One Remove

by Estee

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, Applejack, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Rarity
Length: 10561

Rarity knows Ponyville's outdoor market is being systematically invaded by an army of fashion knockoffs and fakes. She just doesn't understand why she's supposed to care.

For the most part, Ponyville's outdoor market hosts local businesses. Every so often, somepony from Canterlot may try to dump stock in the neighboring settled zone, but it's a rare occurrence. It means newcomers stand out. And when more and more of them crowd in, with every last one selling the same things...

Rarity knows the fashions being sold are counterfeit. Knockoffs. Travesties.

She just doesn't understand why she's supposed to care.

(A stand-alone part of the Triptych Continuum, which has its own TVTropes page and FIMFiction group. New members and trope edits welcome. The prequel story is linked for the prior appearance of one character: no knowledge of that piece is required to read this one.)

Now with author Patreon, SubscribeStar, and Ko-Fi pages.

Published 2018-06-20 00:00:06 UTC
Last updated 2018-06-20 00:00:06 UTC

First, they came for the boots...

For Rarity, there were two sad truths for her personal shopping in Ponyville: it was rare, and it was boring.

With the first part... she operated a one-mare business. Now it was true that she couldn't keep the Boutique open all the time: a number of closed hours were necessary for design, manufacture, restock, and the recovery of slow-fraying sanity. But the majority of Ponyville businesses shared her hours. If she had decided there was no point in staying open any longer on a given day (and one which had potentially just been brought into night), then it was likely that just about everypony else had come to the same conclusion. To do all of her own shopping after she'd locked her doors -- it typically limited her to Barnyard Bargains and a few fast-closing produce stands which were down to selling the wilt.

Running the Boutique by herself had been hard enough in the pre-Twilight days. Doing so in the era when missions came calling and left a palace-hired substitute trying to sell Rarity's creations for days on end... well, there were times when it felt as if Rarity needed every selling hour she could personally get. But living on something other than iceberg lettuce and rot meant she not only had to risk closing the shop, some of it had to be done during business hours. Post a Back Soon sign on the door (while indulging in the usual dark thoughts which noted that unlike the times some of her so-called customers said it, at least she wasn't lying) and then race forth to do what had to be done. Which generally didn't take long, because shopping in Ponyville was boring.

Rarity knew all of the shops. Every last storekeeper. For those whose goods interacted with her own business, she just about had their inventories memorized, and would occasionally make suggestions towards improvements. But such were hardly ever followed up on. Ponyville's merchants didn't run towards the familiar: they had broken into a full-scale gallop and, upon arriving at their destination, frozen in place, never to move again.

Oh, perhaps the antique shop would trade for something (so to speak) new. The outdoor market in the town square occasionally saw a Canterlot resident trying to dump stock, and such could be interesting. But everything else was familiar. Typical. Boring. Even Zap Apple jelly lost a little of its appeal when you knew it would always be coming around again, and Rarity supposed she could have said the same thing for cider if she ever could have spared the hours for regularly participating in the line.

She sometimes looked at the Boutique as being a beacon of light in a sea of grey fog, the signal to the capital that there was something worthwhile to steer towards. But even after so many years, it was the only one. Shopping in Ponyville, once you took out the time required for negotiations, was rather like kissing a pony whom you'd known all your life. You were accustomed to their habits. You knew exactly the moves they would make. And if you ever dared to suggest that something new would be of benefit in the relationship, the scant seconds spent in the kiss would be tripled by those in which the other party mindlessly stared at you.

New was good. New was precious. New in the form of another high-end shop would feel like a blessing: Rarity longed for company, somepony else to lure in extra Canterlot tourist traffic. And new was... not going to happen any time soon.

She shopped without joy, and wondered why others didn't feel the same.

On market days, it was a little easier. Some of those who paid for the space rentals on their outdoor booths started setting up before Sun was raised, and while Rarity often closed under Moon, she never opened the Boutique beneath its glow. On a market day, she could venture forth before dawnlight and get first pick. (Not that there was usually much to pick from.) And doing so also offered her something else: a chance for time with Applejack.

She didn't spent a lot of time with the farmer, and the versa could be held up as vice. Even after all of the missions, the little things, and That One Slumber Party, theirs was the weakest bond in the group. They were simply too far apart in so many ways, looking at each other across a churning ocean of divided perspective, one which often felt as if it could never be crossed. But Rarity tried, and knew there were times when Applejack made her own efforts. They had the most trouble communicating with each other, and so the mere attempts to bridge the gap had to be frequent -- even when both parties in the conversation generally wound up floundering, splashing at uncomprehending waters, and finally signaling to anypony in the area for rescue before they drowned.

They had almost nothing in common: there were virtually no mutually mouth-held planks with which to build the road. But they both sold, shared the frustrations of a life where everything they created (or, in Applejack's case, grew) was subject to somepony else's judgment, understood the endless frustrations which arose from those who only pretended to be customers. It was something.

"Mornin'," the farmer greeted her, watching Rarity approach as the darkness of the late summer sky began to fade. "Put a couple of things aside for you, if'fin you're in the mood for 'em." With a faint grin under fast-vanishing starlight, "Figured the Lordships might suit you."

Rarity had now known Applejack long enough to understand that: Lord Lambournes were just another species of apple, one which had apparently first surfaced on somepony's estate. "I would hardly object," she nodded -- then sighed. "I'm expecting a rather long day."

Applejack's answering nod matched the misery. "Yeah. Just 'bout equinox now. Summer Shut-Down's in a few days. An' that means jus' one thing."

Rarity's eyes briefly closed. "Tourist season is over."

Once again, Applejack matched her. "Yeah."

In the summer, some Canterlot residents would take the train (or go for the day trot), see what the nearest other settled zone had to offer. But that was in summer. There was a little of that traffic in the spring, a small surge when winter approached as desperate shoppers held onto the hope that the hottest Hearth's Warming gifts might not be sold out everywhere -- but the transition into fall represented a two-moon-long sales drop, one which the charts Rarity occasionally composed would display as a cliff plummet. Just about every retail operation in Ponyville went through it.

But Applejack had the utterly reliable rebound of her cider sales waiting at the bottom. Rarity could only wait on dress rentals for the secondary school's fall formal, added to an increasing amount of unanswered prayers.

"Well," she said with false brightness, "at least that means our siblings will be back in school. It should help to put disaster cleanup back on a weekend schedule."

"For a while," Applejack darkly said. "Or until one of 'em decides t' go for a mark in teachin'. Still waitin' on that. Ah think Cheerilee is too. Well, she did say she wants a new primary school building: lettin' them go for it might do a lot for gettin' rid of the old one..."

She trotted forward a little more. Hopefully -- a mostly false hope, for even these words had the internal rasp of pointless, futile repetition -- "Is there anything new? A fresh crop from a first-year tree? Or --" because Applejack often arrived very early, hoping to sell some snacks to those heading for the train "-- did you happen to see a new seller...?"

And Applejack nodded.

"Yeah!" she grinned. "Been waitin' t' tell you for twenty minutes! Ah was gonna risk the gallop t' the Boutique if'fin y'didn't come by. Got one y'might be interested in, Rarity: brand-new seller fillin' one of the spaces that opened up with summer endin', and the goods... well, Ah couldn't make out too many details under Moon, but it looked like the sort of thing y'might like. Wanna go take a look with me? Ah can wander that far, long as Ah keep glancin' back over my tail."

Rarity's eyes widened. "Something... I might like?"

Another eager nod. "Boots! An' fancy ones! Ah saw a topper puff of fluff. Ain't many like that, right?"

A topper... It took a moment to run the translation -- and then Rarity's expression slowly began to change.

"An' Ah heard a Canterlot accent from one of the sellers," Applejack added. "Two of 'em went by me earlier. Looked like they were jus' trottin' around the market. Gettin' the lay of the land -- Rarity?"

Distractedly, "What?"

"Why the frown?"

Well, it was certainly the sort of thing Rarity wanted to look at. "It's -- nothing. Show me?"

Applejack, her own expression lightly tinged with confusion, trotted around the cart, led the way as the fading night sky steadily became streaked with orange and rose. It didn't take long to get there, even with the frequent glances backwards to make sure no fruit was departing unpaid.

They arrived at the transition moment: Moon being lowered, Sun formally raised. It meant the light wasn't all that good yet, and so it took Rarity an extra moment to see what she would quickly treat as the unimportant thing.

She took in the silhouette of the single sample boot which had been placed on display. The 'topper puff'. Everything which confirmed the horror was evaluated, then expressed as a single syllable.

"Ugh."

"Huh?" Applejack rather eloquently asked.

A shadowed figure standing within the rented space briefly glanced up at their words, then went back to unloading the cart. A large box had a top flap gripped by crooked teeth.

"That's what they're called," Rarity sighed -- then dropped her volume. "The actual name. They are Ugh Boots."

"That's a weird one," Applejack noted. "Why name 'em that?"

"I suppose," the designer softly snorted, "the original 'designer' --" it was possible to hear the quotes "-- had a rather rare moment of clarity and named them after the way anypony of taste would react upon seeing them. Wool at the top. Well, I suppose that strictly speaking, there is a statistical chance that the sheep involved were paid. Although he's rather better at fleecing..."

Applejack glanced at her. Rarity, still looking at the boot, ears twitching towards the sound of a box being unceremoniously dragged through the dirt, didn't notice the exact nature of the expression.

"So," the farmer cautiously ventured, "y'know the designer."

"Tone Lintflicker." The words were flavorless, which had only happened after swallowing back all of the well-aged bile. "You can just make out his logo near the top."

"You've met him?"

Memories marched forward, were kicked back. "Once."

The seller continued to unload, didn't bother to approach them. Rarity briefly noted an oddly-kinked tail.

"These are," Rarity quietly went on, "extremely expensive. But they are expensive in the manner which can only exist when ninety percent of what is being paid for is the name. The design..." Another snort. "I never would have expected to see these in Ponyville, Applejack, not at the market." Much more softly, "It makes one wonder whether something recently happened to fall off a train --"

Which was when Sun came up a little more, and the light provided Rarity with the dubious gift of a clearer view.

"-- oh."

Very carefully, "Rarity?"

Who was slowly shaking her head. "Oh," she repeated, and welcomed the odd warmth rising within her barrel. "I see..."

"Rarity, y'got this really weird look right now -- huh. Ah think he's puttin' up the price -- yeah, there it -- wait a sec. Didn't y'jus' say these things were expensive?"

She looked up, noted the price. Went back to the boots.

"Don't buy them." It had been a whisper.

"Rarity?"

"They are fakes," she softly continued. "Duplicates of something which wasn't worth making once. Knockoffs, Applejack. Even if these are somehow to your taste, they are not the genuine article. Simply leave them here to rot or, given what they are mockeries of, to rot a little more."

Admittedly, there were ways in which it was a very good fake. A pony without experience might conclude it had just come from the production line. But there were small errors, things which never would have been allowed into the world for the real, and they were all things Rarity knew to look for. She spent a little time in regarding them, marveling at the sheer brazenness required to have made the attempt.

Which was when the seller finally said something.

"Different hoof diameters," he casually declared, "in different boxes. Different leg lengths, different boxes."

Rarity briefly glanced at the boxes, each about the length of her own body, with a height that came up just past her spine. Considered how unusual it was to see a stallion selling such things in the first place, and wondered if he'd just exhausted his sales pitch vocabulary.

"Thank you," she lied, "but we each have to return to our own --"

The stallion, completely uncaring, had already gone back to unloading. (There was only one box to go and when he was done, he hitched himself to the cart and pulled it completely out of the market area.) And Rarity turned away, began the trot back to Applejack's cart with the confused farmer following in her wake.

"Knockoffs," Applejack tried.

"Yes." It was a rather pleasant sort of warmth.

Two stallions passed them going the other way. Each had a kink in their tail.

Half a hiss. "They're sellin' lies? Like what happened t' you that one --"

"Yes. If you see the others, please tell them not to purchase there." She wasn't sure any of them would be interested in the first place, but it was best to be cautious. Some of what Rarity had learned about her friends' taste was that she couldn't always trust them to have any.

"An' then what?"

"Your pardon?" Oh, it was still going to be a slow day, but now...

"What should Ah do after that?"

Rarity glanced back.

"Why would you want to do anything?"

Applejack blinked.

"Rarity --"

"-- let them sell," the designer shrugged. "Or rather, let them try. Myself to the Boutique, you to the cart, and they to their failure."

As she had predicted, it turned out to be a slow day. Rarity spent most of it in sketching and correcting some minor customer-induced damage to her floor display.

She didn't really mind. It was warm.

There had been a commission, and the hours required for its creation kept her within the Boutique for a while. It meant missing the next market day, along with quite a bit of sleep as she found herself at her sewing device deep under Moon, trying to capture the vision of that last dream within flimsy fabric. It also meant she had missed one of the intermediary stages, something she didn't know about until she got to venture forth again. And for quite some time, she didn't care.

On this day, with Summer Shut-Down in the recent past and the cool of autumn still settling in, she decided to risk venturing out during lunch. There hadn't been much traffic into the Boutique, not during the slow time: it felt as if she wouldn't be missing much. A little trot under Sun, a chance to renew herself, and perhaps a little quick, necessary, and utterly boring shopping. She could even drop by the market, talk to Applejack for a minute or so.

It was a plan, and so she locked the Boutique's doors, put up the sign, and started the trot.

Then she noticed she had company traveling in that direction. Unsurprising, really: it was hardly as if she was the lone mare who would venture to the market during mealtime.

In fact, there seemed to be a lot of mares.

Eager, fast-moving, happily-chatting mares, all of whom were speaking with Canterlot accents.

In autumn.

Rarity, her legs now mostly propelled by curiosity, accelerated.

It didn't take long for the disappointment to set in.

She'd been hoping for a new shop. Something high-end, on the other side of the outdoor market. Or perhaps even a fresh booth, somepony whose initial assortment of goods had cost too much for them to also pay for walls and roof. What she got was an extremely partial view of the selling space which hosted the knockoff boots, and the benefit of being able to look at the chaos under full daylight was just as dubious as the stock.

On the whole, she considered the space's display to be ridiculously inadequate. There were, at most, five boot styles set out for inadequate inspection. (She was still convinced that anypony who truly inspected the product wouldn't purchase it.) Those weren't even present as full quartets: at most, the stiff-bottomed cylinders had a single sample available. And there were tables, but they were only present as wooden planks laid atop folding metal arches: those mostly served as places for the sellers to place their meals, or as shade for one smaller, extremely clean box. Outside of that rather lacking visual advertisement, the stock was entirely contained within the boxes which combined into walls, creating maze paths throughout the space.

Which meant ponies needed to get into those boxes.

Pegasi worked from above. Unicorns had to rear up rather awkwardly in order to get the sight line which allowed their fields to delve within. A few earth ponies had apparently become fed up with the whole thing and just tipped some boxes over, which allowed everypony else to scavenge through the spilled contents. And those who worked within the space -- she could make out two of the kinked tails this time, doing so through shifting masses of bodies -- did nothing to help. They wouldn't check to see if a size or style were available. They didn't rebox discarded pieces, or move to straighten up the booth in any way. They nodded towards boxes and collected bits. That was all.

There were a lot of bits to collect, and just about all of them were being offered up by Canterlot mouths.

"Been like that for a while now," Applejack sighed from behind her. (Rarity was surveying the semi-riot from in front of the cart: getting too close had felt like a truly bad idea.) "First time, they had a few ponies. But setup after that... word spread by then, Ah guess. An' that's when the Canterlot traffic started showin' up."

"I haven't been seeing any of it," Rarity instinctively noted -- then had to repress the snort. Of course she hadn't seen any of it. Ponies who made the trip for this were hardly the sort of shoppers who would have been interested in her goods.

"Ain't surprised," Applejack replied. "I've seen 'em come in. Second show, they all went for the boots, an' then they mostly all went straight back t' the train. Only thing most of 'em wanted at'tall. Rarity -- can Ah ask y'somethin'?"

Distractedly, "Of course." Most of her attention was focused on a not-so-minor squabble over what seemed to be the very last Mares' Tall.

Carefully, "Not talkin' 'bout you here, 'cause Ah know you can spot it. But the average pony off the street -- they'd know those were fake, right?"

Rarity had to think about that.

Eventually, she went with "If they had seen a true example and paid close attention to the hues and stitching, yes. The quality is visibly lower on the ones which were brought here."

"An' somepony who jus' took a casual glance on the once?"

"Perhaps not until the interior fabric began to wear at their fur. And even then, they would have very little they could compare it to. Why?"

"Jus' wondering how many of those ponies were fooled," Applejack carefully said. "Against the number who jus' wanted t' fool themselves. Or the ones who know it's wrong, but figure most of the ponies who see 'em wearing the things won't figure it out. 'cause those stallions have been selling a lot, Rarity. There's four of 'em. Two in the booth space. An' two -- trottin'. Ah see that a lot with the temps we get every now an' then: check out the rest of the market, check out the town. But they've always got two on the move. Up an' down the aisles, setup to shutdown. All the time."

She didn't really think about the words, simply filing them away as she watched more bits being transferred.

"And y'remember," the farmer went on, "when that mare tried t' fake some of your goods? Sellin' Boutique counterfeits in Canterlot?"

The white jaw briefly tensed. "Lue Viton. Yes."

"'cause Ah tried talkin' to Miranda."

It didn't surprise her. Counterfeits were their own sort of lie, and it was easy to see how the ongoing offense would have quickly sent Applejack to Ponyville's police department. (Both she and Rarity were on a first-name basis with Chief Rights: picking up your post-Crusade sibling every other week did that.) "And what did she say?"

"That she couldn't do anything." That with a hoof stomp. "Ah don't get that. Those ponies are sellin' lies and the cops can't stop it? Plus..."

The hesitation was a long one.

"...there's another new seller now, two aisles over. Came in today. Well, new for what they've got: it's the same family, Ah'm sure of that. All with the kinked tails. They're sellin' saddlebags. Barneigh's stuff, or so it says on the label -- don't snort, Rarity."

It happened anyway, for Barneigh's was one of the Canterlot stores which survived solely on a reputation that they no longer deserved --

-- it was actually a rather pleasantly warm day, especially for early autumn.

"Really?" she finally said.

"Yeah. Ah looked at their stuff, an'... well, Ah've seen some of their catalogs, mostly when you go on the rants 'bout how they shouldn't even be able t' pay for the mailings any more. Ah'm sure that stuff's just as fake. So that's one designer an' one store bein' hurt now, plus at least some of the ponies buyin' that stuff. The ones who think it's real. An'... Miranda can't do anythin', said so. Ah don't think she'd lie t' me 'bout that. But you're in this business. You said you've met that Tone pony. Y'know they're bein' hurt, an'..."

She heard Applejack take a deep breath.

"...Ah was wonderin' -- what y'were gonna do 'bout it?"

Rarity watched the chaos for three more breaths.

"Open my shop."

A disbelieving "'cause?"

"Because lunchtime is just about over. See you later, Applejack."

She made sure to pass the saddlebag stand on her way out, noted all the Canterlot ponies fighting over its counterfeit contents. And then she went home.

The next market visit was once again made under dawnlight, which was more than enough for her to both identify new occupants, scrutinize their goods, and read the prices on the way in.

It took a while. There was a lot to read.

"Applejack!" she finally beamed as she got into range. "I wasn't sure I would even have the chance to see you today! I'm expecting a visit from one of my regulars. She's pregnant, and insists that I use it as an opportunity to design foalwear. So it was either first thing after Sun-raising or --"

-- which was when the farmer cut her off.

"It's eight of 'em now."

She didn't have to ask. "I counted." Boots and saddlebags had been joined by capes and, for the first time, dresses. Defective-looking shoddy dresses, from a design house she knew all too well.

"The ones with the kinked tails," Applejack went on, "spread out a bit. Now there's one of 'em in each space. Or they trot around the market. Always trottin' around the market. An' did y'see the prices? 'cause Ah checked 'em out a little while ago, once there was enough light t' read by. Rarity, it's the same family, sellin' the same fake goods, an' they're chargin' different prices in different spaces for the same stuff. Duplicate stands, right down t' the stupid planks, but the prices are different. Why?"

"Artificial competition," Rarity immediately replied. "It creates the illusion that they might not be working together. It also allows them to get a few extra bits from ponies who make the mistake of visiting a given space first, or offer discounts for bulk purchases which cost them no bits at all. Quite canny, really."

"Eight of 'em," Applejack repeated. "See how that one's overflowing his space at the front? Narrowin' the aisle? And the other ones, some of 'em are poking into other ponies' spaces at the sides. Ah talked to Ms. Colwood 'bout it."

"And what did she say?" The market's manager was known to be a stickler for rules, especially since she'd created all of them.

The sheer anger nearly bruised several apples on its own. "Told me t' get back t' my cart."

Rarity blinked.

"Really? But she --"

"-- but Ah didn't," Applejack cut in. "Hung around a while, out of sight. Fumin'. 'cause Ah can't fight too much with her, not when she controls whether Ah get my space or not. Ah was tryin' t' think of somethin' Ah could say without riskin' the business. Let me see one of them come up to her, payin' his rent for the day. They all pay by the day, not the moon, an' they all take their carts out of the market when there's space for 'em, and now Ah know they're payin' more than we are. 'cause Ms. Colwood loves her rules, but Ah think she loves bits more, and the more bits, the less rules."

It didn't surprise her. "And ponies are still buying?"

"Hang around a while," the farmer darkly replied. "You'll see a few come in off the first train. Most of the locals are stayin' out of it, but the tourists... they're like parasprites on a restricted diet. All they eat is lies, an' they can't get enough t' make 'em stop."

Well, it was clear that none of those 'customers' cared about true quality...

"-- Rarity?"

"So," the designer tried, "I've already been to my mother. But she donated most of Sweetie's infant items, and the rest are unusable. So when it comes to inspiration for what I hope will be my own creations, knowing that your family tends to save things longer than mine -- I was wondering whether you still had any of --"

"-- do something."

The words had been plain. Stark. Somewhat less accented than usual.

"Your pardon?"

"This," Applejack insisted, adding just a touch of forehoof stomp, "is your business. Forget the customers for a sec': the designers bein' hit by this, they do the same kind of work as you. An' you've had ponies make fakes of your stuff, you know how much that hurts. You've gotta take care of your peers --"

"-- I would," Rarity softly cut in, "if they had ever seen me that way."

And she felt warm.

Now the tones were dropping, darkening as the earth pony's voice went low. "Yer pardon?"

"Tone Lintflicker," Rarity began. "We met once. On the day I first went to the Björnvits Center for what would turn out to be my lone appearance at the Talent Search. I rented a booth there, did I ever tell you that? I wound up outdoors, for I rented rather late and could only gain an overflow space. But of course, at the time I could have gained an indoor spot, I was still waiting for the birthday which would let me leave that school." Too many memories were coming forward, and few were welcome to be there. "It is a long story, Applejack, and so I will move to his portion. He found me there. Came into my space, admiring my creations. He recognized that I had talent, and told me he wished to take pictures of my dresses for private review. He never did. Because my neighbor, the pony who saved me, had seen an absence within my booth, done everything she could to correct it. She made me take pictures before he arrived, had them speed-developed for me and bound them in an album. Pictures of my dresses -- every one with a newspaper's masthead visible in a corner. I didn't understand why she wanted me to do that, she had been too rushed to explain, and I offered Tone Lintflicker my book so he could take pictures of that instead."

She took a deep breath, and the oxygen pushed away none of the rage.

"He left. Immediately. After declaring that in a better light, he had seen I wasn't worth his time. Because his time was reserved for those he could steal from, copy their work. And I had dated proof that the designs were mine. My neighbor saved me that day, because such had once happened to her and she never wanted to see another pony go through it. Tone Lintflicker had a few bad years in which his basic styles went out of fashion, and he responded with theft, robberies unreported by the trade magazines because he buys out so much of their advertising space. I didn't know what he was, and she saved me..."

Applejack was quiet for a moment.

"What's her name?"

"Coco." The comforting image of a smiling cream-hued face briefly manifested within inner vision. "A milliner, Applejack: the most skilled I have ever seen. But she left Canterlot immediately after the Search, and -- I haven't seen her since. I don't know what happened to her. I've searched the trades for her name, and she's never appeared within. I knew her for one day, a day during which she saved me time and time again, and I miss her..."

I keep looking --

"Ah understand a grudge," Applejack steadily stated. "Ah really do, Rarity, 'specially 'cause Ah can have trouble lettin' go of one. But --"

"-- the dresses I saw on my way in," Rarity cut her off. "I met a pony who worked for the label being poorly duplicated, on that same day. She offered me a job. And a contract which I had to sign in order to gain it, one which said that the company would forever own all the work I did under their employ, work I would do at home, things created after I left them if they felt that such even faintly resembled that performed for them. All credit given to the head of my department, until I had built up enough seniority to gain a sub-label under their brand. Not so long to wait for that, according to the mare who visited me. A mere fifteen years."

"Rarity --"

"-- and do I truly need to remind you of what happened to me at Barneigh's?" Her right hip briefly ached: memory turning into something more than mere phantom pain. "You wish for me to do something for my peers, Applejack? Find one designer in Canterlot who recognizes me as one. Who will do something other than turn up their snout when trotting by my space at the shows, at least for those from which I have not been banned. They see me in the backwater of Ponyville, no threat to them, no peer, and grant me only the notice one gives to refuse which requires scraping from the hoof. None of what is happening here, with the counterfeits of their lines, affects me. It does not touch my business in any way: those who would buy such things are not my customers. I have lost nothing for the presence of these fakes. But I have gained a measure of satisfaction." The next words were spat. "A degree of fourthhoof revenge."

Her volume had never truly changed. But she hadn't realized she'd been speaking so fast, breathing so hard, and it took several seconds before her ribs stopped heaving, with Applejack staring at her the whole time.

"I care about them," Rarity finally finished, "as much as they care about me. And so I care not at all, as there is nopony worth caring about. Let their lines be diluted, let their reputations suffer. Let them pay the price, and that for the first time in their lives. Do our kink-tailed visitors hurt them? Let them be hurt."

And with that, she spun, nearly on a single hoof, and stomped her way out of the market.

She didn't see Applejack for several days. There were no missions, no friends acting as intermediaries, and it was hard for them to get together. Sometimes it was harder still to find something they could talk about. They were friends, Rarity knew that, but -- it was the weakest bond in the group, the one which took the most effort to maintain. Almost nothing in common, and most of that was the ponies they both knew.

It could make approaching the farmer difficult, especially after a fight. And Rarity was sure they'd just had one, something where Applejack simply wouldn't understand because while they both sold, Rarity created. Applejack had never been rejected by other farmers because somepony thought her crop was wrong. Had never had to deal with the possibility that Zap Apple jelly and cider might go out of style. She didn't understand the pressure, the lack of acceptance, Rarity simply being out in Ponyville on her own as what felt like the only high-end shop, trying to lure in customers from the capital all by herself. And Applejack's family owned the land which held the Acres, had been the first settlers into what would eventually become Ponyville and been granted the territory accordingly. Rarity had purchased the Boutique's building via bank loan, and there were so many payments to go...

Applejack didn't understand. Rarity knew that. She didn't have the background, the experiences which would let her know Rarity had been right...

I should tell her.

The story of that day outside the Björnvits Center was a long one, and contained more than its share of humiliations. But for Applejack to understand, Rarity had to tell her all of it, along with some of what had come after.

It took time to come to that conclusion, more to build up the courage. Enough to bring them around to another market day.

There was a border blocking part of her approach path, and it had been created by well over a dozen close-parked carts. She looked at them for a few seconds before choosing to go around.

A kink-tailed pony trotted by her as she worked her way through the market. Then another passed. It took some effort to spot them: the aisles were incredibly crowded with Canterlot traffic, and that was made all the worse by full saddlebags (some of which were counterfeit) and field-carried packages where the unicorn wasn't being too careful about where anything was floating. Occasionally, a pegasus would be flying overhead at the exact moment something lost its last stitch, and a bit of (probably unpaid-for) wool would land on Rarity's back.

She passed booth after booth of boxes, minimal displays, and squabbles. What she wasn't passing was much in the way of familiar shopping boredom, for some of the old faces were -- gone. Their spots, however, had already been filled.

Eventually, she got within sight of Applejack, and the farmer silently watched her approach.

"I would like," Rarity started, and then had to take another breath to gather more strength, "to treat you to dinner. Tonight, if you are available. There is a story I need to tell you --"

"-- mah spot rent," Applejack softly broke in, "jus' went up."

Rarity stopped.

"Let's not talk exact numbers right now," the farmer continued. "We can jus' say it was by a lot. Enough that some of the ponies with the thinner profit margins, they thought it might be time t' find somewhere else t' go. Pulled up stakes an' trotted away, a whole bunch of 'em. Ponies Ah've known all mah life, ones who were sellin' here when mah Mommy an' Daddy worked the cart. Maybe some of 'em can do craft shows in Canterlot, 'cause that's all anypony gets there: ain't no market like this one, not no more. Maybe a few others can pool money, rent a store t'gether an' divvy up the space. An' the rest? Ah think a few may jus'... give up, Rarity. Find somepony t' work for instead of havin' their own business. If they're lucky. And Ms. Colwood, she knows she can't raise the rent too much, or at least she used to. Knows it goes into the spiral real fast."

All she could manage was "The..."

"Y'raise the rent too much," Applejack quietly said, "an' y'lose ponies. Can't fill all the new empty spaces with fresh ponies 'cause the rent's higher. But y'don't want t' lose money, so the ponies who're left, y'raise the rent on them until it covers the missing bits. An' that makes more ponies leave, so the rent goes up on whoever's left... that's the spiral, Rarity. That's why Canterlot don't have a market like this one no more. But the spiral don't apply here, 'cause the kink-tails, they're payin'. As much as they're sellin', they can pay that much an' more. An' Ah think -- they talked her into it. Told her to raise the price an' they'd get ponies to fill in for whoever left. So they're seein' who left, seein' what's available, and now that they've filled all the gaps... they'll wait a week or two, an' then Ah think they'll go up to her an' offer t' pay more. Tell her she can jus' keep raisin' it, 'cause they'll always have somepony else t' bring in."

"Applejack --" The name was spoken in sudden desperation, through thick layers of abrupt apology, and it wasn't enough.

"Ah think," her friend told her, words tightly controlled within a completely forced peace, "that we're bein' chased out, Rarity, slower than the brothers tried t' do it with their cider device, but a lot more sure. An' we're also being crowded out. Some of that's even literal. Snowflake... his tent don't take up the whole space, never has, an' now they're squeezing him from both sides, did you see that? But management don't care. 'cause Ms Colwood loves her rules, but she loves bits more. An' a market filled with nothin' but fakes don't matter t' her, long as those spaces are filled. So now that y'know that, now that you've seen it... got a question for you."

She waited, with all warmth gone and her soul frozen in dread.

"Miranda said she can't do nothin'," Applejack continued, "and Ah don't know why. Ah can't think of anythin' Ah can do: can't make ponies come to the Acres outside of cider season, not reliably. Don't have the money t' buy land for a new market, can't clear trees off the Acres t' make some. So..."

The farmer took a slow breath.

"...we're friends. Ah know that. We ain't the closest, an' Ah'm not sure we'll ever be. But Ah know we're friends now, we both sell stuff, an' Ah was wondering..."

The blonde head dipped, and the old hat slipped a little. Just enough for the brim to dim the light reflecting off new tears.

"...would y'say -- we're peers?"

Miranda Rights had what Rarity considered to be a rather singular coat, something which made her exceptionally difficult to coordinate for. The unicorn mare (and a rather young one to be holding her position) possessed a subtle blend of dark fur hues, and the shifting colors produced a result which would be completely familiar to anypony who had ever stood motionless within Moon-shadows. To place Miranda within just the right type of shade would be to see her virtually vanish. It was completely non-magical, and typically lasted until she either moved or opened her eyes. When it came to nighttime outfits, Rarity had to place her within bright colors just to make sure everypony knew she was there.

The police chief's office wasn't particularly well-lit and combined with the low, intermittently-pained tones of the occupant's voice, it meant the pony Rarity had galloped over to confront was fading in and out.

"The problem," she morosely said, the agony of law enforcement trapped within its own regulations, "is that in order to charge somepony with fraud -- somepony else needs to have brought that charge against them. There has to be a complaint, Rarity. And these ponies... for the most part, they know what they're doing. For starters, I have reason to believe they scouted us before they set up shop here, because they have been very carefully not selling to just about anypony who works in this station. And when it comes to the Canterlot crowd... I'm not sure they care. A few of them were taken in, I'm sure: thought they had the real thing, something which --" the words were nearly spat "-- fell off a train -- and only learned the truth later. But a con artist's best defense is frequently embarrassment. The majority of ponies don't want to admit they were ever taken. And some of them just want a piece which looks real, something they couldn't afford otherwise. Others are playing catch-up with their wealthier neighbors, and a number are not only never going to figure it out, but they'll declare the real thing is the fraud... there are a lot of reasons why the vast majority of ponies aren't filing charges, Rarity."

"You are implying," Rarity said, standing stock-still on the other side of the worn desk, "that a few have tried."

"Complained, at least," Miranda nodded. (The motion sent her horn into shadow, briefly winked it out.) "The first time, I sent an officer with them, to make sure the matter was resolved -- peacefully. And I was hoping for a very peaceful arrest. But if you've been to the market, you've seen their patrols. There's always somepony on the lookout and when Swoops got there, they were ready. They met the angry customer, they apologized deeply, claimed that they purchase from a reseller and sometimes things just find their way into the boxes -- and then gave her a real Barneigh's piece. An exclusive and, as I understand it, something sold out at the main store. They apparently have a genuine article for every item they sell, hidden away for those moments when they have no choice but to make exchanges. I'm guessing they paid full price for them. I'm not sure they're bold enough to try returning their own leftover fakes using that receipt."

"And with a now-satisfied customer," Rarity slowly said, "there were no fraud charges."

Another nod. "Realistically, there are two categories for the parties who can file complaints," Miranda told her. "One is customers. The other consists of the original copyright holders. And I've tried contacting them, but... I haven't gotten anywhere. A few seem to make a habit of not opening any correspondence with a police department's address on it."

She didn't even have to guess. But... "They have to realize they're being affected! Their market is being diluted --"

"-- was yours?"

Rarity stopped.

"No. Not that I've been able to tell. But I don't sell any of their items, Miranda. Only my own creations. A number of ponies come here specifically for me, and they're not the types who would fall for counterfeits to begin with."

"Those who want the real thing," Miranda sighed, "will pay for it. I think that may be the attitude which those companies are going with. But if that's the truth, I don't understand it. It's still their name on the things, and some ponies have been fooled. Others will get angry. Their reputations..." This sigh was deeper. "Well -- it's their name on some of the things. I got a new recruit last week, and I sent her in. She challenged them on the label for a purse. And two minutes later..."

Her horn ignited, and the dark field opened a drawer. A small rectangle of thin cardboard floated up, rotated to face Rarity's gaze.

"'Our interpretation,'" she slowly read, "'of Lemare Kippled'." Blue eyes briefly closed. "I see. Like the ponies who try to reverse-engineer a perfume mix."

Miranda nodded. "My recruit asked what the difference was, and they showed her what was suddenly a very artistic stain. I think their next move would probably be claiming protection under freedom of expression. The parody statutes. Unless I find a customer angry enough to bring it all the way through court -- and I'm guessing this group is willing to pay out some of that sales money to settle -- we need the companies to bring charges, or somepony with major influence and a lot of determination. And even that might just get rid of one booth. Which means I have to ask."

Dark legs shuffled. Portions of the fur vanished, returned.

"Do you know anypony who could help?" the police chief asked, and waited.

She had to force her eyes to stay open. Keep herself focused on the now.

They've gone so far as to buy perfect pieces...

Rarity blinked.

Perfect, exclusive pieces...

"Rarity? Do you know --"

And then there was an idea.

"One."

His gaze fell upon her as she trotted into the plush office (but not as plush as it could have been, aged poorly and cleaned rarely, a space threatening to tip across the line from musty to decay) three days after her meeting with Miranda, and he very visibly didn't remember her. She didn't think much of it. He had a vested interest in not remembering ponies, especially as he occasionally had to lie about that lack of recollection on the witness stand.

So he didn't pay any real attention to her fur, mane, or field hue. At first, he simply looked at her bulging saddlebags, so full that she'd had to ignite her horn in an attempt to get a little of the weight off her body. (It wasn't really helping.) Then he moved his regard to the open misery writ large upon her features, and it made Tone Lintflicker smile.

"I understand," he grinned, "that you're looking to get out of the business. And you're willing to sell me the rights to all of your designs for tenth-bits each, just to be done with it."

She spent a moment looking him over. A senior, but one who tried to hide that status with makeup added to some minor enchantments and a daily hour of precise grooming. A unicorn of dark navy, white, and red: colors he had worked into the logo which adorned every one of his pieces and, these days, seemed to dictate most of the hues for what still came out of his warehouses. A designer who had compensated for his own slow time through becoming a thief -- and then, from all evidence, had never designed anything again. Stealing was just easier, especially when the trade magazines which would have theoretically reported the story still needed to sell so much ad space.

He told me I had talent...

And then he tried to take what that talent had created.

Memories came forward, and she looked at them for a little while. They required occasional reviewing.

We need roughly five minutes for the timing to be perfect.

She started counting.

"Yes," she nodded. "That's what I told the ponies who ultimately decided to let me see you. That I would only sign it all over to you personally, because I had respected you so much in my youth."

He just kept smiling. She noticed the little tooth imperfections which indicated a near-daily dosage of dental potions.

"However," Rarity went on, bringing her head up as she smiled, "I lied." And before he could move, react, the slowed reflexes of age and a sedentary life betraying him, her horn ignited. She saw the fear in his eyes, wondered if his own memory had suddenly flowed back, almost basked in his terror --

-- but all she did was open her saddlebags, and the first of the pieces floated out.

"This," she said, "was rather difficult to acquire. In fact, I had to find somepony who would purchase it for me, and I refused to ask her for more than that." Sweetie Belle was both too young and too skittish to be asked for time spent on a court case and besides, Rarity didn't trust the kink-tailed stallions to stop at settling. "They knew at least something of who I am, or at least what I do: I suppose their scouts got around to me eventually. But not her." She sent the fake across to his underpolished desk. "I trust you recognize the logo. It is your own, after all. The product, however..."

Rarity receded her field from the piece, enough to offer him a grip point. After a moment, his horn ignited, and quavering bright red took up the counterfeit, rotated it before his scrutinizing gaze.

"A fake," he shortly said. And then, "So?"

Part of her had been expecting that exact reaction: she simply wanted it explained. "Are you not concerned about how such a pale imitation reflects on your line?" Not that said line still had enough to show up in a mirror.

"No," he answered, and put a smirk into the word. "If anything, I feel it drives the value of the real thing up. Those ponies who want a real Lintflicker design know it's a status symbol. They know they have the true, because they purchased it from one of my shops. How is that status weakened by the existence of fakes? They can afford the real thing, while their lessers have to settle for this." He looked her over again. "I'm sure you know all about ponies who have been forced to settle."

Her corona brightened, just by a lumen or two, and she found his blanching to be quite satisfactory.

"So we do know each other," she lightly said.

He eyed her horn.

"Let's say," he finally risked, "I know your type. So you lied your way into my office just to tell me about counterfeits being sold in Ponyville?"

"I never said I was from Ponyville." Her accent certainly didn't match.

The skin beneath his fur lost still more blood.

You're a skilled liar in some ways, at least when it comes to endless repetition. But no lawyer coached you before I came in. You're old, old and slow, and you don't remember how to create any more...

"It's hard to make things of quality," Rarity admitted, taking a small step forward as her corona pulled another Tone-claimed fake from a saddlebag, sent it towards the desk. "I know, because I have to do it every day. And I make mistakes. When I'm tired, if I'm distracted-- I do slip. And when that happens, I have to correct the error. Or, if things are truly ruined, start over. But I make things one at a time, by hoof, mouth, field, device, and dream. You produce in bulk, Tone --"

"-- I didn't say you could address me as --"

"-- and that means so many ponies creating what you pretend to be your pieces, as fast as they can. So there are errors. And I was wondering... when there are errors, with so many pieces being made... do you correct them? Or does that simply take too long to be profitable? I imagine you might kick them aside, never to be thought about again -- but that's a loss of materials, time, and all associated costs. Or..."

She deliberately trailed off, tilted her head slightly to the right, smiled.

He was staring at her again.

Carefully, "Or?"

"Counterfeits," Rarity considered, "need to have a source. And in the sort of bulk Ponyville has been seeing, the flooding of the market... that would suggest a rather large operation. One which would need its own space. Several spaces. Say -- the original factory floors? Because a single large group could try to duplicate items while somehow gaining nothing from experience, never reaching the perfection of a forgery -- or are they simply purchasing your seconds, Tone? Are you working with so many other labels to use Ponyville as a dumping ground for the group's errors? And how much have standards slipped in the capital, to have you all producing this many mistakes to begin with?" Another head tilt, to the left this time, and the smile never wavered. "And you let them have a few perfect pieces, just in case they get in trouble. While fraud might still be an option due to quality of goods, they can't even be truly accused of counterfeiting, because they're selling the actual label. And you collect your share, they keep theirs, and who cares about what happens to Ponyville shops anyway? As long as you have your bits..."

More pieces floated out.

"...and they have theirs..."

She stacked them all on the dusty desk.

"...everypony else can go hang. Would that be correct?"

He was old and slow. He hadn't had to create anything in years, and that included a fresh lie. Which meant he said exactly the wrong thing.

"You can't prove anything."

And Rarity simply continued to smile.

"Quite possibly," she admitted. "After all, you might shut the operation down right now, thinking that I hadn't already asked ponies to watch a multitude of loading docks and take pictures accordingly..."

Desperate now, "You're bluffing."

No kidding. She'd only been able to get Rainbow to go through one flyover, and the altitude had made some of the images less than clear. Rarity wasn't sure any of it would hold up in court. "Not particularly," she lied. "But I don't need truth, Tone. You see, as a designer, I ultimately chose to make it on my own -- unlike you, trudging forward on the efforts of your victims. As a designer, I work alone. But as an agent of vengeance... well, I admit, it took me some time."

The office door opened, and the pony who seldom encountered any difficulty in talking his way into any place within Canterlot calmly trotted in. A monocle-covered gaze peacefully surveyed the area, and the expertly-trimmed mustache ruffled under the light pressure of a calm exhalation.

"But eventually," Rarity finished, "I learned that every so often, I had to rely on my friends." And turned. "I don't suppose," she politely inquired of the new arrival, "you've heard the rumor about what's been happening with the Lintflicker line?"

"In fact," the stallion magnificently lied, "I haven't. Do tell me more."

Tone Lintflicker's aged legs made the effort of his life, and he lunged out from behind the desk.

It still wasn't fast enough.

"And feel free to go into exquisite detail, dear," Fancypants gently requested. "After all, I'm going to be repeating this to so many ponies..."

Timing, in some ways, was just about everything, and so Rarity made sure to post her temporarily-altered hours on the front door. It was best for some things to happen fully under Sun, so that everypony might see -- and given the season, that meant the market had been open for some time when she finally arrived.

It took a little while to reach Applejack, and she was bumped by far too many falsehoods along the way.

Did the resellers become this aggressive on their own? Was the original plan to work in slowly, stop when a crucial number of booths had been reached, and the kink-tails discarded it to chase bits? Or was there a purpose in flooding the market, crowding out the natives...

She suspected the former. But she would probably never know.

"Good morning!" she called out to the farmer. (She had to raise her volume by quite a bit in any case: there were too many tourists, far too many similar booths, and a corresponding number of minor squabbles.) "Or nearly afternoon, as the case may be. Is. Um..." She yawned, and then looked rather embarrassed about it. "My apologies. I was up rather late last night. Working on coordinating."

"Coordinating pieces?" Applejack asked, because she'd been in the Boutique enough to pick up that much.

"No," Rarity failed to explain. "Just -- coordinating."

"An' that's why the Boutique was closed yesterday," Applejack carefully tried. "All day."

"Yes," Rarity equally declined to clarify. "And I both appreciate that you tried to drop by and apologize for your wasted time." Brightly, "So how are things?"

Applejack took a long, slow, and rather pointed look up and down the fake (or rather, second-quality) flooded aisle.

"You know," she softly said, "exactly how things are. Y'know Ah asked for help, an'..." a little more shakily "...y'know me well enough t' understand how hard that is. Rarity --"

"-- it's over."

She smiled.

Applejack looked at her for a moment. Went back to regarding the aisle.

"Don't look over."

"Well, yes," Rarity admitted. "There was a certain degree of required timing --"

Which was when orange and white ears twisted.

"Y'hear that?"

"Yes..."

"Sounded like somepony got knocked over," Applejack decided. "Hope it was one of the --"

Which was when the first kink-tail to ever set hoof in Ponyville raced past the cart, shoving and impacting and outright bowling ponies over in his attempt to reach the Ughs.

Rarity winced.

"Oh, yes," she said, and felt her face flush beneath the fur. "They run their own patrols."

The kink-tail ran into his space, knocked down one more mare, jabbered something at his selling companion.

There was a frozen moment, one which lasted just long enough to add its own chill to autumn air. And then multiple stallions burst forth from the rented space, moving in all directions. The overcrowding of the market meant the first one didn't have to go far, and a few shouted words sent another group flying (for two, this was literal), heading out to alert everypony else...

It took less than a minute for every defective-hosting space on Applejack's aisle to be cleared of all sellers, and the mares listened to the clamor as it shifted across the market square.

Rarity's wince hadn't faded. For starters, there hadn't been enough time.

"I forgot about that," she softly groaned. "Completely. My apologies, Applejack. I was up rather late. Actually, now that I think about it, this is likely why they've been parking their carts outside the market this whole time. Abandoning the merchandise makes for a faster getaway to begin with, but if you must keep the cart for some reason and can't count on working it out of the usual spot --"

"-- what," her friend broke in, with voice shocked down into the depths of whisper, "did you do?"

"Well --"

-- and that was when the second thing swept across the market.

Rarity understood something about pony psychology: selling required at least a little study of the subject, and experience provided some of the rest. So she knew something about herd instinct. The way thoughts could rush through a crowd, everypony coming to an identical realization in the same instant. Groupthink.

The herd had seen the sellers abandon their booths. It had happened in a way which made it clear that those stallions weren't ever coming back. And all of the merchandise was still there.

Then it wasn't.

The herd descended.

Boxes were tipped over. A tidal wave of defective pieces flowed across the ground, and the herd began to sort things out. It happened without fighting, squabbles, or even the lightest of arguments, for there simply wasn't time for that. Ponies found their sizes. Those who felt they had seconds to spare assisted others in doing the same. Dresses came down, saddlebags were quickly donned before being filled...

"OH!" Rarity gasped, and her eyes went bright with the flame of an idea.

Still more than a little stunned, "...Rarity?"

"Just a moment...!" And the designer raced forth, plunged into the herd.

Applejack, who had to stay with her cart, could only watch as the defectives were tucked away, clamped between eager teeth, wings beat at the air, hooves broke into full gallop, and the herd split back into its component ponies...

Less than a minute. Less than two when it was all put together, and then they were gone. Heading for the train, the old road, the air paths, and anything they could use to get out of Ponyville while there was still time. Less than two minutes for kink-tails and those who had wanted their goods to vanish. In both cases, it seemed likely to be permanent.

Rarity, her field towing a smaller, extremely clean box, trotted up to Applejack's space, smiling again.

"I believe," she decided, "tourist season is now truly over." Soft blue floated the box over several barrels of apples, tucked it out of sight near Applejack's hooves.

"Ah think," the farmer eventually got out, "we're better off."

"Quite."

Which was when the first portion of the combined Canterlot/Ponyville police squad finally reached the aisle, and found no reason to do anything but keep right on going.

"And the chase is on," Rarity noted. "Of the kink-tails, at any rate. There's very little point in going after their former merchandise: they simply don't have enough ponies." She looked up and down the aisle of the rather vacant market. "Oh dear, all those empty spaces, and with the higher rent... well, I suppose Ms. Colwood will have to lower it again if she expects to lure some sellers in. Or back. Do you mind if I stand next to you for a little while?"

Applejack managed a nod, and Rarity trotted around the barrels.

"Good," she said, and looked at the aisle again. "Hmm. That's unexpected."

"Yeah," Applejack agreed -- then waited to find out what she was agreeing to.

"Then again," Rarity mused, "I suppose Pokey has some use for those planks. Oh, and there go the prop legs! I imagine Ratchette's going to melt those down for the metal. Fortunate for her that she happened to be shopping today." She watched the pegasus fly away. "The same old familiar, accustomed, worn-out, boring, and actually rather welcome Ponyville shopping day..."

"Rarity?"

"Yes, dear?"

"...why are we standing around this box?"

"The better to hide it, of course. Emptying a barrel of its apples and stuffing this within would have been a little too public."

"Oh." A brief pause. "An' -- what's in the box?"

"Well," Rarity smiled, "they clearly had to keep their precious first-quality emergency exchange pieces somewhere. Shall we see what we got?"