. “Why Applejack, darling, Sugarcube, I do say that a lot, don’t I? Not Sugarcube. Darling.” Rarity giggled, and put a hoof on Applejack’s exposed leg. “Darling darling darling. To return to your question, let me put it to you in perfectly no certain terms: Weak is for the sleep.”
Rarity cackled. “Now I must insist, do try it on. It’s especially for you. I was feeling very inspired.”
Applejack glanced back to the door, suspecting and believing she was too far gone already. “That’s one word for it.”
Raridevil stared at her hooves. She scrubbed them against each other in vain. She hugged her trident and stared blankly out over the world. "I feel... so clean..."
Rariangel was laying back, blowing puffs of cloud from a little wand. "Mhm. Cleanliness and so on, so on. Don't worry about it, RariD."
"I'm so conflicted."
"Come and cuddle, darling. I miss your fire already. Let's watch how Applejack takes this."
Raridevil glanced about in earnest. "Applejack? Our beguiling, rough and tumble temptress, who’s uncouth manner only stokes the secret fires of need and intent all the more fervid?”
“That one, yes.”
“That is a compelling for argument for our continued...this."
Rariangel flicked her wingtip in invitation. "Truce?" she coo'd.
Raridevil watched her opposite’s wings. She traced them with her eyes and bit her lip. And that halo! She’d had no idea what it was good for. She blushed, which is no easy feat for a demon red as the apples marking sweet Applejack’s flanks. "Truce."
Opposite the way, Deviljack and Angeljack stared across the chasm, regarding each other in awkward silence.
Eventually, one of them hazarded to speak.
They took an unspoken step away from one another. "I agree preemptively....to never agree with you. On anything."
"Agreed. Let's get Applejack turned right around and out of here, Sugarcube."
"Absolutely not!"
They stared at each other.
There was a sheen in Rarity’s eye. They both saw its feverish, entrancing light. Rarity sidled up to Applejack, linking her hooves around the farmer’s neck.
“Put on the dress, darling. Do it for us.”
“Jump left!”
“No, bank right!”
Applejack failed to move.
The two farmer apparitions tried again.
“Make yourself look larger ta intimidate the beast!”
“Stop, drop and roll! Play dead!”
Applejack continued to make an excellent display of non-action.
The two little Rarities were in cahoots. They were co-conspirtors. Angeljack glared. "Them's canoodlers," she growled.
And oh how Rarity smiled. She was probably going to snap out of this sooner or later.
Probably.
"Ah, horseapples," cursed Applejack. For now was the hour. The deadline was met. The dress was flourished. It spread dark wings and flew up like a monster of terrible predations, and they were red and black and with pink ruffles all over.
Author's Note
Written specifically, entirely, and pointlessly as a "give me a prompt" exercise.
Pick a favourite sentence and post below. I'd like that.
