Paper Girl

by leeroy_gIBZ

Rating: teen
Tags: Death, Human, Shadowbolts (EqG), Lyra, Romance, Thriller, Drama, Equestria Girls, Rarity, Profanity, Violence, Sex, Main 7 (EqG), Lightning Dust, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 82442

Rarity has Antisocial Personality Disorder again. That wouldn’t be a problem if she hadn’t ran somebody over with a stolen police car today. Furthermore, there’s still the matter of her and Sci-Twi’s relationship to salvage...

Back by popular demand, Rarity's a Sociopath again.

Rarity lives a good life but she loses her temper from time to time. Now a man is lying dead in the trunk of a Shining Armor's police cruiser and her relationship with Sci-Twi is starting to crumble. She might still be seen as a beautiful fashionista, a paragon of grace and virtue, an exemplar of friendship and generosity but that mask is beginning to crack, fast. And who it reveals is none of those things.

Can she repair her failing reputation and hide her crimes before its too late? Can she mend the break in her carefully-crafted mask before her secrets are revealed? Or will she finally get what's coming to her as her life burns up?

Edited by:
ZettaiDullahan
Samey90
The Silver Dodge - check out his work here.

Published 2019-08-07 16:40:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-12-10 16:04:05 UTC

1: A Murderously Fast Car

I didn’t begin the day planning to steal this police cruiser and drive, lights flashing cherry red and propane blue and sirens blaring their dirge wail and a corpse stuffed in the boot, flying across the desert at breakneck speed, swerving occasionally to avoid oncoming traffic and also swerving frequently because I am somewhat tipsy. But not drunk.

That would be tremendously unladylike.

Furthermore, I would be terrifically impressed if I were ever to actually wake up with the genuine intention to include such a bizarre and depraved act in day-to-day vacation routine. Normally, said routine involves rising at noontime or later, whenever last night’s alcohol-induced lurgy has been slept off basically, and then contemplating my outfit, bathing, and then putting said outfit on and enjoying a cup of black tea while arranging the day’s amusements. That usually tends to involve either frantic fits of artistic inspiration, dramatic fits of romance, or eclectic fits of shopping – making the best out of whatever, or whoever, I happen to have on hand at the time.

I wonder which of those three categories stealing Shining Armor’s patrol car and using it to crush a skateboarder to death would count as? If the Marquis de Sade; dreadful man by the way, never read his work on a full stomach; is to be believed, then it would count as art. Personally, I don’t see the appeal in having a man’s blood splattered across the blacks and whites of the bonnet of my vehicle – it gives me the impression that I am piloting a murderous penguin, not a Chevrolet.

Still, a lady has whims – places to be, if you will – and I, Rarity Belle fashionista extraordinaire, am no exception to that state of affairs; in fact, some may accuse me of being its exemplar. I did, after all, just spend a horrid amount of money on Irish Coffees. $420 or so, give or take a cent. May I add that letting darling Twilight foot the bill was definitely a wise choice.

Or perhaps Cadance footed it.

Or perhaps the number of texts blowing up on my phone are proof of her intent for me to pay for one of my own drinks, for once.

In hindsight, that all may have had something to do with my decision to purloin this car…

The drinks I drank, that is, not my refusal to afford them.

My phone trilled again and, to my surprise, it was not to the generic bing of an unknown number either. For I make an attempt to at least arrange my life’s mayhem into something resembling organized chaos, I had in fact set the text and ringtones of all my lovers to a specific tune. Of course, having the attention span of a gnat when it comes to everything but fashion and trashy romantic novels, I generally forget to actually remove that tone once the inevitable breakup actually occurs – brilliant yes, but I have an excuse past sentimentality, namely as I have remarkably little of that, and said excuse is my mental condition; that all I have already explained today and now, while driving far faster than one should in a stolen car, is not the time to repeat that explanation.

Knowing that it wasn’t Twilight messaging me – namely as I had accidentally taken along her purse and, thusly, her phone with me on this grand adventure, I decided to check who exactly it was beseeching me at this hour. I pulled the car over, beside and then behind an abandoned gas station – likely abandoned for its misunderstood genius of an architect built it dangerously close to a cliff edge. However, I was on the safe side – for now, at least – so I flicked off the sirens and checked my phone.

Keep in mind that I might be a sociopath, but I’m not an idiot. Drunk Tipsy driving is dangerous enough as is; no need to add phone misuse to that unless one wants a conniption and possibly a car crash on their now-crumpled up platter.

To my surprise, it was Sunny Flare.

My ex-girlfriend, Sunny Flare.

Ex due to… ah, I haven’t the faintest mote of an idea why I ended that relationship but I do suspect alcohol may have been involved; that and the darling girl has issues, significant ones. I cannot for the life of me remember what they were though.

Anyhow, this is what she said:

Flare, Sunny – 17::13

· Hey raretea its been a while hasn’t it? How aare you doing? Stlil dating Octavia right I hope. Shes cool you know. you r one lucky gril.

· Anyhow oh damn sorry! I forgot to send you the invite forget that message okay???

· Sheesh what is it 5pm and I can’t typ alreadyyy? damn this Bombay saffire is gooood stuff.

· Hello Rarity, this is Sugarcoat speaking/texting. As you can tell, Sunny is drunk. Don’t worry, this isn’t just because she’s an alcoholic with no self-control.

Well, I can’t say that I was worried…

· It’s actually because she’s currently on her fifth martini of the evening. At this point, I think she’s just whispering “vermouth” at glasses of gin before downing them in a futile attempt to make her deadbeat father come home and make her mother pay attention to her. Also, she says to tell you that that’s called the Churchill Method and its what its namesake prime minister used to do during the War.

Good to know I suppose…

· Anyway, its her 18th birthday today and she’s feeling sad because she forgot to invite you to her house party or something. So here’s your invitation. Be there, for whatever reason she actually wants to see you of all people, or I’ll drag you there myself just so that she shuts up and stops spouting historical trivia at me.

Well then, the nerve of that girl…

· Thanx suga! Loveyabye!

She, Sunny presumably unless Sugarcoat’s forgotten her self-awareness on the wrong side of the bed where she woke up this morning, does realise that I can’t actually hear their conversation, right? Not that I particularly want to…

· Also I want you. (this is Sunny again btw)

· Here at my partyyyy! Duh.

· 2 drunk to type 2day.

· Fleur’s in Geneva rn vistng family

· Jus thought u should know

· Asgfgjhsfdg Im super lonely

· Gimme a sec brb soursweets made white russian

Finally, my phone stopped chiming. What a relief, I was getting terribly tired of that bell’s tingle.

Anyhow, what did she say? Ah, yes! Fleur’s in Geneva, is she? Well, more arousing words have been spoken, but I have a feeling that that is about as good as Sunny is going to get given her current condition – or at all, given her insipid personality. Originally, I was merely planning to dump this car – cargo still within – and call myself an Uber back home in time to catch the NASCAR relay and, infinitely more importantly, help myself to the case of Namibian beer my dear father imported.

Yes, I know beer isn’t a terribly ladylike beverage. However, foreign things, even Windhoek Lager, are classy and foreign things from Africa are also exotic. It’s also my favourite and I would rather be stripped nude and then dressed like a hillbilly than miss out on it – even if it means putting up with my father hollering at the television for an hour or two.

However, given Sunny’s awfully enticing offer, I may have to reconsider my plans. The address of the Uber, I mean, not what I intend to do with the body and the stolen car. The former is, pardon the French, dead and the latter is dying from a debilitating lack of gasoline and had about another seven miles in it, anyhow.

Producing my phone, I realized that Twilight’s likely had more credit on it – credit I would not have to recompense, knowing that she’d be wanting the IPhone X back at some point; if only for the science-themed notes within it, not because the little device was worth more than I have legitimately made in my entire life of seventeen years, eleven months and twelve days.

I called the Uber. The driver had a long and ridiculous name and, more importantly, more recognizably, his plates simply read “Q” – tacky as a box of pins in thigh-highs and white denim, I know.

Then I began to wait. Mr de Klerk would be arriving within the hour. That gave me an amount of time, time I could be spending enjoying a heart-pounding illicit romance, I’d rather not be burdened with. And, seeing as Twilight’s phone lacked any apps immediately and obviously recognizable as games and seeing as mine, last year’s model – I plan to ask her for a new one for a birthday present, if we’re still together in a fortnight – was on 4% battery, there was only one thing for it.

Monologuing.

I hope you, read: me, do not mind. I really ought not make a habit of this – I understand that ladies are, after all, preferred when they appear not to think at all, at least, not in public.

And there’s nothing more public than a roadside diner, even an abandoned one.

As my father’s Namibian contact once said, “Civilization is using a butterknife in the bosveld.” Now, I haven’t the faintest what a bosveld is or why it requires a butterknife but the phrase stuck with me like a warm tongue to a cold ice pole and so I carry one just in case – a butterknife, that is, not a bosveld. As a matter of fact, I also carry a taser, custom made by Twilight herself to ensure instant yet long-lasting electrified debilitation to whoever I jab with it.

Very convenient – I think; I haven’t, fortunately, had the opportunity to test it out yet.

Anyhow, where was I? Oh, yes, I hadn’t really begun anything significant yet. Well, let me begin something significant then. Let me explain how one ends up stealing a car and slaughtering a man like he was nothing more than a pet cat.

The short answer is called Antisocial Personality Disorder.

However, I personally consider myself a competent enough conversationalist to avoid the refuge of the laconic epigram, so let me now revisit the long answer.

About two hours ago, upon reaching the ground floor of the building of the hotel from whose rooftop restaurant I had purchased my dreadfully expensive – not to mention deliciously good – coffee, I was faced with a choice. This one did not, however, involve a car and the disputed ownership thereof. It did, however, involve Twilight.

Twilight Sparkle my girlfriend. Possibly my former girlfriend now, considering how much of an uproar Cadance produced this afternoon concerning my hands and the rather unladylike method in which I had applied them to her sister-in-law. In fact, she ordered me to apologize to Twilight, perhaps even ending the relationship and, worst of all, return all that which I had convinced her to purchase for me.

The gall of that woman. She ought to know better.

Ladies do not take orders.

I specifically find such coarse coercion to be incredibly degrading and I do make quite the effort never to have to deign to follow any such commands that do not personally and immediately enrich my life. That all and I did not particularly want to relinquish my wardrobe to any soul, let alone one who wouldn’t even know how to carry off the vast majority of it.

As such, I had at the time every intention of keeping Twilight and myself together – it was the only rational choice when doing elsewise would likely strip me, both figuratively and literally, of a great deal of what made me, me. Clothes, after all, do make the woman. So, after milling about in the foyer after a while, pretending to enjoy a complementary cup of black coffee and trying to get my heartbeat back down to a rate per minute lower than the speed at which I had flown through the city’s outskirts, I decided that something would need to be done.

What said something is, in its entirety, I have no clue.

Staying with Twilight would be preferable. However, I know myself too well to pretend that that is a performable option. In knowing myself, I realized that I am, alas, a somewhat flawed human being; no empathy, little self-control, few scruples and all that; and I was bound to make a mistake sooner or later and bring Cadance’s proverbial wrath down upon myself yet again.

Next time, I fear, she might not be so accommodating as to let her sister-in-law decide the fate of her own relationship.

She might tell people.

Tell them about me – and my little secret.

And I still have two terms of school to spend listlessly withering of boredom in this dreadful town. Before, that is, I bid my friends and family farewell and travel off to greener pastures in search of wine, women, and song. And outfits – never forget the outfits.

But let me digress for a minute – on the topic of my departure. It was inevitable, even after Cadance threatened to expose my dirty little secret to the masses. Under no condition whatsoever was I going to squander the rest of my life, and my potential, in Canterlot City. If the world was going to be my oyster, I was going to enjoy it somewhere more conducive to the electrifying flashes of inspiration from which the vast majority of my work bears its ancestry. I was going to enjoy it somewhere more enabling to my lifestyle than a pathetic little mockery of an American state jammed in between southern Oregon and northern California.

Lucerne! – that was where I was planning to emigrate to. The Swiss city has the most prestigious business schools on the planet and I would have felt filthy patronizing any lesser of an establishment in order to acquire the relevant knowledge required to transform my charitable predilections into a reliable source of revenue. Then I planned to go somewhere sunny. Preferably a small Caribbean, or Italian, island with lax taxation laws, several good department stores, and an overabundance of attractive men and women for me to pluck off the proverbial grapevine as if they were, well, grapes. Martinique sounded promising right about now.

As a matter of fact, as did Hong Kong and, perhaps, Venice.

Sunset Shimmer, of course, was not entirely on board with that idea. Then again, she was never entirely on board with me in the first place. Yes, we were technically the only thing standing in between this planet and its domination by the dark and terrible forces of evil magics but I was getting somewhat tired of that whole affair and I was reasonably confident our magic pendants were perfectly capable of functioning on their own; Sunset’s own little adventure at the music festival was proof enough of that, unless she too is a compulsive liar.

Which I doubt she is; things might be interesting enough to keep me in the city if that were the case.

After all, the Rainbooms did produce pop music.

Pop music is as about as proletarian one can get while not hanging one’s trousers about one’s thighs.

I personally prefer symphonic metal.

Yes, you heard me properly – you are me and, if I do know one thing at all, I know what I like. Now it might not seem at first glance the most ladylike of musical genres but nobody can be perfect – not Cadance and certainly not myself given the day’s progression. Anyhow, I do quite enjoy the operatic and classic elements of the style and I find that they grant the genre a certain level of gravitas otherwise unseen in the metal family – the distorted riffs and gooseflesh-giving growls only serve to enhance the otherwise majestic instrumentation present in its discography. Liken it to a foil, if you will; the piece of silver a jeweller worth his salt invariably places beneath a gemstone in order to highlight its qualities.

Hoping for the best I flicked on the radio.

I take it back.

I flicked off the radio.

Rap is far more proletarian than pop. At least, with pop and symphonic metal, there exists some overlap – namely Delain or Within Temptation, maybe Ghost on a good day. But with rap? Such a thing is nonsensical with rap, and I can barely hear myself monologue with the unintelligible jabbering of some or other egoist spewing forth from the radio like pus from a septic wound.

Anyhow, oh what a digression this is becoming, I was planning to leave before this series of events transpired over an otherwise-delectable cup of civet coffee. Sunset protested and she did so under a mistaken belief that my disappearance would somehow cause the rest of their magical pendants to malfunction or, worse yet, cease to function entirely. Personally, as previously stated, I thought that that was nonsense.

Furthermore, Canterlot City’s tendency towards the supernal is so due to its location about the portal to Equestria; if anything would disable dear Sunset’s telepathic abilities, it would be that. Myself being in Switzerland would have no effect, not while the rest of the Rainbooms are still growing old in the state, anyhow.

Well, save for Fluttershy.

For whatever reason, likely environmental, she wanted to come to Brazil. But, being herself – buxom, bashful, brainless and, unfortunately, straight, and, relevantly, spineless – Sunset henpecked her into casting aside her travel plans in order to keep her around in case of any marauding mythical monsters – manticores and cockatrices and bugbears, oh my – that required her abilities to tame.

So, as I awaited my Uber and enjoyed a cigarette from the pack I’d found in Shining Armor’s glovebox, I attempted to calm down somewhat. This little disappearance of mine could be rationalized as nothing more than simply an acceleration of plans already put in motion. Hopefully, nobody would realize – and then subsequently blame me for the vehicle’s, or the man’s, change of location and or state of being from alive to… elsewise. Alas, the specifics of how I was going to get to Lucerne at this point were still up in the air, but at least I wasn’t currently having a conniption.

Never have a conniption, unless you were planning on it beforehand.

And, as for the explanation, now where did I leave off? Ah, yes, around about my entrance and subsequent drink in the lobby I do suppose; yes, that does seem like a suitable point from which to digress. Now, after finishing off a rather disappointing cup of filter coffee given to me by a rather disappointing-looking concierge, I started outside.

In Shining Armor’s car, parked on the sidewalk next to a rapidly-running-up meter, was darling Twilight. She hadn’t seen me yet, due to her adorably sweet face being buried in a disgustingly sour book – she mentioned that she was interested in, read: over-obsessing about, Zen Buddhism, or was it the so-called “art” of motorcycle maintenance? that week, so I suppose that was what she was ruining her already dreadful eyesight over.

Honestly, it is not ladylike to read in public, especially not when one’s relatives are awaiting one’s presence upstairs.

Doing what I do best to avert that dreadful state of affairs by being the most charming individual in said state of affairs, I approached the vehicle, thinking of what to say and how to salvage my crumbling reputation without being forced to live as the lower middle class did again.

I would rather die,naked and splattered with barbeque sauce,than be forced to buy another piece of apparel from Walmart.

Tapping ever-so-gently on the window, I caught her attention. Twilight froze and snapped her head towards me and gave me a dually surprised and expectant sort of look. I gave her my best, my most optimistic, smile and mimed the opening of the car door. She obliged, nodding and reaching over to the driver’s seat and unlocking the door beside myself. That I then opened and I sat down next to her.

“Rarity,” she said, somewhat apprehensively, making way for me to sit down by putting her handbag on her lap. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Indeed, it is, Darling. Beautifully cute,” I nodded to her, “as always.”

Twilight blushed; she must’ve thought that I was talking about her. I continued, “Terribly charming and truly sublime. Alas, your sister-in-law is none of those things.”

“Cadance? Oh! Did you like her? I thought she made a good first impression on you. For some reason, she didn’t seem to really be that impressed when I told her about you though.”

No doubt she recalled my juvenile delinquency of years past. She was, after all, my primary school’s guidance counsellor around about the time I nearly bullied a paraplegic off a rooftop.

But enough about that.

“Oh no, you didn’t tell me that she was so beautiful, that was all,” I said, with a wave of my hand, “I felt quite underdressed in there. If you had informed me that your brother’s wife was a supermodel, I might’ve taken a coat and my soiree jewels.”

Twilight blushed and stuck a bookmark in her textbook. Putting it aside, between us, she looked up at me.

For the record and that alone, I was dressed at the time in a halter dress and kitten heels, both black, both designer, both bought for me by Twilight herself. Do you see the issue here? The one involved in me returning a veritable wardrobe of clothes to her, that is.

Also, for the record and for I enjoy describing outfits, even drab ones, Twilight was dressed in a blue Denim skirt which covered partially a pair of white and purple striped leggings. Her t-shirt, Pinkie Pie had gotten her into the business of wearing them and I was unable to get her out of said proletarian practice, was black and it bore the face of some highly regarded philosopher – Spinoza, apparently – ugly fellow, but the obviously intelligent always are. Completing the ensemble was the jasmine-pattern silk scarf I had gifted her a week prior to today, just after my unfortunate act of punching her; an act, might I add, she had incensed me to commit with a dreadfully turgid day out. She took me to a science museum.

“Well, to me,” Twilight continued, “she’s just Cady, my babysitter. I forgot that she used to model before going into education.”

“Ah, how interesting,” I lied. “Now, I’m afraid that we had a rather unpleasant conversation. Yes, a tremendously unpleasant conversation. Deeply unfortunate and all.”

“She warned me that that might happen, actually.”

“Well, it did. Apparently, she found out about our little accident, you know the one. And she was none too pleased with that realization, let me tell you. She gave me quite the earful.”

Twilight nodded. “Yeah, I’m really sorry about that, Rarity. I didn’t want to tell her or anything, I promise. But,” her eyes glanced over to her shoulder where, beneath her shirt and scarf, lay a rather nasty bruise, “but I’d accidentally forgotten about what happened and she noticed that I was a bit sore during our weekly tennis match. One thing led to another and, well… she insisted on seeing you. Alone.”

“Alone? I seem to recall her spouse being there. That brute had a gun, you know.”

An MP-25, to be specific; commonly known as a Saturday Night Special. And no, I did not learn that out of my own volition; my father drags me to his NRA meetings to show me off to the resident crowd of thin-blue-line-Punisher-skull-patch-wearing buffoons. That and teach me self defence. At least, he used to before the organization’s alcohol policy was changed and the chairman figured out that I was sixteen, at the time.

“Well, he is a policeman,” Twilight continued, “But I didn’t know he was coming along to lunch or anything. I thought that Shiny was just giving us a lift, that’s all. But he’s really not that bad, Rarity, I think you’d like him if you got to know him. You know, he has a really great sense of humour.”

“I do not plan on such a thing, Darling. He could be the nicest man in the world-”

To my surprise, she actually dared to cut me off there. “Really, Shiny is. He’s the best brother a girl could ask for.”

I glared at Twilight. She looked down at her feet.

“As I was saying, it was very intimidating having him, an office of the law, stare over my shoulder while Cadance complained at me. I thought I was going to be apprehended. And do you know what she, this Cady, said? Honestly, the gall of that woman! It drives me to drink! I could faint. I nearly did too; she might be beautiful but she’s got the tongue of monster, that woman.”

Twilight blinked. “What? No, she doesn’t! What could possibly have been said to you, Rarity?”

Ah. I had presumed that Cadance had given Twilight the full explanation of my condition. Such was not the case, clearly, or Twilight had somehow grown a sense of subterfuge since the day I had seen her last, two days ago when school let out for the term.

Still, I didn’t doubt for a second that Cadance would happily do so given my failure to comply with her requests. As such, some discretion was still advised. Now, how could I spin this so that I came out on top, where I did so very much enjoy being?

“She called me a psycho, Twilight.”

Technically true.

Twilight, to her credit, gasped and put a hand to her heart – I must be rubbing off on her. “She didn’t! Why’d she say that?”

“She had misunderstood the exact nature of how you acquired that little injury. She had thought me some marauding carnivore, intent on molesting you and your finances!”

Beneath a set of spectacles, a pair of plum-dark eyebrows shot up, nearly blowing a hole in the car’s roof. Outside, a man skateboarded past and did a kickflip. “That’s awful. You’re not like that at all! It was a mistake,” Twilight cried, “anyone could’ve done that.”

“She insisted we have a talk,” I said gravely.

Twilight impersonated a goldfish for a few seconds, popping open and closed her mouth a few times before finally remembering that it’s only a conversation if two or more people actually speak. “A talk?” she asked, confused.

“Indeed. She was most displeased with what really was just a simple accident, I’m sure you’ll agree. However, she did insist that we discuss our relationship somewhat and perhaps reconsider a few things.”

Somewhat true.

Cadance actually asked that I just discuss my relationship with Twilight and see what she wanted to do. However, I do suspect that, given the way that dreadful woman stared at me, Cadance intended for her sister to call said relationship to an end.

I know how it is with these unassertive types; you have to do everything for them.

And, true to said type, all of Twilight’s gorm, what little of it she had in the first place, sapped right out of her like the juice from a squeezed lemon. My statement had left her thoroughly gormless, staring wide eyed at me as if I had just admitted that I wished to lop off my own breasts with nothing more than a rusty garden hoe and a bottle of cheap scotch, for anaesthetic purposes.

There are so few perfect pairs of breasts in this world. It would be such a shame to ruin mine.

Besides, I only drink expensive whisky – Monkey Shoulder, for instance. Anything less is bottled poison and is such the domain of men who paint their chests before attending a sporting event shirtless and carrying a keg of the stuff, like my father, the dreadful oaf that he is.

Now tears were forming about the corners of Twilight’s eyes, like frost may on a pane of amethyst-tinted glass come midwinter.

“She-she doesn’t want us to break up, does she?” she mumbled.

“Think about it, Darling,” I put a hand on her shoulder, the unbruised one, saying, “You saw how furious she was.”

Morose, Twilight nodded.

I continued, “However, I can’t possibly make you choose between me and her, right now. That would be incredibly cruel, not to mention dreadfully impractical. Besides, such a decision should not be made on the fly and it certainly ought not be made in a police cruiser.”

Another nod. What is that, the fourth one of the afternoon?

“I guess… I guess that does make sense, Rarity.”

“Of course, it does. A lady does not make nonsensical statements, and she most certainly does not lie where romance is involved. However, there is more to what our conversation entailed. She made some rather horrid accusations, calling me, Rarity Belle fashionista extraordinaire, a ‘psycho’, of all things.”

“I can imagine her doing that,” Twilight said, sourly, “She did the same to Timber. You remember him, right? he was the camp counsellor. We dated. Briefly.”

Nothing bores me more than other peoples’ past romances, as much as my ladylike persona would, unfortunately, suggest otherwise; one can’t care about only their own lives unless one wishes to be seen as a narcissist. “Twilight,” I lied, “Dearest, you’re rambling.”

“Oh! Sorry. But surely if none of what she said is true, then it wouldn’t matter what she thinks. I really don’t want to have to choose between the two of you, but if I really had to, I would choose you.”

How flattering. It is nice to be reminded how adorably delightful you are every so often, darling Twilight.

I sighed; it was a sigh for the ages, filled with just the right amount of breathy moaning, just enough to suggest that the sigher, myself, would be very entertaining in bed, which she is, while also possessing the appropriate quantity of eyelash fluttering and head turning. That there was a sigh that, if made, would instantly endear me to whoever was victim of it.

As I was, I was already very endearing.

Now it was Twilight’s turn to comfort me.

She shoved her book aside and drew me into a hug. I hesitated for the expected amount of time, before morosely laying a hand atop one of her arms. Outside, the man with the skateboard hooted. Beast.

While Twilight was distracted, I made a very unladylike gesture in his general direction.

“Now, Twily,” I continued, “if only you could choose me.”

“If only?”

“It’s just that,” I paused, and sniffled slightly, “its… just… that,” another sniffle, “she wasn’t lying with what she said!”

I sobbed and went like spaghetti in her arms. Being slightly larger than her, that resulted in her being a bit squished. Sacrifices, though, must be made and it really is times like this that not possessing a shred of empathy can be somewhat helpful.

To her credit, she maneuvered me into a position where my head was balanced upon her lap; she took the opportunity to stroke my hair. If she was good at it, I might have enjoyed it. I pretended to enjoy it very much, just as I always did.

“What do you mean, Rarity? You aren’t a ‘psycho’, you’re the loveliest, kindest, most generous person I’ve ever met.”

My normal reaction to the chance to tell somebody I have Antisocial Personality Disorder is to avoid said chance with the same vehemence I typically use to avoid stepping barefoot into somebody else’s vomit. However, today had not been normal and Cadance was going to tell Twilight all this herself sooner or later, the next time I inevitably lost control and did something foolish so I might as well at least paint myself in the best light possible before she tries to drag my name through the mud. Again.

I sighed for a second time. “Twilight, Love of My Life, Owner of the Key to my Heart, ah not to mention my Boudoir, Darling. You flatter me, you really do. While you aren’t wrong about any of that, there’s a bit more to my story. Something I haven’t told you.”

Twilight paused mid-stroke. “Uh… what? You… ah, you aren’t cheating on me are you?”

I had considered it but no, I was not currently doing as such. Namely as all eligible persons were either out of town or busy. Pardon my French, but damn you to Tartarus, Octavia Melody, damn you for vacationing in the Pyrenees and leaving me all alone when Twilight and her folks went on that cruise. Damn you.

“Not at all, my dear,” I said.

“Then what? Are you gay?”

Sometimes, one encounters a person who is spectacularly intelligent. Sometimes, one encounters a person who is extraordinarily stupid. Rarely, one encounters a person who embodies both of those aspects at once. Twilight was like that; she could do trigonometry in her head, or remember the lines of succession for the Saudi aristocracy or build a time machine or, in this case, comfort me, but in all cases common sense was often beyond her. Not because she was medically incapable of having any, no, but because she was too preoccupied with trying to do trigonometry in her head.

“No, Twilight, we’ve been over that. I’m bisexual, most sociopaths are for some or other reason.”

Another pause. Her hand went tight around a lock of my hair. “Pardon, Rarity, I don’t think I heard you right there. Not properly.”

“Bisexual, Twilight. I am attracted to both men and women. As were Julius Caesar, Frida Kahlo, and Lord Byron and a sizeable number of other great personalities.”

“Not that, Rarity, the other thing. What did you say?”

“Oh yes. That. Well, that is what I am. A sociopath.”

“Are you telling me that you have Antisocial Personality Disorder?”

Oh my. Give it to Twilight to hit the proverbial nail on her proverbial head, one must, and give it to her to do so with a blunt and unseemly and clumsy descriptor.

I nodded. Doing that with your head in somebody else’s lap is not the easiest thing in the world but I do it, I did and I was practiced in the art of doing so. “I am afraid so, Twilight. I’m not as perfect as you thought I were.”

Twilight went quiet for a bit. Pardon my French, but drat. This is not going as well as I hoped and I had not expected it to go very well at all. At this rate, I may very well lose this dress. And not, again pardon my French, in the sexy way I tend to lose items of clothing.

At about the time when the silence was getting awkward, I spoke up again, “Yes, so Cadance is not entirely without ground to stand on.”

“But you’re… you! You’re not a murderer or a thief or an axe-wielding maniac or anything like that. You’re Rarity. You’re great, you’re nice and you’re patient and you’re a great listener. You’re a good person.”

Apparently.

I would’ve thought I am a great actress, first and foremost. But, then again, very little save for sincerity itself separates reality from the greatest of plays. Truly fantastic actors die unrecognized. I do believe Oscar Wilde had quite a bit to say about that, but he was gay, not bisexual and this tangent is getting nowhere.

Sighing again, I buried my face in her skirt and pretended to cry a bit. Outside, a man clapped his hands.

Do not fault him; my rear end tends to have that effect on people of his calibre – a functionally debased and, if you’ll pardon my French, functionally retarded calibre.

However, one can only spend so much time with her head pressed against somebody else’s thighs before something interesting happens. Preferably more exciting forms of foreplay should happen but, then again, that would be a very unladylike thing to do in the back seat of a police cruiser parked in downtown Canterlot. That and that stain by the armrest is telling me that Cadance already does such a thing on a regular basis.

Oh, if I could be Shining Armor right now and make that piggish schlub get me out of here while I go off and deflower his wife. Alas, that sort of magic isn’t real – not when I need it, anyway – and I doubt he is anywhere near silver-tongued enough to actually do so to any reasonable regard.

Holding my head in my hands and jabbing my elbows into her thighs, I stared upwards at Twilight. “Darling,” I began, “I know that I’m not any of those monstrous things and I’m very relieved you know that I’m not. However, Cadance is under the sound belief that I am for some or other reason. In fact, she threatened to tell the whole world of my unfortunate condition.”

Twilight gasped. “She wouldn’t!”

Well, she didn’t outright say that she would.

“We both know her too well to think that highly of her, I’m afraid. Hence, her commanded for you, specifically you, to reconsider our affair and whatnot.”

“What do you mean? She doesn’t want us to break up, does she?”

“She does,” I said, voice graver than a tombstone.

“Why?” Another gasp. “It’s not because of me, is it?”

Good girl; realizing who is really at fault here.

“It is,” I said, voice graver than a mausoleum.

Finding a new reserve of gorm with which to lose, Twilight’s jaw sagged. She blinked away tears – genuine ones. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know! I’m so clumsy, aren’t I?” She sobbed.

“Yes, you are and now it’s getting our relationship destroyed.”

Twilight cried.

Contrary to popular misinterpretation of my condition, I am not actually a sadist. I’m not a masochist either, in case you were wondering whether or not my life story included me in any degrading yet arousing leather-clad positions. Seeing Twilight cry, however, although it didn’t rouse any compassion in me, was bothersome.

Ladies do not like to be bothered.

“Come, now,” I said, placing a hand on her shoulder, the sore one, not letting go when she flinched, “this is not the end of the world. At least, it doesn’t have to be. Listen, Darling, I have a plan.”

A beat.

Rubbing her eyes, Twilight’s weeping paused. Good. Now we are getting somewhere, somewhere I’d like to be going for once.

I pulled her close and I told her what we were going to do.

And, as this is still an explanation – albeit a fairly engrossing one, or so I hope – this is what I told her, “Twilight, now, before you ask, I do still love you.”

A nod, fragile. Teary.

“I have loved you since the first time we met, since I laid my eyes upon you. It was love at first sight,” I lied.

Another nod, tentative. Unsure.

“And I love you more than I love anyone else in the whole world. My condition doesn’t change that; I’m still a human being. One who adores you more than anything,” I kept lying.

A third nod, nervous. Hopeful.

“And I know what to do about Cadance. She’s smart but, together,” or alone in terms of myself, “we’re smarter. This is what you’ll do, Darling. You’re going to go up there, to Café del Sade on the penthouse floor, and you’re going to tell Cadance that I apologized for whatever slight I committed, don’t say exactly that by the way, and that, although we’re still together, I am determined to change and you are going to take the lead from now on,” hopefully that shouldn’t be too hard for her, lacking a backbone and all, “And, as proof of my change of heart, look, you can even take my handbag.”

After emptying it of its valuables, I handed her the bag, a pretty watermelon shaped affair from Gucci. She accepted it with reddened eyes and shaking hands. A small price to pay for salvation. Interestingly enough, I do believe that is a movie quote – Sweetie Belle kept saying it over dinner last week. Also, let it be known that doing the dishes before dessert is not, as the franchise’s villain would say, “a small price to pay for salvation.”

Anyhow, Twilight took the bag. I continued, “I’ll likely come up shortly, and I’ll agree with you. Then, once she’s calmed down again, we can finally enjoy ourselves some tea and have our date in peace. Then once we’ve given it a week or so, we can meet up again, for coffee, although we must do it somewhere else because the service here is awful, and then we can discuss what to do next from then onward. Don’t fret, Darling, we’ll be fine.”

Apprehensive yet lacking a better idea, for such a thing did not currently exist, Twilight nodded and sniffed away her tears. “Okay, Rarity. I’ll do that.”

With that, we kissed. She tasted like I suppose all nerdy teenage girls do – like lip gloss and useless trivia and crippling insecurity. Though, in terms of the crippling power of said insecurities and the uselessness of said trivia and the glossiness of said lips, Sunny Flare tasted better. Far, far better.

If only she didn’t date that wretched Fleur dis Lis, the things I would do to her…

But that is beside the point, honestly.

Twilight then clambered out of the vehicle. The man, skateboard under one arm, accosted her. Empowered by my speech, I suppose, she managed to brush him off with only the most minimal of apologies before hurrying off into the building.

And then I stole Shining Armor’s car.

Now, while redoing my makeup and running a brush through my hair and the like, I spotted the dashboard in my hand mirror. There, dangling like the Forbidden Fruit itself, was the car key. In fact, it was still keyed into the ignition.

A smile, a real one, spread across my face.

Once adequately enthralling again, I exited the vehicle. Then I returned to it, this time sitting in the driver’s seat. It was a markedly comfortable chair, leather embossed and with a warmer built in. Taped to the windscreen was a picture of Cadance and a smiling baby. The air freshener was shaped like a set of twenty-sided dice and it smelled like raspberries. Being an impulsive sort of lady, I proceeded to press the big red button on the dashboard.

The siren gave me quite a jolt, let me tell you. I nearly fainted.

I pressed the button again to turn the noise and the flashing red and blue lights off. And then I turned the key; the engine roared like a lion atop a mountain peak. I placed a foot onto the accelerator; the petal was shaped like a metallic foot for whatever reason. I checked my mirrors; all clear, save for the ingrate man on his skateboard dithering about in front of me.

It occurred to me that he had been very mean to my girlfriend today.

It also occurred to me that nobody of consequence had seen me get into Shining Armor’s car. Not into the driver’s seat, anyhow. As far as Twilight knows, I cannot actually drive. I’ve known how to drive since I was fourteen; my father taught me after his favourite racer won the Monaco Grand Prix.

Furthermore, I had a deeply unpleasant day and would very much like to feel in control, proper control, of something again. Although not ideal, a police cruiser would do.

My hands clasped themselves over the steering wheel.

Nobody would know.

I’m not a sadist but I do oh so enjoy a good bit of revenge. I would just scare him.

That’s all.

Anyhow, he should be more scared, perhaps then he wouldn’t go about harassing my girlfriend, somebody who’s chequebook and physical appearance I enjoy very much.

Nobody would know.

Apart from him, but what could he say, honestly? That a beautiful young woman clambered into the front seat of somebody else’s pursuit car and chased him around a bit, before driving off into the sunset?

Nobody would believe that.

I put the car in gear and turned on the siren again and started towards him. At first, he was too busy scratching his unmentionables to notice the advance. Then, he turned to me and did a funny little jump and let go of his skateboard, which had an image of a paper doll spray-painted onto its underside.

Crunch.

My foot remained on the accelerator. The car sped up. So did he, and I ran him like a whippet down to the end of the block.

It wasn’t my fault.

He tripped over his shoelace and he fell.

Backwards.

Towards the vehicle.

I was going too fast, and I was a little tipsy from the equivalent of four glasses of scotch, and I wasn’t that fond of him anyhow.

Crunch.

It began with a crunch. And then he emitted the most dreadful scream, followed by a gurgling whimper. The vehicle thumped and rumbled and squelched over him as if it were a mallet tenderizing a particularly bony piece of chicken.

A bolt of fear actually flashed through me. Somebody would likely care about that, possibly finding out about my little crime and doing something about it. Let it be known that I despise policemen and I very much would not want a single one of them doing anything to me; once was more than enough, honestly.

Reaching over to the backseat, I retrieved my pair of gloves and donned them fast enough to tear one by the right ring finger. Drat. Nevertheless, I then exited the vehicle, looked around and, to my relief, nobody was around that particular slice of downtown Canterlot; save for myself and the thing smeared across the road.

I popped open the trunk and, gritting my teeth and taking a monstrously deep breath, I hoisted up the most intact portion of him and tossed it into the trunk and slammed it shut before the smell got to me and I was ill from the hideous stench of motor oil, cheaply-priced and licentiously-advertised body spray, and fresh blood.

Then I decided to go for a drive; I took the scenic route.

Lacking a car myself, rarely ever do I get the opportunity to just drive. I told an Uber driver to do that once though, to just drive; I wound up in Fresno, and I was down $800.86. Never again.

Down were rolled the windows. I breathed a sigh of relief as the wipers got the blood off the windscreen. Outside, the world went by at quite the rate and the sunset rapidly approached. Ah! My mind felt clearer already.

I spritzed myself again with perfume and then I tugged my gloves off, one by one, and tossed them out the open window. They fluttered away like a pair of particularly-operatic silver ravens. Out of interest, I clicked open Shining Armor’s glovebox. No gloves, opera or otherwise, lay within. However, there was a crumpled half-pack of Menthols there. One I removed and lit with the lighter built into the car.

Another sigh. A puff of smoke blitzing away behind me. How clear my mind felt, how still my heart was. Nobody would know about this.

Sometimes, I wish I was normal.

But not right now.

Author's Note

Good morning readers, and welcome to my newest story. As Rarity's a Sociopath was so well received, I've decided to write a sequel for it and finish off this Rarity's tale. I'm aware that this might lack some of the nuance that made the original what it was - as well as shifting Rarity's character from functional sociopath to dysfunctional sociopath - but I felt this route was warranted, namely because I like a bit of action in my stories as well as a bit more intrigue. Seeing Rarity just win and fixing her relationship with Sci-Twi wouldn't have been as interesting in my opinion, nor would it really have been the kind of thing I'd want to write. As such, enjoy Paper Girl and, as per usual, feedback is appreciated immensely.

2: A Terribly Debauched Soiree

Eventually, however, the gas dial began to tilted with a menace towards the flashing red light in the shape of an E. And it was not an E for Elegant, which I am. It was an E for Empty, which my heart, alas, is. And I was right about in the middle of nowhere without a gas station in sight.

Such is life, I suppose.

I pulled over, beside the cliff-face. Below, beneath the tired old wood-plank and red-rust of the suspension bridge I had parked aside, there rushed a rapid white river. Out of the car I exited, with Twilight’s handbag now slung over my shoulder and I lit myself another cigarette.

Terribly unladylike, I am aware, but a hip flask is even more so and, besides, waste not – want not.

And it is horrifically trashy to drink alone. Smoking, less so.

I stared out into the desert and I watched the sunset. To me it resembled one of those old lightbulbs, bright yellow-white and roughly spherical when view from the right angle; it was sinking rather slowly into the sands beyond and it was dying the skyline a bloody red shade as it went. As far as desert sunsets go, I suppose it was rather nice, save for the fact that it played scion to that dreadful chill deserts tend to have.

Said chill, for the record, is why I have no plans whatsoever to spend the rest of my life in the Arab Gulf States; in addition to certain restrictive practices, the extreme temperatures render cities like Dubai and Manama entirely unsuitable for a lady such as myself. After all, I simply cannot spend all day inside and being blustered by air-conditioning, not when I have beaches to lounge upon.

Drawing a drag from the Menthol, leant against the bonnet of a police Chevrolet, I cannot say that I felt particularly ladylike though.

But nobody is perfect.

Another chill went down my spine.

And it was not from the ice forming in the skateboarder’s blood beside me; I had realized something, something that darling Twilight had informed me of about a month ago. Really, it is funny how one remembers things. If I had remembered that two hours back, I might not have stolen this car.

Alas, I did not remember that the Canterlot Precinct recently released a tender for somebody smart, read: deeply unattractive, to design a tracking module for their fleet of pursuit vehicles. Twilight complained on end about how some other brainy fellow from our school had won it and how he had and I quote, “totally plagiarised those schematics from me! I mean, even the little logo is the same! What does he think TS is supposed to stand for when his name is Micro Chips; not TS Elliot, for sure, he’s probably never heard of an actually talented author in his life, that hack.”

Personally, I had no doubt that Twilight or Micro Chips or whoever could design a perfectly effective tracking device with which to unintentionally ruin my day more than it already had been ruined.

It occurred to me then, after another wisp of eucalyptus-flavoured smoke, that I probably ought to distance myself from this vehicle before well-armed and deeply-unsympathetic policemen showed up, Cadance got involved again, and I was either forced to attend a humiliating courtroom session or seduce about fifteen different greasy swine in exchange for my freedom.

And the Uber was still some time away. In hindsight, I really should’ve brought a coat. At this rate, my pearl-white complexion is going to become a frostbitten sapphire-blue. And I cannot properly execute that colour, no matter how many times Rainbow Dash demands that I just wear her dresses instead.

Now, I might not be a sadist, but I will mention that the only reason I ever bother making that mannish boor of a girl outfits is because doing so and then pretending to actually expect her to wear them makes her squirm in the most enjoyable ways. That and practicing with a frame as oddly-proportioned as hers is, gangly and muscle-bound yet still flatter than a calm ocean, is quite the entertaining challenge.

Eventually, however, the car that appeared – no, the contraption, said device-on-wheels did not deserve to be considered a motorcar. And it was not the kind of vehicle one wishes to be deposited in front of one’s ex-girlfriend’s doorstep by. It was scarcely a vehicle at all, yet I could count the components about seven different and signifigantly more aesthetic cars comprising it. Then again, anything would be more aesthetic than a refuse-brown, vomit-green and bruise-yellow three-wheeled half-Citroen half-Pinto half-Mustang that trundled along on white tires and tinted windows, blaring a dreadful hybrid of post-punk industrial rock and Austrian folk music.

Yes, I am aware that that was three halves but trust me, it was.

The thing seemed to me to be the epitome of a regrettable automotive choice. For Chanel’s sake, there were the hot pink and pastel and neon yellow silhouettes of naked women on the mudflaps, its hubcaps were spiked, and one of its five exhausts belched forth a combination of tooth-grey smoke and gum-pink flame.

I prayed to whatever gods happened listening that the contraption rejected from Tartarus itself passed me by.

The Worst Possible Thing proceeded to occur. Said thing being that the vehicular personification of rolling probable cause halted itself with a rusty squawk right in front of where I stood. My cigarette escaped my grasp and tumbled down to the roadside sands. As did one of its bumpers.

The head of a deeply ugly man proceeded to emerge and he leered at me the same way a goat leers at a freshly-ripened pile of garbage. And I do not like my name to be uttered in the same sentence as trash, let alone to be compared to it.

“Miss Rarity Belle, your chariot awaits. Charming prince, or princess because it’s the current year and I don’t judge, notwithstanding,” he said.

Begrudgingly, only because I had no intention of freezing to death on the side of the road, I nodded and put on my best – my most strained – of smiles. “Excellent,” I managed to say through gritted teeth.

“Nice! I’ve come to the right place this time!” He nodded, unrolling the window until it actually seemed physically possible for him to squeeze his head through it. He extended a hand; its glove was a lurid yellow and, in hindsight, it may have actually just been a collection of banana skins sewn together with used dental floss. It certainly felt as such when I gingerly shook it for the minimally-expected amount of time.The door, which a fridge had been sacrificed to contribute, clunked open. I stepped in, laying Twilight’s scarf over my seat, which seemed to be made from Taffeta, of all things. Polka dot Taffeta. With suspicious brown stains on it. Oh my.

“Now, I have many names,” the man said, pointing at his nametag, where there were indeed many names, “So call me whatever you please. In my time upon this plane, and upon a few others, let’s see…” and he began to count upon his fingers, “I’ve been Cegorach the Laughing god, Deadpool, Smoking Mirror, Nyarlathotep the Crawling Chaos, Set the Red, Karl Marx, Mr Nancy, The IT; by the way that’s the one from the book not by Steven King that is, Marvel Studios’ Loki, Simkin, Mephistopheles, the Hacker Formerly Known as 4chan, John de Lancie, Brer Rabbit and oh! and Dorian Ignatius Schopenhauer de Klerk IV, yes, can’t forget that. But that last one’s a bit long, don’t you think? So, you can just call me Discord. That’s D-I-S-K-ord, anyhow. You don’t look like a girl accustomed to large mouthfuls of long things. Just yet, anyway. Give it a few years.”

I blinked. He didn’t.

He probably should, considering how red his eyes were.

“Where, might I ask, does the ‘ord’ come from. I understand the first half is your initials but…”

He grinned. None of his teeth looked to appear as if they belonged in his mouth and, come to think of it, none of them were shaped in such a way to appear to belong to the mouth of any human at all.

Discord pointed with his other hand, a monstrously hairy specimen, to his nametag. There, below his name, in minutely small tangerine Comic Sans lettering, were the words “Ordinance Manager.”

“Ah, a man in uniform,” I said, trying to make conversation while refusing to lay a single eye on whatever dreadful apparel he was garbed with, “on leave, I suppose.”

“You could say that, Rarity. I prefer the term, ‘dishonourably discharged’, but, then again, so did the boys over at Area 51.”

“Good grief! Why ever so?”

Again, Discord smiled. With his gloved hand, he pointed behind himself and out the rolled-down window. In the distance, a faint and muffled boom erupted from behind a barbed-wire fence. A cloud of rust-brown dust proceeded to arise in its general vicinity of creation.

Good grief indeed.

I hadn’t noticed the door clunking shut.

“Where to? The Moon?” he chuckled.

“Good grief, no! 319 Tambelon Drive, Canterlot City, if you please. You ought to know that already too.”

Discord chuckled, “Just trying to make a little chaos, my dear. Shall I step on it then?”

“Yes, kindly do. I’d like to be there before midnight, if you wouldn’t mind, I’m, going to a party and don’t plan on being so fashionably late that it’s over by the time I arrive,” I said, adjusting the bag on my lap so that the taser within was very obviously visible.

If he saw it, he made no notice of it. Instead, he stamped down his foot on a rubber chicken before throwing the thing out the window. Then he flicked back on the dreadful music and stamped his foot down on the accelerator and started down the road.

“Excuse me, Discord?” I asked, about half a minute later.

He ignored me.

“Discord?” I repeated, somewhat louder.

Again, his eyes remained pointed at the road – or at his cellphone, or at his shaving razor, or at the yellow-and-pink pony doll superglued to the dashboard, or at a girly magazine, or at a dog-eared copy of an outdated phonebook, or at the road behind him.

“Discord!” I yelled.

“Yeah? Is the music too loud?”

“Yes!” I yelled, namely because a lady does not holler, “Also you are going the wrong way!”

The motorized contraption screeched to a halt with the dreadful sound of a thousand bats simultaneously attempting to sing a carol – spend enough time with Fluttershy and you will, alas, learn the sounds of some very peculiar animals in some very peculiar situations. Once she taught a pig to sing and managed not to waste her time doing so.

But that’s beside the point.

Lurching and wheezing smoke out from the bonnet, Discord’s automobile swerved around, into oncoming traffic! for a couple of seconds, anyhow, before he drove into the right lane.

“Sorry! Not sorry!” he hollered over the booming sound of the reggae-rap-rock, “Non-Euclidian geometry and all. Takes a while to get used to, you know!”

Thanks to Twilight I actually knew what he was talking about. The implications did not excite me. Neither did the crunching sounds emanating from his car’s gearbox.

“Excuse me, but you’re still in first gear!”

“What? I’m playing King Lear? Lovely, I always wanted to star in a play. Though I’d prefer to be Puck again! He was fun. What terrible fun he was! Bottom has the head of an ass, you know! I only got that pun last week! Ha! Say, do you know that noise is?”

Yes, it’s the sound of a malformed, odious, toffee-nosed git who’s forgotten that his poor vehicle is still in first gear.

“It’s the sound of a magnificent car who’s brilliant and sexy owner unfortunately forgot to shift it out of first gear!” hollered Discord, one hand on his Playboy magazine, the other on his razor, one foot tapping up and down the wrench wrapped in a tea cosy that acted as a steering-wheel, the other sporadically jerking the vehicle forward with violent kicks to the accelerator.

If I were the gambling sort – which I would be, given the opportunity to ever come by Macau or Las Pegasus or Monaco, anywhere with a Banana Republic and a good casino really – I would bet good money that he read’s his magazine for the articles – all the actual pictures, as lecherous as they are, are either cut out or taped over with images of manatees and neon-pink beavers – pardon my French, but I do not mean the sexy sort of beaver either.

Again, the automobile lurched forth.

Good grief, I’d almost prefer being interrogated by Cadance to this.

At least she was pleasant to look at, if not pleasant to talk to.

Eventually, however; finally and at long last and at a standing testament to why I really should persuade somebody to purchase mme my own car; the vehicle trundled to a halt. Half a mile from its intended destination – the Flare Manor being both visible, lights flashed and balloons dangled from the four-storey testament to the wonders, or lack thereof, of Anglo-Japanese architecture, and audible, for pop music thumped from within it, up the hill, an aggravatingly long walk away. The silhouettes of inebriated teenagers could be spotted stumbling about its gardens.

“Well?” I asked.

Discord shrugged.

“Well.” I repeated.

He began to pick his snout of a nose and, to my dismay, every-so-often he would deposit what I can only assume to be a particularly choice specimen of a bogey into his goatee.

Disgusting.

“Well! I never!” I insisted, “Aren’t you going to drive me the rest of the way, you incompetent, ill-dressed, classless misfit?”

A primeval growl emerged from his lips. Suddenly, I felt as if I had made a mistake on par with beating one’s girlfriend over a spilled cup of coffee and a ruined skirt. I reached for my taser.

“Not a good idea!” he snapped; my hand went still.

“Do pardon me, but why ever is that?”

“You’re trying something, aren’t you? Nobody goes to a party at that place unless it’s to get laid or to get high. And, as Guardian of the Fourth Wall, it is my duty, no my pleasure, to tell you that that’s a bad idea. No sexual content of underage humans, after all and all that and I can’t imagine the mods would shine about a line of crack either.”

“Yes, I am well aware of that all but a lady does not kiss and tell and I’ll be eighteen in a week or so. Anyhow, it’s dark and I’m in heels, not to mention the fact that it's positively Antarctic outside. I am not hiking up a hill and through a garden and you know very well that you’re not getting paid until you complete your journey.” I crossed my arms and put on my best pout – a pout, let me remind you, that has driven men, and women, to deplete their bank balances trying to placate it.

“Well, if you insist,” Discord groaned, “but that’s not the kind of chaos I like to cause. Meddling in relationships is mayhem and I don’t like mayhem. Too messy. And, Rarity, let me remind you that I pour chocolate milk on live ponies for a living!”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, I don’t get paid for it,” he waved his mismatched hands, “but it isn’t really work either. Not if you enjoy it.” Then he let loose a chuckle, which quickly deteriorated into a guttural smoker’s cough.

My hand tapped its nails against the cleanest part of my seat.

“Besides, if you’re trying to get piped or get a pipe, for crack that is, turning up in this machine isn’t exactly going to improve your chances, if you know what I mean.”

He was, alas, right. Sighing, I collected my things and climbed out of the contraption.

The cold walloped me like a baseball bat with nails hammered into it. Trying not to shiver, I wrapped the scarf around my neck, regretting disposing of my gloves, and started up the road towards the mansion’s gate which was, thankfully, left ajar.

Needless to say, I was quite out of breath by the time I arrived at Sunny Flare’s front door. I also may have stepped in something that had the colour and consistency of industrial lubricant and the horrid scent of spiced rum and enchiladas. However, I do recall myself sharing a shoe size with the host and, better yet, I do recall said girl owning quite the closet of them.

What little breath I still had within my lungs soundly left it when Sugarcoat opened the door. Music, bad music, and the sounds of jovial debauchery boomed from within the house.

Certain people’s company I genuinely enjoy. Certain people’s companionship I legitimately desire. Certain people’s corporate spending accounts I wish I had access too. Sugarcoat, being the dreary daughter of a destitute dentist and a decrepit cabaret dancer, fulfils none of those boxes I so desperately were ticked right about now.

Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and a red plastic cup of fruit juice in her right hand – the left holding a somewhat deflated pink helium balloon – she frowned at me. “You’re a mess, Rarity. You look like you killed somebody. Do you want me to call the police or should I call the morgue instead because you look like you’re about to drop dead on my best friend’s doorstep from the exhaustion of having to actually walk half a mile instead of being carried via divan by a fleet of ignorant boytoys you’ll discard within the week?”

Pardon my French, but – actually, no, this is about par for the course considering the way today has been progressing.

“And it’s a pleasure to see you too, Sugarcoat,” I replied.

“Really, you should work out more. You must have the muscular consistency of a marshmallow to be tired from walking half a mile. I could suggest you a training routine, but we both know that you’d skive it after one second of actual effort and sleep with somebody else’s personal trainer so that you could steal his watch.”

“Darling, I’m wearing heels,” I said because I felt that that would, in fact, clear this whole scenario up – if Sugarcoat were anybody else which she was, alas, not.

Sugarcoat adjusted her glasses – they, curiously enough, were a shade of burgundy, complementary if not somewhat gaudy – and she stared down at my feet. “One-inch heels,” she muttered.

“Yes, Audrey Hepburn popularised them back in the seventies.”

“Well, the seventies called. They want them back. You shouldn’t dress like that, you know. You look like a cheap whore in that dress.”

“Well, your mother did pick it out for me, Darling.”

“…Touché.”

I sighed one of my sighs. “Yes, touché. Congratulations on speaking rudimentary French. Perhaps there’s hope for you and romance yet? Anyhow, Sugarcoat, I’ve had an extremely long and extremely unpleasant day and I fear that I’ve forgotten my telephone in that dreadful man’s car. Are you going to let me in or not? Even if it’s just to call my mother to collect me.”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, “am I?”

“Yes, you are,” I said, my patience rapidly depleting and my mind ablaze with considerations of how best to taser this dreadfully drab and sour-faced monument to unwanted verbosity. Really, if this were a story, some or other editor honestly ought trim that down a bit.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are and this is not a pantomime game of ‘yes I will – no you won’t’ and you know Sunny will be utterly furious with you if you deny me entry into a home which, let me kindly remind you, is far, far, nicer than the one you actually inhabit on a daily basis!”

Sugarcoat narrowed her eyes. “We can’t all have a mother who’s CEO over Ray-Ban, Rarity.”

“I am perfectly knowledgeable of the fact that there is only one Lens Flare, Sugarcoat. I myself wear her designs.”

“So, you’re not just a pretty face. Wait, I take that back, you’re not actually pretty at all. Your makeup is running and you’ve got blood on your skirt for some reason and your hair looks like you combed it in a hurricane.”

“Ah, so you say. Well, I do suppose then that I look almost as undateable as you do, Darling. Now stand aside because you yourself invited me here.”

“Or what?”

I reached for my taser.

Nobody would know.

Well, she’d know – but Rarity Belle, Gentlewoman Couturier, would never do such a thing. Besides, her ensuing soiled underclothes and sledgehammer of a headache could simply be regarded as a hangover by anyone who pretended to be concerned about her.

“Or so help me,” I threatened.

“Eh, good enough for me. I was getting bored of bickering with you anyway. You’re good, sure, but you’re not that good. I can kvetch at the bus station anyway, I don’t need to waste my time here,” Sugarcoat said and, to my disappointment, she turned away.

“Thank you kindly, Darling,” I said, starting past her, before muttering under my breath, “Of course a prole like you uses public transport.”

“What was that!” Sugarcoat yelled after me.

I mimed being unable to hear her over the thumping bass that was currently dislodging ceiling plaster and rattling crockery like a miniature sonic earthquake. Honestly, I really must have a word, a particularly loud and particularly firm one, with whoever chose that dreadful noise. One simply cannot have sex to dubstep.

Entering the hall, I saw that it had become victim to the typical Crystal Prep mayhem; chairs, broken, were strewn about the passageway and the carpet had a collection of stains on it that I would’ve sworn were blood if not for the fact that, when my eyes became accustomed to the dim light of the battered chandelier, I found that they were a muddy green colour. The trail of footsteps across the parquet birchwood floors directed me to the culprit – a sodden and seaweed-encrusted boy who lay naked save for his pastel shorts against a wall and snored and drooled against the paisley wallpaper. His companion had busied himself with the task of tugging a particularly fetching portrait, likely of some Flare relative, from the wall.

He turned to me as I passed him and he winked lecherously before producing a switchblade. I produced my lucky scissors and glared at him. His grin turned from horny to sheepish and his shoulders fell about a foot.

“Hey, pretty lady, didn’t know Sunny knew such pretty ladies,” he managed to slur, one arm holding him vaguely upright by its balance against the picture frame.

“Thank you,” I said, avoiding eye contact.

“Saaay… pretty lady, could I scissor from you?”

“Even if you possessed the appropriate equipment required to do so, I would still respectfully decline.”

“What?” he mumbled, tapping some pond water out of an eye. Behind him, his friend gurgled.

“I said no!” I yelled, turning and starting away.

“Shit,” he swore, “Now I gotta carve a hole in this painting with a blunt boxcutter. Man fuck me.”

Wouldn’t do that if you were the last illegible human on this earth, you alcoholic pervert.

As I exited the room, I heard the sound of a belt unbuckling. I exited somewhat faster after that, and I found myself in a dining room. Now, Lens Flare, Sunny Flare’s mother, might be many things – relevantly, she is an astonishingly talented designer. However, for the life of her and that of her daughter, she cannot design a navigable abode. I know she did, by “did” I mean failed to do so in spectacular fashion, as I was present at the housewarming soiree; I was Sunny Flare’s plus one.

Really, why did I break her heart?

The dining room was much in the same state as the hall, save for the fact that it was habited; by partygoers, that is; the room was stripped bare of any furniture save for a solitary pool table, behind which sat a yellow girl furiously shaking drinks. As it seemed to be the only safe haven in the area; the rest of the room was filled with a pillow-fight which a warpainted Indigo Zap appeared to be winning, likely due to the fact that her pillowcase appeared to be filled with soccer boots and beer bottles; I headed straight for it – the bar, that is, not the hooligan.

Sour Sweet smiled at me as I approached – it wouldn’t last. “OMG,” she gasped, “is that Rarity Belle? Sugarcoat told me you were coming!”

“Indeed. A pleasure to see you-”

“You’re three hours late! Where were you, you clown-faced narcissist?”

As a matter of fact, I am not overly fond of Sour either. However, I was dreadfully parched and not just from my walk; I had, after all, spent an hour or two in the local desert disposing of a stolen car and a former pickup artist. I donned my best “give me what I want and I leave you in peace” smile.

“Good to see you too, Sour. Now, may I please have two martinis?”

She glared at me, setting her current cocktail down beside a stack of donated, or possibly stolen, liquor bottles. Most were nearing empty and a couple were cracked in such a way that they were emptying themselves sans any teenage help. “A martini?” she beamed, “Lemme see, okay?”

The makeshift bar was scanned. A bottle of Smirnoff was extricated from it and given a sniff. Judging that it was sufficiently alcoholic as it was still capable of searing off her nosehairs – Celestia knows the poor girl needs it, a wax that is, not another drink – she slammed it into a hole in the table that the table likely hadn’t come with and began to rummage about for a bottle of vermouth.

Spotting it first, I handed it to her. Sour inspected it. “This won’t do!” she screeched, “This is Rosso, you idiot!” then she smiled again and her voice shifted to the tone one uses to explain something for the fifteenth time to a mentally-incapable toddler, “and everyone knows you can’t make a martini with red vermouth.”

My knuckles went white – whiter than they already were – about the edge of the pool table. “Sour, that’s call a dirty martini. If you were a genuine mixologist and not a hopelessly inebriated teenage psychopath playing bartender because nobody in their right mind would sleep with or otherwise bother to entertain you, you’d know that. Now please, make me two of the beverages with all haste and, if you would be a dear, do tell me where Sunny Flare currently is.”

Sour growled.

I raised an eyebrow.

“You and Sugarcoat would make awesome friends, you know? You’ve got so much in common,” she spat.

“I cannot imag-”

“Like you two think you know everything and just can’t wait to tell the rest of us poor, unfashionable, unintelligent idiots what to do!” she said, starting on my drinks. Halfway through the admittedly-brief process, she pointed out the window with the drinks shaker out to the porch, accessible I recall from a good few rooms away, “Sunny’s chilling by the pool, by the way. Probably trying to kill herself again.”

“Ah, thank you.”

You have to hand it to Sour Sweet; for a “poor, unfashionable, unintelligent idiot”, she does get the job done.

“Yeah. You’ll have to go all the way around the house, Rarity.”

Curse this wretched abode.

Then Indigo clonked her next victim and the unfortunate boy screamed soprano – likely due to the location of where his attacker’s pillow had connected with his person – and he clutched his unmentionables and crumpled to the floor like a half-spent cigarette.

Which reminds me.

I haven’t had a smoke in hours.

Nobody would know.

Everyone is, quite simply, too drunk to remember anything, let alone the totally-forgivable act of a lady enjoying a cigarillo. I’m sure Lens Flare likely has a case of those somewhere; she seems the sort to enjoy a good Cuban after a busy day sketching up sunglasses.

Sour Sweet proceeded to scream too. Fearing Indigo had singled me out next for a beating – and I bruise like a banana – I ducked beneath the table and immediately regretted my decision when my knees squelched into the carpet. Knees are not intended to squelch at all and, as a matter of fact, neither are Persian rugs.

However, Indigo was busy being indecent and being a disgrace to her sex by trying to show off her new tattoos. If it's like the rest of the smattering of tasteless ink decals better suited to the covers of grindcore albums and the bottoms of skateboards, not looking is the right choice. One, for instance, is of her own name, and it's spelled wrong too.

Sour gasped. More importantly, she drew her hands to her face and dropped the shaker. I dove to catch it and, only after I had caught the pair of metal glasses and felt martini running down my arm, did I recall that the carpet was filthy.

Luckily Fleur is about my size.

If she’s as intimate with Sunny as I was, she should likely have a spare piece of wearable apparel around this mansion. Of course, this dreadful house being what it is – namely horribly designed and currently less intact that a rubbish tip after a firebomb – finding one of her dresses and stealing it could take weeks. Seriously, who puts a sink in their dining room, a utilitarian bathroom sink at that! and who then proceeds to try and drown some poor castrated soul in it? Lens Flare and Indigo Zap respectively, in case you – still me – were wondering.

“Is that Countess Coloratura?” Sour gasped.

“No, Darling, that’s Coco Pommel dancing around in stilettos. You met her at the Friendship Games, remember?”

Emerging from the table and grabbing a nearby and relatively clean washcloth, I wiped the worst of the spilled drinks and the remaining blood off of my outfit. Then I started off into the next room before Indigo had the idea to show me her latest tattoo and make me complement it under threat of a clonk to the skull.

Did I mention that I am horribly partial to keeping my skull intact? It is, after all, where my hair grows out of.

The next room, to my relief, was a conservatory. Unsurprisingly, the plate glass windows had long since been shattered. People slowly streamed into the building and most came to cluster around an in-progress game of what was either pool, snooker, or some interesting variation on the genteel game known as cricket. Judging by the dismal state, and amount, of the contestants apparel, it was strip snooker.

Really, how tasteless. Playing snooker without the proper uniform is tantamount to treason in some circles.

I continued by them, shaker of martini safely kept in my handbag and my hands safely plugged over my ears. This was the room with the sound system inside of it and that hideous contraption emanated noise the same way a dead dog attracts stench. Halfway there, somebody tried to trip me. I hopped the way out of the offending limb just in time and managed to avoid spilling my drink - and all over my phone at that - but landed poorly. A bolt of pain shot through my ankle. Unsurprising, considering I’d tried to jump in heels.

Something stopped me from calling out the bothersome hooligan. Namely as her other three limbs seemed to all be wrapped about the neck of a man she was currently kissing. Passionately. Any embrace so complicated it could be mistaken for a spiderweb can only result in and result from an overabundance of the stuff.

Might as well spend a night like this getting rid of it.

I may have to try that move actually, sometime. But I don’t recognize her tonight and have no intentions of making a new friend for that sole purpose. However, Lyra is double-jointed, right? And I do recall her chattering some months back about how her mother had been promoted to the head of Everton University’s Anthropology department; a position that, if Twilight’s father’s finances are anything to go by, pays quite, quite well.

There is, however, the matter of her girlfriend: Bon-Bon. Surly prat, if you’ll pardon my French. She and Sugarcoat would be a match made in heaven, come to think of it. Ah! And there she is! Bon-Bon, I mean. Tearing my eyes away from the brewing fornication, I started over to her.

She was currently fuming at her phone, occasionally tapping out a string of curses, before deleting it away with a series of mutters, in between sips of wine. “No, no, no,” she mumbled, “that won’t do at all. Oh, hey Rarity.”

I nodded, and curtseyed. Best for her to let her guard down – best to do this before I forget. Flashes of inspiration, after all, make art truly great. And romance, mine specifically, is the greatest art of all!

“Pleasure to see you, Darling. How are you finding the party? Sunny does throw them awfully well, don’t you think?”

She frowned, rolling her eyes. “Gah. Terrible. Our DJs are fucking useless and also fucking right over there.” With that, she pointed over to a Frankenstein stack of turntables, speakers, jukeboxes, subwoofers, IPods, laptops, guitar amplifiers, internet fibre cables, and CDs. On top, like a crown sat upon the electronic head of some malformed cybernetic garbage-monster, sat a gramophone, its record scratching futilely against the combination boom of pop country and dubstep.

“Ah. I see,” I said, Say, mind if I ask, but whoever are you texting over there, Bon? You look ever so worried.”

“Two people. One’s Sunny and she’s being a bitch and hiding somewhere because she’s too cheap to pay me after I recorded samples for her vocaloid project and the other’s Lyra who’s Still. Not. Here.”

I frowned. “Oh, oh dear. She mustn’t have told you yet. You poor thing. How could she be so underhanded?”

Bon-Bon blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“It’s just, I thought you knew. Really, that is heartless of her. Honestly. A lady should make such things public, at least to her lover anyhow. Well, her former lover.”

Another “what?”

“Now do forgive me for gossiping, I know it’s rather tacky but this really is important. Fluttershy told me, while we were at the spa, that Lyra told her, while they were at the animal shelter taking care of that poor three-legged pony, that she was planning to break up with you. I’m so sorry you had to find out this way, I really am.”

“What? Fluttershy, you say? She told you this?”

“Yes,” I nodded, aware that Fluttershy would admit to anything under the mere threat of duress.

“What a bitch! That was supposed to be a secret!” Bon-Bon screamed, dropping her red cup of wine.

She had been drinking more than just that vessel, let me tell you. Judging by the sorry state of Sour Sweet’s “bar”, everyone had been. Save for Sugarcoat, of course, but somebody had to be a designated driver. Normally, her breath, Bon-Bon’s that is as well as the rest of her actually, smelled like roses. Now it stank of rose – rose wine. How tasteless.

“I know, right? I said, rolling my eyes.

“Gah, that prick! She has the gall to break up with me, a week before our five-year anniversary? And then, no, she doesn’t try and keep it quiet or anything at all, no way. She just has to inform the entire student body that we’re no longer an item because she realized that her grades aren’t currently high enough to get into veterinary school. Selfish dick.”

I blinked.

“What?” I asked.

Either I’m a more convincing liar than I thought or I’ve stuck my pretty little head where it most certainly does not belong.

“And I bought her that harp she’d always wanted too! It cost me seven months wages! Now what am I going to do with it? Not give it to her, that’s for certain. If she wanted it that badly, she could've just asked for a break or for us to slow down or something else!” Bon-Bon stopped ranting then and starting panting.

“Oh. Oh dearie me. That’s quite the… unfortunate occurrence.”

“Yeah. So thanks. Thanks for telling me what I already knew, Rarity. You’re a great help. As always,” she muttered, before stamping off.

Drat.

I was just about to head outside and sort out whatever miserable condition Sunny had found herself in when I spotted somebody in the crowd: Octavia. Now, we used to date. It was brief. We were just children, honestly. All middle schoolers are. That relationship, alas, came to an end when I came to school with my hand in a cast one day and was unable to conjure up a proper explanation of how I’d gotten it that way without using the words “shoplifting” or “evading arrest.” In hindsight, I probably could’ve simply passed it off as a mere misunderstanding and walked away scot free with a ban from the local stationary store being my only long-lasting punishment, and a proverbial slap on the wrist at that. Not that I particularly wanted another slap on the wrist back then, not when the last one was delivered via baton after I’d jabbed a pair of scissors into the thigh of the officer who’d just so happened to have been in the store come the time the cashier spotted me secreting away a Mont Blanc pen under my cardigan.

Anyhow, I’m rambling. To shorten the long story, I wrangled out of the officer’s grasp shortly afterward and told my oblivious, at the time, parents that I’d simply acquired the wound when Sweetie Belle accidentally slammed my hand in a door. Octavia, however, has never been gullible and she pressed me for the truth.

However, she has always been quite fetching and tonight she was wearing a beautiful white Bandeau dress whose sequins sparkled in the conservatory lamplight. Just as I was about to approach her, the grudge healed but our affair never could, Bon-Bon caught her attention and began pestering her about something irrelevant.

I could barely hear her over the thumping music.

You can’t return a harp… can you?” Bon-Bon asked the grey girl, “I mean, I’ve had it for a few months at least. I bought it after Dad scored in the lottery. No, nothing big. Just enough for, like, early Christmas presents. What? Yeah! It’s been used. I took it out its wrapper and strummed it a bit. What? No? Only second hand? Shit.”

Actually...

“You know,” I said, starting back over to Bon-Bon, “I’d be happy to take that harp of your hands for you. Full market value.”

“Seriously?” Bon-Bon balked.

“Well, I don’t see why not. Besides, I feel like I just have to make it up to you after my little faux pas earlier. Also, what you should do now,” I said, placing a hand on her shoulder, “is go home. You’re drunk and in no place to make proper decisions. Apart from that. Once you’re feeling okay again, maybe you should go talk to Fluttershy, just to make sure I heard her right. But don’t tell her I sent you. Being known as a gossip is terrible for a lady’s reputation. Maybe all of this is a big misunderstanding, you know how she likes to talk.”

She doesn’t, but Bon-Bon, as far as I know, has never actually spoken to her. Different worlds and whatnot.

Bon-Bon thought about this – I could tell because her tongue stuck out and her nose crinkled and wisps of steam began to emerge from her ears. Then, to my relief, she nodded. “Yeah, that actually sounds pretty good. A warm bath and a good sleep, yeah. Then I’ll go talk to uhh… who again?”

“Fluttershy, Darling. Tall, yellow, is not Sour Sweet.”

“Her?”

“Her.”

“Her!” For a second, I could swear a lightbulb dinged about Bon-Bon’s head; it’s always useful when they think my ideas are their ideas. It saves me getting the blame for when what I want to happen actually happens and blows up, proverbially usually, in their face.

But Bon-Bon had a frumpy face. Pardon my French, but it’s true and, to her extreme misfortune, she wasn’t overly intelligent or wealthy. She could, however, bake a mean petit-four, which is something I should probably inform Pinkie of at some point.

“Thanks for the advice, Rarity. I’ll go talk to Shutterfly then. Thanks, yeah. Oh, by the way, you can keep the harp.”

I haven’t the faintest what I’ll do with it but, “Thank you ever so much, Bon-Bon, it was a treat seeing you again. Terribly ashamed to have to be the bearer of bad news like that.”

She nodded, slipped her phone back into her pocket, and headed off back into the dining room. A few seconds later, I managed to pick out the characteristic squawk produced when a sack of cleats collides with somebody’s more… tender regions.

Now what am I going to do with a harp? Oh! Perhaps Sweetie Belle would like a harp? Her birthday is coming up and she did mention, over breakfast and in between Marvel quotes, that she always wanted to try an instrument. Yes, I’ll give Lyra’s anniversary harp to my sister. She’ll love it, hopefully.

Anyhow, now to sort out this music. I started over to the mess of music playing appliances. A guitar breakdown nearly knocked the fillings out of my teeth, my necklace off my body, and me off my feet. Senseless device. Kneeling down, I picked up the discarded, half-full, vessel of wine and I threw that at the largest clump of wires.

Good riddance.

The predictable occurred. The rose connected with the appliances and gave all who were watching – namely myself, as everyone else was still transfixed by the sight of Neon Lights in a particularly tight pair of boxers try to pot an 8-ball with one hand tied behind his back. Beside him, Vinyl Scratch and Lemon Zest looked in a combination of numb adoration and total intoxication.

Lemon slipped off oh his shoulder and caused him to miss the shot. Just as the lights blinked out. Her face clunked against the rim of the pool table. Ouch.

Just as the confused screams and worried moans and soccer-boot crunching began, I made myself scarce. Through the doorway, of course; ladies never climb through windows.

Don’t worry – I know you won’t anyhow but the generator did lurch on a few seconds later. The music contraption, however, was destroyed.

And nothing of value was lost.

3: A Wickedly Desperate Affair

The garden was as I had left it – nice until a horde of unruly seniors, students that is not the elderly, trashed it beyond all recognition. It was green still, yes, but most of the plants wouldn’t be very green for long. Judging by the amount of fern scattered about, somebody had broken into the groundskeeper’s shed and had quite the time with his weedwhacker.

I spotted him comatose next to the device, technicolour vomit trailing down his jaw, getting into his dreadlocks. Beside him, a girl with similarly-styled hair smoked a blunt and possessed an expression suggesting that, whatever she saw, it certainly wasn’t earth. Her eyes were redder than cherries and more glazed that a Krispy Kreme donut preparing for winter with a double glazing.

Treehugger – I recall Fluttershy introducing me to her, once – made an obscene gesture at me at I passed by her patch of the lawn. I imagine she must’ve thought it a peace sign, but her hand was pointed backwards. Glaring at her for a second, I sniffed and turned away my head.

She chuckled and, thumping her chest, coughed up a smoke ring or two. “Hey, Rarity, dude, check out Sandy over here. Looks like he’s in Equestria, right?”

Sandy, or whatever the green-haired boy’s name actually was, blinked once or twice, stared intensely at nothing in particular for a breath, before his head went limp again against the weedwhacker’s handle.

“How charming,” I muttered.

“Dude, want a piff?” She said, offering me the blunt.

I raised a hand in protest. “Not with my constitution, Darling. But, since you’re in such a helpful mood, mind telling me where our host is? Sour said something, but I didn’t quite catch her over the music.”

Shrugging, Treehugger scratched her chin – spilling ash all over her sackcloth sarong. “Dunno. Nobody ever asked me that before. Guess you could say she’s all around us. Yeah. Gaia’s the land, lady dude. I met her once, you know. Best summer camp of my life, Rares.”

“I mean the host of this party. Sunny Flare? About yay tall, cyan skin, pink hair. Dresses like myself, only not as well. Have you seen her?”

Treehugger scanned the horizon. She made a noncommittal grunt. How attractive, honestly.

“Very well, be unhelpful. I’ll track her down myself,” I said, turning and starting away.

About five feet of distance was put between myself and the pair of stoners before the girl cried out. “The pool!” she yelled, “she’s tanning by the pool. Got ultraviolet lights and everything. Dude, Sandy, you saw her, right?”

Sandy snored. Treehugger elbowed him in the ribs and he awoke in a fit of coughing. So much for the pacifistic hippie, I suppose. However, I always did want to see militant tie dye…

“Dude!” Treehugger grabbed her friend by the shoulders and shook the sleep out of him. Alas, the high – and the dreadful scent that accompanied it – remained.

“Yeah?” he groaned, “why’s it cold all of a sudden?”

“... It’s called Winter, Darling. It happens once a year.”

“Shit!” Sandalwood jumped to his feet, “I forgot to stop global warming, dudes! Like fuck I am so sorry, Vanuatu. I just needed a power nap.”

Not as if I had the faintest as to who this “Vanuatu” was, but that was irrelevant. Trying to stay calm, I rested my head in my hands. “Firstly, it's called climate change these days. Secondly, just tell me where Sunny is, please. I do not wish to spend all night here, out in the freezing cold, surrounded by moronic addicts.”

“I’d hardly say that two of us counts as surrounded, Rares,” Treehugger said.

At least she knows her own intelligence, or lack thereof. Now if only she could know her own smell.

“She’s by the pool, waiting for either you, her girlfriend, or Christmas Day” said somebody else, “Just take a left by the dolphin statue and head down the right footpath, keeping going until you’ve passed the pansies and the pansies passed out in them.”

“Why thank you… ah… Darling,” I said, turning to the odd girl with unripe-banana-green hair and a muddied beige sweater.

“No problem. My name’s Wallflower Blush, by the way. You made my prom dress last year and also shot me with rainbows that one time.”

“I can’t say that rings a bell, Darling. I think I would remember doing something as… memorable as that.”

Wallflower, apparently, spat the blunt out of her mouth, crushed it into the dirt with a well-worn Converse heel, and stamped away with her hands in her pockets and a scowl across her face.

“Fuck’s sake. Soon as I want to be recognized…” she grumbled.

What an odd girl; so familiar too. If she cleaned herself up a bit, I’d imagine she’d look quite fetching in a satin kaftan. I must make a note of that; what was her name again? Wallfly Bleak? Ah, never mind.

Breaking out of his panic, Sandalwood turned his head and glared at her intensely, muttering something under his breath. Treehugger crossed her arms behind her head and sat back against her tree. Starting after her, the boy of the pair then tripped over his weedwhacker and wound up out cold again.

I decided that it would be prudent to put some distance between them and myself, before their stench overpowered that of my perfume.

Taking the directions given to me, Sunny was easy enough to find. She was seated with her legs hanging over a ledge and she was overlooking the swimming pool and she did so in what was actually a rather fetching black bikini. I suppose it could’ve had a pattern printed upon it, but there was in reality remarkably little material upon which to print it. On anyone else, it might’ve looked slutty. On her, for her precise brand of wealth-endowed naivety and intellect-given inability to perfectly comprehend social cues past alternating between being needlessly haughty and throwing money at things, the swimsuit actually managed to look modest, accidental, forgivable. Besides, Bombay Sapphire gin glows in UV light and a third of a bottle of bright cyan liquid is ever-so-slightly more eye-catching than her rear end.

Only a little though.

It’s a very nice rear end.

Rather pert and all.

I sat down next to her. She didn’t notice, and continued to wave side to side with the wind. Her bottom lip quivered as she stared numbly out over her estate, and to the skyline beyond. Stars were in the sky tonight – and it occurred to me that she looked bluer than usual. Forgive the pun, but the combination of the cold and the melancholy that had seemed to overcome her does no wonders for one’s complexion; she was no exception, and there was a pimple just beneath her left ear, partially hidden by her bangs, shown only when her hair fluttered in the breeze.

“Well,” I said, softly, “you asked for me and here I am.”

Sunny Flare gasped and nearly fell in the pool. At the last second, I grabbed her arm and managed to hold her up until she found her footing on a loosened brick jutting out from the poolside wall. Heaving and huffing in a most unladylike manner, we managed to get her back up to safety.

Never in my life had I ever seen the girl swim and I wasn’t about to start now; lounging beside a body of water is far more dignified than actually being in it, what with the sort of dirt that accumulates in those things. Disgusting, honestly.

That and she was so drunk that I feared she might drown, invalidating my entire reason for trudging over here in the first place.

“Rarity?” she slurred, blinking, “You’re really here?”

“Yes, Darling. I couldn’t miss your birthday party, now could I?”

She giggled, “Guess not.”

“Indeed. Now, whatever are you doing out here, in the cold?”

That, apparently, was not the right thing to say. Personally, I thought it made me come off as fairly compassionate and just more than a bit interested in her; the latter of which I actually was. However, Sunny swore under her breath, and turned away.

I put a hand on her shoulder. My, she was freezing.

“Darling, you know can tell me anything. And I am terribly concerned for you right now, with you being out here… alone, barely decent, all alone… out in the cold.”

If only there was a picnic blanket nearby. Then, perhaps, she could warm me up.

Sunny sighed. “You sound like parents.”

“Well, excuse me for having a vested interest in keeping you alive, Darling. But, really, we must get you back inside. Having you being frostbiting would be the worst possible thing! You cannot manicure fingers you don’t have.”

You can’t do other certain things with fingers you don’t have either but that is most definitely beside the point; at least for the next half hour anyway.

She snorted. “Seriously, lay off for a second.”

“If you insist. At least tell me what’s got you… so angry.”

“Fine, I guess I did ask you to be here, after all.”

“Yes, you did. Fleur, if I recall, was out of town. You were looking for some company. As a matter of fact, so was I.”

Well, I was after I received your text.

“This isn’t about Fleur,” Sunny grumbled.

To take a page out of Bon-Bon’s book, what?

“Ah, pardon me Sunny? What do you say, again?”

“You heard me. This isn’t about Fleur. Well, not totally anyway. It’s about Lens. My mother. Wanton arrogant workaholic of a... person.”

“Yes, the fashion designer. What of her?”

“Do see her here!” Sunny shouted.

“Come to think of it, I do not. Then again, I can’t exactly imagine why a woman like her would exactly frequent a celebration as…” chaotic, disgraceful, unbecoming, mess-creating, incrimination, disgusting? “as unique as yours.”

“Because she is my mother, Rares. But no, no! She had a press conference in Los Angeles! A press conference? More important than me,” she pointed to herself – I had forgotten exactly how nicely shaped her breasts were – “her daughter? She has missed all but one of my birthdays, Dearie, and I am getting a bit annoyed!”

Presumably, the birthday Lens Flare had actually been present for was Sunny’s birth itself.

“Calm down, Darling. We… can’t change that now.”

“I know,” her voice was anything but calm, “so I asked Fleur to keep me company. But she’s visiting her grandparents in Geneva.”

“Tell me about it, that Fleur, not to speak ill of your beloved but-”

She cut me off, “Ha! Beloved? Once she gets back to Canterlot City, I am absolutely breaking up with her. That was the last straw, honestly. She knows how much my birthday means to me! How I’d like to spend it…” Sunny paused for a beat, “with my family for once.”

“Ah. You, you poor thing.”

“So, I threw a really kickass party in her house.”

Len Flare’s house, that is, not Fleur’s. Not yet, anyhow and, at the rate this conversation is going, not ever.

“Yes. That is a word you could certainly use to describe this party.”

“And I invited Vinyl, who brought PCP or bath salts or crack or some other thing that makes you go crazy.”

Well, that definitely does explain a few things. I can’t remember Sour Sweet being that off-kilter or Lemon being that out of it or Indigo being that violent. Competitive yes, but bloodthirsty? not really, no. Perhaps somebody told her it was a game though. I can certainly recall Lemon being that out of it.

“I certainly can see the reasoning in that. Quite a good revenge, I must say. In fact, now pardon my French here, but I do believe I saw a guy a while back pleasuring himself with one of your Makiwas. Lens Flare certainly will not appreciate that. At least, I believe it was a Makiwa. Now I daresay it better resembles a Jackson Pollock.”

Sunny blinked. She stopped sniffing too. “One of my whats?”

“Makiwa. He’s an upcoming Zimbabwean artist. One of your guests was…” I mimed what he was doing, “yes, with the painting.” The resulting expression Sunny made split her face between embarrassed amusement and utter disgust.

“What, did he, like, roll it up?”

“Possibly. Last I saw he had carved a hole for… himself.”

Sunny gagged and then burst out into laughter. Then she gagged again and slumped against me.

“Fuck, Dearie, I drank sooo much,” she muttered, wiping her mouth off on my scarf.

“Indeed. Let’s get you inside right this instant.”

“I thought she’d think I was cute out here. But she didn’t show up,” Sunny slurred, as I helped her up.

And the implications of that just hit me. I do hope she meant Fleur there; I am nowhere near old enough to be remotely motherly.

Noticing my grimace, Sunny continued, “Yes, I realize that it was a stupid idea, especially since Fleur left yesterday. Sugarcoat told me it was but did I listen? Lol. No… But I love you. You’re like my third, wait not Fleur’s a bitch now, second, yeah, my second most-loved person in the world. And you’re great.”

“Why thank you, Darling. I love you as well.”

I’d say that you didn’t rank on my list of beloved people but, then again, I’m mentally incapable of keeping such a list in the first place.

“You know,” she continued, voice slurred as thick as a milkshake that was trying and utterly failing to be sultry, “My bedroom’s got a lock on it. Nobody could get in. Or out.”

That sounded more like a threat than a flirt – another reason why intoxication is so terribly unladylike.

“That sounds lovely, Sunny. Positively lovely, indeed. Let’s go there, shall we?” I asked, taking her arm; she’s female and about my height and also spectacularly blitzed so I do believe this change of arrangement is, for once, acceptable.

She hung off me like a diamond. A drunk tipsy diamond.

Suddenly, she stopped, bent over, and was sick in a bush.

A very tipsy diamond.

“Ah, Sunny?” I asked.

“Yeah?” she groaned – her voice was muffled; her mouth was pressed against my scarf.

“Is that bedroom of yours en-suite by any chance?”

To my relief, she nodded.

“Excellent. I think we’ll start our evening off with a shower then. A hot, steamy, sensual, and hot shower. Yes, with a bit of foam, ah?”

“Sounds fine,” Sunny mumbled.

“Fantastic, Darling. Also, do feel free to keep that scarf. It’s my gift. It’s your birthday present.”

Sunny’s eyes went wider than satellite dishes. Her jaw thumped against the cobble of the garden path. She went limp in my arms, sobbing and getting a drip of vomit on me and hanging her arms around my neck.

Equal parts disgusting and, well no, that’s it. Disgusting. I suppose, if not for my condition, I would’ve been incredibly touched by the fact that she was so impacted by somebody actually being nice, genuinely, nice to her on what was supposed to be one of the best days in her year.

But, then again, she was getting me dirty. That shower sounded more and more enticing by the second, and I wasn’t even planning on actually stepping into it – I would absolutely not sleep with her while she was ~~drunk~~ tipsy; furthermore, she stank of gin, half-digested kale and rice cakes, not to mention crippling insecurity and all the other things nerdy girls usually smell like. Very glossy lips though.

“Rarity,” she mumbled, staring up at me as I held her up.

“Yes, Darling?”

“Love you.”

“I know.”

“No, no no no. No, like, more than you can possibly imagine. You’re Here. For. Me. And nobody else is! Like, all those assholes in the house just like me for my looks and my money and for who my mother is but… but…” she sniffed, I pointed her head away from my cleavage in case she was ill again, “you’re different.”

No, Sunny. Unfortunately, I am not.

“Why, I’m sure there’s somebody… li-” I wracked my mind trying to conjure up a name and I came up, for once, utterly blank; well, not entirely blank but… gah, Sugarcaot? no, that would be disgusting. “Yes!” I said, “I do love you more than anyone else in the world so let’s go inside and have a shower!”

Phew.

Sunny beamed. She had kale in her teeth. “Thanksooomuch! That sounds super amazing, Dearie.”

“Of course, it does. All things do when a proper lady thinks of them.”

She giggled. Giggling is something that can be very seductive when performed properly. I was not feeling very seduced right now but, hopefully, both of us would be prettier in the morning.

Navigating the mansion was never an easy task; doing so with Sunny draped across me like a heliotrope-and-chartreuse mink did not change that reality. Under her direction, I re-entered the building via another entrance and, to my disgust, I found myself in the kitchen. Well, what remained of it, anyhow.

Like a carmine comet, Pinkie Pie had collided with the once-elegant brushed steel, frosted glass, polished granite room to ruinous effect. Every available surface was coated with cookie dough, spilled alcohol, or candy – what I assumed to be candy, I trusted that Vinyl was a sensible enough person not to leave her narcotics out in the open. Other surfaces were not available due to being either sprawled upon by drunk teenagers, or on fire, or splattered with unmentionable substances. The baker herself was dancing in a corner of the room, beside the oven.

Let me take a moment to remind you that I had personally disabled the music some minutes ago.

Pink hair poofed up and down to the tune of some unseen, unheard, rhythm. Spinning on a plate, the girl turned to face us, eyes closed and mouthing into a whisk as if it were a microphone, before spinning away and performing, on one foot might I add, the hokey-pokey.

“Should we… um… help her?” Sunny groaned.

I eyed her. Smoke began to emerge from the oven nearby. “I can’t imagine why we would. She looks like she’s having the time of her life dancing in a destroyed room.”

“We should, like, at least check on her. I think she’s high.”

“Nothing to worry about if it’s a good trip, Darling. Besides, I’ve got you to worry about. Wouldn’t you oh! like to do something else right now?” I said, batting my eyelashes at her.

Sunny started forward, and her foot skidded in a pile of icing; she shouted in surprise and latched onto my arm. Did I mention that the nails of the hand she used were rather long, and rather sharp? I managed to drag her back to her feet, rubbing the pain from the bruise-to-be forming on my arm.

“Good grief, please watch where you step!” I shouted.

Sunny gulped; I took an involuntary step back. Pinkie noticed me.

“Hey! Rarity! I didn’t know you came to Crystal Prep parties,” she shouted, hopping off of her plate, “They’re super fun, aren’t they? Not like the ones in Ponyv-er-Canterlot at all! We certainly did not have drugs back at the rock farm, no siree. I mean, not drugs like these. There was laudanum, sure, but you weren’t really supposed to drink that. Then you’d really need to drink it… vicious circle, actually.”

“Well, you never know where the wind might take you,” I said, “and tonight, it has taken me here.”

“Yeah,” Sunny nodded, “We’re back together.”

Pardon my French, but oh for fuck’s sake shut up!

Pinkie raised a dough-spattered eyebrow and her whiskless hand went to scratch her chin. From it she plucked off a piece of candy and she popped it into her mouth, chewing intensely. “Wait a minute,” she muttered, after swallowing.

“I really cannot afford to,” I replied, “you see, Sunny here had a little too much gin and really ought to lie down right about now. Don’t listen to a word she says. I was just taking her to bed actually.”

Somebody hammered on a pantry door. “I can take her! If you let me out of here!” Sugarcoat yelled, from within.

“It’s too early for you to come out!” Pinkie yelled back, then turned to us, “Gotta keep pacing right, you know?”

I wonder if she, Pinkie Pie, takes Ubers?

Sunny stood up straight and managed to sway only a little. She attempted to glare at Pinkie and point, incriminatingly at her, with a finger – if she weren’t 5’4” and drunk tipsy verging on liver failure, I might have been mildly intimidated by the act. “Why did you lock my best friend in the pantry, Pinkie Pie?” she asked.

Pinkie shrugged, “Eh? Seemed like a good idea at the time. Because she super, duper, totally needs to get laid. Have you seen how uptight she is? Total party pooper and I think the stick up her ass is even wallpaper flavoured. So I set her up for some Seven Minutes in heaven, you know?”

“I’m alone in here, you candyfloss-haired hyperactive moron! And if you do not hurry up, you’ll be the one worrying about sticks and the insertion thereof into uncomfortable places for sticks to be.”

“Hey, she sounds just like my sister’s fiancé when she does that. Oh! Maybe they’d be up for a threesome? Also Sugar kept whining at me about me trying to bake her a birthday cake. She said it wasn’t even her birthday. She said she didn’t want skittles on it! And they make you feel really neat too! Can you imagine?” Pinkie gasped, like she had requested we imagine something actually horrible, like cannibalism or socks with sandals, “A skittle-less rainbow cake? Terrible.”

“Dearie, I’m the one having the birthday here,” Sunny said, raising a hand and subsequent bottle of Chinese cooking wine.

“Oh no! Seriously, I made the cake for the wrong person. Not again!”

“Also, Darling, your ‘cake’ appears to be on fire.” I pointed towards the oven, and at the plume of oily black smoke emerging from it.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m smoking ribs in there. We ran out of hors d’oeuvres a few hours back and, well, it can’t be a rich people party without little bits of meat on sticks nobody really likes, right?”

Agreed. Somewhat. Myself, I am quite partial to a good chipolata with a bit of Dijon dressing. I can’t speak for Sunny though – she’s changed from looking overly blue to looking uncomfortably green.

“So anywayyyy, how’s life Rarity?”

I gritted my teeth. Good grief, this girl doesn’t stop, does she? “I’m quite fine, Pinkie, but I really ought to get going.”

“S’okay, we’re here all night,” Sunny said, uncorking the Shaoxing and having a swig. She retched immediately afterwards, into a nearby handbag. How fortunate I had decided to bring Twilight’s along, safely on the other side of her right now.

“And Twilight?” My blood went colder than the night sky. Pinkie, perpetually oblivious, continued. “I heard you went to that fancy new café with her. Is it true? The rumours, right? That they make the best croissants in the city there?”

What a relief – pastry. I feared for a second she was going to mention our relationship to Sunny.

“Also are you and her still going steady? She said she was taking you to meet Cadance, right?”

Sunny pulled her head out of the ruined handbag and hiccupped. I handed her the scarf; it did not suit her. “Hey, I know a Cadance. She’s dean of my school, actually.”

“Oh cool! Did you know she’s married to Twilight’s brother? Crazy small world, right?” Pinkie giggled.

“Yes, it is a very small world but I really do have to get going right now. Lovely seeing you again, Pinkie,” I said, grabbing Sunny’s hand and dragging her out of the kitchen before anything else bothersome decided to happen.

Eventually, after another few discomforting run ins and incidents, one of which involved a kangaroo suit of all things, Sunny and I finally reached her room. It was located on the four floor and, once we had reached it, Sunny stumbled over to the wall beside the doorway and tapped in a code on the security gate. A second later, the gate clanked open and made available to us the rest of the floor instead of just confining us to the stairway and hall it led up to.

“Code’s 0-0-0-0, by the way,” Sunny said.

“So, it is,” I said, following her into the corridor. I suppose one cannot always be vigilant in terms of technology but, then again, nobody in their right minds would consider that either mother or daughter would be so negligent as to not set a proper security code for their rooms; rather cunning, actually, in an absent-minded alcoholic sort of way.

The interior of her and her mother’s apartments appeared much the same as the rooms downstairs, except somewhat logically laid out and also not currently being desecrated. Intact, the décor was actually rather fetching, if one likes Art Deco. Sunny immediately stumbled off to her own room, kicked the door open on the fifth try, and proceeded to collapse – dead to the world – on her bed, not bothering to even crawl beneath the duvet, let alone change out of her bikini and into her pyjamas.

After turning her head to the side, so that she wouldn’t choke on her own sick, I took a second to examine the room. It had been a good year since I had slept here last, and the bedroom was, in fact, larger than my family’s living room and my father’s ~~mancave~~ study put together. To the west lay a wall of French windows, with minimalist railings glimmering a copper colour in the dim light of the room’s clap-on chandelier. Said light fitting was a rather charming bronze colour, with lamps sculpted in the shape of candles. Beneath it was the bed – king size and elaborately arranged with layer upon layer of sugar white and pastel pink bedclothes – and atop that drooled an unconscious Sunny. The opposite side of the room was dominated by a wall of cupboards, flush with the wall and filled to shattering apart with fashionable shoes, designer jeans, masterwork jewellery; not to mention a few armfuls of dresses, some of which I myself had tailored for her and some of which she herself had crafted.

Overlooking the garden was a modest balcony with railings in the same twirling orange copper as the windowsills inside. Under its roof was an elegant mahogany desk – it had a delicate, and marvelously expensive, Mac laptop lying closed upon it.

I turned and left the room, shutting off the lights behind me. Then I went and locked the security gate and shut off the light that illuminated the staircase up to it. No point in setting myself up for any disturbances; I’m sure there’s a kitchenette here somewhere and Sunny did say that her room was en-suite. Of course, now there was the matter of where I was going to sleep.

But first things first. Sitting myself down on a couch in the smoking room, mint-dark paisley wallpaper and velvet furnishings and mahogany redwood panelling made it could the comfortable seat indeed, I removed my phone from Twilight’s handbag. 2% of battery and numerous missed calls met my gaze.

Firstly, I sent a text to Sweetie Belle, asking her to reserve me a bottle of Windhoek, if there was still such a thing in the house to reserve and I informed her that I would be staying with friends this weekend. Then I messaged Twilight and I told her that I was safe and sound and, also, I had no idea where her brother’s car was – claiming that there was a family event of great importance, technically true, I had to call myself an Uber, literally true, and rush home immediately, lest my darling sister be traumatized for life upon seeing the comatose form of my diabetic father, false on all accounts obviously. Her phone binged in response.

That bit of admin done with, I fetched the steel drinks mixer out from the handbag and poured myself a martini, seeing as Sunny wouldn’t be wanting another this evening – or at all ever again, hopefully. Despite her numerous faults, Sour can actually mix them decently. Keeping that in mind, I had another and left the pair of stainless cups on the coffee table for somebody else to worry about.

And I was just about to fall asleep in a guest bedroom, tucked snugly between sheets with thread counts higher than my bank balance, when I heard a truly terrible sound.

Sirens.

Pardon my French – but, actually, no you know the deal by now: shit!

Shit! Shit!

After combing my hair into a semblance of presentability and after climbing back into my dress, which wasn’t presentable at all considering how filthy it actually was, I walked over to the window and I peered out between the terracotta satin curtains.

What I saw was a pair of police cruisers driving up through the left-open gate and into the mansion’s grounds with what was either suicidal determination or reckless abandon. One swerved around the house and halted, presumably, right beside the front door. The other stopped by one of the house’s back doors.

I wrenched the curtains shut.

The events which ensued thereafter made me feel very glad I had gone to the, admittedly minimal, efforts of making it appear as though the uppermost floor of this building was currently uninhabited – Lens Flare, being away on business and all, must’ve seen it wise to ensure than none of her daughter’s delinquent friends encroached upon her sanctum and trashed it like a school hall on graduation evening. Policemen, at least four of the uniformed apes, marched into the house with baton in hand, brutality in mind, and MP-25s strapped to their sides. One I thought I recognized; another I knew I recognized, and a chill slashed through my spine when I realized why his pallid demeanour seemed so easily recognizable.

Shining Armor was here.

Keep in mind that I had stolen his car and stuffed the crushed-up corpse of some skateboard riding pickup artist in its trunk.

I hope you’ll forgive me for doing something terribly unbecoming – namely, manual labour. After the third couch I’d shoved by the door, I considered myself to be relatively safer.

In hindsight, that might have been an overreaction. And it did leave the ugliest scratches across the ebon floorboards.

A single gunshot, colder and sharper than a frozen stiletto icicle – echoed throughout the mansion.

Briefly, between the ensuing silence its carved and the ensuing commotion it demanded, I realized that another armchair to barricade the door couldn’t really hurt.

Besides, as Sugarcoat said – not that I’d ever admit it to her, the dreadful girl – I do actually need the exercise. Not as if I can stick to a diet; if you were interested, I more so blame that on my fondness for wine and my tendency for a good slice of cake every now and then rather on my mental condition.

I can concentrate. I merely do not feel poorly if I concentrate on doing something most would regard as wicked.

Such as having an affair with one’s ex-girlfriend.

To my surprise, she was awake again when I entered the room. Alas, she was still fairly grimy and sprawled in a deeply unsexy way upon her bedspread, one leg pointed right up towards the sky, the other dangling off her bed and brushing gently against the shag carpet.

“Rares?” Sunny mumbled, collapsing around to face me.

“Yes, Darling? I hope I didn’t wake you. Oh my,” I said, checking the time on my phone, “its still so early it's late!”

Unsuccessfully, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Why’s everyone screaming now?”

“Oh, do not worry about that in the slightest. I’m just watching a horror movie in the other room. I do hope you don’t mind but I saw you had Texas Chainsaw Massacre in your collection and I just had to give it a glimpse after the movie club at school gave it such a rave review.”

Honestly, I had no clue whether or not Sunny had that movie at all; it was just the first horror film that came to mind. Never mind that said movie club consists of my fourteen-year-old sister and her similarly-aged friends, a hyperactive scooter-wielding maniac and a hick who’s more inbred than a Habsburg; I would be immensely surprised to learn that they had watched the above movie and more so to discover that they actually enjoyed it. Well, maybe not Apple Bloom - shifty little bugger, she is.

“Thought we’d got rid of those,” Sunny muttered, “Lens said she wanted to do a paperless office.”

Drat.

I smiled. “I meant on your computer, Darling.”

Sunny blinked. “Thought I changed the password on that.”

“You told me, remember? As you let me in?”

“I swear I changed it, Rares. Its Fleur’s name now, followed by a number one.”

My eyes narrowed; only two people I despised more than Fleur dis Lis. One was a policeman who couldn’t keep his baton to himself and the other was the creatively-named Applejack Apple.

Sunny realized her mistake. She gulped. Then her stomach growled and she decided on gagging instead. I moved the wastepaper basket to her bedside, tucked a blanket over her and kissed her, lightly, on the top of her head. She smiled and muttered thanks through gritted teeth.

“Sleep well, Sunny,” I said, closing the door behind me.

As a matter of fact, it is remarkably hard to fall asleep to the dual annoyances of people vomiting and people screaming “fuck the police” before said police applied a truncheon to their skulls. However, there were no more gunshots, and the cars eventually screeched away, presumable noise complaint verified silent, and they left me to a well-earned rest.

Sometimes, I wish I was normal.

But I’m doing quite fine now.

4: A Violently Foul Morning

There are in this world some truly decadent ways to spend a morning. Most of those ways involve either oral sex or brunch. Alas, neither of those were currently on the table right now; actually, I doubt I’d be overly inclined to try the former on a table, how uncomfortable. What I had wasted much of my morning doing was dangling Sunny’s head by the hair over the lavatory and letting her deposit her innard’s contents into it without the fear of her accidently slipping and cracking open her skull on the porcelain bowl.

That would be deeply unhelpful.

And it would make quite the mess.

Once done, again, Sunny pushed herself to shaking feet. Before she could speak, I handed her a towel. I had quite the headache already and I had no doubts that smelling her breath would turn it into a migraine. She dabbed at her mouth and chin with it and managed to remove the worst of the mess.

Then she looked down, around, and then back up at myself. Sunny shrugged - she looked like the living dead and she smelled about half as pleasant. While she was thinking, presumably of whether or not to be ill again, I opened a window and sprayed the remains of a can of antiperspirant into the air. Much better.

“Thanks,” she said, bashfully, pulling close the collar of the cotton button-down pajamas she’d donned at some point during the night.

“You’re welcome, Darling,” I replied, “I couldn’t possibly leave you here, all alone, in your current condition.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I was being really stupid, wasn’t I? Like, supremely stupid. I didn’t know what I was thinking.”

I honestly doubt you were.

“I could’ve frozen to death!”

“Yes, you could have. I would’ve been distraught if that were to happen. How fortunate then that I just so happened to be in the area.”

Yes, in the area, about 85 miles down the road. And I still cannot get the reek of blood and chocolate milk out of my nose at all!

“Don’t suppose I can ask another favour, maybe?”

“For you, anything,” I lied.

“Can you make me breakfast, Dearie? Please? I feel really bad right now and I haven’t eaten in hours.”

Oh! How much I dislike cooking. It is the business of people who are incapable of smelling nice on their own, and must resort to the odour of spices and herbs to mask that of their own. If good perfume were accessible to the masses, well, I doubt it would be good anymore, but this fracas people have over good food would certainly disappear.

Of course, pastries are an exception. A good French pastry is delicious. I would live of those if I’d live longer than a year.

But baking is not cooking, alas. Though the calibre of most bakers I’ve met isn’t exactly top-notch either - Pinkie Pie, for instance.

I sighed. “Very well, my dear. Let me make myself presentable, kindly do the same, and we can dine… oh,” what the cleanest part of the house at this point, the porch? “out on the veranda.”

Sunny grinned. She had stuff in her teeth. Disgusting. Worse too, she hugged me. Seeing as I needed a shower anyhow, I hugged her back.

“Thanks again, Rares. You’re great.”

“Indeed I am, Darling. And you’re no second place yourself.”

A minute or so later, I was busying myself with -looting- inspecting the guest bedroom’s wardrobes for a suitable outfit. To my surprise, I discovered that, judging from the accumulation of Quebecois memorabilia it held, this was Fleur’s room; her former room, at this rate. Eventually, I decided upon a simple sunrise-yellow blouse and a charcoal pencil skirt, both of which fitted me to a satisfactory degree. Those were then complemented with a gold bangle - gold-plated, presumably, unless Sunny is more generous than even myself - and a delicate pair of silver hoop earrings. Yes, excuse the faux pas of wearing the latter during the daytime, but they were very pretty and I did not want to forget them in Twilight’s handbag when I returned said accessory to her.

That might raise questions.

And I fear I have enough of those to worry about already.

After freshening up, and throwing all of Fleur’s makeup in the garbage can once I was finished with it, and then dressing up, I braced myself for the worst, heaved aside the barricade of furniture from in front of the door and headed downstairs.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Its awfulness was indescribable and a nigh-solid wave of it collided with me like a frat boy’s first Ferrari does with a stray dog on party night. Luckily, I was not ill. Contrary to what I have claimed, I do possess somewhat of a strong stomach. Anyone who had grown up on my mother’s cooking would need one lest they be dead of bulimia by the eve of their fourteenth birthday. That and I hadn’t eaten a bite in literally days, having skipped yesterday’s breakfast as per tradition and having my lunch cut short by a rather unpleasant confrontation. Simply put, aside from a glass of martini, there was nothing left to be ill with.

The second thing I discovered was the carnage. Daylight had not been kind to the Flare Manor. Neither had its guests; debris of all kinds, forsaken clothes, and broken furniture, and shattered glass littered the floor while liquids of varying toxicity lay stagnant atop it. While travelling the staircase, I could’ve sworn that I saw a splatter of blood across a wall, and a brass casing beside it. But it might’ve just been a spill of Rosso and a shard of bottle - it was right next to the pool-table-cum-bar, along with the deflated remains of a cleat-stuffed pillowcase. How bizarre.

On the floor beneath it, a flash of orange caught my eye. A pair of glasses, how strange. Stranger still that they resembled my own pair with unerring accuracy. They must’ve slipped from my purse when I went to retrieve the drinks shaker. I knelt down and returned them to my bag.

Never let it be said that I do not clean up after myself.

Then I walked, gingerly, onward. Ruined paintings sagged off the walls, busts were cracked until their subjects were unrecognizable lumps of shattered clay, and the cloying rank aftermath of narcotic induced sex was sporadically splattered across torn-up couches, broken chairs, slashed pillows. One room had a pool table in it. A rather large and rather inaccurate depiction of male genitalia was carved into it. A pair of violet sunglasses sat beside it, over the image’s head. Those too, I pocketed, but only after wrapping my fingers in a handkerchief.

After all, the best gifts to give are those which were hers in the first place.

Peculiarly, what I then encountered within the kitchen was not, in fact, total carnage. Instead, it was the faintly alluring scent of bacon. My first idea, obviously, was that Sunset Shimmer had elected to crash this party, eight hours too late. My second was that my first was a rather foolish idea and that the culprit had, in fact, cleaned up the kitchen somewhat. To a sigh of relief, I could cross it without one of my heels squelching into something vile.

Doing so, I came face to face with Sugarcoat. Not only was she free of the pantry, she had saved me from cooking; I’ve gone nearly eighteen years without doing it and I wasn’t about to start now and, if it were up to me, Sunny would be dining on buttered toast. Needless to say, I was almost happy to see Sugarcoat. Needless to say, I smiled from ear to ear.

“Ah! Darling, I didn’t expect to see you here.” I greeted her.

She turned to me and squinted ferociously. Beside her, a cracked pair of burgundy spectacles lay on the counter. Behind her, upon the stovetop, there fried a panful of bacon and french toast; a refreshing change from having to breathe the alcoholic reek of this soiree and its aftermath.

“Rarity,” she noted, “You’re still here. I thought you’d have been arrested. But then again, you could’ve flirted your way out of that quite easily.”

I feigned dismay. “Why? Arrested! Whatever for? Excuse me saying so, but I am a picture of grace and responsibility.”

“Some genius tipped them off about the kind of stuff Vinyl brought over. Serves her right for selling it at prices that’d make the people who give out free samples jealous. But hey, hindsight’s twenty-twenty.”

“Even if you yourself aren’t,” I said, starting past her and plating two plates of food. She scowled.

“I’m impressed. You’ve learned to make basic observations. Do you want a prize?”

“Normally, I’d be flattered but, alas, I doubt that in your current state you’d be able to find where you stashed it. Anyhow, how did you of all people come out of that encounter unscathed?” I asked, and then I noticed the bruise on her arm, “well, relatively unscathed.”

Breaking her squint long enough to roll her eyes, Sugarcoat said, “One, I was the only sober person here. Two, Pinkie Pie, in a fit of sheer brilliance, had locked me in the pantry. By the time I jiggered the door open, they were gone.”

“And they took everyone else with them?”

She nodded, draining her cup of coffee and clanking it on the marble countertop. “Yeah. The rest of those idiots decided to have a riot. As far as I can tell, Indigo screamed ‘fuck the police’ and charged one of them so they shot her... Don’t worry, she lived and is probably cooling off in hospital as we speak. I heard her screaming. I’d reckon the rest of our moronic cohort is cooling off of jail.”

“Oh my. That is quite unfortunate.”

“Yeah. But they’ll only make that mistake once. Besides, it's what you get for pulling shit like this. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. That’s what I say.”

I managed to scrounge two sets of usable cutlery from a drawer. Mismatched, I’m afraid, but clean nonetheless. “Don’t you think that’s a little, oh I don’t know, extreme?”

Sugarcoat shrugged. “Probably. That’s life though. Don’t mess with policemen. Don’t do LSD. Don’t go to house parties where the two might come into contact with each-other. That’s how lives are destroyed, remember?”

“Are you implying something, Darling?” I said, after taking a bite of the french toast. It needed a dash of syrup, honestly.

“No, I’m not. If I actually thought you, particularly, had the guts to do anything that stupid, I’d have called them here myself. But you don’t because you act like an outdated stereotype of what the Victorians wanted their women to be. And last time I checked, crime isn’t ladylike.”

“Correct. It isn’t. Hence why I would never do it,” I lied.

Well, nobody is perfect, alas. If Sugarcoat was, she’d know not to try and fry bacon in mayonnaise. If I was, I wouldn’t be having one affair and be trying to engineer a second.

“Anyway, are you just going to eat everything I’ve cooked?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. A lady must watch her weight, you know. The other plate’s for Sunny. I must compliment you on the french toast though. It's so tough, I almost mistook it for an omelette.”

“That... that doesn’t even make sense. Omelettes are softer than french toast because they don’t have any bread in them. And if you hadn’t noticed, this place isn’t exactly a Lyonnaise deli right now.”

“Clearly. And you aren’t exactly a Lyonnaise chef.”

“And you aren’t exactly entitled to my breakfast.”

I put the fork down. The knife I held onto a second longer, before realizing that more murder was probably not the appropriate solution to this conversation. The final solution? Perhaps. But I always preferred Chanel’s later work anyhow. I dropped the knife.

It was blunt anyway.

“Isn’t it about time you were leaving, Darling?” I asked Sugarcoat.

“I don’t know, is it? If you can’t tell, my glasses are busted, I lost my other pair and there isn’t an intact clock in this house. Not like I could see it anyway. Besides, some bright spark tried drinking Laijiu neat and threw up in my handbag so now I can’t exactly call a taxi or anything,” she explained, pointing in the vague direction of a ruined, and cheap, item that was more faux leather satchel than actual handbag. Beside it sat a half-empty bottle of cooking wine.

“No need to get snippy, Darling. It suits you about as well as,” I gestured to her outfit – a markedly flirtatious coupling of a crop top and short shorts – “as about as well as that does.”

Sugarcoat frowned harder than she usually does. “Sunny and Sour picked it out for me last time we went shopping.”

“Mind if I ask, but did you spill coffee on one of them or something of the like? Because that outfit on you looks more like a punishment than a genuine attempt at finding you a partner. I always imagined you as more of a slacks sort of girl.”

“We’ve met outside of school before,” Sugarcoat paused for a deep breath, “Multiple times, in fact. You know I usually wear leggings.”

“Yes, and you wear them with your school uniform, Darling. That’s hardly the height of fashion.”

“Fair enough. It's about time I was getting home anyway. I’d promised my mother I’d be home by eleven. Last night.”

She still has a curfew? If I wasn’t currently chewing on a piece of rubberised bacon, I’d be laughing.

“So, mind if I borrow your phone, Rarity?” she continued.

“Ah, I’m afraid you can’t. As much as I would want to,” and I do not want to because you are annoying me, “I can’t lend it to you because the battery’s flat, Darling.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I thought you’d left it in the Uber?”

I blinked. “Then why ever did you ask?”

“You were lying to drum sympathy so that I’d let you in so that you could cheat on Twilight with my best friend.”

“Yet you let me in, didn’t you?”

“I remembered that I’d asked you to come here, against what was clearly my better judgement. I didn’t actually expect Sunny to hit “send” on that text. But I’m seeing Twilight on Monday anyway. I’ll just tell her over snooker.”

“She plays snooker? With you?” No wonder she has so many waistcoats.

“Yeah? I thought you’d know that, being her girlfriend and all. But then again, it's not like you’re a good friend, let alone a girlfriend.”

“And you’d come to such a conclusion how exactly?” I asked her, my hand tightening itself around the butterknife.

“Because I overheard you trying to get Bon-Bon to break up with Lyra and then you tried to steal her anniversary present. That and, unlike you clearly, Twilight and I actually talk. Really, I thought you’d know what her favourite sport is.”

“Nobody is perfect, Darling. And besides, snooker is hardly a sport. You can put on weight playing it, as you’ve clearly found out. Anyhow, I assure you that I have nothing but the best of intentions for both girls and that I am certainly not having some sort of illicit affair.”

“Then why are you tensing up every time I mention it? Then why was Sunny talking about how she liked you so much and was planning to dump Fleur the second she stepped foot in the country again?”

“I’m not omniscient, Darling. Besides, what she wants isn’t necessarily what she gets. I’m a decent person.”

“You’re a narcissist.”

“You’re autistic.”

“You’re a relic of a culture that should’ve died last millennium.”

“You’re clearly head over heels infatuated with her and perniciously jealous that she prefers me to you,” I said, crossing my arms.

She glared vaguely at me. Then sighed. I finished my plate of food and then used a napkin to wipe the gunk off the kettle, filled it, and set it on. Sugarcoat sighed again.

The kettle whistled. I poured myself a cup of instant coffee - yes, yes, I know but these are dire times and mornings are not my forte.

“I suppose that was somewhat harsh,” I said, checking my nails - red they were still but, in this light, the colour better resembled fresh blood than Garnet Sunrise. “After all, a lady should be generous. What say I offer you a ride home then?”

Sugarcoat looked up from trying to fit a broken lens back into its frame with nothing more than sheer determination and a total ignorance to the intricacies of lens grinding - I had an opportunity to actually meet Sunny’s mother once and, alas, she was tremendously boring; nattering on and on about economic practices and glassworking. So now my brain is full of that, instead of prudent mathematical knowledge that would’ve kept my grade above the proverbial sea level.

“Didn’t you walk here?” she, Sugarcoat, asked.

“There was a misunderstanding between myself and the taxi driver,” I replied. Said misunderstanding was that I hadn’t expected an escaped mental patient to drive me here.

“So, how are you going to drive me if you don’t have a car, Rarity? No offence, but you don’t look like the type to summon motor vehicles out of thin air.”

Well, I probably could do such a thing if I had my geode on me, but that dreadful thing clashes with the rest of my wardrobe so I take to leaving it in my safe, along with the rest of my valuable jewellery.

“Sunny leant me her car keys,” I declared, “We can take her car. Besides, I was awfully rude to you last evening and, being locked in a cupboard the whole night and all, I would just feel terrible if I couldn’t do you right.”

Sugarcoat shrugged and pocketed her ruined glasses. “Fine, I won’t look a gifthorse in the mouth. Just let me find my other pair of glasses and we can leave. My parents are probably about to call the cops themselves if I don’t turn up in the next hour.”

“What, in your current condition, Darling? Searching for anything could take weeks in this house! I know you can’t, but just look at what a state this house is in. Your spares, if you even brought them, could be anywhere!” I replied; she was already beginning to grate. The sooner she was out of my affairs, the sooner I could get to doing what I came here to do, namely Sunny Flare in a king-size bed.

“I’m longsighted, not shortsighted. I can look for stuff just fine as I am and I don’t want to have to impose on Sunny for another pair. It won’t take long, just a minute or two.”

So that’s how she came into ownership of a now-shattered pair of Ray-Bans. How interesting; come to think of it, I could use a new pair myself. My sewing spectacles have been getting awfully blurry lately.

“Very well, Darling. I suppose it’ll give me an excuse to enjoy my coffee anyhow. Shall I meet you at the garage, in fifteen minutes or so?”

“Sounds good,” Sugarcoat stared off into the living room. Then she paused. “Sorry for implying you were fat, by the way. I hate parties. I only came because Sunny wouldn’t stop texting me until I finally agreed to attend this stupid thing.”

“Thank you ever so much for that well-deserved apology. I could say the same thing to you,” I lied. “I suppose that accusing your mother of being a woman of the night was uncalled for as well. Don’t tell a soul, but I had quite the horrid afternoon as well, not to mention more than a single glass before coming here.”

Sugarcoat nodded and left the room. After using a terrycloth to wipe the grim from a stool, I sat back and enjoyed my drink in peace. Unlike a certain stage magician, I wasn’t feeling particularly great nor particularly powerful this morning and I was still feeling spectacularly jumpy to boot. Yes, the sooner Sugarcoat is gone, the better. If being nice to her is what it takes to keep my life intact, so be it.

Fortunately, there was a half-eaten pack of biscuits beside the kettle. Not very nice biscuits, being no-name brand hobnobs and whatnot, but better than poisoning oneself on greasy breakfast foodstuffs. I doubt the cook would be overjoyed to find them gone but I doubt that I’ll still be here by the time he’s returned from vacation. That and the carnage the rest of the house is in currently in should prove more than distraction enough.

To pass the time, I scrolled through Twilight’s phone.

Alas, there were still no games upon it.

There were, however, a number of greatly interesting exchanges in its text message folder. One detailed her brother’s complaints about his new partner – apparently, Billy is a “violent old bastard who should’ve retired after Jim Crow got repealed.” That name rang a bell for some reason, but I hesitated to wonder why it did so.

Mornings, after all, are not my forte.

I also found a back and forth between her and Cadance. Bless her soul, Twilight had actually attempted to defend me from her sister-in-law’s slanderous, albeit true, accusations. According to Twilight, I was not in fact a “deceptive bully” and a “manipulative prat” – what a relief to know she thought that highly of me.

What a tragedy to know that I was going to have to break up with her.

I best buy myself something with her credit card before that happens.

Once the allocated amount of time had passed, I took one of the napkins and scrawled with my eye pencil a brief explanation as to my whereabouts on it. Tucking that under Sunny’s now-cold plate of food, I deposited it on the porch - where I’d promised to meet her. Then I navigated around the house to find Sugarcoat already waiting by the garage, scowl on her face and precisely zero orange spectacles in hand.

“They’re gone. My guess is that some dickhead thought they’d make a good chair,” she said.

“I never,” I said, “the thoughtlessness of some people. Does it not make you weep for the future?”

“No? Because, unlike you, I gave up on trying to see the good in people a while ago, sometime after my house got broken into for the third time. Most people are idiots, Rarity. If you plan for them to screw up, you’ll be a lot less sad when they do. Then again, you’d probably cry over a chipped nail anyway, so take my advice with a pinch of salt.”

“I always do, Darling,” I said, unlocking the car – a rather charming vintage Porsche convertible. Sunny had left her keys on her nightstand and the confused moan she made when I asked to borrow them was more than enough of an invite for me to do so. I always wanted to drive this car. I imagine that it could go rather fast.

Sugarcoat rode shotgun and, to my disappointment, Sunny’s car was so vintage that it lacked a radio - an excuse to turn the dour girl’s complaining out and listen to an actually tolerable noise for the proceeding hour. Then, in between periods of whining about the devastating effects of the internet on the standard of literature, the general political state of the nation, the economy’s rising inflation rate, and other unladylike topics, Sugarcoat mentioned Fleur dis Lis.

Now, I have made it particularly clear that I am about as fond of Fleur as I would be of getting my feet pedicured by a tank of half-starved, blood-crazed piranhas. I have not, however, made clear my reasons for such antipathy. So, let me do so; they are threefold:

Firstly, Fleur did not invite me to her birthday party, all the way back in seventh grade when we shared a middle school. Now, this might seem petty and it would be on its own, but every girl who was invited attended Crystal Prep the following year. I was obliged to attend the public high school instead; with the sort of people I was beginning to make pains not to be associated with.

Secondly, she cheated me out of a modelling contract with the then-up-and-coming fashion designer, Hoity Toity. Silly name, I know, but he had been one of my idols for three years at that point and I wanted little more than to meet him and learn how, exactly how, he managed to bring skirts back in vogue with such incredible efficiency. Fleur’s mother just so happened to work in the suburb the contest was to be held in, and she worked as an anaesthetist no less! and she just so happened to drop Fleur off at the agency on her commute that day. Yesterday being Sweetie Belle’s turn to choose the takeaway fast food slop my family would order and subsequently devour in front of the football game that week, she had chosen Indian on a whim because the flier the man on the street corner handed her had pretty lettering on it. Only the next day, spending more time in the lavatory than I would like to, did I find that I have remarkably little fondness or capacity for the cuisine of the subcontinent. Fleur had taken my place in line while I was off being ill, and she now models for the man in her spare time and makes a tremendous amount of money doing so.

She has her name in magazines, damnit!

Thirdly, she bought the last Within Temptation record in the local music store one time. Petty again, I know but, as I was single back then and everyone wanted Hoity Toity’s designs that month, instead of my own, I was unable to conjure the funds to order one for myself for another term or so. Yes, I suppose I could’ve simply downloaded an online copy of Resist but Sugarcoat is right; I am an old-fashioned sort – I count value in tangible things, that I can see and touch and smell and savour, not unbecoming bits of programmed data like Sunny or Twilight does.

As such, when Sugarcoat brought up Fleur, in regards to some banal discourse on the intricacies of modern feminism; the glass elevator I do believe, whatever that is; my hands clenched themselves on the wheel and I made a valiantly but ultimately futile attempt not to grimace. Grimacing is terribly unladylike.

“… but of course, if you want to look at a contemporary example of the glass ceiling you don’t have to look far. In fact, just look at your own girlfriend, Twilight Sparkle. I know for a fact that Micro Chips can’t program a location service to save his life, Sunny told me that in IT class one day, but he still gets the contract for the precinct tracking device. Doesn’t that really annoy you? He’s a useless hack of an incompetent splatter-faced socially-inept wanker, but he gets the tender because he’s got a penis between his legs. I bet its tiny. Like, three inches, at most. With the car he drives, he must be compensating for something, and he certainly isn’t compensating for his lack of low self-esteem.”

“That’s nice,” I muttered.

“No, it literally isn’t. It's why affirmative action is not, in fact ‘ruining this country’ as your idiot father whined the last time he had a check-up,” Sugarcoat shot back.

“Ah yes, your father’s a dentist.”

“And you’re clearly smarter than you look. Anybody who could design twelve dresses from scratch in a week would have to be. Why do you keep pretending to be stupid like this? As I’ve explained, it sure isn’t actually helping you get anywhere.”

How I wish this car was a convertible - then I could disable the roof and listen to the wind’s howl over Sugarcoat’s droning.

“Darling, I’m precisely where I want to be right now,” I lied, taking the turn off to Sugarcoat’s neighbourhood, a terribly dull and classless suburb that reminds me intimately of my own.

“And where’s that? Lounging around Sunny’s house while your actual girlfriend keeps wondering why you don’t return her calls?”

It's times like this when I truly do wish Pinkie had accidentally tumbled off the roof too, during her ill-advised attempt to stop Pastel Palette jumping to her death. Alas, she did not – fall, I mean, not save the girl – and she now insists on blathering details concerning my personal life to anyone nearby. In fact, back during that Anon-a-Miss fiasco, I had good money riding on her being the culprit. Until, of course, it turned out that my own sister was. I ran Sweetie Belle’s favourite comic book through the shredder that week – well, I pretended to and merely shredded some blank paper with a photocopy of its cover taped on the front; the original, it being a first issue, I sold on Ebay for quite the attractive sum.

I bought myself a Within Temptation record with it - a signed one.

Ah, the look on Fleur’s face when I texted her a picture of it; it must’ve been positively glorious.

“Sugarcoat,” I told her, “a lady’s personal affairs are her own business.”

“Yeah, that’d work except this isn’t just you doing something like playing Poker in your free time here.”

“Of course, it isn’t. Ladies play bridge, for starters.”

“And that’s beside the point and you know it.”

Pardon my French, but damn you to Tartarus, Sugarcoat! Could you not honestly see that what I am doing isn’t hurting anyone? Besides, I was planning to break up with Twilight sooner or later; as far as I know, Sunny’s family wouldn’t care less if I accidentally slapped her for accidentally ruining my favourite skirt.

“Darling, I do believe that you are not seeing the full picture here,” I replied, trying my hardest to remain calm, just for a little while.

“Seriously, that’s your response? Obviously, I am. Sunny’s still got a crush on you. Even if you play dumb, its clear from the way she made me ask for you to keep her company. That and you’re dating Twilight. She told me herself after you asked her out. So yeah, thank you for the ride as soon as I get my phone, I’m going to tell both of them and let you sort out the mess.”

So, she did. Here I presumed Twilight possessed some sense in her skull and had gone and severed her ties with her former bullies classmates.

How bothersome.

Ladies do not like to be bothered.

As such, I halted the car and turned it around and started off in the direction of the diner where I’d stashed the stolen car. I hadn’t the faintest if it was still there or not, or if Canterlot City had dispatched a cadre of men to apprehend whoever came to investigate it, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.

Rather, I was something I prefer never to be.

I was furious.

How dare she impose herself on my life? I have never liked her but that was the final straw. A lady’s affairs are hers and hers alone, and I am not an exception to that rule. Her poking her ridiculously snub and oft looked-down nose into my relationships is deeply uncalled for and, unlike Cadance, there aren’t any well-armed policeman watching in the wings in case of any unforeseen violence.

And Sugarcoat definitely did not see it coming.

Yes, she complained about the missed turn off and how late she was going to be and how irked her parents would be with her. I simply told her that she was failing to understand the exact nature of my romances and then I informed her that monogamy was, in fact, a social construct of the heteronormative patriarchy.

That got quite a reaction out of her. Her complexion changed from plum grey to apple red and her ponytail, her usual elaborate hairstyle being seemingly impossible to tie half-blind, gained more than a few split ends. Good.

Now, I hadn’t the faintest what “a social construct of the heteronormative patriarchy” actually is; Twilight explained it to me once, but I was trying to ignore her, as I usually attempt to do whenever she starts uttering names that have nothing to do with high-society and everything to do with irrelevant philosophies. However, judging from Sugarcoat’s expression, it must’ve been quite the heinous accusation indeed.

Perhaps I ought to add it to my repertoire?

The rest of the drive from where we were to the abandoned diner was filled with an admittedly one-sided argument. Sugarcoat spouted jargon at me and I either brushed it off, threw back fictitious claims, or simply insulted her.

I know that’s a faux pas in debating – ad hominem – but, then again, if one looks at most debaters, genuinely and critically looks at them, then one would realize that, if debating their points makes one look as they are, the least-unsightly debater is obviously correct. Which I was. I hadn’t a clue as to what I was right about but by the time we stepped still bickering out of the Porsche and started over to the thankfully-undiscovered police car, the argument had served its purpose and I had won it too.

Namely as I had the last word of the whole tiff.

“I told you that there was more to my life than just wine, women, and song.” For instance, there are, from time to time and if they’re handsome and cultured enough, men in my life. There are also outfits – never forget the outfits.

Upon seeing the police car. Sugarcoat’s jaw scraped the bottom of the canyon. I considered shoving her in it.

But then I had a better idea.

I have been wanting to test that taser for ever so long now.

“How… did you get this?” she gawked.

“A lady never kisses and tells, Darling. But that’s not all.”

“Why-why how does it… is that blood on it?”

Oh dear. The poor girl’s brain has obviously and finally overheated. Come to think of it, mine may too if I spend any longer stewing in this desert. Really, who in their right mind constructs the state capital in the world’s least liveable region? Starswirl the Bearded, that’s who.

“Rarity. Why’s the trunk covered in blood?” Sugarcoat asked, turning to me, her face having gone a shade whiter than her hair.

I produced the car keys and unlocked it. Then I walked over to the trunk and placed a hand upon it. “Come and see, Darling.”

To my surprise, she actually walked over - numbly, but still - and looked.

“You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

I opened the boot. Sugarcoat screamed. I tased her. What a sight that was. I daresay she leaped a good fifteen feet into the air, shivering and jabbering incoherently all the while. Upon landing, her jaw smacked quite soundly against the bumper of the car.

For lack of a better word, she was out. Cold. I might fault many things about Twilight, such as her fashion sense and her personality, but I cannot fault her engineering. Up went Sugarcoat into the trunk and the boot slammed shut behind her.

Let that be a lesson!

Never impose upon a lady’s private life. They do not appreciate it in the slightest and may be inclined to respond in a most unladylike way.

I put the car’s keys in the ignition and I was just about to drop a stone on the accelerator and let the vehicle go flying off the cliff when my phone rang. Actually, no. Twilight’s phone rang.

From out of her bag, I took it and flipped open the cover. To my relief, neither Shining Armor nor Cadance were attempting to telephone her. Rather, Lyra Heartstrings was.

After lighting a cigarette, I exited the car again.

I took a long draw on the menthol and my sigh of relief was audible. So was Sugarcoat’s moaning. The fifth kick I delivered to the trunk rendered it not so. Taking my third gamble of the day, I moved a short distance away, back to the Porsche, and I answered the phone.

Sound blasted me. “Twilight! Can you resurrect a horse?”

After moving the phone a safe distance away from my eardrums, I replied, “Terribly sorry, Lyra, but Twilight’s somewhat busy right now.”

“Wait, Rarity? Why do you have Twilight’s phone?”

“I’m her girlfriend, Darling.”

“Oh, yeah. Bon-Bon and I used to answer each-other’s phones too. But then she said she was getting tired of us not going anywhere! Like, where does she want to us go? I mean, we’re eighteen! Sure, we’ve been dating for, like, five years, but we started when we were, like, thirteen. I’m not getting married now. I’ve got a whole life ahead of me and it isn’t even legal in this state. I wanted to be jockey, not somebody’s wife, for fuck’s sake!”

“Lyra. Darling.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’m ranting again, aren’t I?”

“You are but I really do find it quite endearing. Besides, I suspect Twilight will be quite a while, so feel free to go on. It's ever so important to talk about such things.”

It's important because I plan to ravish you and would very much like to know the best method of doing so.

“Really?” Lyra gasped, “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all, Darling. You’re my friend.” Ah, what was that term Bon-Bon used to use? “In fact, I’d count you among one of my best friends.” I said, reclining in the antique car.

“Thanks Rarity. Like, thank you so much I have been having the worst week. Mr Twinkletoes died! He’s my polo pony, by the way. My favourite one. Well, my former favourite one, I guess. I mean, I tried to talk to Fluttershy about this but no, she said that I was being too bossy? And that I was interrupting her. And that she was trying to put the kittens to sleep! Me? Bossy? Tell me I’m not, right?”

“Not at all. You’re assertive. And assertiveness is vitally important in fighting the um…. heteronormative patriarchy and all that.”

“Uh, yeah? Totally. I think. So, as I was saying…”

Sometimes, I wish I was normal.

I suspect I’ll start wishing again once I’ve figured out how I’m going to wrangle myself out this scenario now. The murder, that is, not having to listen to Lyra complain about… whatever she’s complaining about now.

“... Rares, Why’s there somebody screaming?” Lyra asked.

Pardon my French but, fuck.

“Ah. That. Twilight’s watching a movie, Lyra. Saw 2, I think.”

“Oh, that’s my favourite!” Lyra said, “but wait, didn’t you say that Twilight was, like, trying to cure anatidaephobia or something?”

“She’s multitasking, Darling. Really, she is monstrously talented. If not, well, tell not a soul, but not exactly the world’s most attentive lover.”

“Tell me about it. This one time, Bon-Bon nearly hit me because I spilled oats on her dress…”

Interlude: A Number of Bad Days

Rarity Belle, teenage lesbian sociopath and self-proclaimed fashionista extraordinaire, was not having a good day. Neither was Sunny Flare, her technical mistress. After all, Rarity had not only managed to fail completely and utterly to cook her an edible breakfast but she also had proceeded to skip choking it down with her - scribbling an illegibly-smudged note on a napkin before stealing her car.

That all Sunny could look past.

Having her house trashed was also a forgivable crime. It had happened before and it would likely happen again the next time her birthday or Halloween, Christmas, a discount at Nordstrom - anything worth celebrating, really - rolled around. Besides, it wasn’t going to be her money responsible for ensuring the wallpaper was stuck back on the right way and the 50-inch plasma flatscreen tv was replaced and the gunk was scraped off the floorboards. It was, however, her money Rarity had driven off in to who-knows-where in order to do who-knows-what.

It wasn’t like she was answering her phone either, Sunny found, sighing with frustration and tossing hers across the room. The iPhone X landed in a bail of fabric which was unsurprising, considering how much of her personal workshop/laboratory/hacker’s sanctum was full of them; they were strewn about in various states, mostly as incomplete dresses. Otherwise, the room was stuffed to the ceiling with various bits of partly-disassembled technology; modems, trackball mouses, motherboards; all lay heaped on and underneath a row of stainless steel desks like ravers on the street after a particularly exerting evening out. Sitting beside them, almost nonchalantly, were fashion magazines and mannequins and sewing machines - some of the latter looked straight out of science fiction, beeping and blinking with soldered-on “improvements” and adjustments.

Sunny groaned and slouched back in her office chair, idly spinning it around a few times. After the third rotation, an unwelcome twinge in her gut told her not to push her luck mixing centrifugal force with a skull-cracking hangover. She came to a halt staring into the script code on an open laptop. Like most of the stuff in her workshop, tt was half-finished.

For a few seconds, she glared intently at the glowing blue-light screen, until her eyes began to tire from the artificial brightness in the otherwise-dark room. What curtains there were had been drawn shut and, over them, forgone projects had been stack.

The code was indecipherable in her current state - if it was ever decipherable at all. It reminded her of Rarity’s message, on the napkin: all she could make out in that were the words “porsche” and “sugar” and that was about as useful to her as an incomplete SQL injection. If this was an SQL injection - the jury was still out on that.

Sunny sighed, saved the document, closed the program, and stood up. Considering walking over to fetch her phone out from the bundle of chiffon, she eventually considered against it; instead she lifted an arm and tapped on her bracelets. After a few painful seconds of startup, the devices winked to life and displayed precisely zero messages, zero missed calls, zero things to do.

Zero distractions...

Sunny called Rarity again. Tenth time today.

The phone rang, both from the pile of material and from the homemade Pip-Boy’s speakers. After a second or two of realizing that her girlfriend was unlikely to pick up immediately, if at all, she lowered the device to her lap and stared at it with reddened eyes, puffy from a sleepless night and a sickening morning.

“Rarity,” she asked, “Dearie, where are you? Why’d you have to go?”

One place where Rarity wasn’t was the Canterlot City Hospital. However, her father, Hondo Flanks, sports journalist and self-proclaimed #1 Dad - he had a mug to prove that one - was at the hospital. He was also having a bad day. As was Indigo Zap, his goddaughter.

Trudging through the labyrinthine mint-green and chalk-white hallways, the smell of sick people and medical soap getting in his nose, the noises of intensive care and whooping cough echoing all around him, Hondo realized that he had never really liked hospitals. In fact, they mildly terrified him. However, he reminded himself as his fingers tightened around the conciliatory teddy bear, he was doing this for a friend. This was no time to let his nosocomephobia get in the way.

Since said friend - Red Tailspin, two-time Cup Series champion and racing veteran - was currently trying to bail his other daughter out of prison in Indianapolis after she cracked a baseball bat over a competitor’s skull the day before the race. And sinceRed’s wife was currently deployed in Sudan and since his loser of a son wasn’t currently answering his phone, it had fallen to Hondo to check up on Indigo and make sure that she was still alive and also still handcuffed to the gurney.

Eventually, the portly man arrived outside the appropriate door. Beside it, a pasty-faced and immensely bored police officer stood guard, leant against the wall like it might collapse if not for his support. The way Hondo’s day was going, he feared it might just do that.

However, he wasn’t an avid supporter of Blue Lives Matter solely because he was racist, so Hondo sucked up his unease at the current setting and started over to him, nodding as he approached and tipping his trademark straw hat.

Shining Armor did likewise with his own cap.

“Morning officer,” Hondo greeted.

“Morning citizen.”

“I’ve come to make a visit to one Miss Indigo Zap.”

Shining Armor raised an eyebrow. “You realize she’s under police custody, sir?”

“I do indeed. Her father told me about that. I’m her godfather, by the way. Red and I are old friends.”

“That’s nice.”

“So, can I visit her? I bought her this teddy bear,” Hondo said, brandishing the stuffed animal in an attempt to add some much-needed veracity to his cause.

In response, the policeman narrowed his eyes at the bear. It was a seemingly generic model from the local giftshop, with plush brown fur, wide button eyes, and a big sewn-on smile and a red heart on his chest. Then he narrowed his eyes at the man holding it. He was a seemingly generic model from Columbus, Ohio with thinning mousy hair, a drooping beer gut, and a big moustache sagging down nearly to the collar of his stretched-tight and faded hawaiian shirt, one that was probably older than Shining Armor himself was.

He placed a bone-white hand on his chin., saying “I don’t know about that, man. That girl isn’t good news. She tried to whack a guy… with a football cleat.”

Hondo shrugged. “Well, I can assure you, officer, that I don’t plan on causing any trouble. I just want to see if she’s okay.”

Shining’s face broke into its typical off-duty grin with a chuckle. “Nah, I’m just joking with you man. We’re not pressing charges against your kid. Just let me pat you down and you can see her.”

Hondo breathed a sigh of relief. A minute later, Shining opened the door for him and he was in.

Indigo, to his mild annoyance, was awake. Furthermore, to his serious concern, she did not look good. While being injured was not an uncommon state for the teenage daredevil, being shot was. She lay like a beached tangerine dolphin on the hospital bed, tubes running in and out of her like said dolphin had wandered onto Dr Moreau’s island by mistake. One hand, that closest to the bedside table, was cuffed to the bed’s railing. Her breathing was faint, but her eyes lit up upon seeing Hondo and she smiled weakly.

“Hey kid,” he said, depositing the teddy bear on her nightstand “Good to see you’re still kicking.”

“Heh. Yeah. Last time I try to fight a cop.”

Hondo frowned harder and more uneasily than he had been since stepping out of the car and into the hospital parking lot. “Sorry, Indy. You tried to do what!?”

Indigo shrugged. It hurt. Instead, she shakily pointed to the mess of bandages wrapped around her shoulder, beneath which a half-covered tattoo of a paper doll was visible. Hondo winced.

“Yeah. For once, I lost. I’d be surprised if Dusty didn’t disown me for losing a fight like that, Uncle Hondo.”

Doing his best impression of a goldfish, Hondo opened and then closed his mouth a few times as his underworked brain tried its very hardest to come up with an appropriate reply to that. While doing so, a conversation began to unfold outside the door. Growing bored again, Indigo reached over the tv remote, wincing again as the handcuff forced her to turn her aching body over to get at it and, in doing so, put unwelcome pressure on the wound.

Hondo handed her the remote.

“So, Indy,” he asked, “how did this happen again?”

“Red didn’t tell you?” Indigo replied, turning on the television built into the opposite wall, tapping through channels until they all blurred together in a mess of flickering light and jumbled sound.

“He told me that you were injured. He asked me to pay you a visit since he was down in Indiana with your sister.”

“Why didn’t he send Shamrock instead? Uh, no offence.”

“None taken, kid. Red just said the boy wasn’t answering his phone.”

“Yeah. He does that. Keeps it muted while skateboarding so it doesn’t distract him or anything. Probably just got high and forget to check again. He missed Dusty’s graduation that way. Spitfire wanted to chuck him out her chopper, Pinochet-style.”

“Huh. I see. Well,” Hondo smiled nervously, “two out of three ain’t bad, I guess. Between you and Lightning, I’d say Red did pretty well for himself in terms of kids. Didn’t do too bad for a wife either.”

Indigo shrugged again. Wincing, she realized that she really should stop doing that. Maybe the nurse would let her have some morphine now?

“Yeah. I guess. I mean, I can’t have done that badly if I got myself a scholarship to Crystal Prep,” Indigo said, flicking through the channels. The hospital had disappointedly few of them. Then again, she guessed that not being charged for assaulting an officer had probably expended her good luck quotient for the month anyway - asking for a sports channel that played something other than poker might be pushing it.

Eventually, she settled on a news channel and started pretending to care about the war in the Middle East. Hondo settled on a chair and continued pretending to enjoy Indigo’s company. It wasn’t that he disliked the girl, that much anyway, it was just that he really, really hated hospitals. However, he had promised Red half an hour and half an hour he would get, like it or not.

Definitely not.

His mouth felt dry. His stomach felt knotted. Hondo began to contemplate spending most of that half hour downstairs, in the cafe or, better yet, in the Hooters across the street. Maybe his favourite waitress, the blonde with crossed eyes and the cute voice, would be there?

“What the fuck!” Indigo screamed.

Hondo looked up from unknowingly thinking about his daughter’s classmates. “What is it, Indy?” he asked.

“They fucking arrested Dusty!” she shouted.

“Oh, yeah. I well, forgot to tell you about that.”

“Just before the fucking Indy 500 too? I was named after that damn race and they arrested my sister! I wanted to fucking see her race! Shit!”

Shining Armor knocked on the door, before sticking his head inside and glaring at nobody in particular. Hondo hopped up to his feet and saluted. Indigo glared back.

“Keep it down, please. Other people are trying to sleep.”

“Yes sir!”

“Bite me, jackass. My sister just got arrested. I think I earned the right to be mad… uh... Twilight’s stupid brother.”

Swallowing his complaint, Shining Armor pointed to his nametag. “I have a name, you know. And seriously, keep it down, okay? I’m trying to talk to my wife out here.”

“Sorry about, sir,” Hondo grovelled, “it won’t happen again.”

“Okay. Good to hear. And you can stop saluting now, by the way.”

Hondo sat back down. Shining Armor removed his head and torso from the doorway. Indigo unpaused the news report.

“Seriously though,” she said, “the fuck did Dusty get arrested for?”

As he had grown it partly because he mistakenly thought it made him look rugged and partly for that exact purpose, Hodno twirled his moustache in thought. “Think Red said she got in a fight.”

“Oh. Yeah. That sounds like her. She win?”

“Well…” Hondo scratched the back of his head, “the other guy lost.”

Indigo grinned. “That’s my sister for you. Really does suck about the race though. Bet she’d’ve won that too.”

“Odds were 25-1 she’d place,” Hondo replied. “However, now that she’s not racing, there aren’t any odds. And I’m down $500 on those odds too, kid. Damn, I was going to get Sweetie a present with my winnings.”

Indigo was a sports prodigy, not a maths prodigy. However, she still realized that betting your daughter’s birthday present on 25-1 odds probably wasn’t the best idea. Hondo, to his credit, had also realized that; he’d realized it right after the clerk told him the bet was non-refundable in case of spontaneous outbreaks of aggravated assault.

“No offence, dude, but that was kinda really stupid.”

“Offence taken,” said Hondo, standing, “anyway, I’m glad to see you’re okay and all, but I’ve really got to get going.”

“Work? What is it today? Soccer?” Indigo asked.

Hondo shrugged. “Yeah. Can’t be late for the match, you know,” he said as he started for the door.

Said match he planned to watch at Hooters. If he hurried, he might even be able to catch the end of Derpy’s shift. Not that he knew that was her name; she was derped, not stupid - she went by Muffins at work.

“See you round, Big Man. One last thing, though. Can you get an autograph from the cop who shot me?” Indigo said, changing the channel to a cartoon station and lying back down.

“Er, sure kid. I’ll check with my friends about that… if that’s even legal,” he added, muttering under his breath.

At that point in time, Hondo wanted little more than a cold glass of beer, a plate of hot wings, and the company of a nubile young woman and maybe to get Indigo Zap to a psychologist. However, upon exiting the room and walking into Mi Amore Cadenza, he was reaffirmed in his suspicions that today was not going to be the sort of day where he actually got what he wanted in the slightest.

Cadance, although nubile and technically in the psychological profession by virtue of being trained as a school counsellor, was also about thirty-two and, due to her husband being forbidden from drinking and or snacking while on duty, she had brought neither Bud Light nor Taliban Wings along on her visit, which she had intended to be for her injured student, not her goofball husband who just so happened to be in the area. Furthermore, she was none too pleased with the man who had just walked into her. But that was to be expected - she wasn’t having a very good day either.

Hondo had merely tipped his hat, muttered an apology, and had intended to continue on his way. However, Cadance, continuing her conversation, had uttered a name.

A very specific name.

A name whose owner Hondo Flanks tried to be very supportive of, even if doing so affording stroke-inducingly expensive spa trips and also bailing her out of trouble, from time to nerve-shredding time.

“And another thing,” said Cadance, “Twilight didn’t break up with Rarity. Can you imagine that? She stuck with her?”

Still though, this wasn’t his problem.

“I mean, she hit her!”

Okay, now this was his problem.

Hondo stopped getting lost in the hospital for the fifth time this day and turned right around, heading right back into the admittedly one-sided conversation.

Again, he tipped his hat. It had little effect. “Excuse me, Miss?”

Cadance ignored him and continued reciting her various woes and gripes, which had moved on from her sister-in-law’s poor taste in women to the dismal standard of babysitters these days.

“Miss? Sorry to interrupt, but…”

Talking to this man wasn’t Cadance’s priority right now. Her priority right now, in case Shining Armor was interested - which he wasn’t - was informing him that Pinkamena Diane Pie was the worst babysitter on the planet. In fact, she had actually been arrested just last night!

Taking a deep breath, Shining Armor rubbed his temples. Really, getting married felt like a mistake today. However, it had occurred to him that arresting Pinkie Pie had probably been a mistake too. And it wasn’t just because she escaped immediately after he locked the cell behind him. It was because there was nobody currently watching his infant daughter now. He placed a single finger on Cadance’s lips before unhooking his radio from his belt.

“Come in, Billy. This is Shining. Over.”

A voice jabbered on the other end. Cadance continued to complain. Shining shushed her again. Hondo vaguely considered being somewhere else and so checked his watch. 5 PM. Damn. Derpy’s shift was over.

“Yeah, a family issue came up. Can you cover my shift? Over.”

More jabbering, frustrated.

“Well gee, dude, sorry to cut your trip to Hooters short but the wife and I each thought the other one was watching the kid. Over.”

The jabbering was furious.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You dated Lens Flare, like eighteen years ago. Good for you, Billy Club. Good for you. Well, I married my girlfriend who was also a model and you owe me a solid anyway. So get your ass over here and watch the perp. Over.”

Hondo didn’t need perfect hearing - which a lifestyle of attending racing competitions ensured he didn’t have anyway - to understand that his old drinking buddy was none too keen about being dragged away from the game and subsequent double brandy and coke.

Guessing now was as good a time as any to defend his daughter’s honour and to also figure out why her girlfriend hit her, Hondo turned to Cadance. “Hey,” he said, “you mentioned somebody called Rarity, right? Rarity Belle?”

Cadance made a curt nod. “Yes, I did. Why are you asking.”

“Because I’m her dad, Miss. We kind of like to know why random people are talking about our children.”

“I’m her girlfriend’s sister-in-law,” Cadance replied confidently, as if she expected that to explain everything.

Alas, it did not. Shining, having terminated the radio call before his partner could protest further, walked over and give his wife a kiss on the cheek. Then he went home and was pleasantly surprised to learn that Twilight had arrived at the exact same conclusion he did and would’ve actually told him this if her phone had not been stolen, along with Shining’s patrol car, oddly enough.

Damn thing needed a service anyway, Shining thought, the transmission was on its last legs and it was about time he got one of those tracking devices installed in it anyway. In hindsight, he probably should’ve done that before it was stolen but, hey, life comes at you fast sometimes.

To Hondo, however, Cadance’s reply explained precisely nothing. “Yeah, sorry. Rarity and I don’t really talk. About that sort of thing. So, that’d make you... Octavia’s sister, right?”

Cadance blinked.

“No. It would not. Your daughter is dating Twilight Sparkle.”

“Oh, I see,” said Hondo, “thought Tavi’d just dyed her hair.”

And her skin and changed her entire personality and family overnight, thought Cadance. “Well, she didn’t, as far as I know.”

“Okay. So, didn’t you say that somebody, this ‘Twilight’ person, had hit my daughter.” Hondo said, his confusion gradually being replaced with a paternal desire to give this Twilight Sparkle a good talking to, once he figured out who she actually was.

“No, I most certainly did not say that. Mr...?”

“Hondo. Hondo Flanks, a sports journalist for the Canterlot Bugle” he said, offering his hand.

Cadance took it gingerly. “My condolences.”

“Anyway, I’m pretty confident you did mention that, Miss.”

“I didn’t. I know what I said.”

“Then what did you say?”

“I said that your daughter, who you seemingly don’t actually talk to, beat her girlfriend, who is my sister-in-law. Can you understand now why I’m somewhat annoyed?”

Hondo did his goldfish impression again.

Come to think of it, knowing his daughter for as long as he did, that this series of events was bound to happen sooner or later, again. However, if there was a way of preparing yourself for the uncomfortable experience of justifying your offspring's latest act of delinquency, Hondo didn’t know it. Red Tailspin might; next time they went drinking, Hondo thought, he should really ask him about that.

“Yes. I can see why you are annoyed now, Cadance.”

Cadance frowned. “That’s Mrs Armor to you.”

“My condolences,” Hondo mumbled.

“So yes, kindly tell your daughter that it would be immensely wise for her to end her relationship with my sister-in-law.”

“I think you’re misunderstanding something here, Miss Cadance. Namely, my daughter is a good person. She’d never hit anyone,” Hondo lied, “I think you might be mistaken.”

“I can assure you, I am not.”

“Yeah. Well, I can assure you that, last time I checked, Rarity wasn’t even dating a Twilight Sparkle at all,” Hondo shot back.

Cadance raised an eyebrow and gave Hondo a stare that would’ve broken a lesser, schlubbier, more ill-dressed man where he stood. However, Hondo, having put up with his wife doing the same thing for the past twenty-nine years, was more than capable of being stared at. He was also more than capable of getting his daughter out of trouble, whenever the need arose.

Which it did, from time to time.

“When was the last time you checked who your daughter was dating?”

“About four years ago, why?”

Cadance, at that point in time, gave up on the day. No matter how much she tried, it was not going to be good. She palmed her face and cursed her luck.

If only she’d stuck to modelling for Hoity Toity, instead of becoming a school dean, marrying the village idiot, and having the baby from hell…

She might not be talking to this brick wall of an idiot if that were the case.

Alas, it was not.

“Mr Flanks. Mr Hondo Flanks,” Cadance growled, devoting a breath to each word. “Please, kindly, go talk to your daughter. About something other than… whatever it is you two talk about.”

“Alcohol, usually,” Hondo answered.

“The legal drinking age in this state is eighteen. If I am not mistaken, your daughter is not of that age.”

“Hondo shrugged. “Back in Ohio its twenty-one. Your point, Miss?”

Cadance gritted her teeth. Maliciousness, she could handle. That’s why she chose Crystal Prep over Canterlot High. Stupid, however? She never could get a handle on stupid.

Yet here she was, visiting Crystal Prep’s resident moron and talking to a Buckeye who’s idiocy no single village could hold.

Hondo noticed the steam leaking from Cadance’s ears. He noticed that her strawberry-pink complexion was now burning a habanero red. He noticed that the noise her teeth were making was drowning out the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.

“My daughter’s a good person, Miss Cadance,” he said, turning and tipping his hat and walking faster than he usually did down the hallway.

Rarity reclined in bed, twirled the stolen cigar in her fingers and blew a smoke ring into the air that was thick with the scent of overpriced perfume and the funk of a very exciting evening. Beside her, a thoroughly tired-out Sunny Flare lay dozing. Both she and Rarity were naked. A bottle of Remy Martin XO cognac lay empty on the floor beside a pair of snifters, beneath a discarded Victoria’s Secret pair of panties.

What a day it had been.

Murder in the morning - adultery in the afternoon.

“You know, Darling,” Rarity mused, infinitely grateful that all of Fleur’s clothes fit her like a glove - or a blouse, or a skirt, or a bra, or whatever - “this day turned out rather well after all.”

Sunny mumbled a reply.

She did so with a smile. Her car was returned safely, the code had been deciphered, and she had been bought her a cake and a pair of earrings as an apology; courtesy of Twilight’s credit card, not that she knew of course. Most importantly though, Rarity was back. And she was in bed with her.

At last.

“Indeed. Spectacularly well. A marvellous day, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah, Dearie,” she said, running a hand up her lover’s chest. “It did turn out pretty good.”

Author's Note

Good morning readers, I've decided to do this author's note thing from now on. Thought it might be helpful if I gave some explanation of my thought process behind my writing. Anyhow, my idea here was basically to split the story into three acts - what you've read so far would be Act 1 - and use some 3rd person interlude chapters to do so. Give a change of pace basically. Apologies about the shorter-than-usual chapter too, by the way. I'd like to keep them at about ~6.5k words but I'm quite sick as of present and don't really have the energy to write anything particularly long. That's all from Leroy today. As always, feedback is appreciated.

5: A Dreadfully Uneasy Day

Obligations, I understand. However, I cannot say that I’ve ever enjoyed them. Truth be told, the need to keep the world intact aside, the only obligations I consider worth upholding are those that immediately enrich my existence. As far as it concerns me, the arbitrary duties of romantic partnership exist solely to butter up otherwise tight-fisted and prudish people into bestowing upon their significant other what said other desires most. Excuse the lowbrow quotation but Nickelback really did sum it up rather well; my greatest desire honestly is “a credit card that’s got no limit” although come to think of it, I would not entirely be opposed to “a Playboy bunny with her bleach blonde hair.”

And, as Lyra is currently busy mourning her dead horse – and the girl is likely also naturally blonde, come to think of it – such obligations had me paying a visit to a hospital today. That is, after Sunny coerced me out of bed with the promise of a slap-up meal tonight in some downtown 5-Star restaurant.

Keeping in mind that I do not cook, Sunny can’t – as far as I know – and her servants won’t return until Monday, I begrudgingly agreed to accompany her to visit the most recent victim of a shooting in this dreary town, Indigo Zap. It was either that or going home after all and, to be frank, I’d rather suck the syphilitic snot out of a sleeping tramp’s nose than listen to another second of my sister blather about how she’ll marry Tom Holland if ever when she grows up.

Good grief, I’m rambling, aren’t it?

I suppose it is forgivable; I have had quite the stressful last couple of days, murdering people and all.

In my defence, they were annoying me.

Anyhow, to significantly shorten a longer story, Sunny was obedient enough to bankroll a day out on the town. Brunch at quite the charming little hole in the wall Maghrebi bistro started off the day. Casablanca Café, I believe it was.

About halfway through sharing a plate of shakshuka and a pot of strong coffee – keeping Halal, they alas did not serve anything that kicked harder than Arabica – Sunny must’ve noticed that I was feeling somewhat down.

I wasn’t feeling down.

I was feeling nervous.

A uniformed man had walked by our table a second back and he most certainly was not a waiter. But the swine in human clothing merely waddled along, and placed an order at the counter – fortunately oblivious to what I had been getting up to.

“Earth to Rarity, Dearie,” Sunny said, waving a manicured hand in front of my face, snapping me out of my monologue.

“Oh, yes, terribly sorry about that, Darling. I’m not much of a morning person, you see,” I replied.

“Clearly. Though why are you so twitchy? You keep looking over your shoulder or at your phone. Are you expecting a call?”

Frowning, I returned the little outdated device to Twilight’s my handbag. I cleared my throat. “This coffee must be stronger than I thought.”

“Well, they usually serve tea in Morocco, not coffee. Why don’t we get a pot of that?” Sunny suggested.

“Darling, I hardly think more caffeine is going to be of any help here.”

“Eh, you never know.” My girlfriend shrugged, exposing a svelte cyan shoulder from beneath her coat – with it being a cool day, we’d both bundled up rather well. Her in a lavender-pattern silk scarf and pastel green parka over high-waisted jeans and low-cut sweatshirt bearing the logo of some or other video game and myself in a charcoal-grey cashmere cardigan, button-down scarlet blouse and black pencil skirt, beneath which were a pair of nude stockings and modest heels.

“Bint!” Sunny called over a nearby waitress, “A cup of tea for myself and,” she turned to me, “for you, Dearie?”

Sunny continued jabbering at the waitress. I traced a crust of toast through the breakfast’s rapidly-congealing tomato sauce. Perhaps the same sweater, albeit in navy would suit her better? White is not her colour but, then again, I’d have to do something about that ridiculously gaudy orange logo too. It isn’t Halloween for another, what three months?

“Rares? Some dessert?”

I picked up at the sound of my name. “Oh? Dessert? Well, a lady should never refuse a slice of cake,” I said to the waitress glaring down at me. Really, that headscarf does not suit her.

As such, I decided against tipping.

Beauty is a rarity in this world, a truly sublime thing; those who disregard it so blatantly, by mixing eggshell and aubergine for instance, should be punished for it.

“No offence, but you seem really out of it this morning.”

“I’m quite alright, Darling,” I shot back, “just a little tired.”

Resting her chin on her hand, pushing the plate aside, Sunny asked, “You sure there isn’t something on your mind? I mean, I’d be happy to listen. Like, you put up with me venting about my life for hours. It’s the least I could do, really.”

Ah, yes. Normal people do that – they talk about their feelings. If only there was somebody I could talk to, somebody who’d understand. Alas, as Sunny is, for all intents and purposes, completely unremarkable, I doubt I’ll be telling her anytime soon about my more… illicit endeavours. But if only; a confidant would be a true pleasure.

“Not really,” I lied. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“If you say so?” Sunny, confused, raised an eyebrow.

“I do, Darling, I do.” I kept lying. “The closest thing to a concern I have is what to do for my next project.”

Her face lit up like a spotlight wired directly into a power line. “Well, I’ve got a few ideas. I mean, if you wouldn’t mind, like, collaborating? Like we used to do.”

“Not at all, Darling,” I said.

Come to think of it, offloading one or two commissions onto Sunny would be an excellent use of her more practical talents. That and she’d stay out of my hair for a while, at least. My, she is as pretty as she is dependant and you, being me, know all too well my feelings on obligations lasting anything more than a half-day at most.

“That’s great. Let me pull up my sketchbook then!” Sunny said, producing her own phone, tapping open an app, and proceeding to bore me with the most insipid design’s I’ve seen since last year’s Coachella. Honestly, nobody in their right mind can even begin to tolerate a shirt dress, let alone attempt to glamourize one.

However, arrive her tea and my dessert eventually did and, with them, the cheque Sunny had called for. I washed down the baklava with another cup of coffee – black as night, sweet as sin – while she rummaged out a stack of notes to placate our dowdy waitress with.

Seriously, her skin is pink – that shade of eggplant purple could do her fewer benefits, certainly, but it’d have to be laced with cyanide in order to do so. Although considering the mess that passes for service in this place, a good poisoning might actually expedite the praxis.

The sooner I get out of here, the better.

The sooner I escape this establishment, the faster I can return to deflowering my girlfriend, drinking her mother’s cabinet of scotch, and figuring out how to distance myself from the pair of corpses currently decomposing in the trunk of my latest nemesis’ husband’s pursuit vehicle.

“Rares, mind tipping her? I didn’t, y’know, draw as much as I thought I did and I totally do not want to keep Indy waiting.”

Pardon my French but if I wanted to pay for my own meals, I wouldn’t be having an affair right now.

Still, face must be saved – especially after this last week’s mayhem. I smiled and extricated the last of the notes from Twilight’s purse and handed them to the woman, who stared at me in mild disgust.

Oh, what now?

Somebody’s parka-clad elbow jabbed in the ribs for my efforts.

Sunny so help me I’ll stab you in the jugular with a fork if you ever attempt that outside of a boudoir ever again!

“Yes, Darling?” I whispered, dropping the fork back in the shakshuka before it wound up in anyone’s neck.

“Wrong hand. You use your right hand for business and meals. Left hand for, ah, bathroom stuff.”

Now this is why I am so tired; it takes enough effort to keep in the know the manners of one culture, let alone more. Transferring the bills to my other hand, I again gave them to the waitress, who accepted them with a nod and a smile, before taking the bill and walking off.

Then, after downing the remains of her tea, Sunny led me out the restaurant and back to her Porsche. Just as we stepped out the door, a Minnesotan accent cheered from inside the restaurant.

“Check this out, Aisha! Those two lesbians tipped us $300!”

Sunny grasped my hand a little tighter after that, and I don’t think it was solely because the cold bit us like a junkyard dog the second we stepped out the door and into the street.

“That,” she smiled, “that is why I like you, Rares. You’re honest to hope the nicest girl I’ve ever met.”

“Oh, I suppose I am.”

“Come on, Dearie, need to be modest about that. She gave us crappy service and you tip her like ten times the cost of our meal? That’s really sweet of you!” Sunny said, pulling me into a hug.

I responded with a peck on the lips. Thank Chanel for cherry-flavoured lip gloss. “You are no slouch in that regard yourself, Darling. Now let’s hurry up and pay a visit to Miss Zap, shall we?”

The sooner we finish up feigning condolences the sooner we can get back to downing drinks, sewing satin, polishing pearls and the like.

Proper, cultured things.

Beautiful things.

Alas, the hospital was not a beautiful thing. It was a stunning testament to my policy of disrespecting architects. Honestly, the dreadful thing arose from the surrounding suburbs like some kind of cubical concrete pimple and that shade of red for the neon cross glowing on its outer façade couldn’t be gaudier unless it has some Coachella VIP ticket that I’m unaware of. An ugly building indeed; if I could, I might even consider pitying those sots unfortunate enough to be caught ill or injured within its uninspired halls.

Feeling sick just looking at it, actually entering the building did nothing to ease my butterfly-laden stomach. Distaste for these establishments runs in the family – ironic considering how often my sister and her group of mentally-incapable moviegoer friends land themselves in it attempting to discover some or other mystical talent that they all supposedly possess.

I know what their talent is and I make a point to avoid Sweetie Belle like the plague because of it. It’s being a pest, that’s what it is.

Putting thoughts of pestilence aside, I allowed Sunny to lead me into the giftshop of the ground floor of the hospital. Row upon row of inedible confection and insipid stuffed animal greeted us open entry, as did the irksome tinkling of a storefront bell. A few patrons mumbled about, making pointless decisions between this or that heart-shaped balloon and a get-well card.

Also greeting us, oddly enough, was Lemon Zest. The musician of Sunny’s friend group and a self-proclaimed music critic – she has a blog on Tumblr where she rants about the apparent soullessness of the industry to her seventeen followers – spun around to greet us, brushing a lock of acid green hair from a flushed-pink face that was trying, and clearly failing, to keep up a smile.

“Hey Sunny. Hey Rarity. What brings you guys here?” she asked.

Sunny started a response. Then she stopped.

I clicked my fingers in front of her face.

“Ah! Oh, sorry. Wait, weren’t you arrested, Lemon?”

Lemon rolled her eyes. “No? No, I wasn’t. I hopped a fence the second the cops rolled up and they were too busy being jackasses and tasering my friends to follow me. Pretty convenient too. I couldn’t really visit my mom if I was spending a weekend in jail.”

Do not mention those words, please.

“No, Darling, you most certainly could not,” I replied.

“So, yeah,” Lemon continued, sticking a card in her jacket while the clerk was busy sorting out change to a distraught couple, “why are you two here? And why are you here together?”

“That hardly counts as your business-”

“We’re back together!” Sunny declared, cutting me off by crushing me in a hug. At least this time she smelled like cherries and not half-digested rice wine.

“Oh, good for you. You always used to make such a cute couple.”

I frowned at Sunny. She released me.

“Yes, I suppose you could say that. Don’t feel the need to tell anyone though.” I narrowed my eyes at Lemon. “The blog posts can come later. A great deal later.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Your romance is your romance. Anyway, been nice seeing you two but I’ve gotta get going.”

“Well, Dearie, why don’t you tag along with us? We’re going to visit Indy and I’m sure she’d love to see you as well.”

Emotions flashed across Lemon’s face. As far as I could tell, confusion, fear, concern, and the sneaking suspicion that this all might be a joke were all present.

“Wait, what?” Lemon asked. “Indigo’s in hospital? Again?”

“No, Darling, she’s landed an internship cleaning the windows outside. Do try to keep up.”

Lemon glared at me. As did Sunny.

“Yes,” I continued, “she is in the hospital. According to Sugarcoat, somebody shot her. Terribly unfortunate.”

“Wait. What!” The rocker balked.

“Happens to the best of us, Darling. Police brutality, that is. Why, I remember when some bottom-feeding boor cracked a truncheon across my right hand,” I said, raising the limb in question.

A scar was faintly visible against the aristocratic white complexion. Adjusting a bangle over it solved that problem rather well.

“Can we, like, go back to the point in the conversation where my best friend gets shot and everyone just up and forgets to tell me?” Lemon tentatively asked.

Sunny blinked. “I’m really sorry, I thought somebody told you.”

“As did I,” I lied, “if Sugarcoat informed me of this… tragedy then, surely, she must’ve told you, her classmate.”

“Actually, she hasn’t been answering her phone ever since the party. Kinda weird. She’s normally super OCD about stuff like that.”

“Ah, yes. Sunny was sick in her handbag. Terrible waste of a good satchel, in my opinion. As well as a Samsung. But I suppose that’s what happens if you down a half a bottle of Bombay Sapphire over the course of a single hour.”

It was Sunny’s turn to balk. “I was? Wait, I did that?”

“Apparently. So, then how did she tell you, Rarity?” Lemon asked.

Good grief, my entire week is going to be like this, isn’t it?

“She told me in person, Darling. Before I gave her a life home. Anyhow, let’s just get Indigo a gift and depart. I’m not terribly fond of hospitals and I’d much rather have this conversation somewhere else.”

Or not at all. Preferably not at all. Your views on music never fail to aggravate me, Lemon. Seriously, who in their right mind tries to mix hardbass with a harpsichord?

Still, plebeians enjoy it, if the fact that her band actually turns a profit is anything to go off.

“Sure thing then. Mom gets kinda worried if I’m not on time for my visits anyway and this time I gotta let her convince me to go to Italy for a week. Guess I’ll figure out where Indy is after that then,” Lemon said, starting for the door.

“Dearie, does your mother have leukaemia or does she have Alzheimer’s? Besides, we haven’t told you what room Indigo is in.” Sunny sniped at her.

Lemon turned, rolling her eyes, her voice heavier than steel with exasperation, “For the last time, Sunny, my mom has lupus.”

What, like in House MD? I thought they made that one up for the show.

“She’s also just… needy, okay?” Lemon continued, “She really likes her routines and stuff and I don’t like being late either.”

“Sorry to pry, Dearie. Indy’s in Room 619, the one with the policemen guarding it,” Sunny said.

“Yes, let’s not keep you, or us, any longer than need be.”

With that, Lemon departed, at last, and Sunny set about the supposedly vital process of selecting the right teddy bear to gift to her friend. Again, sentimentality is one of those things that truly confounds me – why ever do people care so much for arbitrary trinkets and knick knacks? I only do for things that have actual value to me; signed records and sapphire rings, for instance. Being concerned about bundles of pillow stuffing and plush fur is truthfully a waste of emotion. Still, if it brings Sunny joy, I might as well put up with it.

“How about this one, Dearie?” Sunny asked, presenting me with a completely unremarkable teddy bear, devoid of any bespoke craftsmanship or marks of real talent.

“She’ll love it!”

“Awesome. Say, since I covered breakfast, would you mind doing this one?” Sunny asked.

Of course, I mind, you twit – she’s your friend, not mine. If it hadn’t been for Cadance mass-emailing her school about the incident, I’d still be in bed right now.

“Oh, not at all. I’d be happy to,” I said, taking the bear and walking over to the counter. There I produced Twilight’s credit card and paid for the gift.

Or, rather, I attempted to.

The card had been declined. Deactivated, even.

“Good grief,” I said, “that is bizarre.”

“Sure is,” agreed the clerk, eyeing the card for dirt or something, “Ms… Twilight Sparkle.”

“Rares, Dearie, is everything okay of there?” Sunny, oblivious, asked.

The clerk stopped eyeing the card and started eyeing me. “This is your card, right?”

Of all the days to be potentially arrested for credit card fraud, it had to be today.

I leaned on the counter and gave the man a more than generous view of certain parts of my torso. “It’s her card,” I whispered and pointed over to Sunny, “but you’ll look over this just this once, right? I’ve had the most terrible day.”

The brute snorted, “What do I look like to you, a charity store?”

Judging from the mess this place is in, I would say so, yes.

I sighed to no avail. Then, to some avail, I called over Sunny. “Darling, that card’s been declined,” I explained, “would you be so kind as to try one of the others?”

“No problem,” Sunny said, paying for the gift at last.

And that, as they tend to say, was that.

Now to ascend the bowels of this wretchedly vile place and give a psychotic inmate-to-be a teddy bear.

In my life, I’ve come to expect many things. However, the unexpected always manages to sneak up on me – be it a parallel universe of sapient ponies, demon-possessed girlfriends-to-be, the Spanish Inquisition, etcetera etcetera. Today said unexpected thing was none of the above, fortunately; I have no desire to be put to the rack anytime soon, save for possibly in the boudoir.

What I actually failed to expect was the identity of the policeman keeping Indigo safe and captive.

The first time I’d met the oaf was in middle school, when he apprehended me for the theft of a particularly nice fountain pen. Said meeting ended with a broken hand on my part and a thigh with a pair of sewing scissors sticking out of it on his.

As such, I was about as fond of Officer Billy Club as I was of being impaled on a rusty spike while children danced ribbons around me like I was some kind of gory maypole.

However, the latter has not and hopefully will never happen. Running into policemen, however, is inevitable.

Especially when obligations come into play.

“Something the matter, Dearie?” Sunny asked as we approached the room with the humanoid lump of distastefulness stationed outside it.

“I’m a bit scared of hospitals, that’s all. It runs in the family,” I whispered back.

“Well, let’s be quick then. I’m sure Indy isn’t exactly feeling fantastic herself. Did you know her sister was incarcerated though? Strange right, two siblings arrested in one night?”

I nodded along.

“Yeah. Apparently Lightning Dust beat a guy half to death for calling her mother a war criminal. Her bail was, like, literally a million bucks. Her dad paid it too.”

“Is that so?” I mumbled.

“Sure is. At least, that’s what I read online.”

“Since when do you read the news, Darling?” I asked, trying to change the subject, “I don’t mean to offend, but you do not exactly strike me as the type to bury her pretty head in tabloids.

Sunny stopped. Crossing her arms, one homemade computer bracelet over the other, she raised an eyebrow. “And ‘type’ would that be?”

“Ladies, in my opinion, have more pressing matters to attend to than senseless trivia, like who the current Pope is or whatever war there is in the Middle East this month.”

“Francis and Sudan, in case you were wondering. Indigo’s mom is actually on peacekeeping detail in Khartoum as we speak. Hence the whole… beating thing.”

Good for her. I couldn’t care less.

“I see,” I said.

“Besides, when Lens dies, I inherit her shares in the business. And, like, I kinda want to know how to run that business properly. And if that means playing stocks, so be it,” Sunny continued.

“How… proactive of you.”

Sunny smiled. “Thank you. We’ll overtake Armani, just you wait.”

If I weren’t the most impatient person I knew, I’d wait.

“I’m sure you will, Darling. Now let us get this visit over with, shall we?” I said, taking my technical girlfriend’s hand and starting again towards the door.

To my surprise, Club greeted us before we greeted him, tipping his hat and grinning faintly – if I didn’t know better, I’d say almost fatherly.

“Sunny. Fleur. Come to visit your friends?” grunted the oaf.

“Yes, Billy. This isn’t Fleur, by the way. This is my new girlfriend, Rarity Belle.”

I curtseyed.

“Oh, and Rarity, this is my father, Billy Club.”

What the fuck?

What the everdiscordant fuck have I wandered into?

“Nice to meet you, kid,” the oaf said, extending a hand. I merely nodded and kept mine to myself.

“I could say the same to you, Officer,” I curtly replied before dragging Sunny into the hospital room before any more Dickensian antics could erupt around me.

How fortunate he didn’t remember me. Then again, I have filled out quite nicely since my childhood years.

To my relief, Lemon had gotten to the room already, and was currently engrossed with discussing snowboarding with a particularly wilted Indigo Zap. Judging by how the wounded girl’s eyes were glazed over, I’d judge that she’d helped herself to more than just a single dose of painkillers.

Come to think of it, if I were ever unlucky enough to receive a bullet, I would be taking every opportunity to do the same.

“Sunny,” I whispered as we stood against the wall furthest from the hated policeman.

“Yeah, Rares?” she whispered back.

“Darling, did you not think it prudent to inform me that your father was an officer of the law?”

“I think I did mention it. We aren’t really close or anything. Lens won full custody like, two months after I was born. Besides, what’s that got to do with anything?”

I showed her the scar on my arm – usually its concealed with makeup but Fleur’s I’d already trashed and I hadn’t thought to pick myself up anymore when I had the chance shopping yesterday afternoon.

“Still not getting it, Darling. Haven’t you had that since you were like thirteen or something?”

“I have. Your utter pig of a father gave it to me!” I hissed.

Sunny let out a breath. “Huh. He did?”

“Yes. I remember his name. If you hadn’t noticed, they have nametags. They’d probably forget their own names otherwise.”

“What did you do for that to happen?” Sunny asked.

“What I did is quite beside the point, Sunny Flare,” I replied, swiping the conciliatory teddy from her and marching over to Indigo.

After a few seconds, she looked up and flashed me a peace sign.

“Yo. Hey Fleur. Didn’t think you’d… be here. Did you do something with your… hair? It’s not normally so eggplanty,” Indigo droned.

“Firstly, my name is Rarity Belle. We met at the Friendship Games, Indigo. I beat you in the English quiz.”

“Oh. You’re her-”

“Secondly,” I interrupted, “my hair is perfectly natural and the shade it is is called amethyst, not aubergine.”

Indigo nodded again. She looked about as well as a tangerine would if one dropped it off a six-storey building. Similar colouration too.

“Anyhow, Sunny and I have come to visit. But seeing as you’re more drugged up than your average child star two decades into her career, I’ll give you this teddy bear and depart in peace,” I said, placing the teddy bear next to the identical make of it on her nightstand.

It was about then that Sunny came over and decided to attempt to have a conversation with Indigo. I took a step back and considered waiting downstairs, or somewhere else. But, seeing as I’m flat broke again and I doubt Sunny would appreciate me borrowing her car twice in as many days, I merely sat back on a nearby chair and tapped open a game on my phone to pass the time.

Now, unlike my girlfriend – either of them – I lack the patience for most games and I lack the commitment to get good at them either. However, blackjack is relatively fast-paced and, more importantly, its free to play.

I was about to start a hand against the computer when Lemon accosted me. Good grief woman, what now?

“Ah, yes?” I looked up at her, “What is it, Darling?”

“You got a minute?” Lemon asked, sitting down beside me.

“I suppose Sunny will be busy for quite a while, likely trying to wrangle a sponsorship deal out of Clan Zap, so yes, I do.”

“Great. How’s the band doing?”

“Yours or mine?”

“Yours, duh. I know how mine’s doing because I’m the drummer. We’re going to play in Italy actually. Cagliari, Naples, Rome, Venice, the whole shebang. Vinyl got the idea after reading Vento Aureo.”

“Oh, yes. How wonderful! Quite a fetching performance last Fall Formal, might I add.”

Lemon blinked. “I was sick that week. Pinkie filled in for me.”

“I meant in general, Darling. From one musician to another, you do have quite the talent for it and your bandmates are no slouches either in that regard. I mean, touring professionally at your age…”

She shrugged. How rude. “Eh, thanks, I guess? I mean, just between you and we, we could be doing way better. Bon-Bon and Lyra are having this big breakup right now and its making practice impossible because they keep arguing! Do you know how hard it is to keep a rhythm under those conditions?”

“Darling, I’m in a band with both Rainbow Dash and Applejack. I can more than imagine what it’s like to be surrounded by belligerent morons.”

“So, yeah,” Lemon winced with apprehension, twirling a lock of toxic-waste neon hair between chipped nails, “You know where I can, like, find either a harpist or pianist in, like, a month?”

“Why so soon, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Well, Heavy Metal Ümlat is supposed go on tour next month, as we’ve said. And I’d kinda to perform, y’know, our songs. Something Vinyl and I can’t really do alone. I know it's short notice but you’re, well, you and I know you would really mind helping too much.”

“I suppose I could ask around. My own band isn’t really doing that well either, honestly.”

A pair of lime eyebrows shot up. “No? What’s it this time? Another magical nutjob?”

“I’m afraid it’s just the mundane clash of personalities this month. Fluttershy wanted to quit so she could have more time to, ah, forgive me it honestly has been a nightmare of a week,” more for Sugarcoat than myself though, “Yes, Fluttershy quit to spend more time doing conservation work. Or, at least, she tried to. Sunset had to browbeat her back in line.”

“Sheesh. That bad?”

“Sunset has quite the temper, believe me. As reformed as she claims to be, I don’t buy it for a minute. I’m considering quitting myself actually. After all, ladies do not take orders.”

Lemon slipped off her earphones. I could hear the synths from here and I was seated three feet away. “Really?” she asked.

“Might as well. A lady is not a sedentary creature, not when that means tolerating pop-loving ingrates.”

“I hear you sister. Pop can stuff it.” She held up a hand, expecting a high-five. Begrudgingly, I gave her one.

“So, yes,” I said, spotting Sunny about finishing up, “I’ll look around for some substitutes for you. Come to think of it, my sister is learning to play the harp as we speak.”

“Nice!” cheered Lemon. “Also, don’t you actually play piano? Or like, at least, keytar?”

“I hypothetically can but my schedule is rather busy at the moment. Perhaps, once I clear a few things up, I might be able to take Bon-Bon’s place.”

Preferably, I’d take her place in bed beside her absurdly flexible and horse-obsessed musical heiress of a girlfriend, but joining an actually-competent band would be a good vehicle with which to see the world. Besides, getting into a Swiss business school is unlikely to exactly happen given my marks in the vast array of exams.

“Awesome,” Lemon said, “thanks so much Rarity. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Indeed, I am,” I lied, standing up and starting over to join Sunny by the door.

Now to see about that dinner.

Oh, and what a dinner it could have been.

The relevant word there being “could” unfortunately.

For I ate very little dinner that night and events, as you – me – can tell, most definitely transpired. Alas, the winds of fate, being notoriously fickle, blew against a certain fashionista tonight. Now it is evening, about 8PM, and I am standing in the parking lot of a magnificently upscale African-styled restaurant waiting for an Uber to get my well-sculpted posterior out of here before it freezes to death or Twilight’s father cracks my skull open on the nearby curb.

It turns out that being a “white knight” of sorts runs in the family. As does a temper to which a berth wider than a blue whale at an all-you-can-eat krill diner must be steered.

After pulling my coat tight over my dress, I lit myself another cigarillo; the last of Sunny’s mother’s stash of the charming little Rhodesian constructions. I’m sure she won’t mind – she is, after all, dreadfully boring and probably smokes one a year, if and only if her company turns a profit.

I puffed a smoke ring into the freezing air. It wafted through it, gracing the parking lot’s oily fumes with the laidback scents of Turkish rosewater and Salisbury tobacco. However, I did not feel laid back in the slightest. I noticed a shiver in my left hand, and it wasn’t just because the chill makes the bones ache.

They’ve done that ever since I was fourteen.

Another draw on the smoke. I can do this.

The taxi will be here any minute now and I’ll go right back to Sunny’s manor and explain everything once she returns home.

She’ll understand; she always does.

A third draw. The smoke tickled my lungs and I coughed faintly.

How unladylike.

But I do suppose time need be passed and I cannot exactly play phone blackjack with my hands in this state and my teeth all a-clattering. An explanation might as well be in order.

Sunny and I arrived at the Ndlovu Restaurant at roughly seven. Of course, we hadn’t driven straight there from the hospital. We had gone home, undressed, enjoyed each other’s company, shared a glass or two of Amarula Gold – lovely beverage, shame it was discontinued – and only then did we dress for the evening and set about doing the necessary preparations for a night out.

Again, throwing Fleur’s makeup in a garbage bag and then throwing that out the window was dreadfully foolish – especially when it landed in a pond and was, thus, rendered unsalvageable lest I wish to wade through waist-high muck.

And I did wish that in the slightest.

It isn’t like I’m not naturally beautiful, because of course I am, but it is that I am a great deal more fetching when done up in the proper array of cosmetics and the like.

To her credit, however, Sunny informed me, correctly, that I looked gorgeous and then, incorrectly, that our dinner would be excellent.

I had gotten about one bite of salad down before who, might you ask, decides to arrive at the same restaurant as I did?

You know the answer to that – you’re me and I talk to myself when nobody’s around because, alas, I have nobody else to talk to. I really should get to work on that – perhaps acquiring a pen pal might be wise, perhaps I ought to change the names and post this on some writer’s forum, or perhaps I should take Sunset up on her offer to visit Equestria and meet my counterpart?

Actually, that last one is a genuinely grand idea.

From what I can tell from the similarities between my Twilight Sparkle and her regal counterpart, certain features of personality definitely carry across dimensions, even if occupations do not. Oh, how I would like to own a chain of department stores in all major cities of the country. What fun I could have then…

Anyhow, I’m digressing again. Twilight and her parents appeared for dinner just about the time Sunny and I had received our starters.

To say I felt panic would be an understatement. Out from my chair which had an awfully charming cowhide cover, I bolted and headed straight to the washroom, claiming some or another sort of emergency, if I claimed anything at all. Sunny, of course, was rather confused.

I doubt she’s seen me run in heels before.

Anyhow, watching from a crack in the doorway, there my technical girlfriend sat, alone and picking at a plate of springbok carpaccio and sipping at a glass of sparkling Pinotage while desperately hoping that I’d return swiftly and continue humouring her dreadful dress ideas.

I swear, for the child of a fashion designer and the stepchild of a computer mogul, Sunny cannot actually design anything to save her life. For instance, she was wearing one of her own creations tonight – I hesitate to bestow the word “dress” upon that hideous amalgam of taffeta and computer buses. A bus, for those who might be wondering, Sunny explained as a stretch of tape inside a computer that transmits data – they’re generally dark green and shiny in colour and the generally fail totally and utterly to accent a little black shirt dress and stockings with the kind of failure only middle-aged journalistically-minded fathers can aspire to.

The times her bracelet devices have nearly blown her arms off too…

So, there she sat, nervously tapping a text on one of those bracelets after a while, peeking over her shoulder at the direction I had escaped in while her wine settled and a waiter sidled over suggesting a main course, if mademoiselle would be so inclined?

Then Twilight, my actual girlfriend, walked over. As did her father. Fortunately, I have had little interaction with the man. He’s a university professor by nature, as well as a fairly successful author – having a whole collection of hard science fiction novels under his belt. Needless to say, the only “hard” thing I found about them was not, in fact, their plausibility – it was the writing itself. Night Light has all the talent of a dyslexic porcupine when it comes to the literary arts and he was dressed tonight in a powder blue suit to boot.

It may come as a surprise to you, me, but I can’t say he’d make an exactly pleasant father-in-law. However, I was planning to break up with Twilight anyhow and, after the events of tonight, I suppose that plan may be enacted sooner than expected.

From what I understood, Twilight thought Sunny was dating Fleur. In fact, she was insistent that Miss Flare and Miss de Lis were still together. After all, she was dating me, Rarity Belle fashionista extraordinaire – therefore, her logical mind utterly failed to comprehend the idea that Sunny might be, pardon the French, a side chick to yours truly.

Then Night Light went on a tirade about how much a bitch Fleur was, his words not mind, for standing her up like this and making her eat dinner alone. The gall of that girl, let him tell you – after all, that wretched Quebecois isn’t even actually French and, furthermore and probably more importantly, she nearly bullied his darling daughter Twilight to suicide.

Obviously, Twilight was blushing a shade pinker than the rose wine I’d ordered by this point in the conversation from the embarrassment of it all.

That I can understand - as useful as he can be, I hate my own father too, the lowbrow oaf.

Peculiarly, Twilight had never told me she also hated Fleur either. But, then again, I do suppose the late and frumpy Sugarcoat might have actually had a point there – we don’t talk much about that sort of thing. Well, she talks but I’m afraid I can’t honestly that I listen.

Who would want to, about such distasteful things?

Death and the potential for it to occur, ideally should be kept in the dark, where nobody can find out you did it.

After Night Light had coerced Sunny into forgetting about her girlfriend, whose true identity remained a mystery, he invited her to sit at his family’s table and enjoy the company that no doubt immediately devolved into some dreadful discourse about the dismal state of thermodynamic research, or the like.

No doubt Sunny stopped crying after a while.

Once she’d stopped trying to figure out where I was, only then did I emerge from the lavatory and I headed straight down to the parking lot and such was my haste that I did not even look at the boutique on the way down.

Alright, I can’t myself, I spared a glance or two.

When I have somebody else’s money again, I really must get those pumps. They’d match wonderfully with this dress.

And now I am here again, smoking and waiting.

And beginning to fear that I may have made one mistake too many this month. Oh, if only I hadn’t hit Twilight. Then Cadance wouldn’t have interrogated me, I wouldn’t have found Shining’s car unoccupied, I wouldn’t have driven some lout over with it and I wouldn’t have had to then kill Sugarcoat to cover the last murder up.

If only…

However, sex has been glorious lately. Perhaps it’s the thrill, the fear of being caught, that really seals that proverbial deal, ah?

Still though, sometimes I wish I was normal.

But then I’d just be Rarity Belle, keytarist of a high school pop band, child of Middle America, doomed to spend her life squandering her potential in the Pacific’s backwater state as a mildly successful seamstress.

Ugh – the thought of that gives me nightmares.

I’d rather stay a sociopath.

I’m sure, I’m positive, I am certain that I can figure this all out yet and come out on top. Except possibly in the boudoir; Twilight, Sunny, or Lyra, or whoever’s rich and beautiful really, can stay on top there.

Author's Note

Well, here's the next chapter. Easier to write than usual actual - but I suppose that's where a solid plan gets you. The Ndlovu and the Casablanca restaurants are pastiches of real restaurants in Nairobi, where I currently live. However, the service is much better in real life. Sunny's habit of bolting computer parts onto her clothes comes from Kill la Kill's Inomuta, by the way.

6: A Brutally Bad Breakup

It’s the next morning now and, come to think of it, things have not really been going well lately.

I am talking, of course, about the little matter of that dress I commissioned to sew about… oh, two months ago. Never having brought that specific dress up until now, one would rightly make the deduction that I wasn’t particularly concerned with its completion– after all, Cheerilee had paid in advance.

What a stupid woman. But then again, she is a Literature teacher.

Anyhow, I bring up this particular dress because I had planned to convince Sunny to do the work for me and to basically sew the entire thing while I enjoyed the contents of a bottle of Remy Martin. Now I doubt that it would turn out exactly as planned or for that matter, as requested, especially not given her irritating habit of trying to apply computer parts to otherwise tolerable pieces of fashion, but editing somebody else’s work and subsequently taking full credit for it is far easier than actually assembling that bloody kaftan yourself.

And why this all matters now is because Sunny refused to make the dress. Well, she didn’t say that she wouldn’t make but I gathered from the fact that she… now what is the right word for that? Ah, yes, convinced. She convinced me out of her house in such a manner that it would be tremendously unlikely in future that she should ever to talk to me again, let alone collaborate on a project of this magnitude – or lack thereof. It is only a kaftan, do keep that in mind.

Needless to say, I tried to defend myself. A proper lady, after all, simply must rise to any challenge made upon her honour. Even if she is guilty. No, especially if she is guilty.

At the end of the day, if she is proved a thief, and an adulteress at that, what other despicable things might she be guilty of?

Murder, for starts.

Not particularly wanting to try my luck the night prior to this morning at clearing my good name, a morning that I am now I am spending moping scheming meditating over a cup of black coffee in everyone’s favourite Maghrebi restaurant, the Casablanca Café – yes, I know it’s a faux pas to dine twice in two days at the same establishment but I’m sure you can forgive me – anyhow, I slept in a guest bedroom that night. Oh, how far the mighty have fallen, I’m well aware. At least it wasn’t the couch.

Namely as that was still downstairs, floating in the pond along with the garbage bag of Fleur’s makeup.

Having finished off that bottle of Amarula for dinner, I was quite of out the running by the time Sunny arrived home in what I can only presume was the direst of straits and the most baffled of conniptions.

And having drunk two thirds a bottle of cream liqueur made my awakening the next morning far ruder than even Sunny herself had planned it to be. To paint the picture here, she barged in at some ungodly hour, before noon probably, and nigh dragged me out of bed insisting that we have a conversation our relationship that very instant.

Being a little woozy still, I promptly fell out of bed.

Sunny did what she should’ve done from the start – that is, gasp and take a step back and let me pick myself up alone.

That I did and, brushing the dirt off of my lingerie, and shot her a look that, alas, could not kill. If it could, my technical girlfriend would be splattered like a spilled pot of cherry-scented mincemeat across the walls, floor and ceiling of the suite. However, death glares are not currently a skill within my repertoire so Sunny merely took another step back.

My gaze unceasing, because I truly am not a morning person, Sunny took an additional step back and then tripped over the empty Amarula bottle and hit the tiles with a rather hearty thump that was not entirely dissimilar to the sound a garbage bag stuffed with somebody else’s makeup does after you toss it from out a fourth-storey window and into a bed of lilies.

Thump, indeed.

It was then that I was presented with a proverbial fork in the road; a pair of rather bothersome choices, if you will. The first involved glassing somebody because she knew, she obviously knew, and stuffing the corpse in the trunk of a certain police car stashed away behind an abandoned roadside diner. The second, which I took, involved sucking up my pride for once and actually apologizing to my girlfriend.

Good grief, I actually did what Cadance asked for. Well, I apologized to the other girlfriend, but I do suppose such a sentiment must count for something in the greater scheme of things certain people refer to as “Karma”, right?

I knelt down and extended a hand.

Sunny proceeded to take it.

Opportunity proceeded to knock.

Rarity Belle, fashionista extraordinaire, answered.

“I am so sorry, Darling. I really should have put that away. You aren’t injured, are you?”

Her expression a grimace was somewhere between a frown and an incredibly nervous smile; it looked about as good on her as her clothes usually did, which is to say I dramatically preferred looking at her without it. In hindsight, the whole grimacing thing did a lot of sense, considering what she proceeded to tell me.

Considering what Twilight had told her it made libraries of sense.

Still, Sunny took me hand and I helped her up. Gone was the ferocity of earlier, gone was the anger of a woman scorned, gone was the insistence of talking anything and everything over right now. And in its place was a rather frightened little girl who had just realized that she had shat the proverbial bed, pardon the French.

Blushing the red colour of fire, she rubbed the back of her head – more out of embarrassment at first and then, likely, to make the bump stop hurting.

“Well, Dearie,” she chuckled nervously, “that did not go to plan.”

“Clearly it didn’t,” I agreed, slipping on a dressing gown before sitting down on the bed. “Might I ask, but what was this whole plan?”

Sunny gulped. Her eyes crossed the room, from one nightstand to the other and over the silken sheets, before finally settling on me, draped in a luxuriously soft Egyptian cotton crimson dressing gown.

“I ah… um… well, you see,” she began.

“Terribly sorry, but I can’t honestly say that I do. Oh! This isn’t about last night, is it?”

The change was immediate. Sunny clicked her tongue, nodding sharply. “Yeah. It actually is. Twi-”

“I feared you would come to inquire about that, Darling,” I cut her off. “But honestly, could you please do in future in a more… polite manner? I fear you’ve given me a bruise.”

Sunny stared at me. To further my point, I tapped my nose. And, to my surprise, it had hurt a lot more than I had intended it to. Judging from my reflection in the open wardrobe’s mirror, it fortunately wasn’t broken or bleeding or anything of that dreadful sort but it would certainly leave a bruise.

Beauty is a rarity in this world, after all. And I cannot exactly be beautiful with some gaudy raspberry-red wound atop my nose.

Sunny stopped staring. “Twilight said the same thing. Well, her dad did anyway. Nice guy actually. Really knows his stock market.”

“Again, pardon my apprehensiveness but what the damn does this have to do with that conversation you wished to have?”

“This is that conversation, Rarity.”

“Ah… Go on?”

“You hit her.”

“And you, Darling,” I arose, taking her by the arm, “must’ve fallen a little harder than I thought.”

She tore her arm back. And then, the gall of that dreadful person, she slapped me with it!

It echoed.

Now that really was going to leave a bruise.

Needless to say, I decided to be very dramatic, sniffing back crocodile tears and the like. Then Sunny cut me off.

“I know what I heard! Don’t treat me like an idiot.”

“Then stop being the kind of idiot who beats people!”

“You hit her first!”

“And?” I retorted, “Your father hit me. That fucking!swine broke my hand, Sunny.”

To my surprise, she took a step forward. “Don’t call my dad a pig.”

“What else am I supposed to call such a brute? If anything, pig is too good for the likes of him!” I said, rubbing my cheek – partially because it really did sting an awful lot but mostly to emphasise the fact that she hit me just like he did.

“Too good? Ha! Like you’d know about ‘too good’ at all, you… um, you pyscho!” she spat.

“Darling, watch your tone.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

If there’s one thing I know, it would be etiquette and fashion. No, if there are two things I know, it would be etiquette and fashion and knowing how to play fools like a deck of cards. If there are three things I know, this is turning into a Monty Python reference faster than one can’t expect the Spanish Inquisition.

Moving on.

“Very well. I shan’t,” I sighed. “But I shall kindly ask you that we each take a minute to calm down and collect our thoughts. If you would be so kind as to let me freshen up a bit first, I will gladly explain everything and answer all your questions after that, preferably over a cup of good strong tea. It’s either that or we continue having a screaming match in your girlfriend’s bedroom.”

With that, I crossed my arms and raised any eyebrow. Peculiarly, I learned that manoeuvre from no fashion magazine – I learned it from my mother. Her major employ of the technique is to get my father to feed the cat, mow the lawn, or take out the trash.

And right now, there was some very unwelcome trash in this room, yes indeed. To no surprise, the trick works on women too. Sunny folded like I’d stack those cards into a house and then blown it down with a single, wolfish breath.

In fact, Sunny deflated like a punctured zeppelin. However, she did not go blustering out the room as all the hot air escaped her. She merely sighed. “Fine,” she said. “Go take a shower. I’ll be waiting on the porch. And you can make your own tea.”

She slouched out the room after saying that.

And then, while letting the shower’s hot water run over me and wash away the stink of the tobacco and the car park and the alcohol and letting it numb away the inklings of one heck of a headache, I realized something: If anything, Sunny Flare is a bigger hypocrite than even I am.

After all, she is dating Fleur dis Lis. Or, at least, she thinks she is. After that whore finds out about our little affair, I’m fairly confident that Sunny will be tossed to the proverbial curb, just as she tried to do to me. I know now what you’ll say, namely as I’m talking to myself in a café right now – and you’ll bring up the fact that I’m cheating on my own actual girlfriend too. And I know that, I was there.

It was immensely enjoyable. If only it had been a little more sustainable than three days.

However, what colours Sunny in the wrong here is that has the stupidity to be genuinely angry about the affair. I could care less if Twilight took Sunset Shimmer and the whole football team behind my back and I only say that because I’d miffed that she didn’t invite me to this fantastical orgy too.

Caring about what your so-called significant so-called other does when unaccompanied is the one part of being ladylike that I abhor. I abhor it like a vacuum. I abhor it like nature itself abhors a vacuum – for whatever reason the environment personified would abhor one of those. Personally, I just do it because cleaning is beneath me.

So yes, I realized that. Then I realized something else, as I towelled myself off. Looking out the window, I spotted that the path leading through the manor’s grounds and out its premises is on the opposite side of the house itself to the porch. Admittedly, that would mean a hike through the three-day-old remains of a truly memorable party but that would also mean that I could just not talk to Sunny at all today and get my thoughts properly in order.

Something that sounded very tempting right now.

Of course, she would find out. But I then could have that encounter at my own leisure and not while hungover and with my only piece of defence being informing the person to whom I’m currently trying to endear myself that she’s a cheating slut.

Needless to say, my bag – a carry-on I’d appropriated from Fleur’s wardrobe and stuffed with the nicer stuff in said wardrobe – was packed within minutes, the rumpled nature of those dresses within be damned, I was making an escape.

Unfortunately, my Uber driver was none other than Discord himself.

To abbreviate a rather long and tiresome story – he insisted on telling me one about another of the women unfortunate enough to be his passengers who thought she woke up in some sort of post-apocalyptic hellscape populated by murderous cannibals and ex-girlfriends in equal regard – I eventually managed to arrive at the café and, before I could realize how stupid of an idea it was to go here instead of going home, I had ordered myself a cup of coffee.

To my surprise, it was on the house. I suppose that is where generosity gets one after all.

That coffee I drank. It was alright.

Then, because I was thirsty and rather tired, I ordered another.

What a mistake that was, because that cup of Arabica was not on the house. Only then did I realize that Twilight’s purse was empty. As was mine. And, as a matter of fact, my credit card has been overdrawn for the past three months.

Pardon my French but fuck me with a cactus, this really is bad. If I wasn’t sitting on a stool liable to tip over at any moment, I’d have considered fainting.

But I did not faint. Instead here I am sitting, realizing that I may have, in fact, finally bitten off a little more than could I chew.

It wasn’t the grand theft auto, it wasn’t the murder, it wasn’t even the affair or the assault that proceeded it. I was going to wind up in police custody because I’d drank one cup too many of black coffee.

There was a policeman, the same one as yesterday’s, seated by the door. Unlike most of his breed, he appeared to be fairly athletic and, like most of his breed, had his eyes locked on me. Well, he more so had his eyes locked on my rear end than anything else; curse these stools; but the point remained. Dining and subsequently dashing was no option whatsoever.

Sighing, I took another sip. I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

Then my phone chimed.

It chimed the chime I have come to dread.

It chimed the girlfriend chime.

Sunny’s figured out my deception, hasn’t she? She blew up my phone the last time I skipped breakfast too – when I killed Sugarcoat – so it really ought to be no surprise that she’d do it this time when I commit an act she actually finds out about.

Against my better judgement, I checked it.

My sigh of relief was a hurricane when I saw that it came from an unknown number. I need of something to do anyway, I checked it.

Hello Rarity, this is Twilight Sparkle speaking/texting. We really need to talk.

Drat. And here I thought I’d won a million dollars in the Canadian National Lottery again.

Truly, I am out of my depth here. Really, I must convince Sunset Shimmer to introduce me to my more… equine self. Surely, surely, the Other Rarity must know what to do in a situation such as this. Considering that she’s about half a decade my senior and dramatically more successful in regards to be a fashionista extraordinaire, surely the she must have an answer to my plight.

I ignored the text and flicked my phone to the contacts list. But no, I wasn’t going to call Sunset right now. Talking to her about that requires a more stable constitution and far less frazzled state of mind. No, I called my father.

“Goooooood Morning. This is Hondo Flanks, sports journalist for the Canterlot Bugle.”

“Daddy!” I nearly shouted, “I made a mistake again!”

“Anyway, sorry to inform you but the game’s on. Call back either at half time or at full time, whatever comes first.”

Motherfucker! He’s not answering.

Literally, that motherfucker.

He’s watching the bloody basketball game, isn’t he? He’s planning another of his dreadfully insipid columns instead of helping me clear my name again, that feckless oaf.

I took a deep breath. I wasn’t going to break another phone by casting it at the wall, not when I didn’t have a convenient significant other willing to replace it at a moment’s notice.

Still, I had to do something. I could call my mother. But that would likely result in her interrogating me about my newfound injuries – injuries to which the only explanation I currently have on hand is the truth, that being my mistress slapped me for finding out that she was just that, my mistress. No doubt my mother would be entirely unamused to find that one out – not when she still thinks that I’m some boy-crazy naïve little girl still playing dress up in her high heels and makeup. That shock to her system does not need to come today. Preferably, it need never come.

I could call a friend.

But I haven’t the faintest idea who I could call that would actually get me out of this, no questions asked.

I took another breath. I downed the remains of my coffee. The cup clacked a crack into the saucer.

Taking a risk, because they’ve tended to pay off lately, I called the unknown number and hoped for the best.

“Hello,” a vaguely familiar voice answered, “This is Night Light speaking. To whom am I talking to, exactly?”

Well, at least it is not an aggravatingly deceptive voicemail.

“Ah, yes. Good day, Sir.”

Wait. Night Light is about as fond of me as I am of Fleur dis Lis and I possess not a single doubt he’s been more than informed of my antics up until this point – those involving his children anyhow.

“I’m… Lyra Heartstrings, one of Twilight’s friends from school. I heard she lost her phone and I could reach her on this number.”

“You could, hypothetically. How did you find this number again, exactly? My daughter doesn’t tend to give it out like candy on Halloween, Miss Heartstrings.”

“Yes. About that. Well, you see… I ah… found her phone. She’d left it in the music room, probably after one of her band’s rehearsals. Like, she told me the password a while back and I thought I’d better tell her before school starts again that I uh, you know, found it.”

“Alright then. Thank you. I’ll pass the message onto her. Nice meeting you, Miss Heartstrings, but I’m afraid I’ve got a paper to work on.”

“Oh! Before you go, Sir? Why doesn’t she just come over and fetch it? I mean, I’m having a coffee at the Casablanca Café with a few friends right now and we actually kind of need to talk about some stuff anyway so that’d be pretty convenient.”

“What kind of stuff, exactly?”

Good grief, is this a bumbling science professor I’m talking to or is this some kind of elaborate sting operation by the local police force?

No, I shouldn’t complement those swine. This is far too believable for one of their plots. Besides, my parents do the same thing whenever somebody calls the landline – which Sunset infuriatingly does because she’s a talking horse from a world where technology just about stopped with the invention of hair curlers.

“Miss. Are you still there?” Night Light asked.

“Ah, yeah. Sorry. Bon-Bon wanted to ask me something.”

He sighed deeply. He sighed the sigh of tired man, of a somebody who really didn’t feel like being where he was right now.

“Sir, are… are you okay over there?”

“I’m fine. Just a migraine. That’s what happens if you spend all night with your eyes pressed against a telescope. I’ll check up with Twily and maybe let you in a minute or two.”

“Thank you ever so much, Sir!” I replied, attempted to imitate Lyra’s chipper attitude for what was hopefully the last time in a long time.

Then I waited.

The cop passed gas.

I waited some more.

The waitress, a different and less frumpy one, came by and offered more coffee and maybe some baklava, if she’d be so inclined. Obviously, I accepted. I was quite peckish, having stood up Sunny over last night’s dinner and all.

The coffee arrived and still I waited.

Only then did a certain and vaguely memorable Mercedes pull up outside the Casablanca Café and, from its passenger side, a certain and definitely memorable girlfriend emerged. Finally, Twilight was here. I was beginning to fear that this was just a sting operation after all.

“Rarity?” she asked, upon spotting me.

“Ah. Good morning, Darling. What a surprise to see you here.”

“Uh. Yeah? I could same the same for you, Rarity.”

“Well, what can I say, I am a citizen of the world. Besides, the tea here is simply to die for. Anyhow, I cannot keep you standing. Come along, sit down. I’m sure you’ve had quite the weekend and I’d love to hear all about it.”

Twilight took a seat on the stool across from me.

“You’re drinking coffee,” she noted.

“Ah. Yes. I am. Sunny let me try some of her tea. She’s left though.”

Twilight blinked. “You came here with Sunny Flare? That’s odd, I ran into her last night.”

“Ah. What a coincidence.”

“Dad figured Fleur had stood her up for dinner so he invited her to our table. Strange thing was that Fleur’s in Montreal right now. She told me she was going last time we played snooker actually.”

“Good grief, does everyone play snooker in this town but me?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood.

A shake of her head. Her adorable little head. Oh, how I am going to miss that between my legs. “No,” said Twilight, “just me, her, Moondancer, and Sugarcoat. Well, Sugarcoat missed today’s game.”

“Oh my, I hope the poor dear isn’t hurt.”

“Why would you think that? She might just be studying.”

“She’s punctual, Darling. Never misses a text. That and I know she’s passionate about the game.”

“She was thinking of quitting, actually.”

“Well, you see, we had discussed it quite a while ago. I’m sure that must’ve, well, changed.”

Twilight narrowed her eyes. Her marvellously bright eyes. Oh, how I am going to miss those undressing me from across the room. “Yeah. Something must’ve have changed.”

Time passed silently for a while. Awkward, I know, but I was dangerously close to shooting myself in the foot already with this conversation. Caution might be advised.

“Well, Darling, what bring you here?” I asked, clasping my hands atop the hardwood table.

“Lyra, believe it or not. She said she’d found my phone. She said she was here, actually. She called my dad to let him know. From the way he explained it, she sounded pretty nervous about something.”

“Ah. So,” come on Rarity, an excuse would be nice right now, “So, she did. How bizarre.”

“Have you seen her around, maybe?” Twilight asked, looking about the restaurant for a green girl in riding boots who was probably halfway across the city rehearsing/bickering in preparation for her Italian tour just as we speak.

“I cannot say that I have, no. But, since you’re here, why don’t we continue that conversation we were having earlier? In Shining Armor’s car, that one. I feel that we might have ended it on the proverbial wrong foot, so to speak.”

“Yeah.” Twilight mumbled, “that’s one way to say it.”

“I am honestly rather sorry for the way I’ve been acting, Darling. All things considered; I have been treating you abhorrently.”

Twilight’s hand went to her neck where, beneath her blouse and coat, I assume the bruise I gave her still sat.

“It’s nothing,” she lied. “But… yeah. We do need to talk now.”

“Well, whatever about then, Darling? If our little episode a fortnight back isn’t the issue, what is?”

Her lips pursed. Her lusciously full lips. Oh, how I would miss having those pressed against my own. She sucked in a breath. “Why do you have my handbag, for starters?”

Err.

“Ah. Yes. That. This. This charming Gucci handbag in the shape of a watermelon half. This handbag,” I said, placing it upon the table beside the empty coffee cup.

“Yeah. That handbag. My bag.”

“The bag I recommended for you, Darling. It brings out your eyes wonderfully. And your marvellous eyes really do deserve to be highlighted behind those… awfully clunky spectacles.”

Twilight took of her glasses and stared at them as best she could. One lens she wiped the dust off of with the tip of her coat. “I thought you liked my glasses?” she said, confused, hurt.

“I do, Darling. They… ah… frame your face rather well. But you see, your eyes are far more special than any piece of apparel could ever be. Far more special to me, at least,” I explained.

That’s bullshit and I know it. I would slit your throat where we sit right now for a pair of Swarovski crystal earrings, Twilight.

Still, the lie worked. She blushed, faintly. “Thanks, Rarity. I guess you always do know what to say.”

“Indeed, Darling. A lady always does. Now, about this bag?”

“My bag.”

“Yes, your bag. You see, Lyra was here. She was here and she ran into yours truly, who had just finished her breakfast with Sunny. We were discussing a collaboration on a dress, us sharing a passion for the art it was inevitable. Hence my little comment about the tea earlier, some of which I really do advise you order. It is positively delicious and it does wonders for stress and tension, Darling. Perhaps you ought to get your father a cup as well.”

She nodded. “I’ll make a note of that.”

“Excellent. So, anyhow, I ran into Lyra who had just polished off her call with your father. And we made a little small talk, as friends tend to do, about our respective bands and whatnot but then she gets the call. Apparently, she needs to rehearse with said band and both Vinyl and Lemon are prepared to tear her head off like praying mantis might if she doesn’t turn up this instant!”

“That doesn’t really like the Lemon I know. And isn’t Vinyl mute?”

“Well, Lyra was probably exaggerating a just little. But you know how Sunset gets when we’re late, right Darling?”

A tentative nod. Technically, I was correct. Sunset has a cadenza every time I’m tardy. The fact that Twilight also happens to usually be with me because we usually happen to be… ah… enjoying each-other’s company beforehand is irrelevant. She is perpetually angry with yours truly, unfortunately. But she wouldn’t dare point a single word at Twilight, not when she reminds Sunset so painfully of a certain princess and not when she nearly burst into tears the last time that fiery-haired she-demon attempted to do so.

“Anyhow,” I continued with a smile, “Lyra rushed off to go and placate her raving bandmates and, since she trusts me, she left your things here and left that whole explanation of why I’m here and she isn’t up to me lest she be later than she already was.”

A minute or so passed. The cop departed. Twilight ordered herself some tea. I ordered another Americano and then I returned to her wordlessly her bag, her phone and purse within it.

Then Twilight spoke. And what she said, with a perfectly straight face – narrow lips, intense eyes, stiffened-up head – shook me to the very core of my soul.

If I have a soul, the jury is still out on that one.

“Nice try, Rarity.”

I did what any self-respecting lady would do in my position; that being choke a little on my coffee.

Twilight continued, “But I’m smarter than that.”

“Ah. Pardon?”

She sat up a little, her face glowing with equal parts pride and the barely-restrained anger of betrayal. “I’m Twilight Sparkle. I have a degree. I’m smart enough to know when you’re lying to me.”

Honestly, you think you’re that smart? You seriously aren’t. I’ve been playing you for months, you pretty little moron.

“Darling, ladies do not lie.”

“Then, logically, you are not anything close to a lady. Because that story you just told me was complete nonsense. In fact, I am offended that you thought I was a stupid enough to fall for that!”

A whisper was heard from behind the counter. One waitress pulled over another, frumpier waitress. “Check it out, Aisha. The lesbians are fighting,” she whispered loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear.

Both Twilight and I shot the pair of eavesdropping Moroccans a glare that, if looks could kill, would. Then Twilight turned her glare to me, rummaged in her skirt pocket for a wad of notes, slapped enough of them plus a generous tip on the table and grabbed with one hand me and the other hand her bag.

“I think you’re right. We should have this conversation in a car,” Twilight said, tugging me to my feet. She was surprisingly strong – it must be all that snooker because it certainly isn’t the astrophysics,

“Isn’t your father in the car?” I hissed.

“He’ll get out,” Twilight promised and, just as promised, the two of us were seated in the car’s back seats not a minute later.

Alas, Twilight was no less furious.

I hope I don’t have to kill her.

There are so few properly attractive women in this world, it’d be a shame to deplete that precious supply more than the advent of fast food and social media already has.

“Now that we have some piece and quiet, let me continue.”

“And why ever would I do that?” I replied.

“Because if you don’t, I’ll press charges for,” and she began to count on her fingers,” let’s see: assault, theft, larceny and credit fraud. And, while I’m at it, am I missing anything?”

Yes.

But I didn’t say that. Like Twilight apparently is, I’m also sharper than I look. And dressed in a charming pinstripe skirt suit, I daresay that I look very sharp indeed. Murderously so.

“Very well,” I conceded, “like all great detectives you obviously want to tell the villain how you foiled them. So, have at it.”

Twilight smiled. “Gladly. Your first mistake was telling me you have Antisocial Personality Disorder. My knowledge of psychology not exactly being the best, I confused it with schizotypal personality disorder, or asociality for short. Hence why I didn’t suspect anything until I got to a medical dictionary.”

“Fair enough. That was rather foolish on my part, in hindsight.”

“Incredibly!” Twilight said, her eyes flashing with delight as she entered lecture mode. And this time I couldn’t simply tune her out, not with the threat of an arrest hanging over my head. “So, after figuring that out, a lot of other stuff started to make sense. Like why you hate Sunset so much.”

“Twilight, Darling, I don’t hate Sunset Shimmer.”

Her eyes stopped flashing. “One. I’m not your darling. Not anymore. Two, you absolutely do. And it makes sense as well. After all, why wouldn’t you dislike somebody who can actually change for the better and redeem themselves while you’re stuck like you are?”

“And I see you’ve discovered that my condition has no proven treatments.”

“That’s where reading medical research journals gets you! But more importantly, that’s also why you struggle to finish any projects and can’t actually play the piano that well despite having played it for eight years.”

“Nothing wrong with three cords and the truth, Dar-ah-Twilight.”

“Yeah, don’t start with that. Furthermore, it explains why you hit me better than any amount of workload-induced stress ever could. Because, again, you don’t really care about any of your work. You just care about having a good time and you managed to string me along for ten months pretending to love me.”

“I will concede that I may… have been somewhat deceptive.”

“S-s-somewhat?” Twilight’s eye twitched. She hissed in a breath through clenched teeth. “I idolized you ever since we met and you broke my heart, you bitch!”

I take it back. I’d kill you for a swig of lager with a cigarette butt floating in it, no diamond earrings required.

“Well, that one really is your fault, Twilight. I can’t control the flow of love now. In fact, as you so kindly explained, I actually have markedly little to do with the act at all.”

“Yes. You don’t.”

“So, are you going to explain a mental condition to somebody who knows far more about it than you do, or are you going gloat about how you can now tell how I was lying?”

Twilight glared at me. “Fine. I knew you were lying, firstly because ‘Lyra’ mentioned that she found my phone, not my handbag. Secondly, I cancelled my credit card after my bag was stolen. Because you took it after you ran home.”

“Yes, that is how theft works.”

Wait. Wait just one second. She genuinely thinks I went home? That means… Sunny knows I’m cheating. Twilight doesn’t. Furthermore, she has no idea about the stolen car either.

Things might just not be as horrible as I presumed them to be.

“Don’t get smart with me, okay?” Twilight continued, “So, third thing now, that credit card was cancelled. But I get an alert than somebody’s been trying to use anyway. And would you look at this,” Twilight said, showing me the contents of her purse. There, alone save for a Magic: The Gathering playing card and a crumpled-up receipt, was her credit card. She grinned at me and it was a smug grin.

“Well played, Twilight.”

“Exactly. Your fourth mistake was trying to get around my dad by impersonating Lyra. Noticing that the call came from your number, I called her myself. It turns out she is actually rehearsing right now and has been for the past two hours. Who could imagine?”

“Oh.”

“Then it was pretty obvious to me that the rest of that story was obviously a lie. You stole my bag and my phone. You spent $500 dollars on buying who-knows-what two days ago. You are a liar, a thief, and the worst girlfriend I’ve ever had.”

“Darling-”

“I’m Twilight Sparkle to you now.”

“If you insist.”

“Oh, I definitely do.”

“Twilight Sparkle, I’m the only girlfriend I ever had.”

“Wrong! I dated Moondancer back in fifth grade.”

“Oh my, you really have thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“And you know what? I’ll forgive you too.”

What?

What the everdiscordant shit indeed? I’ve ruined her life and she’s just going to forgive me for it?

Maybe there is something to this Magic of Friendship, after all?

“That’s right. You can close your mouth now,” said Twilight. “I’ll forgive you on one condition.”

“And that would be?”

“You’ll get out of my life. If you do that, I won’t press charges. I won’t tell anyone else what you did. In fact, I’ll let you keep everything you tricked me into buying for you. It’ll all remind of you anyway if I bothered to take it back.”

Honestly, I’d expected a half-naked dance through the school halls dressed in a combination of an acid-pink Reebok tracksuit and barbeque sauce by this point in the conversation. But I do suppose that’ll be more Pinkie Pie’s area of expertise than Twilight’s.

I sighed.

“Its either that or I make you get out by telling my brother everything you did. Your choice, Rarity. Choose wisely.”

And like it was any choice at all, she made that offer. Of all her attributes, a lady’s reputation is her most important. With that, all doors become unlocked to her. She needn’t be savvy nor stunningly beautiful if she is viewed like a princess is and, right now, my reputation couldn’t stand another hit.

The mask had cracked enough already.

“Very well, Twilight Sparkle. I suppose this is goodbye then.”

“Not just yet,” she grabbed my hand again. “Let me explain. By getting out of my life before you cause any more damage, I want you gone. That means you leave the band, you change classes, and you never, ever, talk to me again after this conversation.”

Now that sounds like forgiveness to me.

Come to think of it, knowing my condition as well as I do, if that now sounds like forgiveness, it obviously can’t be. Well played, Twilight. Perhaps you are more ladylike than I thought.

“Any other requests, your highness?” I asked.

“Just one,” she smiled, as sweet as the stench of stale cherries, “Tell me what happened to my brother’s car?”

Something hit the pit of my stomach. It might’ve been my heart. If I weren’t already marble white, I would’ve grown a great deal more shades paler. I forced a breath into my lungs.

Then I remembered something: Beauty is a rarity in this world. And I owe this stupid, traitorous, dishonest world just enough to preserve what beauty there is left within its crushing confines. By that, I mean myself. Beauty is, after all, a Rarity.

And that Rarity is me.

“Twilight. I’m sorry to say this.”

“So, you literally aren’t.”

“No, I genuinely am this time. I did… not go straight home. Somebody stole that car. I don’t know who though. I just a glimpse of them before his partner pressed a gun to my head while he hotwired the car. By the time I he released me, it was running. The pair of thugs jumped in and sped off. I have no idea where they took it. I was so scared; I didn’t dare go back in the restaurant. Surely, you must understand that. I was honestly in no state to talk to Cadance like that. I could barely walk. Once I calmed down, I took a taxi home. There, I made an anonymous phone call reporting Shining Armor’s patrol car as missing.”

Twilight stared at me.

I stared back, with tears in my eyes.

“Fine. Now, get out. Now,” she ordered.

For once, I took that order.

Once I calmed down, I took a taxi home. There, I decided to make a few phone calls…

Author's Note

Well, here's the next chapter. I had quite a lot of fun writing this and playing Twilight and Rarity off of each-other. And, seeing as Rarity has about spiraled enough now, I'd bet that next chapter we start to see things for her improve. Just a little though. Small steps. And maybe a change of scenery. As always, feedback is appreciated.

7: A Namibian Windhoek Lager

I appeared home at noon and I was in quite the state, let me declare, with heart all an exploding within my chest and my hands shaking a little too much to text without littering the message with spelling errors. And illiteracy, let me remind you, is not ladylike.

And no matter what Twilight Sparkle might insist, I am a lady.

I’ve merely been having a difficult week, that’s all. One could deem it a murderous week and they would not be wrong in the slightest. Come to think of it, it honestly is about time I return home and set a few things – namely my appearance – back in order. And judging from my rather frazzled reflection in the taxi’s drop-down mirror, I really ought to get right on that sooner rather than later.

Lyra still requires seduction, after all.

Sunny still needs pacification too.

And that small matter of arranging a meeting with my equine self also must happen as well. Although that can definitely be worried about tomorrow – no need for biting off any more than I can chew. My mouth is rather full as is and Sunset is a dreadful person.

“This is the place, Rarity?” asked the driver, a former classmate of mine, actually – she dropped out last year to holiday in Cambodia, of all corners of the world.

“I nodded. Yes, this is indeed my… aunt’s house. Yes, Aunt Snap Shatter, the photographer,” I lied, looking over the forgettable town house with its red brick and chalk stucco façade, unripe banana green lawn, white picket fence – all undistinguished from the surrounding houses save for the flock of lurid plastic flamingos congregating around the birdbath in the front yard.

By Chanel, I despise this place with every thread of my person.

Watermelody scratched her neck. “Could’ve sworn she… lived across town. Isn’t that right, Rarity? I must have driven Scootaloo there before, I think.”

“I haven’t the faintest, Darling. More than likely you ferried my ingrate cousin to some other relative’s abode. You know how they are with her. Free range in the extreme and all. At the rate she’s progressing, she might even shave her head and join ANTIFA. Anyhow, it has been quite the pleasant reunion but I honestly must get going. A lady simply cannot be late.”

“Fair enough. We could use the help. Cool seeing you again too,” the woman said, unlocking the door of her hatchback car. I started out, taking the carry-on I’d appropriated from Fleur.

“As to you, farewell.”

“Actually, wait. Can I ask a favour?”

Good grief. What now?

You’ve blabbered at me for the entire hour I’ve been imprisoned in this dreadful vehicle at the banality of modern theatre, the corruption of the elites, and the dismal standards of contemporary character design in Japanese animation. Any more of that and… well, I haven’t the faintest what I’ll do, but so help or I will do it to you, you red-bereted communistic fujoshi!

I turned to her, putting on a smile. “Yes, Darling?”

Watermelody grimaced a little. “Are you okay, actually? I mean, you don’t look to… okayish right now. I can ask later.”

“Nonsense. I am perfect, Darling. What is it again?”

She took off her beret, cradling it in her hands. The bead on top of it was hanging by a single crimson thread. “Well, like, I got this back in SA at an EFF political rally there and I’ve had it for a few years and, like, it is falling apart now. You couldn’t fix it, could you?”

I stared at the beret. Then I stared at Watermelody, who sat bashfully in the driver’s seat, a nervous grin on her face and her cheeks puffed slightly from holding her breath in from the anticipation.

I sighed. As did she. “Another time, Darling. I have a terrible amount of work on my plate right now. Perhaps in a week or so, ah?”

Her shoulders collapsed. “Okay. Thanks, Rarity. You’re a lifesaver.”

And you’re a hypocritical moron who can’t sew a button.

“You’re welcome, Darling. Now I really must get on my way,” I said, shutting the door and starting down the cobble path to the front door. There was a doormat in front of it, in the stylized shape of a cat’s head. “Meowcome Home!” it said.

It’s a miracle I can honestly muster any sort of air and or grace at all having been raised in this soul-smashing suburban wasteland. Still, it was home and at least my room was tolerable. Clenching my hand into a fist, I knocked – the doorbell had been broken for years, ever since my incapable sister attempt to rewire it for a scout badge.

The resulting shock landed my mother in hospital and stuck my father there as well shortly afterwards via heart attack. Needless to say, Sweetie Belle was distraught. Obviously, I was rather relieved to have an opportunity to visit Uncle Allgood and listen to one or two tales of the adventurous life he and his spouse enjoyed trotting the literal globe in search of, well, adventure. Until, that was, I discovered the identity of their daughter and was kept up all night by her and my own sister gossiping, plotting, and generally being mischievous nuisances.

But that all was in the past and, after the eighth knock, the door opened to reveal my father, standing there in all his unpresentable glory in cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt two sizes two small and two decades too old.

His face broke into a smile. “Hey! You didn’t tell me you were coming to visit!” he cheered, crushing me in a bear hug.

I begrudgingly reciprocated. “Well, I do live here, after all, Father.”

He put me down and welcomed me inside the house, nodding. “Yeah, I know that. But that was some holiday you took. Gone for, what, three days and a bit?”

“Indeed, it was quite memorable,” I said, as we walking over to the kitchen. Having drunk nothing but coffee and suffering from quite the hangover, I needed a drink. Being an alcoholic, so did he.

“Must’ve been. How’s Twilight these days, anyhow? You know, I ran into her… uh… her sister, yeah. Her sister. Ran into her at the hospital actually. You do know about that, right?”

My blood went cold and it certainly was not from the chilled bottle of Bulldog Gin I’d just removed from the freezer either. In fact, that I nearly dropped, fumbling it into a catch at the last second.

“Ah,” I said, “So you met Cadance?”

“That’s right. But…” My father looked to the side, back into the living room, where a half-time commercial blared on the widescreen television and through the surround-sound speakers.

“But?” I asked, now setting about the process of extracting two cans of tonic water from the fridge.

“Nah. I’m sure it was nothing. She was probably talking out of her arse,” then he gulped, “But you do about who’s in hospital… right?”

“I presume you refer to Indigo Zap?”

He nodded, relieved. I mixed two gin-and-tonics and handed one to him. Hondo sipped it. Reclining on a kitchen stool beside the counter, I did as well. Truly, they are a refreshing beverage.

What a shame it is that this trend of adding useless herbs and accoutrements to them is what it is. Honestly, fiddling about with such things as slices of tangerines, cherry sprigs, raspberry infusions, and the like just ruins the taste of the gin.

One drinks alcohol to get drunk tipsy, not as an excuse to drink a fruit smoothie mid-afternoon.

But I digress.

Hondo nodded again after a gulp of the cocktail. “Yeah. Poor thing got herself shot. I’m sure the nurse told you as well.”

“Yes, of course, that she has a week to live, at most?” I lied. My father’s glass slipped from his hand and cracked against the marble countertop. I continued, “Terribly unfortunate, I am well aware. She had so much potential. She could’ve become, oh I don’t know, a stripper, like Derpy or Sugarcoat’s mother.”

“Not… that is not what I was told.”

“Oh, calm down, Father. I’m messing with you,” I giggled. “She’ll be right as rain in no time at all. Myself, I visited her yesterday actually.”

And pardon my French but she’d make for a rather poor stripper, given her lack of womanly charms and, for that matter, womanly assets. Still, one cannot account for taste given the number of boyfriends she’s enjoyed.

And my father sighed with relief, smiling faintly. “Don’t do that, Kiddo. You nearly gave me another heart attack.”

“Devouring hot wings will give you that as well, but I don’t see you cutting off your trips to Hooters anytime soon.”

“Nah. That’ll give you gout, not heart disease.”

That wretched place will give you a venereal disease too, if you aren’t careful, you obese buffoon.

“I suppose you would know best,” I said, “And it has been nice catching up,” I said, finishing my beverage, “but really ought to go and freshen up just a little.”

He burped, rubbing his stomach. “You do that. Game’s back on anyhow,” he said, turning and waddling off back to his couch, drink in hand.

I turned as well, made myself another, and then headed off upstairs, to my room. Calls still needed to be made, after all, and I did not at all expect Sunset to exactly go about calling me herself – not if Twilight decided to keep her promises, anyhow.

Lyra and Sunny might though but I only had a desire to talk to one of those people and certainly doubt I was going to be putting my best foot forward having either of those conversations today.

Instead, I simply went through the motions of getting properly acquainted back into my relatively disappointing little sanctum.Compared to Sunny’s own workshop, mine was a veritable broom closet and, compared to her bedroom, the whole closet analogy still suffices. The room was uncomfortably cramped, with a single bed pushed into one corner and bolts of cloth stacked high in the other. Wardrobes lined one wall and posters of models lined the other. Beneath them stood mannequins garbed in outfits, some of which were good and some of which I intended to donate to the less fortunate – them being considered as such because they didn’t get to wear the good outfits.

To my pleasant surprise, there was a solitary bottle-green beer standing atop my desk, specifically atop a step of overdue book reports and textbooks. Inspecting the label, I found it was a Windhoek Lager. What a pleasant surprise indeed – they’re my favourite. Apparently, Sweetie Belle is good for something past a live mannequin after all; perhaps I ought to reconsider my refusal to sew her Junior Prom dress? She could make a good minion, actually.

I’ll save it for later though. I’ve got a drink already and nothing is tackier than holding two of your own at once.

Instead I busied myself with slipping out of the suit I’d stolen and back into something more comfortable – my usual school attire of a relaxed white cotton blouse and a purple skirt, amethyst mind you not aubergine, would suffice. Then I braced myself for the relatively daunting task of redoing my makeup, my hair, my nails and all the other necessary aspects of herself a lady simply must keep in order lest she be seen as just another member of the hoi polloi.

That chore is considered daunting because, as much as I enjoy being lethally gorgeous, I really struggle to conjure the patience to bugger about with curlers.

And, halfway through untangling a knot in my hair, my phone decided to ring. To my relief, it did not ring the girlfriend chime either. It rang, quite simply, the tune I had ascribed to my bandmates – those who, along with myself, were unfortunate enough to be saddled with world-saving responsibilities and only the most niche of magical powers to go along with them.

Sighing, I returned the brush to its rightful place on the cabinet beneath the mirror, between the comb and the eye pencil, and went to fish my phone out the pocket of the blazer I’d left it in. Hideously butch, I know, but Twilight took her handbag back and, come to think of it, she still had the one I’d left home with a few days ago as well.

No matter, I had others.

I inspected the phone. Across the cracked screen, Fluttershy was calling. It could be better, I suppose. But, come to think of it, it could also be far, far worse.

“Hello, Darling,” I answered, “To what do I owe the pleasure.”

“Hey, Rarity. Nice to see you too.” went the mumbled reply.

“And how might you be doing, my dear?”

“No, I’m okay. I was just calling to see if you were still up to go to the spa this afternoon.”

“Oh! What a wonderful surprise!”

Really, it was.

“We’ve had it planned for the last two weeks, actually.”

Apparently.

“So, we have. And yes, I would simply adore a visit today. Truly, I have had the most wretched week. Simply murderous, I must say. A proper pampering is honestly overdue.”

I still cannot get the smell of blood out of my nose.

“I see. Well, I’m really sorry to tell you but I don’t think I can make it… if that’s okay with you. You see, somebody rescued this cat from an apartment last week and…” Fluttershy stopped to sniff a little – seriously, over a cat, “well, Mr Tony Mewk is very fragile and he really needs a lot of emotional support right now. He’s so worried that his owner won’t be coming home and I am too. I don’t think he’s been fed in days and I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to him under my watch.”

“A true tragedy,” I sighed, “My heart honestly goes out to those poor animals. Really, it is such important work you do, Darling,” I said, lying through my teeth.

“Thanks, Rarity. So, its okay if I miss the spa day, right? Please?”

“I suppose, if you must. It isn’t ideal, but I can manage it without you,” I said, slipping the phone between my ear and shoulder and getting back to brushing the slip ends out of my hair.

“Okay. Thanks. Well, I mean, I made the reservation in advance and I can’t really change it now so… I mean, if you want to invite somebody else along, that’d be alright too. I wouldn’t want you to be lonely, Rarity,” Fluttershy said.

Feeling a plan coming on, I paused with the brush still halfway through a lock of hair.

“Let me think about it, Darling. I might just have the right lady for that escapade in mind already.”

“Alright, Rarity. We’ve still got a few hours before the appointment anyway. Oh, and Lyra tells me to say “hi” from her as well. She wants to thank you for the wonderful advice you gave her.”

“Ah. I had forgotten about that. Tell her she’s more than welcome to it, Darling. She is, after all, one of my very best friends,” I said, before hanging up the phone.

Yes. Finally. I had a plan. And it was a most excellent plan as well, full of clever tricks and wholesome manipulations. For their own good, of course.

Their good being, ideally, my good.

Alas, it was not complete. Not yet, anyhow. In fact, it may be wiser to say that I possessed two plans, both of equal practicality. The first was to apologize again to Sunny and attempt to put that whole affair, literally the affair, back together with a conciliatory spa date and, possibly, convince her into a meal afterwards. Doing so would solve my monetary issues, namely the lack of money which I have to spend, and would also let me sort out that kaftan before Cheerilee came to investigate its lack of existence.

However, it has occurred to me – multiple times in fact, I now recall – that further pursuing a relationship with her would likely result in me having to put up with her rather… possessive, needy and vapid personality, as well as being obliged to tolerate her degenerate parents from time to time.

And I do not particularly want to be reminded of a broken wrist every time I look at my lover, not even if she offers a whole vineyard of vintages for me to savour and a whole dashing boutique of dresses for me to don. Not when they come at the respective costs of being owned by her mother, who will likely want them back undrunk at some point, and being made by Sunny herself, and therefore ugly. And certainly not will I date her when she reminds me a little too much of my own sister, the way she obsesses over soulless media and cash-grab entertainment.

I’ve already said it once and I will likely say it again. If my little tiff with Vignette Valencia has taught me anything, its that there is certainly a thing as too much media and it about occurs when you sit down to write fanfiction about your favourite characters.

Truly, I pity the people who do that. Well, I am mentally incapable of pitying anything, really, virgin or otherwise but I would probably do so if I could.

So few do.

Now that whole explanation leads me to the second plan; a plan that is great deal naughtier. But I like naughty things. I certainly do, given a penchant for cake, lingerie, and grand theft auto – the crime, that is, not the video game. Dreadful waste of time, that one. It could not be more lowbrow if it nailed its forehead to a mineshaft.

Anyhow, the plan. It is a simple plan, despite its risks and it is as follows: I let Sunny stew in her own juices and simply inform Fleur that her girlfriend’s a slut. And I also ask Lyra to go out with me. Simple, yes? Shut up one girlfriend and replace her with another.

A bit like shoes, really, come to think of it. Or maybe handbags would be the more fitting comparison.

Yes, that’s what I’ll do. In fact, I have just the idea of how to do it.

It would, however, require another change of clothes – from chic to downright disposable. Because there is no way in Tartarus that I am enjoying ever the high life in jeans that stink incurably of kittens, stupidly-named and orphaned or otherwise.

Only the most minimal amount of convincing was required for my thoroughly distracted, and now quite thoroughly drunk, father to let me borrow his own car. I arrived, dressed in an old summer camp t-shirt, blue Demin jacket and black jeans at the Canterlot City SPCA about half an hour later.

The building itself hits one like a car, honestly. A fast one, speeding downtown with sirens a-blaring and lights all a-flashing. The smell and the noise of it collides with one just like a police cruiser collides with corpse-to-be of idiot pickup artist. It’s a brutalist nightmare hollowed out into a collection of disjointed rooms and courtyards of unwanted animals. Come to the time of the last recession, Fluttershy’s parents and a few other local philanthropists transformed it into a shelter for the local ferals, strays, and other assorted misplaced fauna.

Gritting my teeth, I tightened my jacket and steeled my nerves as best I could given a diet of pastries and hard liquor. Come on now, Rarity, it’s only a pack of starved beast clamouring to sink their rabid fangs and diseased claws into your vitals; you’ve handled tougher.

I know, I have – but magical villains with a penchant for demonic transformations and or brainwashing give off a very different type of unease to that which… filthy animals do. It is not that I dislike them, it is that they dislike me.

I didn’t kill my own cat once merely because I was bored. I executed that wretched creature because she kept carving up my legs every time I walked past her. If anything, it was self-defence.

But, to my relief, Fluttershy encountered me only about a minute after I sashayed into that place’s foyer, wondering whether to hold my nose or plug my ears.

The girl was dressed charmingly – unintuitively, almost, in a long chino skirt and a patched grey cardigan. And now that, which not unexpected ala a certain Iberian secret police, is also a minor disappointment to me for such clothes belong on a less voluptuous individual. Those beautiful enough sans clothing ought to wear clothing to tantalize – only the ugly need be modest. Did I mention that I cut my shirt into a crop top? No? Well, I did precisely to prove that point.

I waved at Fluttershy upon spotting her. “Ah, Darling!” I said, “There you are.”

Fluttershy turned on a dime to face me and smiled bashfully, waving back as she did. “Oh, hello Rarity. No offense, but I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you said you were allergic to dogs?”

“Only a touch, Darling,” I said, feigning a cough, “but your story about the kitten was simply so touching that I couldn’t help by the poor dear a visit. Ah, what was the poor dear’s name?”

“Mr Tony Mewk. Like the pro skater, if he was a cat.”

“What a name that is. And have you had any luck on trying to discern the identity of his owner?”

“Oh!” she perked up a full foot from her usual hunch – unforgivable given how short she already is – “Yes! I just finished that now. I was going to get him some salmon as a reward for being so brave,” and then her face darkened, “but his owner isn’t answering his phone.”

“What a shame in indeed. How bothersome that can be,” I said, recalling the barrage of text Sunny had finally got around to assaulting me with come my taxi ride home. I am very thankful that my phone, as outdated as it is, possesses a mute option.

Fluttershy proceeded to point down the hall, at the sign labelled with the decal of a pair of cats. “He’s down there if you want to pay a visit. And do please excuse me, but I really have to get that salmon now. The bears need feeding too.”

“You ah have ah … bears… here? Oh my. What’s next, lions and tigers?” I gulped.

“Only nice ones,” Fluttershy grinned evilly, “and even that depends on whether or not you count cougars as lions. Well, they are technically mountain lions but they’re of a different genus completely otherwise. They can’t even roar, the poor things.”

“Lovely… Darling. Truly great. I trust you keep them well out of harm’s way in a different enclosure to the other cats?”

“But of course,” said Fluttershy, “they aren’t good with people, being wild and all.”

“Excellent.” I sighed in relief. “Let me head off then. No need to keep you when you’re doing such important work.”

Fluttershy blushed, half hiding her face behind her face. “Its nothing really,” she mumbled – correctly – “and you do such good stuff too, Rarity. Really, I should pay more for my dresses.”

I brushed her off with a wave of my hand, “Darling, if you start doing that, I may have to compensate my end of our spa trips. No, our current relationship works beautifully.”

“Oh. Before you go, Rarity,” Fluttershy asked, “You were at that Crystal Prep party a few days ago, right?”

“Yes, I paid a visit. A brief visit though. Really, such soirees are a little too… underclass for my tastes. Pinkie was there though. I ran into her. Somebody ought to stage an intervention honestly.”

“AJ and I are working on that already. But that’s not what I was wondering. You see, Sugarcoat usually comes by today to feed the dogs but nobody’s heard from her since the night of that party. You didn’t see her… around, did you?”

I placed a hand over my heart and put on my best moderately offended face. “You aren’t implying something, are you?”

Fluttershy shrank back, flashing her palms up and shrinking a little. “Oh no! Not at all! You wouldn’t hurt a fly, Rarity… I mean, I was just wondering if you’d bumped into her at all.”

“Well, I cannot say that I have. I do hope she turns up though,” I lied.

“Yes. Me too. Two people going missing in one week. That’s terrifying. If I didn’t have you and all the other girls, I don’t think I’d be brave enough to leave the house.”

“Indeed, Darling. Its simply murderous. I cannot exactly relax either. All this stress is putting such a hamper on my work. But I do suppose that’s the price one pays to live in the city. One must share the air with oh, thieves, frauds, murderers. Dreadful. Simply dreadful.”

Fluttershy nodded, sighing. “Dreadful.”

A bear roared.

I tried not to flinch.

“Again, I’m so sorry about having to miss our day out, Rarity.”

I smiled. “It is honestly alright, Darling. Now let me go and investigate this cat, shall I? Hopefully his owner does turn up.”

With that, I turned and started off to see this cat. Honestly, I had no desire to actually interact with that beast but I had said I would and, besides, Lyra might just run into me doing so and starting conversations while being seen as a beacon of benevolence is such a useful trick it’s a wonder I don’t use it more.

Oh, yes. I don’t use it more because helping people does not, in fact, make me feel good whatsoever; all charity does is tire me.

Arriving at the door with the cat sign beside it, I noted the instructions on the sign below it, which did not in fact have a decal of a cat upon it. Instead it had a brief explanation of how the doors worked – they did so by there being two of them, similar to an airlock or, rather, a “catlock”. One entered the little cubicle first, shut the door behind them and then only did they open the second door and step into the enclosures proper. If performed correctly, the little ritual would prevent the mucky beasts from escaping and running free within the shelter at large.

Obviously, I did as per the request of the sign. No reason in causing any more chaos this week, especially given my poor track record with animals in general. And, just as it did when I had arrived at this foul place, that animalistic stench walloped the breath from my lungs.

Cats were everywhere, unsurprisingly. Every available surface in the little courtyard was occupied by a sprawled-out feline of some or other breed. Persians, Siameses, Bengals – every breed I knew of was represented in some or other abandoned form, be it curled in a ray of sun, asleep atop a tree branch, or toying idly with a rubber ball. Of course, the various affects of mongrels were present as well, overwhelmingly so, but I am a patrician – I would never own such a proletarian animal as a moggy, no matter its disposition or its genetic stability or anything else the late Sugarcoat may claim it possesses.

Only then, as the beasts began to run for cover or puff up and hiss at me, did I realize that I hadn’t the faintest clue as to what Mr Tony Mewk actually looked like at all. For everything I knew – very little when it came to cats – he could be that orange one in the cage or the brown one up the tree or the hairless one in the ridiculous coat and beanie; you get the gist of it.

I was stumped more than a deforested slice of the rainforest.

And there was no way in this earth that I was ever going to track down Fluttershy and ask her which kitten I was supposed to comfort. Firstly, that would make me look stupid – which I most definitely am not. Secondly, that would mean an encounter with a bear – and I doubt greatly that my pink-haired friend means to refer to large and hairy homosexual men. But, come to think of it, that is also a demographic I prefer to have refreshingly little to do with.

I was just about to head off to track down and, hopefully, seduce Lyra when I walked smack into her.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going,” yelled the green-skinned woman.

Looking up, I noticed that the woman was certainly not Lyra. In fact, apart from the complexion, the two could not be more different. While the girl whose pants I was trying to get into, pardon of course the French, was quite petite and a platinum blonde, this Amazon of a person, this man of a woman, had a shock of ginger hair and a filthy glare on her furious face. As well, she was dressed in a tracksuit and jeans as opposed to Lyra’s usual skirt and blouse.

This somebody was Lightning Dust.

“Wait, Rarity?” the racecar driver asked.

“Yes. That is I. Terribly sorry for bumping into you and all but I really must get going,” I said, trying to slip past her and tripping over a cat.

And, to my utter shock and horror, I fell face-first into a puddle of its… excrement.

Gah!

Shit!

Lightning helped me up. We used to be friends, after all. In that mentor-mentee way teenagers are friends with delinquent preteens anyhow. But then I changed for the stylish and she and her sister, Indigo Zap, stayed quite the same. Only now they are actually rather competent at their respective pursuits, as I am at mine.

I brushed what filth I could off my top. I knew dressing disposably would come in handy. To her credit, Lightning rummaged out a receipt for something or other and wiped away a decent amount of it with that too.

Only then, after I had gotten myself clean again, did either of us notice that she had left the doors open. Which doors, you – me – ask? Both of them. The catlock was rendered void and a steady trickle of felines began to run like a furry river past us and out of it.

She looked at me. I looked at her.

“Fuck,” we both said.

Hissing in a breath, she rubbed the back of her neck. “Like, okay, Rares. It’s like old times. We were never here.”

“Agreed,” I responded, dabbing again at the grime on my shirt. And I had intended to seduce somebody in this outfit. How annoying indeed.

“Also, you seen a cat called Mr Tony Mewk anywhere?” she asked.

“Ah. I cannot say that I have, no. Is he yours?”

“Nah,” Lightning shook her head, before shutting the door to the enclosure before any more cats escaped. “He’s my bro’s cat. You know Shamrock, right?”

“Vaguely. I haven’t seen him in what, ah, five years?”

“That’d be about right, yeah. He got nabbed for smoking weed back when it was illegal. Spent a few in juvie. Got out last year, said he was going clean. Bought a cat. Took up skateboarding. You know, stuff,” she shrugged, “now he’s who-fucking-knows-where and his damn cat need feeding.”

“Huh. Well. That is rather unfortunate indeed,” I replied.

“Yeah. Waste of my damn time, honestly. I miss that shitty race, my sister gets a bullet and my brother goes missing. What a fucking week, huh Rares?”

“I could not agree more.”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t, like, be surprised if Mom gets shot down over Jubba now. Or like, if Dad gets mugged in the street. Ruin the whole family’s week, you know?”

“I suppose so,” I said, pretending to look around for the prodigal pet.

“That’s the truth. Say, I ever show you the new tat I got?” Lightning said, unzipping her jacket to expose a clumsy tattoo of a paper doll on her bicep.

“Ah. How… noveau.”

She grinned. Her teeth were chipped, no doubt from fights. She did have a penchant for those, back when we were friends. After overhearing from Sunny that she was arrested, apparently, she still does. But where have I seen that tattoo before?

“Glad you like it. I’d kick your ass if you dissed it, Rares. We each got one in Durban last vacation. Cruise stopped there and we each thought, like, why not? Be a bonding thing. Me, bro, and sis. Got one on our rides too. Fucking sucks that they impounded my car though. Those Indiana jackasses. Waste of a state, to be honest. If ever get back there again, I’m gonna shank the governer,” she grumbled.

“Totally, Darling. Now, if you must excuse me, I really must get going. I’d just planned a small visit to… ah… lend Sugarcoat a hand with something. Can’t stay to long, I have a date to keep.”

Lightning chuckled and the sound was like gravel being ran through a blender. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Because it’s none of your business.

“Anyway,” she continued, “you can’t date her. You can’t no one covered in cat shit.”

“Ah, yes,” I looked down at my shirt. Once it was white. No longer was that entirely the case.

She handed me her tracksuit jacket. It had her initials monogrammed onto it, and the logo of her sponsor on the back. “Take it,” she said, pushing the garment into my hands. “Least then you don’t gotta walk around topless or coated in scat. I got more anyway.”

I accepted it, slipping it over my own jacket. Once belonging to quite a large woman, the tracksuit drooped off me by quite a significant margin like some Ossetin cultural robe. Still, better than the alternatives.

“Thank you ever so much, Darling. Lovely to see you again,” I said, turned and heading out the enclosure while Lightning continued to track down the cat.

Only then, once outside and headed towards where Lyra stood on the sidewalk awaiting a lift, did it occur to me that I killed Lightning Dust’s brother. Oh. Well then.

Bother.

As cordial as she may be while, well, cordial, Lightning Dust possesses fuse shorter than a male tomcat’s reproductive apparatus in winter and a temper icy enough shrivel that tiny thing and have it drop off. She is honestly not a person I particularly want to antagonize – especially not when doing so may very well result in my death or, worse yet, my disfigurement.

What have I gotten myself into?

Really, what have I gotten myself into?

I felt like a dead woman walking. My heart boomed like a dubstep album beneath my ruined shirt and my hands shook like a they’d never been warm at all under the sagging sleeves of the tracksuit jacket of the woman who might actually try to kill me one of these days. Good grief. I was a mess.

At least there was Lyra, waiting outside in the parking lot, oddly enough.

“Yo. Rarity,” Lyra said, smiling at me before her smile faded away into a worried frown, “Are you doing alright there?”

“Ah. Yes. Lyra. Just the person I wanted to see, in fact. How are you doing? I do hope that little affair with Bon-Bon is getting dealt with?” I replied.

She shrugged. “Eh. I guess its okay? I mean, she’s being, like, a gigantic bitch so we’re gonna kick her out the band. Harsh, I know but, like, Lemon figured it’d be easier to find a new pianist than a new harpist anyway.”

“Well then. Sacrifices must be made, I suppose.”

“Yeah. Sucks that it ends this way. We had a lot of fun but, well, I guess you just drift apart.”

Recalling my encounter with Lightning Dust not minutes before, I nodded. “Yes. Certainly. People do indeed. And, sometimes, they drift together. Would you imagine that?”

“I wouldn’t say you’re wrong,” Lyra said, checking her watch before muttering, “Damn, where is this damn driver?”

“Waiting for somebody, Darling?” I asked, sidling up to her as close as I dared given my rather… unfortunate attire.

“Yeah, I called an Uber a few minutes ago. I mean, I can’t drive and it’s not like Bon-Bon would give me a lift anymore so… yeah. Gotta get to rehearsals somehow.”

“Rehearsals.”

“That’s what I said,” Lyra noted, reclining against the wall, elbows bent backwards around her head.

“Indeed. Right now. Today.”

“Happens every week, same time. Gotta stay in practice, you know. Especially since Vinyl snagged us that tour deal. We’re opening for Nightwish. How cool is that, Rares? Nightwish.”

“Oh my, I have a quite a few of their albums indeed. That is truly and utterly remarkable.”

“Thank you,” she said, offering a fist bump. I took it.

“Ah. So. You’re going to rehearse right now.”

“Well, as soon as Discord gets his ass over here, yes,” Lyra nodded, before checking her phone and frowning at it.

“Oh,” I sighed, “That’s not ideal.”

Far from ideal.

“Why’s that? Were you planning something?”

“Plan might not be the right word for it,” I lied, “more so a happy coincidence. You see, Fluttershy and I have a certain… tradition of taking an hour or two out of our respective lives to enjoy a bit of pampering at the local spa about once a fortnight. But, you see, she’s having to care for that poor orphaned kitten now and take up Sugarcoat’s duties and thus has left me, well, here. And since I thought that you and I are such good friends, best friends, basically, I might extend an invitation to you instead.”

“Aw geez, Rares. That’s awesome! Thanks,” she said, brushing watermelon pink and tugging me into a hug. I reciprocated but do go about extricating myself just before the smell got to her though.

“So, what say you, Darling? Shall we go and… enjoy an afternoon out, ah?” I smiled, winking at the word enjoy.

Lyra grit her teeth, frowning nervously. “Uh. Yeah. You see, I’m super flattered, don’t get me wrong at all, but no isn’t, like, the best time. I got the rehearsal, remember?”

“Oh, Darling, that’s just one rehearsal. I’m sure the rest of Heavy Metal Ümlat won’t miss you. That much, anyhow. You are, after all, quite the prodigy at the harp.”

“Well, thanks but I really cannot miss this one. Octavia made it pretty clear that it was either me or Bon-Bon and, well, I don’t want it to be. Like, have you seen Venice? We could play in the Doge’s Palace! So, like, yeah. I’m sorry, Rarity but I can’t afford to skip this,” Lyra said.

“Ah. Well, I understand, Darling. Obligations and all.”

“Yeah. Another time, maybe?”

“Of course,” I attempted a smile, “You can take me out anytime.”

Lyra blushed again. If I could on demand, so would I. However, as good an actress as I am, that’s beyond me so I simply settled for a flutter of the eyelashes and blowing her a kiss as she stepped into the taxi and sped off.

I got into my own car and, once under the cover of its windows, I slipped off my ruined shirt and jacket. Good riddance to the ugly things, honestly. Still, they served their purpose and the tracksuit ought to keep me decent enough until I have an opportunity to change. And, once that was done, I drove to the spa – alone.

What is my life coming to? Good things, hopefully. After all, this may very well just be the growing pains of my illustrious career in… whichever industry ends up being lucky enough to be patronised by my talents. Still, lounging in a hot tub is ruined somewhat when one must do it alone.

The view gets ever so dull.

Author's Note

Right. Next chapter. We're getting somewhere now. And if you're wondering, Sugarcoat's fondness for animals is actually canon. Its in one of those tie-in books nobody reads.

8: A Genuinely Beautiful Book

What a wonderful spa visit that was, lack of scantily clad teenage girls notwithstanding. Well, save of course for yours truly but I can hardly count myself in that sort of situation. A lady certainly ought to be proud of her appearance, yes, but she certainly need not to overly vain about it. Not to the point of Narcissus, anyhow.

Now I am at home, unfortunately. I can list the places I’d rather be on one hand – if that hand had approximately eight-thousand fingers, that is. The vacuum is blaring, the television is blaring, my sister’s phone call going on its second hour is also blaring. I cannot concentrate even when I am supposed to be relaxed in this place and the looming threat of homicidal big sisters is not one that helps my situation in the slightest.

No, not at all.

In fact, it is more prudent than ever that I acquire a hold of my counterpart. Presuming that she is nearly indistinguishable from myself, given that she effectively is me but born a horse, I’m sure Lightning Dash’s bloodlust could be quite well sated on her flesh instead of my own. Of course, this would necessitate me skipping town for a while but, then again, Lemon did invite me along for her Italian adventure and that excuse is as good as they come.

Once home, for that escapade must actually end some time in the next two months I suppose, then I could easily enough assume my counterpart’s identity and, oh, I don’t really know – simply call to extend my vacation in the human world for a while?

Yes, that sounds like a smashing plan. I think I deserve a little celebration, honestly. Leaning forward in my desk chair, I swiped the bottle of Windhoek off my desk and cracked it open with a nearby penknife. Messy, I am aware, but there was honestly no way in this earth that I was to march downstairs tonight with all the commotion going on. My mother might have the audacity to bother me about my day, after all.

And what a beer that is. Truly, an excellent showing and properly balanced in all relevant regards – not too sweet, not too wheaty, not too bitter and not dark either – perfect. I took another sip and reclined. I can win this. I know I can.

Now if only I had a cigar on hand, then this lonesome evening might not be as unpleasant as I feared it may be…

However, I had forgotten to pilfer any of those in my haste to depart the Flare Manor before any aggrieved girlfriends got at me. So, I did the next best thing. I put on a record, Kamelot tonight, and turned up the player until the orchestral crescendos and the over-the-top darkly fantastical lyrics and strumming electrics managed to muffle out the suburban murmur the rest of the house produced.

Truly, I can win.

It was about then that my phone chimed and it did not, in fact, chime the girlfriend chime. Both Sunny and Twilight I had muted earlier today, lest either of them tried to break my concentration with some or other vicious, and likely truthful, insult or barrage of questioning.

No, it was Lyra. What an… interesting surprise.

Heartstrings, Lyra – 20:14

· Hey Rares

· I’m super sorry abt today actually. Spa sounded really fun tbh.

· But I had to do the rehearsal. You’ll be pretty happy to know we managed to boot Bonnie and not me tho. Viva la Lyra!

· So yea, can we reschedule that or smthn? Next week?

I suppose a response may be in order. Probably best not to ghost to the person I’m trying to seduce. Playing hard to get only really works with the hopelessly infatuated anyhow – and that sort of person tends to send you three hundred texts from her homemade arm gadgets the second you show a mere hint of infidelity. Really! How outdated.

· Yours Truly: Of course, Darling! It was really no matter at all.

· Lyra: Awesome. You wanna get coffee sometime then too? Twilight told me about this neat Arab place. Bit of a drive but she says the tea’s worth it.

· Yours Truly: Hmm. I can’t say that Twilight has exactly the best taste in restaurants. Perhaps Café du Sade instead, downtown? They do the most wonderful Irish Coffees. How does tomorrow sound then?

· Lyra: Yea. I can probably fit that in aftr polo practice.

· Yours Truly: Smashing! Let’s make a date of it!

· Lyra: Date? wdym

· Yours Truly: A date, Darling. You know, with romance and the like. I’ll bring the flowers.

· Lyra: Uhh.

Some minutes past before the next reply. I took another sip of the beer. Tremendous, honestly. I must really figure out how to import this tasty beverage.

I do hope I haven’t said something wrong though. But what could I have said? Lyra is fond of me, clearly, and I feel little different as to her. Neither of us are currently engaged in another relationship and we get along well enough as is, both being musically talented and reasonably cultured individuals. So, what could I have said?

Heartstrings, Lyra – 20:37

· Lyra: Aren’t you dating Twilight tho?

· Yours Truly: Of course not, Darling. That’d be cheating if I were. We broke up last week, in fact. Just differing personalities and all. She liked one set of things and I liked another.

· Lyra: K. Sry to hear that.

· Yours truly: Well then, since we’ve cleared that up, what say you? Café du Sade, tomorrow, brunch at 10?

· Lyra: No offense but not if its like a date date. tbh don’t really want any romance for a while after the fight w Bonnie. Kinda need to get my grades up too.

Ah. Alright then. Be that way.

My hand clenched itself around the phone. For a few seconds, I grasped it but then I realized something: sans Twlight, sans Sunny, and now sans Lyra, nobody was going to buy me a new one if this one ended up shattered after I cast it at a wall. I sighed, and dropped it back down upon the desk.

· Lyra: Yea. Your really great and all Rares. Super nice and not exactly bad looking either but it really is a “me problem” this time here. Seriously, I’m not looking for any romantic stuff rn even if its w you.

· Lyra: So like can we just stay friends then? Best friends obviously but not like BEST FRIENDS best friends?

· Lyra: Thx for understanding. Still up for coffee if you wanna do that. Irish sounds awesome. Didn’t knew they grew coffee there.

I hissed in a breath.

How dare she?

Honestly, the ungratefulness of that one sends shivers through my skin – and not the good shivers either. Such… indecency. Here unto her I extend a hand offering to show all the pleasures the world has to offer, from passionate love to Louboutin heels and from ballroom dances to top shelf bars of every liqueur with its proverbial salt and she dares refuse me? Gah! I have a mind to kill her too!

If she refuses so utterly to be of any use to me whatsoever, damn her then. What difference should it make if her corpse winds up bundled into the trunk of some police cruiser atop that of a moralizing busybody and an immoral busboy then, ah? No. It makes not a hair of difference in the metaphorical salon that is this wretched world then. She is dead to me already – why should she not be dead to the world?

I arose. Still with the beer bottle in hand, I walked over to the record player and tore its plug by the cable from the socket. The guitar solo screeched to a halt. The lip of the bottle met mine.

Now the drink stank. It stank of poor memories and feckless women. I could not drink such swill. With a scream, I tossed it like an alcoholic stick grenade at the skull of a nearby mannequin. Both shattered and the hops stained the carpet beneath like yellow-brown blood.

Good riddance, you ungrateful horsefucker!

I haven’t the faintest when I passed out last night but I am confident that I must have done so later than the usual time I turn in, any midnight… ah… jaunting notwithstanding. I know this because I feel dreadfully tired this morning and murderously bothered to boot – the sun is blasting through the curtains like some science-fiction laser gun and the racket of some inane argument is already caterwauling downstairs. Add in the sounds of construction, oddly enough, and I was rendered awake not exactly upon the right side of the bed.

For a number of seconds, I tossed and turned on the mattress and tried in vain to find an angle; surely there was some nest-like combination of blanket, quilt, and pillow that could sufficiently muffle the noise and the light and, too, the heat. After a few futile minutes, I decided that such a combination was non-existent given the dismally low thread count of the bedclothes and the painfully shrill bickering emanating from below. One of the voices was my mother’s and the other was also a woman’s but not I could place her off hand.

Climbing out of bed, only then did I noticed that I was still clad in yesterday’s outfit: An oversized tracksuit jacket, that dreadful black and neon green rag hanging down to my knees, as well as a pair of jeans that were ripped, not from any cunning design, but from mere age and neglect. Disgusting – it all still faintly stank of cat.

I groaned in disgust. What is my life coming to, honestly? What is it these days that I go around clad in somebody else’s filth and tackiness? Truly, it would be a pitiful thing if were in the business of pitying anything. But I am not. No lady should be at all.

Over to a wardrobe I strode and I selected a new outfit. Knowing a conversation with Sunset was to be in order today – today was, after all, the day of the week reserved for the us Rainboom’s dreadful rehearsals – I picked out something with a fraction more edge to it than my usual collection. Sunset always did like that in an outfit and I am nothing if not dressed for the occasion. One set of coal black riding boots with silver scorpion buckles, one crimson miniskirt, and one white-sequined halter top later and I was back to my usual radiance, shining with an aura more recognizable that that of a solar eclipse. Add a mildly battered patent leather jacket and the appropriate set of suitably spiked and angled jewellery and I was ready to kill.

Metaphorically, hopefully.

Actually – wait. Ah! There we are. A set of fingerless gloves. There, now I can murder with impunity.

Yes, yes. I dabbled in Punk a while back. Sue me. Let’s see if you can carry off a ballgown after your mentally disabled hairdresser mistakes a pixie cut for an undercut and renders you a smidge more butch than you planned on being… ever.

Still, I was a musician. And a damn attractive one at that. I had more rights than anyone else alive to turn heads and if I needed to be dressed like a vampire to do so, then so be it.

And turn heads I did, venturing downstairs to borrow the car and steal a cup of coffee, black of course, and coming face to face with none other than Bon-Bon, the frumpy chocolatier and former pianist of Heavy Metal Ümlat herself. Why exactly she was in my house was a mystery but I suspect the rather bulky harp she was attempting to coerce through the doorway despite my mother’s objections that it would scratch the floorboards may have had something to do with it.

The object was still in its case, fortunately. Unfortunately, it was wedged between the floor and the top of the doorway with such a vigour that I scarcely imagine how it got there in the first place save for the cunning – and subtle – removal and subsequent replacement of about a foot cubic of wall. Bon-Bon was trying to put it through a place where it logically could not fit with nothing more than a brutish sense of determination and a void in her mind where her sense of physics and generally decency ought to be.

It was, after all, eleven in the morning. Far too early for this nonsense, in my correct opinion.

Still, an involuntary whistle escaped her lips upon spotting me. She stopped struggling with the instrument’s stand and turned. I blew her a kiss.

“Good morning, all,” I announced, “and what I pleasant surprise to see you here, Darling,” I said, fluttering a hand in Bon-Bon’s direction.

“Ah! Rarity. Thank goodness you’re here! Can you please explain to your mom that you did actually ask me to bring this harp over? Because, like, there’s no way I am putting it back in my truck without your dad to help me lift it. And he’s gone off to work and left me with the unsympathetic parent.”

My mother, standing beside the girl with crossed arms and a foul glare, raised an eyebrow. “Is she right about this?”

I looked at Bon-Bon. She was built like a footballer – the soccer kind, with a certain bandyness to her that I found deeply unappealing. “I suppose it must be,” I said, “in fact, I am well impressed that you got it so far as to jam in the front door of my house.”

Bon-Bon winced. “Yeah. Sorry. But you really did say that you wanted it, right? That you would pay for it?”

A noise somewhere between a gulp and a cough-muffled curse emerged from my mother’s mouth. “Pay for it?” she asked.

Ah, yes. That is right. I had originally promised the girl that I’d take it off her hands for her at no less than full market value. Drat.

“Nonsense!” I insisted, “You must have misheard me.”

“I’m pretty confident you said you’d pay for it. It’s a Serrana 34. It costs three thousand dollars. Three thousand dollars I’d kind of like to have today since, you know, I sure ain’t getting paid by my band anymore because they kicked me from said band just before going on tour in fucking Europe,” Bon-Bon said, smiling like the only other realistic option was to screech like a baboon, “and now I’ve got a car to pay off and no way of meeting the damn payments.”

I looked at my mother. Cookie looked at me. Lining her face was not merely the crow’s feet of middle age but also the stress of an idealistic housewife whose idealism had been crushed right out of her by the alcoholic and gambling-addict baboon she had foolishly chosen to marry. Oh, if only she had married my dreadful father’s brother instead – then I could be somewhere exotic right now, like Bali or Male, sipping a cocktail and not having to negotiate my way out of parting with a painfully large sum of money.

If only I still had access to Twilight’s credit card.

Sidling over to her, I whispered, “You are aware of the bet, right? The one Hondo lost?”

“Yes,” she hissed back, “it was going to be Sweetie’s birthday present! And that’s tomorrow and we haven’t got anything.”

“Don’t fret, Mother, I have a plan.”

I turned back to Bon-Bon. “Alright, Darling. Here is my best and my only offer. Look down at the floorboards, would you? Then do so for the doorframe itself. Tell me what you see?”

Bon-Bon did as requested. And gulped.

“Rather scratched, aren’t they? And you must know how expensive woodworkers are these days. Oh, to replace all this genuine birch panelling would cost a positive fortune. Yet you, Darling,” I said, placing a hand on her shoulder and digging my nails deep, “have the sheer audacity to come here and demand money from us. From me. Let me clarify that, since you seem to be a little… thick this morning. You have vandalized my property. I could have you thrown out right now and the harp you have wedged in the doorway would, thusly, be rendered mine.”

“Shit,” Bon-Bon so charmingly muttered, “I am sooooo sorry.”

“As you should be, Darling. It will take at least a good thousand to fix up the mess you’ve created here today, not mention the hours of sleep I lost over the racket you were causing transporting this fucking thing over here in the first place. However, I am a lady and I am generous one at that. Leave now and I shan’t press charges.”

Her eyes went wider than fists. Oh, how I enjoy the gullible. “You-you c-could do that?” she stuttered.

“Yes. I could. But, if you surrender the harp and make like lettuce and leave, I shall not. Now begone.”

And gone she became, scampering back through a gap in the door to her pickup truck and hopping in like the wild dogs of Tartarus were nipping at her heels. The vehicle sped off the slice of sidewalk it had parked upon with a dreadful screech and a cloud of upturned dust. Once that had settled, I turned back to my mother.

“Behold,” I said, gesturing to the harp, “Sweetie’s birthday present.”

Her jaw landed on the floorboards. Oddly enough, it managed to miss all the furrows carved in by the harp.

“And, if you would be so kind as to lend me the car keys, I have a date to keep. With destiny, mind you. Not with any dreadful boys.”

Five minutes later I was on the road. Half an hour later and I had pulled up at the high school, parked the car and had sashayed over to the music room, where my bandmates awaited. Where Twilight awaited my resignation.

Walking through the musty school halls, I was again reminded as to exactly how dreary this place was. Honestly, no public school can possibly impress if it has the deep and eternal misfortune of being located on the American continent. The discipline is non-existent, the culture is blasé at best, and the cultural facilities are woefully underfunded. The so-called music so-called room was truly little more than a souped-up janitorial closet with a few outdated guitars in it.

And speaking of instruments, outdated or otherwise, I realized that, in my haste to leave the house, I had actually forgotten my keytar at home. No matter, I shan’t be playing it today anyhow and I am confident that, once I clear up the small matter of Lightning Dust wanting nothing more than to rip of my arms and bludgeon me to death with the wet ends, Vinyl will be more than willing to provide me with a new keyboard with which to tap upon. Perhaps Bon-Bon will even let me borrow hers?

Steeling my nerves, I took a deep breath. And I was just about to knock on the door too when Applejack wrenched it open and tugged me inside like one might manhandle a rowdy hog.

“Well ain’t it about time you got here, Rarity! We’ve been waiting for an hour half now,” announced the farm girl, before I slapped her hands off me.

“I am a lady, not a swine,” I reminded her.

She raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that gotta do with the price of milk or the time of day?”

I glared at her. Then, for good measure, I glared at the rest of the Rainbooms present – that being Twilight, Sunset, Fluttershy. Presumably, Pinkie was still incarcerated and Rainbow was still recovering from her last skateboarding accident.

Dangerous career skateboarding.

“Precisely more than you think, Darling,” I said.

“You might be a lady but I’d sure still appreciate you turning up on time. We can’t exactly, you know, rehearse with only four bandmates, if hadn’t noticed,” Sunset said from her perch atop the room’s piano.

“Well, I’m afraid you may have to from now on,” I said, “You see, I’m quitting the band.”

Before anyone could voice an opinion, I had then another idea. If I was going to leave, I might as well toss an additional wrench into whatever Sunset’s and Twilight’s plans where. Starting over to where Fluttershy was seated and currently trying to blend in with the peeling wallpaper, I continued, “You see, Fluttershy and I are quitting the band. Terribly sorry to have to break the news like this but, oh well, better it broken now than before your next concert.”

“Wait! We are?” the girl screamed, springing to her feet.

“Yes, Darling, we are.”

“Now hold just a second here,” Applejack said said.

“No, go on,” Twilight ordered, smiling smugly, “By all means, go on.”

“Then I shall. I suppose an explanation is in order, after all,” I sighed and Fluttershy turned the colour of stale milk, “You see, I have been planning to leave for a while. I’m sure you are all well aware that this whole affair was certainly nothing permanent for me. I am destined for greater things.”

“Hey! Things are plenty great here!” Applejack retorted.

“For you, maybe. But for people who weren’t raised in a barn and thus possess actual aspirations past working the same pointless job your parents did while you slowly waste away under the baggage of having to care for three ungrateful brats, a high school pop band doesn’t exactly satisfy. The same can obviously be said for Fluttershy here.”

She balked. “It can?”

“Yes, Darling. Haven’t you been positively swamped by work lately? Those poor desperate kittens cannot possibly manage on their own and now, especially since dear Sugarcoat is, alas, deceased, somebody really ought to pick up that slack.”

Fluttershy nodded. “I guess that’s right. We sort of are short on labour right now. Especially with the budget cuts and all.”

“Yeah, can we hold on a second and ideally go to the point in the conversation where Sugarcoat is supposed to be dead?” Sunset asked.

“I do suppose ‘dead’ is somewhat of a misnomer. In addition to a dreadfully ugly word. But she is missing and, knowing the crime rates in this part of the world,” I shot a glance over at an expectant Twilight, “it seriously unlikely that they’ll ever recover her or her body. A dreadful shame, honestly.”

“Yeah but that still ain’t the way that works. From personal experience, somebody’s gotta be missing for way more than a week before the cops start declaring them dead now,” Applejack added, “Besides, the rest of us girls already do put in hours at the animal shelter. Putting in a few more wouldn’t be that much of a deal, right?”

A chorus of murmurs rolled itself about the room.

“As much I’d like to, I’ve got my hands full with projects as is. Non-Euclidian space isn’t going to invert itself, you know,” said Twilight.

“And I’m kind of obliged to help out Trixie and Wallflower with the gardening club as is. That and the yearbook club needs help editing the articles and I promised the prom committee I’d lend a hand there and the biking club needs a coach and the…” Sunset looked down at her fingers for aid in counting the rest of her inane activities. About a minute later, she was done listing them.

“I see,” frowned Applejack, “and y’all, Rarity? Why can’t you help out and keep both of y’all in the band?”

“Oh, I’d love to, Darling, but I’m terribly afraid I’m allergic to dogs.”

“I saw you play with Spike plenty of times,” Twilight said.

I looked at her. “Ah, I’m sorry, Darling, I thought you’d side with me here on this.”

Twilight glared back. “Why’d I ever do that?”

“Because you two are, you know… girlfriends?” Sunset asked.

“We are not!” both of us declared.

“Since when?” Sunset pried.

“That’s doesn’t matter,” Twilight lied. “But she’s right. Spaniels are hypoallergenic and I do think it’s a good idea for Rarity, if she wants to, which she does, to leave the band. I can easily program a robot to play keytar until we her replacement and if Fluttershy wants to go too, well, programming a robot to wave around a tambourine isn’t the hardest thing in the world either.”

Sunset folded her arms and stood up, looking more confused than somebody whose police car just went missing must look. “Why are you supporting them here?”

“Why can’t I?” Twilight retorted.

Sunset opened her mouth. Before she could think of anything to say, Twilight continued. “I’m my own person and I’m entitled to an opinion. If Rarity doesn’t want to be here, I don’t see why we should make her stay. And if Fluttershy feels obliged to help out more, I’d say she should. After all, I think that conservation is a little more important than bland and uninspired popular music we produce which, come to think of it, doesn’t really seem to be that popular at all nowadays. She and I can still be friends, anyway. Its not like anyone’s moving country or anything.”

Huh. I take it back. Twilight growing a backbone isn’t entirely a detriment to my existence. Then again, if she never attempted to stand up for herself, I wouldn’t be in this particular mess in the first place.

“Why thank you, Dar-Twilight,” I said.

“It’s the least I can do,” she replied.

Our guitarist, lead singer, and token aristocratic unicorn wizard from another plane of existence put her face in her hands. “Fine,” she growled. “Go ahead and leave.”

“And leave we shall, Darlings. As enjoyable this partnership has been, all things, good or otherwise, must end sooner or later I suppose. Don’t feel the need to fret, I’m positive we’ll still see you all in school and around the town. No need this little breakup should stop us being friends. We’ve gone through worse.”

From beneath those adorably kitsch spectacles of hers, Twilight raised an eyebrow.

“If you wish to remain friends, that is. I can certainly see how our departure might ruffle a few feathers,” I said, taking Fluttershy’s arm and leading her out of the room before anyone, namely her, could protest any further.

Once a sufficient way out of earshot – us being seated in another unlocked classroom a few rooms down the halls, I released her. By now, she was shaking and one of her eyes had developed the most unattractive twitch. From my handbag – today that was an Ed Hardy model with a rather daring sequined skull on it – I handed the girl my handkerchief. Promptly she thanked me and dabbed at her eyes with it.

“You ought to be a little more grateful than that, Darling.”

“I thanked you already,” Fluttershy mumbled.

“Oh, not about the handkerchief at all, Fluttershy. I mean all the free time you now have on your hands.”

She sniffled a bit. “But I liked being in the band.”

“Did you honestly?”

“Well… sort of. Hanging out with the girls was fun, I guess. But the music could get a bit loud.”

“Precisely.”

Let that be a lesson to you, Fluttershy, you gorgeous pink-haired mope. Do not disrupt my plans. I wanted to go to the spa with somebody and you made that quite impossible. As such, I have proverbially nuked you career and carved a rift between you and your closest friends. A lesson indeed, ah?

“And I do suppose I can come to Brazil now after all,” Fluttershy went on, “Now that Sunset’s not wanting to make me stay here forever.”

“Exactly, Darling. Think of the opportunities. Of all the doors opened unto you now. Why! You could go anywhere. Imagine, the world is your oyster now.”

“But I’m allergic to shellfish. And I’m a vegan,” she replied.

“Then let it be… your ah… whatever vegans eat. Let it be that. And do enjoy it, will you? Sunset will no doubt be furious with me and I certainly do not want my support for you and your aspirations to be in vain now. Neither should you.”

Fluttershy nodded. “I guess. I mean, we’re still tracking down all the cats that escaped yesterday. Oh, the poor dears must be so scared. Being lost and all alone in this nasty world. Doesn’t that just make your heart cry, Rarity?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“And what happened to Sugarcoat too! Are you sure that she’s dead?”

Well, I do hope so. Having a witness to my various misdeeds would not exactly be ideal.

“I cannot say that I am,” I lied, “but, I honestly fear that may be the case. She’s a resourceful girl, if nothing else. I’m sure that, if she could figure out a way to get out of, oh, wherever she is, she must’ve done it by now.”

Again, Fluttershy nodded, her candyfloss pink hair curling down around her golden yellow shoulders. She dabbed at those heavily-lashed eyes of hers with a tartan handkerchief gently held by the slenderest and daintiest of fingers. Her nails shone and her face sparkled. In this noonday light seeping through the half-drawn curtains, all of her sparkled. How charming she was.

What a shame though her persuasions leaned so indubitably to the masculine side of the population. How bothersome indeed.

Still, I thought as I took her face in my hands, oh how silken her skin was, one kiss couldn’t hurt that much. Not when I was planning to fake my own death come next week anyhow.

“Darling,” I whispered to her.

“Ye-yeah?” she mumbled, utterly lost.

“Do not fret. We can manage. People as utterly gorgeous as you and I simply cannot fail in this world.”

She started. I cut her off with the kiss. Soft, quick, a hint of tongue. Taste of blood orange. And, before she could do anything but blink and think about fainting, I stood up, collected my things, and left the room. Behind me the door was shut to block out the sounds of her pounding heart.

Then I left the school, planning quite simply to head home, fix myself a martini, and call Sunset that evening to discuss my plans to invite over my equine counterpart for a brief holiday. Perhaps, if the mood struck me, I might even finish that kaftan and, if a very different mood struck me – one I have never personally experienced before, that being remorse – I might even get hold of Sunny and explain unto her why I had to so quickly disappear yesterday morning.

And once that all had been completed, I do suppose a message to a certain Miss Lemon Zest might also be in order. After all, I am technically a pianist and she technically is in need of one. I’m certain that I can sort of the Other Rarity before she and her friends head off for Rome come next month.

And no doubt Lyra would be a little more open to a relationship if I just so happened to be one of those marvellous magnificent unicorns she so desperately, and disturbingly, admired.

Alas those plans were delayed slightly upon my arrival at my borrowed car. No, it had not been keyed or otherwise defaced. Unless you count the placement of a certain Sunset Shimmer upon its hood to be any sort of besmirching of it at all. Considering that it was a silver four-wheel drive Toyota Hilux with multiple bumper stickers on it, I do not count her as that in any sense of the word. If she weren’t a jackass, pardon the French, she’d be rather fetching.

However, she did not look pleased at all, let alone fetching. The sledgehammer whose head she was clapping against her palm was proof enough of that and her vicious glare was only the icing on that proverbial cake.

“Rarity Belle,” she hissed, “What have you done now?”

I placed a hand over my heart and feigned ignorance. “Me? Whatever did I do, yes! I haven’t the faintest what I did if the appropriate response if climb upon my car and threaten to smash it to dust!”

“Oh, this?” she said, raising the hammer, “MC here is just for intimidation purposes, honestly.”

“Well consider me intimidated!”

“Well consider that not really a proper answer to my question.”

“Which was again, Darling?” I asked, rummaging in my bag for my taser. One never could be too careful around her sort.

“We can start with why Twilight suddenly hates you.”

“I suppose we could, yes,” I replied – where was that little bug-zapper, ah? Surely it must be in here somewhere.

“Okay. Spill. What did you do this time?”

“Just a second, Darling, I need to fetch something.” Come on! I didn’t lose it, did I?

“Looking for this?” Sunset said, producing the taser, my taser, from a pocket of her jacket, “Judging by your expression, I’m guess you are. Probably should’ve emptied that bag before giving it back.”

I sighed. “You have that brute of a hammer. I felt obliged to respond in kind, Darling.”

“Sure. Sure, you did. Yeah.”

“Yes, indeed. Now why Twilight hates me? Why not simply ask her, exactly? No need to involve me in this now.”

“You see, I did. And she didn’t explain so I figured it must’ve been really bad, whatever you did. All she really told me was about the bag and that your stuff was in it.”

Sunset narrowed her eyes. I wonder if she’s realized that I can see up her skirt from this angle yet? Her grip tightened on the hammer’s handle and her face transfigured itself into a murderous frown.

“I know you, Rarity. I know what you’re capable of. So, let me repeat this one last time. What did you do?”

“We had a fight, that’s all. I’m it’ll warm your icy little heart to know that I lost quite soundly. A truce was reached and, in it, I agreed to leave her alone. In her understanding of the world, that meant quitting the band and changing classes. Opportunity knocked and I decided to stick up for Fluttershy on the way out. Does that all answer your question or would you appreciate a play-by-play of the whole event with yours truly acting the voices?”

“No, that works just fine. I’m glad she finally figured out that you were no good, Rarity. Because it sure took her a while. And I believed in you too. I thought, if I could change, so could you. Except, you never changed. If anything, you just got worse.”

“And you evidence to this is where, exactly?”

“Let me see, shall I? You’re a pathological liar and a kleptomaniac, for starters. You also think manners and composure are a replacement for an actual working conscience and, oh yeah, you cheated on Twilight with Sunny Flare. Does that answer your question?”

“I suppose. Then whatever was the point of trying to extort an answer out of me if you already knew it? And how do you know the last part?”

Sunset hopped off the bonnet of the car. She walked the few steps over to where I stood. For a brief moment, I felt deeply worried that she was going to beat me with the sledgehammer. But then she tossed that aside and, quite neatly, poked me in the chest, just below my neck.

“She posted it on Instagram. But anyway, I wanted you to admit it, that you did wrong. I wanted you to tell me why you’d do that.”

I rolled my eyes. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Clearly. I don’t.”

It then occurred to me that I could still probably spin this conversation into getting what I wanted. That being an excuse to get my alternate self to come to this world so I could give her to Lightning Dust like one throws table scraps to a rabid dog that they’ve perpetually got chained in the backyard of their mind. Not the best metaphor, I know, but it gets the job done. Rabid indeed.

I sighed. “Very well. I suppose I owe you that much after the numerous scrapes you’ve helped me through.”

“I’m not in the habit of asking for payment because I’m a good person and all but yeah, you do actually, yeah. So, start explaining, please.”

“You try living in a world where, no matter what you do, you are always in somebody else’s shadow. No matter how intelligent you are, millions are smarter. No matter how rich you are, millions are wealthier. No matter how beautiful you are, millions are still more popular than you will ever be. You feel powerless. You feel useless. You feel like there is always somebody better than you.”

“Go on,” Sunset commanded.

Not ladylike in the slightest to take orders, I am well aware, but a little faux pas is infinitely preferable to getting tasered. If only Sugarcoat realized that and kept her mouth shut, ah? I sighed again for good measure, then went on, “And because you can never be the best, you give up on trying to be decent at all. You’re just some poser in a swanky outfit. Of course, you act out from time to time then. At the end of the day, you rationalize, it doesn’t matter. You’re mediocre. Somebody has invariably committed worse, so why should anyone care about what you do?”

“Keep talking.”

“That’s why I’m like this, Sunset. That’s why I am,” and Chanel forgive me for uttering this, “a failure of person. I never had any support growing up, not when everything around me was so happy to settle for average and so I gave up on trying to be the hero. I was content being the villain because I knew that there’d always be somebody more villainous than me. At worst, I’d just be the town newspaper’s headline for a week and then I’d be old news. That’s why I do what I do. Why shouldn’t I?” I explained, “So no, I don’t think you’ll care. Nobody else does. And you, the Queen of Canterlot High, the Saviour of the Universe, the Darling of the World, certainly won’t. Because you know that I am right.”

Sunset stopped starting to do whatever she was going to do. I don’t know whether that was beneficial or not. I do sincerely hope she believed the lie though – after all, I’m like this because of a legitimate medical condition, not because of some inane tragic backstory or poor parental support and crippling insecurity or whatever.

But then Sunset’s stern façade broke. To my surprise, she drew me into a hug. A real one too, with plenty of bone crushing and back patting and just a little sniffling.

“Rarity,” she said, “Of course I know that feels like. Of course, I care. That happened to me!”

Hook, line, and sinker. I win.

“Then, whatever do suggest I do? How did you change.”

“It’s really simple, Rarity,” Sunset smiled, “I found a Friend.”

“A friend?”

“A Friend. Not just somebody you get along well with but somebody who’ll catch you when you fall. Somebody who’ll pick you up and make you improve. Somebody who cares.”

“Ah,” I feigned awe, “and who was that for you? Princess Twilight?”

“Of course. She helped to pick my life up. To save the world. To reconcile with my version of Celestia, who did sort of happen to be my mother, the princess, and the principal all rolled into one. And I’ll be grateful forever because she did that.”

“How inspiring that must be.”

“It is.”

“But I cannot simply conjure the proverbial kick in the pants required right now. I don’t have anyone like that. All of got is you girls and we both know that can’t last, Sunset… What do I do?”

Putting her hand on her chin and starting to pace back and forth a little, Sunset began to think, hard. I could nearly see the steam billowing from her ears and the gears grinding in her brain was positively audible. And, unlike most other people who attempt thought, Sunset was actually intelligent enough to get somewhere with it. I just hope she arrives at the same conclusions that I arrived at a few days ago.

“Princess Twilight,” she said.

Pardon my French but bollocks. Wrong pony.

“She’ll know what to do. I’ll send her a message,” Sunset said.

“Wait. Why don’t I do that? I know how the book works and whatnot. And it is my life we’re talking about here. I want to improve and, now that you’ve shown me the first step of how to do that, let me. Let me send her the message and explain everything, okay?”

Sunset nodded, pausing her pace. “Are you sure about that?”

“We’ve met, Darling. Before you and she did, I believe. I’m more than confident that she’d be willing to extend a hand, or a hoof, for an old friend in need. And I also confident I can explain my life story better than you can.”

“Alright. You’ve convinced me,” the girl replied, turning on her heels and picking up the hammer.

Once for effect, she slapped it against her open hand. “I’m trusting you for this. Screw this up, get anyone hurt, or lie to me and I’m not going to be forgiving. And neither will MC here.”

“I understand. This is not my first rodeo, Darling. But lets both hope that it’ll be my last, ah?”

Instead of replying, Sunset crossed the parking lot over to where her motorbike was parked. After strapping the sledgehammer to its side, she clicked open a compartment and removed from it an antique and illuminated journal. That she returned to hand to me. The book felt heavy in my hands, like its history had an actual weight to it.

I felt almost flattered to play my part in it again. Before this last week, my life was getting ever so dull. I almost enjoyed risking my life to fight magical demons and cybernetic morons. Almost.

“Take good care of it. Please.”

“I shall. No point in harming such a beautiful book.”

“It could be a school textbook and I’d say the exact same thing,” Sunset said, arms crossed.

“How glad you’ll be to know that I have no intent of treating it like one on then, Darling. So thank you kindly but, if that is all, I really must get going,” I replied.

“Alright then. I’ll guess I’ll see you… when I see you.”

“I should suspect that we’ll again once school starts, if not before that. I’m confident that our dear friend the Princess will jump at the excuse to pay us a visit again.”

A few minutes later, the journal tucked safely within my handbag, I realized something. Lightning Dust was, in fact, in town.

No, I greatly doubt that she was in town because of her dearly departed – come to think of it, she probably is unaware Shamrock Kicks is even deceased. However, that may change. If it does, I really ought to dispose of that car and the evidence within it sooner rather than later; while I still possess a chance to do so.

Admittedly, it was quite the drive. However, my mother’s car can move quite quickly when one puts the pedal to the metal and it, to my relief, still had in its radio the mixtape Octavia had given me some years back. Understandable, given that she only listens to the classic rock station and my dear sister owns a pair of earphones – those I’d bought her to save me the pain of being continually exposed to Kpop.

As the 4x4 growled down the highway, I flicked on the radio. First to play was some of her band’s earlier work, back when they were more noise and unbridled enthusiasm than actual musical talent. Still, if they are getting good enough to possess actual brand recognition amongst their target market, myself included, I suppose a recording of their first few demos might go for a fair bit someday. Hopefully. I’m not in the business of spectating anyhow – that’s more Sunny’s region of the world than mine and may it her region of the world stay.

Just as the second song began to repeat for the first time, the abandoned diner reared into view on the horizon, the afternoon sun behind it shadowing the decaying building in a vaguely-menacing skull with its pair of shattered windows for eyes and door ajar for mouth. I pulled the Toyota alongside it and got out.

Peeking around the corner of the old establishment, I spotted the car.

Good! I was getting a bit worried there that Shining Armor may have tracked it down and repossessed it. But that doesn’t seem to be the case at all. Perhaps that nonsense Sugarcoat was spewing about these things having tracking devices was just that – nonsense to prove her contrived point, whatever it was I have forgotten.

I started over to it. The stinking miasma encircling it was quite far from blood orange scented lip gloss. Quite far indeed. Still, this had to be done. The wind had the courtesy to change then and so I sucked in a breath of fresher air and held it before proceeding to the driver’s seat itself. On the way I could’ve sworn that the trunk was ajar slightly.

But that would be ridiculous. Shamrock is dead and Sugarcoat should be too if the way she dinged her skull on the car’s bumper was anything to go by. It must be my nerves playing up, or a trick of the light, or maybe my own forgetfulness – I don’t recall actually locking the car, come to think of it.

Yes, a simple mistake. I slammed the trunk shut, picked up a nearby stone and entered the car. There, still just as I had left them, were the keys in the ignition. I gave them a turn and the cruiser growled to life like rabid dog poked awake with a unicorn horn. The rock was placed firmly on the accelerator and I jumped back just in time to watch the vehicle roar off the cliffside and into the ravine below with the most wondrous of crunches.

I propped a gander over the edge once the dust, and my heart, and had settled. There, some hundred yards below, was the totalled ruin of the police cruiser. Panels were beat, glass was shattered, and a single wheel rolled uselessly in the air as gasoline slowly leaked from the upturned undercarriage of the dead car.

Doing what I could only do given that sight, I reached into my bag and retrieved a lighter. Only once I’d flicked to life a wavering red-gold flame did I realize that a lone Zippo probably wasn’t going to cut it. Not alone anyway. There was very little fuel left in the car and, well, the fire might need a hand.

I peered around the deserted space. What I saw was just rocks and sand, graffitied walls and peeling posters from an election decades past. None of it seemed to be particularly flammable or particularly practical to obtain. Then my gaze just so happened to drift down to my handbag – and the journal within.

Princess Twilight wouldn’t mind, right? Besides, Rarity Belle, Human Edition, would likely be deceased quite soon. There was no risk to a little vandalism. Not of the earliest pages anyhow.

Out I tugged a handful of inane correspondence and to the proverbial torch I put it. The flames embraced the gilded edges of the paper as it was the passionate of lovers. Soon I held at my fingertips a crackling torch of a fire. How charmingly it floated down, almost lazily downwards drifting back and forth on idle wind currents, to the blackened steel below.

It bit the gas tank with a bang.

Dust settled again. I brushed it off my face and outfit and headed back for my mother’s car. It was done. Disposed of was the evidence and mine was the victory.

The perfect crime, I daresay. All that’s left now is to steal an identity and cement my winnings with an impervious alibi. After all, beauty is a Rarity in this world – and there can only be one of her.

Author's Note

Good morning everyone and welcome to the last bit of Arc 2. I’m aware this chapter’s a bit longer than I’d like it to be but I couldn’t really slim it any further without cutting the Lyra stuff and I didn’t want to put that in the last chapter either because, frankly, I hadn’t written it yet and I didn't want to remove it completely. Anyway, things seem to be heating up and Rarity’s plans are gonna go really well and really badly in the final few chapters. Remember to like and comment below, thanks for reading

Interlude 2: From Bad to Worse

Two Days Ago

It wasn’t that Lightning Dust hated taxies on a deep and instinctual level and considered any vehicle she personally did not drive to be a waste of steel. Well, it wasn’t just that. She hated this taxi specifically for other reasons in addition to her own prejudices. Grinding her teeth together and biting her fingernails into the office chair armrest, Lightning hissed in frustration – her driver was an absolute pest and, more importantly, unlikely to be somebody she could get away with maiming. That and that damn cat was yowling.

In addition to being a vacuous, toffee-nosed, malodorous pervert with a poor taste in music and a penchant for doing unspeakable things to cars, Discord also couldn’t follow instructions for shit.

Because Lighting’s own car had been impounded back in Texas and the Canterlot folks don’t rent cars to accused felons, she had to resort to hailing the nearest jackass with a working vehicle and ordering him to drive until they reached the last locale her brother’s phone pinged before the battery died and, with it, the fitness app stopped updating his location. For the last hour, he had been going in the opposite direction and dragging her to a variety of cafés which, although nice, weren’t places Shamrock would be caught dead in.

“Again, Miss Dust, why are we going off the interpretation that Master Shamrock was kidnapped by the mafia?” Discord asked while steering his vehicle along with one gnarled foot that was jammed into a cheese-yellow stiletto a few sizes too small.

“Dude pissed off his weed guy, I reckon,” Lightning muttered as she impatiently drummed her fingers against the tinted window, “and Big Moe dragged him out here to kneecap him in peace. So when I find him, I’m gonna kneecap Biggles until there’s nothing left to kneecap. Nobody messes around with my family and lives, mate. So like, also remind me, once we’re done with this, take me to the cops.”

“A change of heart? How stupendously unpredictable.”

“What?” Lightning glared at him, “No! One of them shot my sister so I’ll find out which one it is and… uh… shoot him back.”

“Is that so? And on the topic of rowdy narcotics salesmen, I’ve always been more inclined to petrify them than simply smash them.”

“Petrify? Like, pull a Medusa and turn them to rock petrify?” Lightning asked.

Discord nodded and flashed a smile that would make even the most veteran of English dentists recoil in horror. “Yes!”

“… Okay, how? I mean, taking a baseball bat to some fat fuck’s legs is simply physics here. But stoning a dude? To literally stone?”

“If I explain the trick, it wouldn’t be funny anymore.”

“You got one heck of a screwed-up sense of humour, dude. I’ve seen baboons with better taste in jokes.”

From within his cage, the cat meowed in agreement. For a mongrel tabby, Mr Tony Mewk prided himself on his patrician tastes – mostly in cat food.

Discord shrugged. One half of his body completed the gesture a good second before the other. “What can I say? I like a good bit of irony every so often. It makes things tremendously chaotic.”

“Eh. Fonder of mayhem myself,” Lightning said before checking again her phone. The trail left off only a few miles down the road, with the nearest structure that could provide suitable cover for a good extortion being a shut-down roadside diner in the far distance.

“Can say I’m one for mayhem. Too mature for my tastes. Wouldn’t fly on daytime television, you know.” Discord replied, detaching the wrench from where it normally sat in place of the steering wheel and proceeding to replace it with a slightly smaller wrench. Having gotten the idea from a children’s story, he wondered how small the tool would have to become before his counterpart in Equestria would notice the change when his biweekly visit came around.

Currently, the steering device was about eight inches long, gold plated, and studded with semiprecious gemstones. After tugging it out of its socket and letting the vehicle swerve dangerously close to driving right off the edge of the nearby cliff, he tossed it to Lightning, who caught it and immediately reached to bludgeon her driver with it.

“What the fuck, shithead? You nearly killed me!” she shouted, as Discord caught her arm in his hand.

“Ah. But I didn’t. Instead, I gave you vital training and secret tool which will help you later. That and clonking me would actually kill us both because, you know, we’d lose control of the car.”

Lightning looked around the so-called car. Most of it seemed to be made in post-Soviet nations which no longer existed. The rear-view mirror, for instance, proudly hailed from the Ruthenian SSR. And, lowering her arm and pocketing the needlessly ostentatious wrench, she looked into that very mirror.

After rubbing the grime generated by overly enthusiastic candyfloss eating off of it, she noticed something rather important in the vaguely rectangular piece of polished glass.

“Stop the car, Dude. There’s a chick out there. She looks hurt.”

“Yes. I know that. I thought you said this mission of yours was ‘urgent’ and ‘bloody important’ and ‘any fart-arsing around would mean no tip, jackass’ and I live off tips you know, being a jackass and all,” Discord replied, pulling from his glovebox an inflated surgical glove with which to do his air quotes.

“Yeah. I know. But she’s also kinda passed out in the freeway so I’d like, rather not let her get ran over.”

“You know, for an antagonist, you’re remarkably kind-hearted. I’d almost root for you if you didn’t also beat people up over traffic offenses,” Discord said.

“Listen here, you clown-arse punk,” Lightning growled, balling a hand into a fist and slapping it against her other hand’s open palm, “only dude whose gonna get beat up today is gonna be you unless you turn around this abomination of a motor vehicle and show some compassion for your fellow human being.”

“Firstly, I’m an old god of chaos. Second, I prefer the term ‘Frankenstein’s Hearse’ when referring to my car, please,” Discord replied, crossing his mismatched arms.

Lightning produced a switchblade.

“But if you insist, we’ll further the plot in the direction you want it to go and interrupt a perfectly serviceable Mad Max crossover just when things were getting good [link],” he said, jerking the vehicle around with the tell-tale scream of a gearbox whose only wish was death.

Two minutes later and Lightning had disembarked from the vehicle and was standing over the lost girl’s prone and barely conscious form and was deeply embroiled in the process of peeling the seat cover off from her jacket. Beneath her, Sugarcoat made a noise that was roughly between a cough and a groan.

Discord climbed out the window in a reference that would’ve made more sense if his car’s roof had a Confederate Battle Flag on it – it didn’t; it had an Equestrian flag on it. Brushing the iron filings and flakes of pastry from his outfit; today that was janitorial fatigues beneath a Manchester United soccer jersey and a tuxedo jacket; he ambled over to the two women with a perturbed grimace on his face. Mayhem always put him in a bad mood.

“Shit. Somebody fucking cut her face open,” Lightning said, pointing to the mess of blood running down from the downed girl’s forehead.

“That doesn’t look like a cut from a blade. It looks more like she dinged her skull against a car bumper,” Discord observed.

“And you would know that how?”

“I am punk rock,” he replied cryptically.

“I mean, you’re not and that answers bugger all but I’m gonna try that now. Gonna give whoever screwed with Shamrock one of those, once I track down his ass. After I kneecap him, that is.”

“Or her. Might be a her,” Discord added.

“Yeah. Maybe. What would you call one of those, anyway? Uh… like a, curbstomp- wait no, that’s a thing,” Lightning mumbled, scratching the back of her neck as she tried to think harder than she had done in the past four weeks combined.

“A bumperthump.”

“That’s a damn fuck of a stupid name, Discord.”

“Don’t blame me,” said Discord, “blame the guy whose writing this fanfiction for making me say it.”

Lightning Dust stared at him. It hurt somewhat to do so and, the more she did so, the more she got the impression that her driver was only taking human form as a courtesy – not a physical obligation. Discord, after picking his nose for a second or two, stared back. Away the hardened criminal looked, back down at where Sugarcoat was lying, deeply confused and relatively hurt and pretty dehydrated, on the sand beside the road.

“Moving on,” the racer muttered.

“Yes. Moving on. I diagnose her with injuries,” said Discord, pulling a cane from who-fucking-knows-where and scratching his five-o-clock shadow as he limped around.

“No shit, Sherlock. She looks pretty totalled to me.”

“Happens to be the best of us, Wilson. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, she needs treatment. As per her prescription.”

“Yeah. True that,” Lightning replied, “Gotta drag her ass to hospital probably. Say, why don’t you do that and I pay you for how far I got. I’ll, like, track down Shamrock myself and get a different ride home.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Discord then clicked his fingers and produced another cane. Slipping off his jacket, he laid the fabric between the two walking sticks and glared at the contraption until it became a stretcher. Then, halfway through assembling the unneeded device through force of will alone, he stopped and shot out a manicured hand, clicking it at Sugarcoat.

She promptly cleared her throat. Given the amount of dust in it and combining that with the fact that she hadn’t had a real drink in a good few days, it was not a comfortable process. The single planned cough turned into a flurry of lung-searing retches as she managed to ease herself upright.

“Huh. Okay,” said Lighting, “you’re awake.”

“I would rather not be,” Sugarcoat blinking what she thought was sleep from her eyes.

“Same, Sister. I have had one motherfucker of a week. Did you see in the news that I got arrested? Then my sister gets shot and my brother goes missing. Wild, honestly. Anyway, how’d you get here?”

Sugarcoat blinked some more. Her head felt like a circus carnival parade had marched through it and, open reached that painful spot right behind her eyes, it had been nuked. The jangling clash of cymbals remained though. She put a hand to her forehead.

“Climbed out of a police car,” she muttered, “I think the other person in there might be dead.”

Going out on a limb – ideally his own since they were detachable – Discord asked, “And, pray tell Sugarcoat, what was that particular person wearing?”

Sugarcoat looked at him. Without her glasses on, the taxi driver managed only to look vaguely humanoid. She decided, for once, against squinting. “Wraparound shades. And a parka, I think? It was green… mostly green,” she answered, turning somewhat green herself.

Lightning’s eyes went wide beneath her aviators. “Wait a minute… Shit on toast. He’s dead?”

“Don’t mind if I don’t but yes. The penny drops and the chaos begins. I’ll be keeping his cat, by the way. He amuses me,” Discord smiled, as he helped Sugarcoat onto the stretcher and then into the backseats of his alleged car.

Sugarcoat didn’t resist. After withdrawing her hand from her face and finding it coated in dried blood, she passed out. Being fairly concussed, somewhat starved, and more than a just a little bit out of it to begin with, she decided that, perhaps, a coma might just be a good idea. For plot reasons, Discord seconded it.

They drove off a minute later, leaving Lightning to walk to the nearest landmark in sight in search of her brother and find him in the now-open trunk of Shining Armor’s stolen car a few seconds later. The scream, primal and volcanically enraged, echoed throughout the desert and roused sleeping critters from their noonday slumber.

But nobody of consequence was around to hear her scream.

Microchips and Dip Electronics Warehouse was the kind of business that made its begrudging part-time employee Lemon Zest, self-proclaimed party rocker extraordinaire, deeply relieved that she’d be on the other side of the planet from it come next month, performing in Italy to crowds of screaming people – hopefully they’d be screaming because the music was just that good this time and not because sirens were involved or anything.

After all, metalheads were surprisingly astute. If only the same could be said for people who tried to build their own computers off of semi-punctuated guides they’d found on internet message boards. Those people tended to be hirsute instead – especially around the neck. Lemon thusly tried to do as little work as possible.

Head currently banging in the Court of the Crimson King as she stacked a collection of boxed keyboards into something that vaguely resembled a pyramid, she didn’t notice the woman barge into the store. The clerk on duty didn’t either – having gone out for a smoke when his shift began, Lemon suspected Micro Chips would return just as it ended to whine at her over some inane annoyance and or try, and fail, to flirt with her. So, with nothing better to do, she kept stacking keyboards with all the enthusiasm and vigour of a particularly depressed sloth.

She was quitting next month anyway.

Then the music stopped in her right ear as the headphone was tugged away from it. Just as she was about to start wondering if the appliance had grown a malfunction, Lightning Dust released it and let it smack back into Lemon’s skull in a crash of 5/39 time drums and guttural poetry discussing the banality of being cheated on.

“Not cool dude!” Lemon spun around, rubbing her ear.

“Yeah. You got me there. Should’ve answered the first time I called then, Pinkie.”

“My name’s not Pinkie,” she said, pointing at her nametag.

“And I don’t care. Just tell me, like, where I get a camera and I’ll let you go back to making modern art of computer junk.”

Lemon pointed in the direction of the store’s cameras. “Over there,” she said, “Aisle 2 – Cameras.”

Lightning walked off. Lemon returned to pretending to do actual work. This wasn’t even supposed to be her shift until the boss’s son called her and begged her to come in. No wonder Sugarcoat was such a grouch if all the jackass customers came in on her shift.

She had just gotten her body into a solid working rhythm of one mechanical keyboard a minute and had just gotten her mind into the stupid idea of trying to build a leaning tower instead of a pyramid.

And then the music shut off. Reflexively, Lemon stuck a hand between the headphone and her ear. Lightning promptly picked up the other one and zapped her with that.

“Like, Dude! Can you not, please,” Lemon said, turning back to face the older woman.

“I mean, I guess I could, like, not. But you could also tell what kind of camera I’m supposed be buying here. I’m sort of new to this whole tech bullshit and want this to be a relatively quick and painless procedure.”

“For you, maybe,” the clerk replied, trying to fish a treble clef out of her ear.

“Well, I’m… yeah. Don’t actually have a response to that one. So, like, I’m thinking sort of a Go-Pro kind of deal. You got one those?”

“Do we have one of those on the shelves?” Lemon asked.

“Didn’t see one. Could you check in the back?”

Lemon raised her eyebrows. Her bangs ruined the effect somewhat but, then again, her bangs were toxic waste green so they all the right in the world to do so. She crossed her arms. “You do know, like, how the backroom works right?”

“Yeah. I ask you for the thing. You don’t have the thing on the shelves and then I tell you to check in the back and you do that and the thing’s there.”

“That is literally not how it works, my dude. All we’ve got in the back is a coffee maker and a box of explosive tracking devices the precinct gave us.”

“Fuck, the cops give you explosive tracking devices for?”

Lemon shrugged. “They had this contest a while back. The boss’s kid won but it turned out the design was faulty, and they kept exploding so, like, now we have grenades. Tis fate, you know.”

“Nice,” Lightning grinned.

“If you like grenades, yeah. Anyway, what do you want the camera for exactly?”

Lightning narrowed her eyes at the girl. Lemon considered narrowing her eyes back but, again, bangs and also Lightning had a good two feet and hundred pounds on her. Sure, she was a drummer but the kind of muscle you get from drumming isn’t the kind of muscle you get from winning barfights. And Lightning had a lot of that kind of muscle and Lemon found it very intimidating.

“Weren’t you arrested?” Lemon asked nervously, “It was on the news and everything.”

“Yeah. Bail exists, kid. Why do you want to know?”

“Because, like, specifications exist and I can’t help you unless I know what you want the camera to do. Is this a bird-watching thing or is this a slow-motion thing or is wedding-photo thing?”

“It’s a ‘some punk jacked a car and… well, let’s just say he dinged up my brother real bad he and stashed the thing, the car, in the desert and a I want a camera to hide close where he stashed it so I can see his face when he comes to get the car so I track him down and stick my foot up his ass’ kind of thing. Maybe give him a bumperthump too for good measure.”

Lemon blinked. She reached a shaking hand up to her headphones and pressed the pause button. Then she took the headphones off and hung them around her neck. And then she blinked again. “Okay. Okay. Okay then. That’s, like, a thing that happens. Apparently.”

“I’ve been having a shit week, alright? My sister was shot. This afternoon I scrape some chick off the freeway and figure that my brother is… ah… kidnapped, yeah Kidnapped. Before that, I had to gotta go and deal with animal people. Who suck and smell like bears and lions and tigers and shit. I have been having a very bad week and you know damn well I ain’t exactly a model citizen. So, camera.” Lightning clicked her fingers, “Stat!”

“You got it!” Lemon gulped, running off to Aisle 2 – Cameras, and selecting from it an appropriate model before hurrying back to where her customer awaited, growing more disgruntled by the second.

She handed it to Lightning, who juggled its box in her hands and nearly managed to drop it. It was a simple model, advertising a long battery life, ample storage, and weather resistance conditions in addition to a compact size. It was the sort of thing you’d find in a seedy Korean motel, hidden behind the clock face, recording your every move. Lightning liked it immediately and started out the store.

“Ah. Dude? Miss Lightning? You gotta pay for that, you know?” Lemon said, before intensely regretting doing so.

“Gah. Fine,” she said, returning to slap a handful of crumpled bills on the counter. “Keep the change.”

Lemon sprung over the counter, registered the transaction, and handed the vigilante a few receipts. Those Lightning stuffed in a pocket of tracksuit pants, before turning on her heels and starting off again. She made it nearly to the door before Lemon piped up.

“What?” Lightning yelled. “Can you not fucking see I am a busy lady?”

“Yeah, just… you said you found a girl on the road, right? She’d been hit by a car or something?”

“Climbed out of a car actually.”

“Okay.” Lemon blinked again and reconsidered coming to work high, briefly, before realizing that this would be even more weird if she wasn’t as mellow as she currently was. “Dude, do you, like, know what her name was?”

“Why are you bothering me about this bullshit, kid? I have vigilance crap to do. People to ki-uh… redeem. And stuff.”

“Because my friend Sugarcoat went missing a few days ago and, like, I was wondering if you’d seen her.”

“Yeah. I saw her.”

“Really?” Lemon’s face lit up like a slice of watermelon in front of a spotlight – pink, sweet, but only bright because other people arranged her to seem so – “Where? Is she okay?”

“Kid. Pinkie. Who the shit you think the roadkill was?”

“She dead?!”

Lightning shrugged – this conversation had rapidly passed the point of relevance for her. “Like, I hope not? Anyway, if you’ve got any more dumbass asking to do, do it at my manager because I am out of here. Have fun, like, doing what you do.”

With that, Lightning left the store, slamming the door behind her and jingling the little bell on the doorframe, and leaving Lemon to her own devices. Considering they comprised a stack of keyboards waiting to be arranged in what, in her mind, was now going to be the greatest storefront leaning tower of electronics in the history of ever, she got to work. Music back on and without the threat of it being snapped off now, she got back to the task with a newfound haste while pinging around the idea of what to do about Sugarcoat in her mind.

Eventually it got the point where her phone’s alarm ringed, signalling that it was five minutes before the end of the shift she was covering. Immediately she dropped the latest keyboard back into its box, spun on her heels, and marched out the store before Micro Chips, son of Guacamole Dip, returned to harass her about something that mattered only if your dick was shorter than your patience – the ill-tempered nerd tended to fly off at a moment’s notice.

Lemon, not possessing a dick of any length, decided to see if Lightning was telling the truth and went off to visit Sugarcoat in hospital. Even if her dour friend wasn’t there, her mother would certainly appreciate the surprise visit.

Micro Chips returned about fifteen minutes to an empty store. Not only was it now empty of customers – just the way he liked it – it was now also a great deal emptier of cool gadgets and overpriced electronics than he would have liked and there was a pile of mechanical keyboards scattered about the floorspace. Forgetting to lock the door on her way out, Lemon had inadvertently invited a few less than reputable folks inside – Big Moe and his crew had paid the place a visit.

Noticing the row of flat screen TVs on the wall was no longer showing the highlights from the last football match, a scream started to build in Micro Chips’ throat. Noticing that they weren’t doing that because they were no longer there at all and were now a good fifty miles down the road never to be seen again, the noise erupted from his chest in a bellow of unrestrained fury, sexual frustration, and general dissatisfaction with his life as a five-foot-six acne-splattered teenager with a vape habit and a high ranking in League of Legends.

But nobody of consequence was around to hear him scream.

Today

It had come to Rarity Belle’s attention that stabbing a pony through the eye with a knitting needle until she was dead and then kicking her a little for good measure, while immensely satisfying and deeply cathartic, was probably not worth the trouble of having to clean up afterwards. However, this had come to her attention only after committing the act, kidnapping the witness, burying the body in the woods, disinfecting the crime scene and torching the knitting needles in question – that, in her mind, was the real tragedy. Genuine Timberwolf pine was so hard to come by this time of year.

Needless to say, the unicorn was not having the greatest of days. Yes, this sort of thing happened before – it happened about once a month – but today she had been particularly sloppy. Come to think of it, there probably was still a drop or two of blood splattered about her classroom and no doubt somebody would, eventually, start asking where Diamond Tiara had wandered off to.

Rarity reclined in her living room, alternating between sips of wine and spoonfuls of ice cream. Doing so straight from the bottle and the tub respectively, she realized that wasn’t the classiest of things to spend her afternoon doing but she excused it under the pretences of having a tremendously stressful morning. Really, that blood had gotten everywhere and it was such a pain to get out of her coat, especially when she couldn’t go to the spa for aid in doing so.

“What a day,” she complained to nobody in particular, “What a terrible day. Honestly, who does that little bitch she is sneaking up on me like that? Why, with her coat the same colour as that last little villain’s, was it wonder I reacted so… brusquely? No. No, I think not. That all is perfectly excusable given the circumstances. Still,” she thought, sitting up, “I simply cannot keep Silver Spoon tied up in my basement for ever.”

Another sip of Pinotage. Another spoon of rocky road. A breathy sigh and she collapsed back on her couch, hoof to her forehead in a mock faint. Downstairs, Silver Spoon struggled against the chains, wondering faintly why Miss Rarity had chains in her basement to begin with.

She, after all, considered herself to be too cultured for such dismal conditions. Having been kidnapped before, she desperately hoped that, just once, her captors would have the courtesy to recognize her good breeding at hold her somewhere other than a basement. A five-star hotel room would be ideal but, at this rate, an attic would suffice. Or maybe a shed. A rustic one though – like a hermitage, almost.

“Good grief,” Rarity continued, “I suppose she’d starve eventually. That’d probably do her good though. At her age, that most certainly is no longer puppy fat. Besides- oh, wait, no. She’d starve to death eventually. And then she shall decompose and start to stink up the place. Can’t bury her in kitty litter either like I did the last one. No, ponies would look at me funny buying the stuff after Opal tried Sweetie’s cooking last week and needed to be put down. Good grief indeed, whatever am I to do?”

For a while, she continued to mope. Eventually, there was a knock at her door. Panicking, she thought it was the Royal Guard come to do her in at last – ever since Princess Twilight had taken power, they had become disturbingly competent and ready to lay down the very-literal truncheon of justice at the slightest provocation.

She eased the tub of ice cream back onto the coffee table. For a second, she listened out for a further knock – perhaps they might go away if she pretended not to be home? No such luck. Somepony kept thumping on the door and they were a relatively tough and no-nonsense sort of somebody judging by how the knock echoed throughout the ground floor of her store and home.

“Pardon my Prench,” Rarity began, hoisting the wine bottle with her magic, “but bucking Tartarus this is not ideal.”

The knock persisted. They started calling her name. The voice didn’t match the sound, being oddly high and breaking occasionally, but it could just be a different guard. After all, there had been an awful lot of conscripts lately…

Conscripts, however, tended not to be the most apt and observant of soldiers, Rarity recalled – her brief foray into Saddle Arabia had taught her that much. The horses there were generally smarter than they looked; admittedly they looked smart but what they lacked in dowdiness they more than made up for in dumbassery. After decanting the rest of the bottle down her gullet, Rarity wrapped the bottle in the couch’s shawl and smashed it against the edge of the coffee table, leaving her holding in her magic a dagger-sharp glass shaft.

Then, slipping on a coat and slipping the shiv into it, she trotted downstairs and answered the door.

Her first thought upon doing so was that she was in some serious trouble. Her second thought was a brief worry that broken glass was unlikely to penetrate dragon scales. Her third was, quite simply, that she should stop messing around with glass shards and knitting needles and pizza cutters and just buy a damn sword already.

Her fourth through was that dragons hug really bucking hard, pardon the Prench.

“Rarity!” cheered Spike, “I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“You’ve… grown,” the crushed pony mumbled, face turning a deeply unfashionable shade of blueberry blue.

Spike the Dragon promptly released her and promptly started blushing a raspberry red. Rarity winced, landing on the shiv at a deeply uncomfortable angle.

“So… Darling, Spikey-Wikey, whatever brings you to Ponyville?” Rarity said while trying to subtly levitate the chunk of glass out of her flank.

The teenage dragon rubbed the back of his neck with a clawed hand the size of a soup plate. “Well… Twilight actually. She teleported me here. Did I mention its nice to see you again?”

“Yes, Darling. Rather… well, let’s just I didn’t require my vertebrae realigned this afternoon and I certainly do not appreciate the acupuncture either. Anyhow, why did she not simply send a letter?”

“Well,” Spike cringed, “You never read them.”

“Darling, as sweet as your poetry is, there is something as too sweet. Saccharine, perhaps. Sickly sweet. Roses and rainbows are terribly nice, but I only have so much time each day to devote to administrative duties and, well, I’m afraid that our romance simply isn’t meant to be.”

“Oh. Yeah. You didn’t read the one about the noodles, did you?”

“I read the one about the noodles. Then I threw it in the fire.”

“Probably for the best, that one. Never drinking fire-arak with Smoulder again. I’m really sorry actually. And to answer your question, Twilight said there was some kind of friendship emergency you had to deal with,” Spike explained.

Rarity raised an eyebrow, plucked and purple – amethyst to be specific. “An emergency, you say? I’m terribly afraid that I am currently dealing with one of my own.”

Said emergency was still bound and gagged in the basement and feeling very bored about the whole affair. At least when Flim and Flam kidnapped her, they had the courtesy to throw a magazine or two in the basement with her. That and feed her. Why, Silver Spoon was going to miss tea at this rate!

Spike blinked. “Oh. Didn’t know about that. Can I help with anything, Rarity? I mean, being seven feet tall does have its advantages,” he said, voice cracking multiple times. But such was the life of the teenage dragon – an unfortunate and gangly life to say the least.

“I doubt so, Darling. It’s a rather… personal matter.”

“Right then. Well, Twilight would really appreciate you maybe hurrying with it because she did ask for you specifically.”

“Why, pray tell? I cannot exactly see what kind of friendship mission I alone am perfectly suited for. Unless, I suppose, it involves the high society. I don’t suppose it does, does it? I wouldn’t exactly mind an excuse to come by Manehattan again.”

“Uh… actually it involves you. The Other You. The one from that magic portal thingy Twilight used to go through. You know, the mirror in her old castle,” Spike said, pointing to where the crystalline eyesore dominated the otherwise rustic horizon.

“Ah,” said Rarity, having an idea. “A vacation? Correct me if I’m wrong but are those odd baboon fellows on the other side of said portal not perpetually clothed?”

“Yeah. They are. Kinda weird really. I didn’t get to wear clothes. I had fur though. Like, how do you deal with the shedding?”

“Ladies simply don’t shed, Darling,” Rarity lied. “Anyhow, now that you have explained yourself, I do believe that I would quite like to pay a visit to my… alternate self. I’d imagine that I’d look rather fetching as a primate, if dear Lyra’s artwork is anything to go by.”

“They’re called humans by the way. If you call them monkeys they get really mad for some reason,” said Spike.

“I shall keep that in mind. Now, if you excuse me, I must pack. Do be a dear though and find me a sword. A gallant one if possible, like the ones that pirate crew had. Yes, a cutlass. I shall require one if I am to deal with apes, human or otherwise,” Rarity asked.

“You know, I can do you one better,” Spike said, jamming his foot in the door, and pointing a claw at his chest, “I can bring me. Like, last time I spaniel sized but I was just a kid back then. Imagine how huge I’d be now. I’d basically be a Timberwolf, Rarity. That’s way better than a sword.”

Rarity adapted her idea. On the one hand, Spike would make an excellent bodyguard in case her humanoid self proved feisty regarding being murdered and having her life stolen but, on the other hand, Spike was, well, himself. And as endearing as he was to people who didn’t consider themselves the embodiment of beauty in this world, beauty was a Rarity and she didn’t much like him. There could only be one of her though and a dire wolf-dragon hybrid would certainly tip the proverbial scales in her favour...

“Of course, Darling. I would love it if you were to accompany me. But are you positive that Princess Twilight dear would allow you to take oh, I haven’t a clue, a whole month off?” Rarity asked.

“Awesome! I’m sure she’ll be fine with it. And it is Supreme Friendmaker Midnight Sparkle these days,” Spike added, “Well, to creatures who aren’t me, anyway.”

“Yes!” Rarity cheered, “A vacation is most indubitably in order! I’ll meet you at the old castle come dawn tomorrow Darling. Do not be tardy and dress warmly,” Rarity said, levitating Spike’s foot out the door and then slamming it.

Once the clomp of his footsteps had faded, Rarity slumped down against the door, exhaling a heavy sigh. She could do this, she assured herself. After all, apes are gullible, excrement-flinging creatures with hairtrigger tempers and poor hygiene. Not too different from your average Royal Guardsman, come to think of it. If she escaped the dimension with a suitcase or nine loaded with her more valuable jewellery, the Silver Spoon issue would have no choice but to solve itself sooner or later. And, once that was done, a whole new world of excitement would await.

“Yes indeed,” she said, standing, “I believe a celebratory cognac is in order. Or perhaps two. I deserve it, after all. Nobody but myself, Rarity Belle, fashionista extraordinaire, could devise such a cunning plan at a moment’s notice and thus I deserve an award. Yes, a cognac. And possibly a slice of red velvet to top off the night. Lovely. I’ll almost miss this place.”

With that, Rarity left the Carousel Boutique and headed to a nearby café, her mind more abuzz than a beehive with the intricacies of her plot – how to export a stipend of her businesses income across the portal, how to ensure her counterpart would never be found, how to keep Spike from humping her leg presuming he became that sort of dog; all murderously important matters. Most important of all though was the question that echoed in her skull through the night: Which outfits was she going to pack?

Meanwhile, Silver Spoon had stopped being bored and started being scared again. She had realized that Rarity wasn’t going to come back at all, let alone with a tabloid and a cup of Earl Grey. The filly hadn’t been left here to be dealt with later – she had been left here to die.

Against the gag, she screamed. Loudly. Repeatedly. Desperately.

But nobody of consequence was around to hear her scream.

9. A Deeply Debonaire Counterpart

I had opened the door to reveal none other than myself and then things got interesting. I must be dreaming. One has dreams like that, from time to time, does one not? You believe yourself to be awake, fully conscious and utterly in control – you go about your day, climb out of bed, see which of your friends blew up your phone with texts today – Sunset, in case you were wondering – and it's only when you wander downstairs to greet your ungrateful ingrate of a sister “Happy Birthday” do you encounter something so bizarre that it snaps you right back into your bed with the most awful of flashbacks.

Only this time I didn’t get snapped anywhere. Blinking, I pressed my tongue into a tooth. That hurt and, when I opened my eyes, I still saw my doppelganger standing outside, arms crossed, foot a-tapping, and an expression on her face somewhere between expectant and amused. In the background, my sister’s whining about how didn’t ask for a harp and instead wanted more comic merchandise still rang loudly. I blinked again. The Other Rarity did too.

“Good morning, Darling,” she said – her voice was, well, mine ̧ save for an undercurrent of maturity mine could only feign with a glass of bourbon and a fake ID.

“Good… erm, hello?” I replied, still too put off to talk properly.

“Oh, hi Rarity,” barked Spike.

I blinked again. Excuse the faux pas, but I rubbed my eyes. Still, there I was dressed in a magnificent woollen charcoal travelling coat beneath which a beautifully sharp and form-fitting pinstripe suit the colour of fresh blood highlighted every curve I possessed. And, oh my, I’d forgotten how many curves I had. Lots. Beside the Other Me, a positively elephantine wolf of a purple and green dog sat wagging his tail and panting, his tongue flapping all the while.

“Something the matter, Darling?” the Other Rarity asked.

“Yes?” I said, “Namely, I thought I was me.” Come to think of it, I thought I was also supposed to be the best-dressed person around, and her outfit, also including a jet-black pair of kitten heels and a fedora, puts my own to shame. If they could, my poor t-shirt and skirt would’ve committed suicide by now.

“Ah. Sunset, in her haste to arriving at her job on time must’ve forgotten to tell you. I,” she said with a doff of the hat and a light curtsey, “am Rarity Belle, fashionista extraordinaire, the Element of Generosity and a proud citizen of Equestria.”

“I gathered,” I said, gathering as much – Princess Twilight’s reply in the journal said my counterpart would be coming but it left out the date of her arrival. Furthermore, I hadn’t realized how unnerving staring down your clone would be. I can see why said Twilight doesn’t visit anymore – that and something about a dictatorship back home. Hers, I hope. They tend to have the snappiest uniforms.

“Indeed. I do believe you were informed of this, Darling.”

“I was, Darling. I just… its little much to… ah see you in person.”

“It must be. I ran into Rainbow Dash, your version of her, on the way here and we had quite the conversation, let me tell you. If it wasn’t for Sunset’s quick thinking, the girl would’ve thought me a changeling! Anyhow, shall you invite me in? A cup of tea just might be in order.”

“Oh, of course. Forgive me, please. I’m not exactly as adept as you must be at dealing with all sorts of magical phenomena. I think a cup of tea and perhaps a stiff drink will be the doctor’s orders,” I said, standing aside and letting my counterpart pass. Was it just me or was an inch or so taller – I was wearing heels too so it can’t be those, right?

Just then, the Other Rarity turned back where Spike sat. Come to think of it, he might not fit through the doorway and a repeat of the Harp Incident would not be in order right now. But she spoke before I could.

“Why don’t you stay out there, Darling, and I’ll send somebody to deal with the luggage shortly?” she said, before looking to me, “Sunset rented one of your world’s… chariots to ferry my things. However, I had a little more packed than she could take in a single trip. Hence why she’s already departed.”

“Ah,” I muttered, looking over to where a stack of six suitcases lay sitting in the driveway beside Spike, “You certainly came prepared.”

“A lady is never without a wardrobe,” she smiled, “Now, the tea.”

“Right this way… ah, well, I don’t suppose I could keep calling interally you the Other Rarity, now could I?” I said as I led her inside my deeply humble abode.

“I don’t suppose I can give you that moniker either. Say, since you were here first, why don’t you stay simply ‘Rarity’ while I go by ‘Belle’ then, ah?” she proposed.

“Excellent, Darling. Belle. Now, if you’d be so kind as to excuse me, I think an explanation to my parents might just be in order. I’ve barely told them anything. Of course, they’re aware of the… your world but none of the details,” I said, leading her to the living room.

“Oh, good ahead, Rarity,” said Belle, taking a seat on the couch, “I think I need to sit down anyhow. Honestly, how do you walk on only two legs? It's so… wobbly.”

“Practice, Belle. It took me years.”

Concern, genuine concern oddly enough, overtook her face. “Oh my. Is that… to be expected? I know I wasn’t exactly the fastest bloomer myself but… years before you could walk?”

“That’s normal for humans, Darling.”

“How unfortunate. You must drive your parents up the wall.”

“Indeed I do, yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, tea must be prepared,” I said, heading to the kitchen, where Sweetie was now having a fit over the fact that her cake was chocolate and coffee, not chocolate and vanilla. Standing by was my mother, who looked about reading to ram a slice of it down her younger daughter’s throat, and my father, who looked like he desperately needed a beer or three poured down his own. Good grief, these people suck.

How relieved I would be to be somebody else come next week and, come next month, be somebody else in Italy.

“Ahem,” I announced.

All three looked up. “Oh, good morning, my dear. How nice of you to join us in celebrating your own sister’s birthday,” said Cookie.

“Well, if anything, the room is growing more frigid by the second. Anyhow, we have… a visitor.”

“Oh, yeah. The doorbell rang,” said Hondo.

“It did, yes. If I were asleep would you all just not have answered it?”

A chorus of nods.

“Mom made me a coffee cake and I asked for vanilla,” Sweetie pouted, arms crossed, foot stamped for effect.

“Coffee has slimming properties, Darling. Chanel knows you need it.”

“Are you calling me fat!?” Sweetie shouted.

“Well, you are heavier than I am, Darling, and a good foot shorter too and we both know that’s certainly not muscle so…”

“Besides, if you drink coffee you’ve got to shit, that’s the rule. That’s how weight-loss tea works. You crap the fat out,” my father added.

“Hondo J Flanks!” my mother cuffed him upside the head, “Not in front of the children.”

It occurred to me then that perhaps informing my immediate family that my clone was coming to stay – at least, until I figured out how properly impersonate and then kill her – might not be the wisest of choices. Come to think of it, their collective brain cell is dangerously close to overheating as is. And, now that the idea came to me, an opportunity to besmirch Fleur’s reputation is never one I’ll miss.

“Mother,” I asked, “Do you remember a certain Miss Fleur dis Lis?”

She nodded, confused. “Yes? That nice Canadian girl who moved into Mrs Cinch’s old house? You haven’t had a playdate with her in ages.”

“Yes, well, I am nearly eighteen.” And she is a bitch.

“Oh, you kids ‘hang out’ these days, right?”

If you mean kill people, drink, and have lesbian sex, then yes, I suppose hang out might be a fitting descriptor for my life this past few months. But I didn’t say that – the poor woman still thought I was fourteen, after all. “Yes. We do say that. She’s… come to stay, just for a bit. Don’t tell anyone but she’s having trouble at home. Dyed her hair too, a nasty aubergine colour.”

My mother gasped. Probably because of the running-away-from-home-bit, not the poor choice of hair colour. My father continued bickering with my sister about the mechanics of weight-loss tea and whether or not either of them needed to drink some. The answer, in case you – me, and by that, I mean me, not the Other Me – were wondering is yes. Both of them are positively rotund.

“Oh, that poor thing!” my mother sobbed, “Of course, she’s welcome here. All of you of your friends are... The girlfriends, anyway.”

Yes… No. As much as sleeping simultaneously with Octavia, Sunny, Roseluck, Applejack, Twilight, Lyra, and my own counterpart would bring me infinite joy, I’m concerned the amount of mutual antipathy arranging such a meeting would generate would probably tear a whole through the fabric of the universe and summon a new kind of chaos demon too.

And I do not want Discord joining in there, no matter how much whipped cream he brings!

“Thank you ever so much, Mother!” I said, giving her a hug; she, fortunately, just smelled of cocoa today and not her usual poisonous old lady perfume.

That all done, I sauntered over to the fridge and retrieved a pair of canned sweet teas. Technically tea, even if the ingredients say otherwise – I’m confident Belle shan’t mind, or understand the difference.

She was busy examining the art on the walls when I returned to the living room. Specifically, she was making disapproving noises at one of my drawings – my parents framed it after it won me a well-deserved “A” for my art final exam a few years back. However, she had at least taken the courtesy to hang her hat, overcoat, and blazer on the coat-rack and hatstand respectively.

And have I mentioned that I do so enjoy an incredibly beautiful woman in a good suit – preferably one with suspenders and trousers tailored so tightly they might as well be vacuum-sealed on? Because I do, a lot. The fact that my mirror image was wearing such a garment only furthered the appeal.

“Ah, Darling, I have returned,” I said, handing her a can of tea.

Belle inspected it, blowing a lock of amethyst hair out of her face. By Chanel, I am going to regret killing her!

A little, anyway. I’m sure gallivanting about Equestria is tremendous fun. Do you – me, again – know how well-endowed horses are, even the small and pastel ones? I’m sure she must.

“How marvellous this world is, Rarity,” Belle said, studying the can, “You’ve tinned tea!”

“Indeed, we have,” I nodded, leaning over to open it for her. “Also, I decided that it might just be wiser for you to simply impersonate somebody else while you’re here. Not everyone is exactly… aware of the pony world. I hope you don’t mind the name Fleur dis Lis.”

“Nonsense!” she grinned deviously, “I shall take every opportunity to besmirch it… if you, well, would authorize that anyhow. She and I,” Belle winced a bit, “well, my version of her and I, we have a less than stellar history back home.”

“No, by all means, run it into the ground. She is a terrible sort here too. Deeply disagreeable. That’s why I chose it.”

“Does yours go around telling everyone she’s from Prance too, when she’s really from downtown Manehattan?”

I nodded and took a sip of tea. “Something like that, yes.”

“Ah. It seems personality traits really do carry over then how… interesting. I may have to adjust my plans,” she said, sitting back down and doing so in such a way that would be little lewd if she weren’t actually a pony still, presumably, getting used to a humanoid body. Not that I was complaining in the slightest.

“So, Belle, Darling,” I asked, joining her on the couch, “Do you have any plans for your stay here?”

Now I find it very important to note that, unlike I had told Sunset I would, I did not invite Belle over for any counselling or mentorship whatsoever. Rather, I simply asked her out on a vacation, judging that she must be somewhat stressed with such a busy life and all. I did stress the urgency of it, however – claiming that I had to start a very important project, that being school not that I said as much, quite soon and would greatly appreciate her presence before that. Greatly. I stressed that very thoroughly. It was positively urgent that we be sipping Mint Juleps by the week’s end.

If she lives that long, anyhow.

A shame, really. There are so few perfect bodies in this world. It would be a shame to desecrate mine. Maybe I’ll just slip poison in her food – I do believe there’s an oleander tree in the backyard?

“Ah, Rarity, are you alright?” Belle asked, snapping her fingers.

“Yes! Darling, just deep in thought. Not ladylike in the slightest, I am well aware, but surely we can be comfortable around each-other?” I smiled – my heart pounded like gunfire.

“Oh, more than comfortable I’d say,” she said, a faint blush spreading across her regal features, “After all, does it really count if it’s with your… ever so fetching counterpart?”

“I should think not.” My voice dropped to a whisper, “Or I’d get into heaps of trouble doing to you all the things I want to do.”

“Well, it sounds like your family will be busy arguing for quite some time. Surely a quick… oh, not now of all times, to forget a word. What’s the primate equivalent of a nuzzle?” Belle asked.

“One of these,” I said, drawing her into a French kiss.

Fuck! Do I taste good or what? Eat your heart out, Fleur – I am going to go and fuck myself tonight. I pressed harder and she went soft in my arms, moaning slightly as our tongues met.

Unfortunately, my mother then walked in carrying a tray of actual tea. Needless to say, one deeply stunned gasp later and the crockery lay shattered upon the floor and the tea started soaking into the carpet. Her face turned deeply uncomfortable shade of puce. I let go of Belle.

“Ah, oui,” she – Belle, my Belle – began, “Bonjour Madame Cru-”

“Rarity Belle, what the heck is going on her here!?” My mother shouted, cutting Belle off.

Oh for fuck’s sake, pardon the literal French, not now. I stood up and straightened out my skirt. Good grief, was my counterpart handsy. Or would that be hoofsy? Then again, I am too and Belle set about buttoning up her blouse again. Anyhow, I walked a step or two closer to my dumbstruck parent.

How my loudmouth braggart of a father never told the woman about my preferences is beyond me, but I suspect it has something to do with her vehemently ignoring everything he says and him thinking I’m still “best friends” with Twilight. Or was it Octavia? One of the two.

“Mother,” I began, sighing, “I can explain. However, now is not really the time. We’re both very clearly surprised and on edge so maybe you can give us, me and Fleur, an hour or so? Then we’d be more than… happy to tell you everything.”

She sort of nodded, sort of shook her head, and sort of growled in confused anger. Not a dignified combination in the slightest – how this person created me is a mystery for the ages, truly.

“Indeed, oui. It would be very ‘elpful for us all to get our collecteeve soughts in orderre before ‘aveeng this conversasionne,” Belle added, in a particularly strong and not particularly convincing French accent.

“Erm. Okay?” Cookie said.

“Yes! Excellent! I’ll be back, I promise,” I said, grabbing Belle, who grabbed her hat, before hurrying out the house. Once passed the door, I slipped a hand back round and unhooked the car keys from the coat rack because there was no way I was hanging out with Spike sitting camped in the driveway for an hour.

Not even if Belle was there, that is how much I despise that dog.

“Hey, Rarity – uh, Rarities! Where are you going?” he barked.

Belle turned to him and glared. “Don’t talk until Sunset comes back, alright. Just guard the luggage. Not everyone knows.”

“Okay? Are you… do you need help or something?” he asked.

“Nothing of the sort, Darling. A lady always comes out on top,” she said, before whispering in my ear, “especially in the boudoir.”

Oh my, I am looking forward to this!

“Thank you, Belle,” I said, ushering her into the car before getting in myself and starting away from my house at a speed probably faster than necessary.

Once a sufficient distance away from the place – about halfway to the mall, which seemed like an appropriate place to go – Belle breathed a sigh of relief, reclining at last in the seat.

“Good grief,” she said, “How I despise my parents. Yours included. Mine don’t exactly… know all I get up to either.”

“They don’t? Huh.”

“Well, I get up to an awful lot, you know,” she grinned slyly. “Anyhow, where exactly are we headed? I don’t suppose we’re actually going to go back there in an hour?”

I smiled, “Of course not, Darling. I figured some shopping might be in order, as well as a bite to eat. I don’t suppose you’ve seen our boutiques, have you?”

“Alas not. Us ponies tend to go nude for most occasions, so we have very few of them back home.”

You do? Of course, you do. Coats of fur, and all. Still, you must see the most interesting things living such a life…

“Ah, yes,” I said, “Well, you’ll be in for quite the treat then.”

“I certainly hope so. Twilight, my version of her, informed me that there existed a locale where I can exchange my world’s currency for yours. I’m informed the exchange rate is very favourable.”

“I… guess there might be? What is your currency, exactly?”

Belle produced a handful of coins from an almost medieval purse at her side. They glinted like gold in the morning light. No, not like gold. They were gold. And she had an entire bag of them!

“Oh. My.”

“Indeed,” she winked, “Quite favourable indeed. We could… oh… we could rent a room in a Three-Horshoe Hotel. Penthouse suite. For the night. Or more.”

“That sounds truly wonderful, Darling,” I said, leaning over to land a peck on her cheek. My, her skin was soft. Is mine that soft? I should hope so. Perhaps I ought to ask what products she uses?

Anyhow, one trip to the goldsmith later and we were rich. No, I take that back – we were wealthy. Rich, to paraphrase Chris Rock, can be lost in a single crazy summer with a drug habit. Wealthy cannot be. For example, Shaquille O’Neal is rich. The man who pays him is wealthy. Most of the money I deposited into my account – well, as much as I could deposit without raising any eyebrows at the bank – the rest, a few thousand dollars, Belle and I pocketed. And then we went shopping.

Ah, how good it feels to have money again. I must have spent the GDP of a small African nation on cosmetics alone. Belle had to stop me before I ended up purchasing more than I could conceivably carry without a fleet of porters at my command. Making the logical choice, we arranged to have the stuff shipped over to the portal outside the school – I’m sure a combination of Belle, Princess Twilight, and Sunset will figure out how to properly allocate sixteen pairs of shoes, eleven dresses, two suits, a few cases of jewellery, and more metal records than one can shake a stick at.

While I was polishing off the last of the payments and making the man who owns Nordstrom even wealthier than he already was, Belle ran into somebody. Rarity Belle, the Other One, had just walked into Sunny Flare.

Oh boy.

I finished off the purchase, swiped the card, and settled down to watch the sparks fly. It couldn’t hurt – that much. Sunny already hated me and Belle was well, me, so she could clearly handle herself. All proper ladies can and she proceeded to do so marvellously.

“Hey, Rarity!” Sunny said, putting on a forced smile upon spotting my counterpart. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Terribly sorry about that, Darling. You must know how it is, being bipedal and all,” Belle said, collecting a dropped bag.

She squinted. “What.”

Belle blinked. “Ah… yes. We’re baboons, like the Storm King. I tripped the other day and twisted my… ah… shin? It’s been such a pain, let me tell you.”

“Oh,” announced Sunny, “That’s painful? I am so sorry. Did you twist it when you climbed out the window and ran away without finishing our conversation, Dearie? Or did you twist it fucking! Twilight Sparkle?”

Belle looked for me. I slipped behind a rack of coats. This seemed like as good a time as any to see if she was as capable as I. Knowing that might just be handy if when I have to kill her.

“Ah. Yes. That conversation. I presume then that you, Darling, found out about that little… affair.”

“Found out? I was forced to listen to that slut gush over how much she loved you for two hours over dinner!”

“My condolences,” Belle muttered.

“Don’t pull that shit with me. I want an explanation. Did you seriously hit her over a spilled coffee?” Sunny ranted.

Belle stayed calm – which is a great deal more than I would have done if a random stranger came up to me and started to insinuate that I went around assaulting people. “Darling,” she began, “Don’t you think you are overreacting here by quite the margin?”

Sunny scowled. “I am not overreacting! How do you think I felt figuring out that my girlfriend’s cheating on me? How do you think I felt when you just disappear one day and stop answering me calls? You broke my heart!”

If one’s heart is broken so easily, it deserves to be. Really, I ignore you for three days and you’re in hysterics?

The girl continued, tossing aside her own bags to step up to and then point at Belle. “No, I don’t think I am overreacting at all.”

“Darling, my reaction was perfectly justified, considering what you did to me. You’re just as bad… if not worse.”

Sunny gawked. “Wh-what I di-did to you? What I did?”

“Yes. I don’t lie to people. I make it no secret that I do, well used to, date this Twilight person. Yet you, Darling, have the audacity to come to me and accuse me of committing adultery? If I did, then you were not some poor defenceless victim. You were an accomplice. You have no right to ask me for anything, after all I have done for you. And you certainly do not have any right to lay a finger on me,” Belle said, batting Sunny’s hand aside.

In response, she started a reply. Then she stopped and stared at her palm like it belonged to a lion.

It was Belle’s turn to continue, “Darling, you are acting like a hypocrite of the very highest order right now. You hit me and you think that makes you better than yours truly? Just because, what, I did it over some spilled drink? If anything, that’s a better reason to assault somebody than ‘conveniently forgetting you’re cheating on somepony’. You did that and you broke my trust because you just so happened to think I’d broken yours. I did not. I was transparent. If anything, you were drunk. I can smell the cider on your breath right now. Of course, I’d ignore you after you attacked me. Of course, I’d immediately leave the house, Darling.”

“I- ah, well, Dear-” Sunny stuttered.

Belle laid a finger across her lips, shushing her. “But I forgive you. Everypony makes mistakes, Darling. In fact, why don’t we start this again, from square one? A blank slate, if you will. I’ll even apologise first. I’m sorry for leading you, even accidentally, into a deception. That was cruel and negligent of me, and deeply unladylike to boot.”

Sunny blinked. She sighed. “I honestly didn’t think you had a proper reason or anything for all that.”

“Well, Darling, I do. What say you, ah? Shall we put that mess of an affair behind us and start anew?”

She nodded. “Let me think about it, okay?”

“Excellent, Darling!” Belle said, drawing her into a hug. “Now, you must excuse me. I’m here on business, doing research and all, and I really can’t dally to long. Ta!”

We met outside the store, a sufficient distance away from any nosy ex-girlfriends a few minutes later. We both breathed a sigh of relief. I had honestly worried for a second or two there that Sunny would figure out that something was afoot – or stand up for herself – but my counterpart did that, well, better than I myself could, given my and Sunny’s last encounter. Seriously though, that was a fourth-storey window. Jumping out of it would be suicide.

“Well then,” said Belle, “Who was that?”

“You didn’t know? I thought everyone had a pony version of themselves, Belle.”

“I believe that may be the case but I certainly haven’t met them all. I’d remember meeting her. Rather fetching mare, all things considered. Especially from behind.”

“Certainly. Sunny has her angles. I must thank you though, you saved me from quite the scrape indeed. And having her as a friend is infinitely preferable to having her as an enemy.”

Belle giggled. “Oh, it was nothing. Just a dash of cold reading and some basic theatre. Nothing a lady can’t manage. Underhanded, I am well aware but, then again, sacrifices must be made.”

“I can look past it, worry not. Now, didn’t you say that we had to meet Sunset sometime today?” I asked, “I believe her shift should be finished by now.”

“We might as well, Rarity. I cannot say that I find her the most endearing person but… oh, even the nosy and the moralizing have their uses, few and far between though they may be.”

“I couldn’t say it better myself. Shall we?” she said, offering a hand. I took it and led her to the Japanese restaurant where Sunset worked part-time rolling sushi and waiting tables and just generally being a pretty face. The two of us took a table outside, as far from the stench of raw fish, soy sauce, and generic orientalism as we could.

Belle, I noticed, seemed somewhat on edge. And, for somebody who was as good at hiding emotion as I was, that she actually was awfully unease. Her feet kept tapping the ground and her eyes darted about, from me to the crowds bustling by and then down to the hill of purchases stacked beside our table. Her fingers tattooed the table and a sudden noise every so often would nearly rocket her out of her seat.

Only after we had placed our orders, did I ask. More so I raised an eyebrow at the rather stiff double of whiskey she’d ordered herself.

“Oh, Darling, you do not need to worry about me. I’m just adjusting to the… climate, that’s all. We, alas, don’t really have malls of this size back home and all the flashing lights are new as well. And walking on two legs does make one terribly dizzy,” she said, before downing most of her drink in a single gulp.

“Ah. That’s all then? There isn’t something else?” I asked – by now I had a fairly decent idea of my counterpart’s morals, or lack thereof, but I only got like that when I did something or had to do something. Something that tends to result in a jail sentence at best.

“Not at all, Rarity. Just a hint of sensory overload, that’s all. Really, even our largest city, Manehattan, is monstrously rustic compared to this.”

If you think this is advanced, you should see our Manhattan. Or, better yet, Milan. The air doesn’t stink of exhaust fumes in Milan, last time I cared to check.

“Alright, Darling,” I said, taking a sip of my own cup of sake. Strong stuff, but the sun had long since passed the yardarm given all our shopping and whatnot. Perfectly justifiable.

We bounced the ball of conversation back and forth a bit after that – myself trying to learn everything I could about her and her lifestyle back home and her maintaining a healthy interest in me and in this world’s own goings-on in general. Truly, she was an honest pleasure to talk to. She was the first person I have met in my nigh-eighteen years upon this earth that really got me. The conversation proceeded to the point where we were finishing each-other’s sentences more often than not and also playing footsies under the table. Scandalous, I know given the lack of a tablecloth, but I was determined to enjoy as much of her as possible before she had, alas, to die.

“Are you two going to keep flirting or are you two going to move onto a main course any time soon?” Sunset asked, walking over to us.

“Ah!” Belle clasped her hands, “Sunset Shimmer! How kind of you to make an appearance, Darling.”

She crossed her arms. I noticed that she still wore her uniform. “We were supposed to meet by the fountain. During my break, three hours ago. Did you get lost?” she asked – gathering from how her glare shifted at me, I reckoned that question was rhetorical.

“Ladies need not be talented with directions, Sunset. That’s what men are for. That and affording expenses,” Belle said, nodding to where our collective mountain of brand-new clothes and cosmetics sat.

She palmed her face. “It’s a miracle how you two have survived for so long in this world. And its only been, like, eight hours.”

“Your point, Darling?” I shot back.

“My point in that the boss told me to ask whether or not you want the cheque and maybe a room because, between the pair of you, you’ve drank about two bottles of sake and half a Blue Label. That and you’ve been sharing the same plate of sushi for two hours now,” Sunset said, pulling a card machine from a pocket of her apron.

“Aren’t you going to ask how we are, Darling?” Belle replied, offended.

“No, because it looks like you two are actually doing fine getting done… whatever friendship problem you had to do. Also, I’m at work and, if you hadn’t noticed, Lyra is sitting a few tables over and, if she sees me, which she just has,” Sunset sighed, “I’m not going to be getting any work done for a while. That means I don’t get paid,” she muttered, “which means another night eating nachos and ramen.”

Lyra, true to form, yelled hello over from her table, waving and extricated herself from a sitting position that looked more like an advanced yoga pose than anything a carpenter ever intended for one to do with a chair. She bounded over, grinning maniacally, and proceeded to trip over her own cowboy boots upon spotting exactly who the pair of beauties arguing with Sunset were.

Sunset picked her up. Lyra looked no worse for wear. “O-M-G! There’s two of you, Rares!?”

“Je m’appelle Fleur dis Lis,” Belle Frenched.

“Don’t bother,” Sunset sighed again, “She knows.”

“This is totally awesome! You’re from the pony world!” Lyra said, jumping up and down a little, “Are you a unicorn?”

Belle grinned lecherously. “Am I ever.”

“C-can you tell me what it’s like?”

Belle’s grinned struggled. “Pardon? Do you mean, what it’s like to be a unicorn in Equestria? Why, it is simply marvellous, Darling! You can get away with anything. Well, nearly. Can’t stab people, unfortunately, despite the magnificent horn.”

“Yeah! I’ve always wanted to meet a real unicorn! One who doesn’t have me blocked on literally every social media,” Lyra babbled, shooting a look at Sunset, who merely shrugged.

My counterpart finished the remains of her fifth scotch and stood up from the table. “Well, Darling,” she said to Lyra, “I suppose I could tell you a thing or two.”

Lyra started hyperventilating. Good grief, I think I might have actually dodged a bullet trying to pursue her. Nobody should be able to smile that widely. Or vibrate. Both of which Lyra was doing, in addition to muttering “yes yes yes” under her voice repeatedly.

“On second thoughts, maybe you two can discuss… this somewhere else? Ideally, in a bathroom. One I don’t have to clean. Ever,” Sunset said and that was all the encouragement Belle needed. She took Lyra’s hand and I’m impressed the green girl didn’t explode or melt into a puddle right there.

Yes, I know it is tremendously tacky to sleep with somebody in a public bathroom. However, given that it is Lyra and she can do things with herself that most professional contortionists would think twice about attempting, an exception can be made. I just hope she doesn’t immediately tell everyone that this world’s version of Rarity Belle, fashionista extraordinaire, was the one to do the act. That would not be helpful.

Once the two of them had hurried off to do something that definitely did involve any noses getting powdered, Sunset turned back to me, eyebrows raised and all thought of a cheque getting paid forgotten.

“Yes, Darling? If the wind changes, are you positive that’s the expression you want to keep?” I asked.

Sunset sat down across from me, glare unchanging. She picked up a piece of sashimi and ate it, staring at me all the while. It occurred to me that a pony looking another dead in the eye and devouring a piece of raw flesh would probably be intimidating in her culture. However, I am not a pony. Yet, anyway – and I’ve also killed people.

“Ever so endearing, Sunset. It is no wonder Flash broke up with you.”

Sunset stopped chewing. She washed the piece of sushi down with a sip of sake, straight from the bottle. I’d chide her for that, but Princess Twilight had similar manners too. Perhaps it’s a magician thing?

“What did I tell you, Rarity Belle?” she growled.

“Many things, but going off the assumption that you’re using my full name because you are angry at me, it must have been something quite awful. Is this about the kaftan I promised you?”

She shut her eyes then, and hissed in a deep breath. Her hands crunched into the table’s wood. Her pendant glowed. “This… isn’t about the fucking kaftan, Rarity. That was seven months ago, the last time you promised me a damn dress. It’s about my journal!”

“Ah. Yes. Beautiful book that.”

“Yeah,” she smiled like a starved lion upon spotting a wounded gazelle, “it was. Until you set it on fire!”

“I did not do that.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Rarity.”

“Why didn’t you simply call me about this, Darling? As much as I appreciate it, there’s no need to make a fool of yourself in public.”

“Well, for starters, you never answer your phone.”

“You never call me when you have good news. It is always, ‘Rarity, where are you? Equestrian magic is on the loose and lives are in danger!’ Or its ‘Rarity, where are you? Practice started twelve seconds ago!’ Or, sometimes, it is ‘Rarity, where are you? You promised me a kaftan for the Fall Formal and it starts in half an hour and I don’t have it yet!’ Never good news, I must say. If you called me to just ask how I was, I might respond.”

Sunset ground her teeth. A vein in her head bulged. “I lent you my journal and you set it on fire. Why?”

“I needed to roll a cigarette,” I lied.

“A fucking cigarette!” Sunset screamed. Diner’s heads started to turn.

“Would you have me roll a blunt instead? Furthermore, how do you even know I did that?”

“Twilight sent a letter along with Spike, explaining the fire. And now because of your stupid nicotine habit, I’ve lost years of letters back and forth with her. Do you know what that feels like? To get told that your favourite book in the whole world just went up in smoke?” Sunset asked, slamming a fist upon the table.

“You must feel terrible, I must assume. I’ll be less negligent in future if it sets your heart right,” I answered.

She started. My phone chimed. I cut her off, taking the device out my bag to check the message – mostly to spite Sunset but I was also curious as to see if Sunny apologized to me yet.

It wasn’t Sunny. As a matter of fact, there were quite a few messages; mostly missed-call notifications from my mother but also two of some actual importance – one dating early this morning, before I even awoke, and dating a mere few seconds ago. Both were images. The latter was a selfie Lyra sent me of her locked in a kiss with Belle – because, of course, my reputation needs that proverbial punch in the tits. The former was somehow even more distressing.

Lightning Dust had sent it. It involved another selfie, yes, but she certainly wasn’t kissing anyone. Rather, she was seated beside a seemingly unconscious and bedridden young blonde, and she was sticking her tongue and making a particularly obscene gesture. Said girl, upon closer inspection, was Sugarcoat.

Fuck me.

The photo was captioned, I know what u did, Rarity. Prepare 2 die!

Fuck me a cactus.

Sunset, noticing the phone slip from my hand and clatter to the ground, promptly stuck out her hand and read my mind. Literally; she can do that. I can make glass discs out of thin air and she can read minds.

Fuck me a cactus that’s covered in flaming barbed wire.

Now, because she’s done this to me before, I know how it works. It is not a pleasant process in the slightest. It’s like watching a highlight reel of your biggest mistakes getting flipped through by a remote held by the most bored father on the planet come Sunday afternoon when there’s nothing good on – not even a snooker game. Furthermore, the magic paralyzes you when she does it and the memories are watched in real time as well. And no, you cannot close your eyes either. Minutes passed. Presumably, a crowd gathered. I saw Shamrock die again. I said Sugarcoat die again. Well, I thought I saw her die; apparently, I must be mistaken about that.

Then a thunderclap rang out through the mall. Reality returned with a jolt. Lurching forward and trying my hardest not to throw up half a plate of sushi and a few glasses of rice wine – a harder task than one might imagine given the nausea that follows a mind-rape – I saw Sunset draw back her hand, caressing her cheek with it as she stared up at a deeply peeved Belle.

My saviour. Any longer and Sunset might’ve figured out what I ended up doing with Shining’s car.

“What do you think you are doing, Darling,” she spat.

“She killed people,” Sunset slurred. I guess being snapped out of her spell mustn’t feel too good on her end either.

“I know that, Sunset Shimmer,” Belle lied, “Why do you think she specifically requested my presence? And before you dare to ask, it isn’t to help hide the bodies at all. She wanted to confess to somebody who she could trust. And, clearly, that person is not you.”

Sunset blinked.

As did I. By Chanel, I should genuinely consider drinking less. My innards feel like there’s a cyclone raging through them. Any more sake and they very well might become outards as I vomit them all up.

“Rarity, she’s planning-”

Belle snapped her fingers at her. “I have fought chaos gods, changeling queens, giant centaur vampires, and deranged teenage girls before. I can handle my own counterpart and, by the time I am done with her, she’ll be walking the straight and narrow better than you, yourself, can… Darling.”

Sunset sighed. “… Okay. Fair point.”

“A lady’s always are. Besides, beauty is a rarity, no matter what the world – no point in letting it succumb to evil. Now,” said Belle, pressing a wad of notes into Sunset’s shaking hand, “here’s a hundred dollars. Pardon the Prench, but fuck off and let me do my job.”

Sunset proceeded to do so. Belle led me out the mall and the back to the car. I was in quite the state, let me say, and without her I doubt I’d have made fourteen steps, let alone four storeys and across a boutique storefront without looking at it and possibly being violently ill. I fumbled the keys from my handbag and opened it. We both collapsed inside and then got out and got back in again after she accidentally climbed in the driver’s seat.

A minute passed. We each were silent; myself staring out the car window, out the parking garage and into the evening outside; and her adjusting her mascara in the mirror. She spoke first. I had my teeth gritted to keep the bile in my throat down. Is this what being hit by Harmony Magic feels like? If so, I can but all too well empathise with either world’s Discord now.

“Well then. Murder, ah?” Belle muttered, now fiddling with an eye pencil she’d bought not hours ago.

“Of course not, Darling.” I gulped.

“Sunset explained her… abilities while ferrying my luggage this morning. I trust her too, Darling, even if she shouldn’t be trusting me. So do tell, I love a bit of gossip.”

I sighed. “I ran somebody with a car.”

“How foul,” Belle frowned, “the gore must’ve gotten everywhere.”

“I still cannot get the stench of his blood out of nose.”

“Oh. You poor thing,” she laid a hand on my shoulder, “Do you need a minute. Some time to breathe, perhaps? Before we set off again?”

I shook my head. “A lady always manages. Besides, nobody else knows,” I lied – if I confessed, as much as I wanted to, that might just make her suspicious. And I couldn’t have that.

“Very well, Darling. Have you a hotel in mind?”

“Of course,” I lied, “Now would you mind telling me whatever happened to Lyra? I noticed she didn’t return with you.”

Belle grinned naughtily. “Oh, she’s likely still recuperating. The dear was a little overly enthusiastic and all. Dislocated her ah? Foreleg?”

“Forearm,” I corrected her.

“Yes. One of those. Twisted it right out the socket trying to photograph the pair of us. So, our session was cut a shade shorter than I’d have preferred. Still, lovely warmup though, especially for what I’ve got planned for you.” With that, Belle leaned over and kissed me.

It was then that I knew everything was going to be alright. She was head-over-heels for me and wouldn’t be suspecting a thing when I slashed her throat open. But I’ll do that next week – I’m sure I can spare a few days enjoying her company.

Still, sometimes I wish I was normal.

Belle’s eyes glinted in the garage’s gloom as she licked her lips. “You know, Rarity, nobody would know if we started now. I’m still ever so pent up after my affair earlier.”

But now is definitely not one of those times.

Author's Note

Right then. Second last chapter. Well... didn't think I'd get this far to be honest but here we are. I've had a good time writing it and I hope you have a good time reading it too.

10: A Happily Ever After

But we had to go home eventually. Another day and my mother was going to send the police after us and, well, I’ve had more than enough of them to last a lifetime. That and Belle wanted to fetch something out from one of the nineteen or so suitcases she’d brought along. I swear… some of those are large enough to hide a body.

Good grief, I cannot get that out of my mind. Every time I close my eyes I am presented with her face or – worse yet – that of Shamrock’s or Sugarcoat’s. Truly, this fear, not guilt mind you but fear, is not helping at all.

I sat up in bed, turning around and swinging my legs over the edge of it, drawing the sheets up over my bare chest to muffle my heart’s pounding. A warm breeze fluttered in from the penthouse suite’s open windows but it felt horribly cold against my back. Beside me, Belle lay, twirling a half-drunk flute of champagne between her fingers. She tapped a hand impatiently against the nightstand.

We were in a hotel – a good one, five stars, named The Canterhorn Palace if you, me, are ever in the area again. It was about noon, judging from the light beaming through the curtains and the hustle and bustle in the streets below. Antlike people rushed down sidewalks in search of lunch while beetle cars hummed and growled in the traffic jams beside them. Belle had awoken me with a bottle of Perrier, a smattering of kisses, and an altogether disturbing amount of cheer for somebody who was supposed to be my counterpart.

I am not a morning person. As pleasant an awakening as oral sex and sparkling wine is, I cannot say it exactly improved my disposition. My lover on the other hand seemed almost electrified with joy.

And said joy quickly faded into impatience. “Whatever is the matter, Rarity? Do you not like champagne?” she asked me.

“It isn’t that, Darling.” I didn’t turn to face her. “I’m just not a morning person, you see. As much fun as you are, I do very prefer said fun once the sun is past the yardarm.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Darling, but it is half past two now. Quite past the yardarm indeed. I had considered ordering breakfast but, well, that would cool by the time we… finished each-other off.”

“Oh,” I sighed, “Well then. Perhaps today just isn’t my day. We did get awfully tipsy last night. I fear it may have come back to bite me.”

“I suppose,” said Belle – I heard the clink of empty glass against brushed steel and polished oak, followed by the rustling of bedcovers. She laid a hand on my neck. That too was cold. Undead, almost. Running it down my spine elicited a shiver out of me.

“Ah!” I gasped – she nipped my ear.

“There we are, Darling. You’re melting in my hands again, wonderful. And I am sure you are well aware; beauty is a rarity in this world. There’s not better cure than beauty, no matter,” another nip, another gasp, “what the condition.”

I brushed her hand away. My stomach lurched. Did Sunset’s magic do something to me? This isn’t Harmony’s curse, is it? Come to think of it, that I really ought to check. After all, I haven’t ever felt this foul before – not after only one bottle, anyhow. I should go home. I should check to see if that geode of mine still functions. Perhaps its constructs can be morphed into something… sharper than mere shields? Something murderous maybe?

“We really ought to go home,” I said to Belle.

She pouted; oh my, was my face cute. “Must we, Darling? Our parents are positively insufferable. Surely one more day out couldn’t hurt?”

“They’ll call the police. I did technically steal their car.”

“Very well then,” Belle sighed, hopping off the bed and stretching. “I suppose I might as well collect the rest of my things too. No sense in letting my luggage go to waste mouldering in that dreadful house.”

“Precisely,” I said, “then, once we’ve consolidated everything and lied our way out of whatever punishment my mother has no doubt planned, then we can go back to savouring life, ah?”

“That sounds smashing. Positively murderously wonderful. And quite naughty to boot. You really are me.” Belle smiled, lecherously.

“I could say the same,” I sat up to meet her in a kiss. “It is ever so pleasant to finally have an equal.”

“To meet your match.”

“To find your other half.”

Another kiss. Hands travelled to the most luscious of places. A nip here and… down there. A moan or two. Belle tried to push my back down to the bed. I resisted and, just for a second before she gave up, I felt an off-putting amount of strength put into the gesture.

“Afterwards, Belle,” I insisted, “or I’ll be worrying about what I, what we, have to do the whole time. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Belle licked her lips. She blinked, those deep azure eyes of ours shut in thought for a second or two. “Correct,” she nodded, “let us sort out the small matter of family first before progressing this little friendship of ours any further, ah?”

“Indeed,” I stood up, collecting my dressing gown from where it lay crumpled on the hardwood floor. Having forgotten my last one at Sunny’s house, this one was also crimson – albeit of a far higher quality. Donning it, I felt like I was wearing the sunrise’s dawn rays themselves, almost like nothing it all. And my counterpart is permitted to walk around nude back home at all times? Truly, her world is a wonderous place. She must be capable of manipulating minds like bread dough with all of herself on display like that.

“Although, frankly, I nearly hesitate to think how it could progress any further after involving that table lamp last night. Nearly, anyhow. I’m confident you’ll come up with something,” Belle said with a wink.

“A lady is nothing if not resourceful,” I replied.

And that was that. After one particularly hot and steamy shower, we had packed our respective bags and. donned our respective outfits. For myself that was a black halter dress – replacing the one I’d sacrificed in murdering Shamrock – complete with matching Manolo Blahnik pumps and a complementary smattering of silver. Belle wore a charcoal grey suit – Saville Row if my memory serves correct – beneath a distressed leather coats. Completing the ensemble with a pair of riding boots raised gooseflesh on my skin. Oh my did she make the more masculine half of the wardrobe work beautifully; she did mention, alas, that it was merely a brief vacation between dresses though...

After that all – and a glass or two of champagne and complementary box of chocolates – we said farewell to our suite and had clambered back into my father’s car which, to my relief, had not been surrounded by officers of the law in the dozen or so hours it had spent in the Canterhorn’s parking lot. We drove home. To deal with my nerves – alas, it seemed that not even dalliances could remove them entirely – I flicked on the radio.

Immediately, I swapped it off its current station and turned back on the HMÜ mixtape. And to think, in one month I’d be performing with them on stage. Now that was something, was it not? From a rightly undersubscribed YouTube page and disintegrating pop group to crowds of adoring fans – no less than I deserved, I suppose. After all, beauty is not limited to simply visuals…

“Good grief, Darling! Is this radio of yours malfunctioning?” Belle said, nearly screaming as we drove.

I cast a glance at it. It looked fine to me. “Not that I can tell, no.”

“Well, do turn change the station then. Do you not have classical music in this plane of existence?”

“… I thought you might appreciate the genre. It’s called symphonic. Its rather popular in certain parts of the world, Rome for instance.”

“When in Roam then, Darling. But oh please, not here. That dreadful racket’s going burst my eardrums apart.”

Suddenly I feel less foul about having to kill her. I shut off the radio. We drove the rest of the way, across town, in silence.

We arrived to the most pleasant of sights. Well, as pleasant as a flamingo-strewn lawn can ever be. However, there were no vehicles in the driveway. That meant the family was out – no doubt my parents were trying to appease my sister with some dreadful trip to an arcade or amusement park. However, that also meant I needn’t have that confrontation with them right now. I parked the car in its space and climbed out and set about unlocking the house.

“I do wonder where they put Spike though,” Belle muttered, “Perhaps they left him the garage like a spare chariot?”

“It would be a possibility. You’d need to clear out all the junk my father stores in there first though. He’s got memorabilia that room that’s older than I am. And, before you ask, a great deal less expensive,” I explained, still fiddling with the front door – had the lock been replaced or something?

“Not unsurprising. My own father also hoards the most useless of junk. He had gotten into buckball the last time I cared to hear from him. Of course, he was overjoyed to discover I personally knew Pinkie and Fluttershy. They’re stars of the sport in my universe, for whatever reason. I designed their uniforms as a matter of fact, as well as those for the cheerleaders. Quite the commission indeed I got from that. It financed a private concert from the Canterlot Philharmonic Orchestra. Truly remarkable stuff. Trenderhoof was overjoyed when I took him. I was overjoyed at what he produced afterwards, in a manner of speaking,” Belle rambled.

“Wonderful indeed,” I said, giving the jammed door a light kick open. No doubt my father’s own DIY attempt at fixing it only further damaged the frame. “There we go.”

“Thank you, Darling. Ladies first,” she said, extending a hand.

“Why? Aren’t you a lady all of a sudden?”

Belle put her hand to her chin, looking up towards the sky as she thought of what to say – really, did my teeth sparkle like that? I should hope so.

“You are the lady of the house,” she decided. “Its only fair, unless you were planning to carry me across the threshold of the house.”

“Perhaps next week,” I lied, as I started inside. “And then, only if you plan on staying.”

“Oh, but I do, Darling,” Belle said, shutting the door behind her. And what a relief that was; if she was planning on making a new life here, co-opting said life would be a trifle, honestly. Is she seriously intending for me to kill her or something of the like?

I had made it just into the living room when I caught sight of myself in the television’s reflection. Of course, I stopped to take a look. This may very well be the last day I need spend in this house, if everything goes to plan – one last check-up couldn’t hurt. And yes, my hair was perfect. Perfectly lustrous, it positively sparkled in the lamplight and shimmered next to my earrings – today those were a pair of silver obelisks inset with jade. Except, in the reflection, turning my head slightly to see if the hickey I’d acquired earlier was actually worth warranting a scarf, there were three obelisks – three lengths of glinting white metal instead of two.

Wait one single second…

That is not an earring!

I ducked just in time for the machete to swing past my skull and bury itself in the flatscreen. I spun around to face my attacker – none other than myself: Belle.

“Well now,” she said, grinning lecherously, “you’re almost as smart as I look, Darling. No matter though, no matter at all. I am still smarter.”

She ripped the machete out from the ruined slab of destroyed electronics, twirling and flicking it like she would not do doubt to get my blood off of it – if I had intention of letting her.

I took a step back as she did so, scanning the room for anything useful. My handbag I’d left in the car, along with the rest of my purchases so clonking her with that was right out. Besides, I’m not exactly sure how effective that’d be. My counterpart looks disturbingly eager to injure me.

“You have two choices here,” Belle began, stalking forwards, “Either submit to your death and oh… well I shan’t make it quick, no you’re too pretty for that, but I do promise I’ll make it fun. For me, anyhow.”

“And the other choice?” I asked.

“I’ll flay you alive and wear your skin as a coat!” she screamed, lunging forward.

I tried to sidestep her. I almost succeeded, until the blade tore into my arm with the sound of tearing flesh. Pain burst into the cut a second later – I screamed, clasping the wound and stumbling back away from the madwoman.

True to psychopathic form, Belle licked the blood off. “Oh my, I do taste delicious… let that be a lesson to you for refusing me.”

I spotted an umbrella sitting in its stand and started inching towards it as my counterpart gloated. “You’re doing this because… what? I put off having sex for a few hours so we could deal with some very important familial issues? You’re insane!”

Belle approached, the knife glowing in her hand. “Yes and no, Darling. Yes, I plan to slice you apart over a collection of relatively minor grudges but no, I’ll be perfectly lucid while doing it. Now be a good victim and pick a side.”

“What?” Only a few steps to the umbrella now.

“A side. Left or right? I’ll take those fingers off you last.”

“Not a snowball’s chance of that, Darling!” I spat at her.

“Left it is!” she cheered, swinging the machete down. I whipped the umbrella from its stand and parried. The blade crunched into it, nearly splitting the wooden shaft in twain and sending a bolt of pain through my arm – good grief, I hope that doesn’t leave a scar!

“What is your problem?” I screamed.

“You!” went the reply, “You having the audacity to ruin my escape plan, Darling. Through that little stunt of yours earlier, there’s no bloody point in me seeking haven in this world now. No matter which one I am in, it seems I’m still a murderer.”

We struggled then; her for her knife, myself to keep it from her. Back and forth was tugged the umbrella, cracks appearing and slivers splintering off it as we fought for control.

“Can we not figure something out here?” I asked.

“Oh, we can,” Belle sneered, “However, it involves me dragging your corpse through the portal as proof that I’ve apprehended Diamond’s murderer. I cannot possibly think of a single reason to keep you around and intact.”

Oddly enough, that was just about exactly my plan to deal with my own murders as well. Still, Diamond Tiara? Here she’s a genuinely likeable person – a proper lady in training and whatnot; somebody to keep my idiot sister in line – certainly not worth the effort to murder. Like myself, really. But less cute.

I released the umbrella, letting it and the knife fly back into my attacker’s face. If only the latter was pointing in the opposite direction though, then I might have won there and then. Never mind; opportunity still knocked. And Rarity Belle, fashionista extraordinaire, answered. It would be dreadfully unfashionable not to.

Springing forward, I punched Belle in the teeth. Something cracked. Hopefully it was her fangs and not my knuckles. She stumbled back further; hand pressed to her lips to wipe away the blood. We both panted for a second or two, staring each-other down. Then we spotted the machete.

Another knock – I dove for it. She… didn’t?

My fingers had just wrapped themselves around its handle when her boot crashed into my jaw. I was wrenched backwards and it turns out that having your head punted like a football really fucking hurt. I saw stars. In fact, I saw planets, asteroids, moons and the whole bloody solar system by the time I landed back down on the floor with a crunch.

It felt like somebody lit off a firework in my skull. Lights flickered. Blood pooled in my mouth. Coughing, I spat out a tooth. And then another. I gasped in agony, trying to scramble back to my feet.

Knife in hand and a demonic smile plastered across her angelic face, Belle sauntered over and, before I could react, she stabbed a heel on my chest. And she wore stilettos.

“Well played, Darling. Honestly, for some reject baboon copy of yours truly, you put up an excellent fight. If it weren’t for your Celestia-damned awful taste in music, I’d almost hesitate murdering you,” she said, pressing the knife heel of her boot further into my chest.

I grit my teeth – I was not going to give her the satisfaction of hearing me scream. Not after last night anyhow. Surely there was a way I could get out of this?

“But you know what we say, us ladies, do you not?” Belle gloated, kneeling down – still half on top of me – to trace the machete’s tip across my throat, “Beauty is a rarity in this world.”

“Then… why are you trying to kill me?” I spat back.

“Because it is a Rarity. And there can only be one of her, Darling. And that one is me! Face it, I am stronger than you, I am smarter than you, and I am a great deal sexier as well. You lose.” With that, she began pressing the steel edge into neck, bit by bit, inch by inch, breath by breath.

Looking into her eyes, those massive sparkling sapphire stars, I realized something: she was right. As much as I had wanted to lie to Sunset two days ago, it seemed that I couldn’t – and I was going to die for my efforts. If doing so wouldn’t have let the point break my skin, I would’ve broken into tears.

But ladies do not cry. Not when the mask is off anyhow and there’s nobody around to save them except themselves. No, ladies snatch Victory from the jaws of Defeat and then slam said jaws shut as to lop of Defeat’s tongue as punishment for wasting her valuable time.

Her other foot was planted firmly on my hand but that still meant I had an arm spare. A wounded arm, yes, and bile swirled up my throat as I spotted a pinkish-white glint of bone in the cut, but an arm nonetheless. And, subsequently, the fist attached to it. Aiming for her head, I threw it up at her.

She caught it inches away from her eye and broke a second later into laughter. “Ha! Honestly, aren’t you just the cutest? You’re like a cat, Rarity, one who doesn’t know how outclassed they truly are by the lioness atop them. Now squirm like one.”

My arm slick with blood, she had no trouble sliding her hand down it and digging her nails into the cut. When they clawed into raw nerve, I screamed. I didn’t know that anything could hurt that much. And the worst part was that I could barely struggle against it. She had me trapped; a wrong move and my throat will be cut!

Eventually, after what felt like hours, she slid her hand out of my flesh. My arm crumpled to the ground. Tears streamed down my face, mixing into wine with the blood seeping from my cracked teeth. I was going to die. And I was going to die a mess as well.

I’d always thought I’d be marching to the gallows with my head held high, not lying on the ground, about to be cut to pieces by my own evil twin – and I thought I was the evil one!

“Only one question remains, Darling? Exactly how much can deface your pretty little body before it becomes unrecognizable. Before my excuse of self-defence becomes unbelievable? I doubt they’ll miss a few fingers and toes; we have hooves back there anyhow,” Belle sneered, tracing her bloodsoaked hand over my cheek.

I coughed. “At least allow me the courtesy of some last words, Darling. Please. The rules of etiquette entitle me to that much.”

She was unmoving – but not unspeaking. “Oh, if you must. Say whatever tripe you intend to and have solace in knowing that I’ll probably forget it come the next bottle of cognac I drink.”

Well, I’d bought myself another second at least. Only… what the fuck could I say that was going to get me out of here? There wasn’t any person around to save me now.

I sighed, my gaze floating past my counterpart’s manic stare and up over to the mantel. Beneath it, as per the house’s design, was the fireplace. Honestly, I should’ve gone for the poker instead of the umbrella. But it’s too late for that. If I had to die, in agony and utter humiliation, I was at least going to do that staring at something properly beautiful. My gaze settled on a framed drawing, one of my own; the one Belle had dismissed yesterday. It depicted a girl, vaguely intended to be an older and grander version of myself, wearing a glittering white ballgown beneath a magnificent fur coat. I’d intended it to be genuine fur, preferably courtesy of a genuine wolf; I’d even added its ears to the garment as epaulettes, as well as trimming the dresses hem with the hypothetical beast’s tail.

Yes, a beautiful dress. If there is an afterlife and I am permitted to attend it, I shall do so wearing that outfit. A lady deserves nothing less, after all, than the snappiest of attire. I mean, it even had a necklace of fangs – snapping!

“You have no last words, do you?” Belle asked, pressing her heel into my chest again and ramming another bolt of pain into me.

“Not really.” I coughed – there was blood in it. “Just be quick-”

Wait! A wolf. There’re no people around, granted, but there is a wolf in this house.

“Spike!” I screamed, “Spiiiiiike! Help!”

“Oh. Buck. I’d forgotten about that waste of good dragon hide,” Belle muttered, snapping her head up.

Counting the entrance hall leading to the front door, the living room had five doorways leading into it – the garage, the kitchen, the dining room, and one to upstairs. And, in a second or two, Spike would come bounding down one of them, barking up a terrifying storm, and would rip Belle to shreds. After all, we were basically identical twins. And she was trying to kill me. Well, I was trying to kill her too but she was, alas, a great deal more successful than I was in that regard.

Seconds passed. My heart pounded like a galley drum. Each breath felt like poured fire down my throat. My arm blazed with agony. Both Belle and I scanned the doorways, eyes trained on every shadow, muscles tightening at every creak and shudder the house produced.

But Spike did not arrive.

Belle turned back to me after a minute of trepidation, leering despite the trail of blood leaking down from her torn lips. I knew wearing rings today would come in hand. Alas, not handy enough.

“Are you prepared for the death you’ve earned, Darling?” Belle sneered.

“Take that hunk of metal away from my neck and my opinion shall be very different, Darling.” I spat out the last word. Just like Windhoek, it now tasted like poison. If I lived, I was going to need a new epithet. Hopefully Sunny wouldn’t be opposed to sharing hers…

Belle giggled in response. “Rarity Belle, if I really wanted your opinion, I would have given it to you.”

With that, she cut of my reply, staring again to cut my neck open. Still sat atop me, she sawed at my neck, one layer of skin at a time. It was agonizing – both the pain and the humiliation. I die, and I don’t even die with a with an insult on my lips. Only blood.

I almost hope she carves up my jugular soon, and just gets this done with…

Thwack! A door slammed open.

Stunned, her machete clattered to the ground. Belle then shot to her feet with a flurry of confused cursing. My hands shot to my throat. Tenderly probing the skin, I realized that I wasn’t going to die any time soon – not from exsanguination anyhow. I looked up; Spike hadn’t arrived. However Lightning Dust had.

And she was none too happy to see either of us, not to mention also armed with quite the nasty looking sawed-off shotgun.

“Sup, motherfuck… ers?” Lightning blinked. I doubt she’d expected to see two of us.

Belle raised her hands, putting on what was probably not an entirely insincere terrified grimace. “Je m’appelle Fleur di-” she began.

She only ever got that far, because Lightning proceeded to shoot her point-blank. Belle flew across the room and the hole the buckshot tore in her made her land in more than one single chunk of dead extradimensional fashionista when she hit the floorboards. Then Lightning shot her again, right in the chest. And there were so few perfect pairs of breasts in this world… Hopefully possessing a set doesn’t correlate to her poor choice of last words.

“Yeah. No. That’s what you get for icing my brother, you brother-murdering cunt,” Lightning swore.

I breathed a sigh of relief. She thought Belle was me!

“And now…” Lightning took her sunglasses off to rub her eyes, “the fuck are you supposed to be? And just, like a word of advice, if you’re also a Canadian, French or otherwise, you’re gonna die. Bob Williams, you know, from Calgary, he won the Indy 500. The race I was supposed to win. So yeah, I ain’t too fond of Canucks right now.”

I cleared my throat. Then I wiped the blood off of my face.

“I’m Rarity too,” I said, “but before you think of shooting me, I am the Other Rarity. The one who didn’t kill your… brother?”

Lightning’s frown didn’t fade. However, she did nod, as she loaded another pair of shells into the break action. “Go on,” she ordered.

Not ladylike, I know, but neither was getting your head blown off.

“Okay, so… you know about the interdimensional portal right?”

“Shit. That things real? I thought Indy just popped a stale edible or something and tripped to Narnia and back.”

“Well, if it helps you conceptualize it, yes. Narnia. Well, more so Equestria but the general point remains. I am that world’s Rarity Belle, here on vacation,” I said, forcing myself to my feet. Swooning, and not because I was faking it, I leant against the mantelpiece for support.

“So… you’re like that one’s evil twin?” Lightning asked, gesturing at Belle’s corpse in a remarkable display of disregard for trigger discipline. But, then again, shooting her more couldn’t really hurt.

“Yes. Wait! No. She’s the evil twin! I am the good one.”

Lightning narrowed her eyes. “Prove it.”

Good grief, what the fuck was I supposed to say?

“Ah… um… you see… like, well, now… I was losing that fight.”

“That’s your proof? You’re like, not a psycho killer but you got your ass kicked by the prissiest girl this side of the Rockies?”

“Yes! I am the good twin, remember? Of course, I’d have less experience fighting to kill if I do not kill people. Ever.” I explained.

“You know, that actually sort of makes sense.”

“Yes, most things do when a lady says them.”

“So, like, you were innocent in that whole thing?”

Time to be nothing more than a pretty face. I played dumb, “Ah, maybe? What thing are you referring to?”

Lightning frowned harder. “The running-over-my-brother-thing. That thing. Also come to think of it, the killing-or-trying-to-kill-this-chick-Sugarcoat-thing. That too.”

“No idea what you are talking about, I’m afraid,” I lied, “I only arrived here last… last week. Yes, counting the days, last week. I haven’t the faintest what she did to your brother or this other girl. My condolences though, that really must be awful.”

“Yeah. It is. Anyway…” Lightning looked at the room’s carnage for a second or two, “yeah. Now what?”

I pointed to myself. “You’re asking me, Dar-Dearie?”

“Well… I mean, I got nothing,” Lightning shrugged, “Was planning just to turn up and blast Rarity’s skull open if nobody else was here. And like, if Uncle Hondo was here, say hi, then kidnap his daughter and blast her skull open. Dump her ass in the desert afterwards. Simple unless, well, shit like you happens.”

I chose to ignore the insult. “Ah. I see. Well, rest assured I don’t plan on telling anyone about… this whole mess,” I lied, “I do owe you that much for saving my life and all. Say, could I bother you for a lift actually? Being from a world of ponies I can’t say I ever learned to drive. And, given the amount of blood I’ve lost, I hesitate to say that would be a good idea even if I knew the gas pedal from the brake.”

Lighting pulled her phone from her pocket and checked it. “Sure thing, kid. I don’t got anywhere else to be for a few hours. Also, you want a bandage for the cut or something?”

“You know first aid? Oh, yes. Of course, you know first aid, the amount of scraps you get into.”

Lightning stopped. Her fingers slid back over the Winchester’s trigger. “What’s that mean? ‘Of course?’ We haven’t met before… unless,” her gaze wandered over to Belle, “she’s the Rarity from this Equestria place.”

Pardon the French and whatnot but motherfucking son of a whore! I nearly had it! But no, I just had to screw this up at the last second.

“Well? You been fucking with me, Rarity? Are you, like, actually the ‘you’ I think you are?”

“No,” I lied, clasping my arm, “I-it was a slip of the tongue. I know, well, I know your counterpart. She’s quite a contentious per-pony. I naturally assumed that, well, given the shotgun and all, you might share some of her traits.”

Lightning lowered the gun. “Oh. Okay. So I did shoot the right one?”

“Yes! And I would very much appreciate a good bandaging, do you know how much getting stabbed hurts?”

“Uh, yeah? I got stabbed by a raghead back while I was touring in Kabul. Mujahedeen fucker bayonetted me with a kitchen knife,” Lightning clapped her bare shoulder – where there was indeed a nasty scar – “so I shoved a flashbang down his gullet. Kaboom!”

“Alright then. Let me pretend I know what that means.”

“It means I forced him to eat a stun grenade for attacking me with, y’know, the knife strapped-”

“Never mind,” I interrupted. “Let me just fetch the kit from the bathroom now, before I faint.”

I rushed off before Lightning could regale me with any more of her exploits. Finding myself in the kitchen, I happened to nearly tread on Spike – who happened to be lying beside a pool of brown-tinted vomit on the tiles. The remains of Sweetie Belle’s birthday cake were splattered across his muzzle. Ah, yes. That’s right; dogs are allergic to coffee and chocolate. Naturally being a dragon, I doubt he realized that before helping himself to a slice.

Gingerly, I stepped over him. Best to let sleeping dogs lie in this case, if he isn’t dead already, that is. He certainly did not appear to be breathing at all.

The first aid kit was where I left it – underneath the bathroom sink. That I collected and, on my way back to the living room, I stole a bottle of Port from the bar. It was a gift from my uncle and it was good stuff too, or so I was told – he intended for it to be opened the day I graduated high school. But, seeing as I am technically a fugitive now, this is as close as I’ll ever get. Kit under my bad arm, I helped myself to a few swigs of the dessert wine before tossing the bottle aside. It hit the tiles with a crunch, splashing blood-crimson alcohol across the floor.

Apparently, it wasn’t as good as I thought for the past decade of my life – being both tiresomely sour and disappointingly bland. Although I could say the same for most things. Not even my Other Self lived up to expectations.

Lightning proved a remarkably competent medic and also, by warrant of her IQ being roughly equivalent to that of raw toast, an excellent way of practicing my cover story.

“So, you’re ruled by, like, a unicorn with wings back there?” she asked for the third time, as tied and pinned the bandage on my arm in place.

“Indeed. Twilight’s been our dictator for… oh… a good year now?”

“Huh. And here she’s some loser friend of my sister’s.”

“Well, I’d still keep an eye on her if I were you. That girl has quite the mean streak, you know. She mistook me for my counterpart and put me through the third degree over some… arbitrary allegation. Apparently, she,” I said, pointing with my free hand to Belle, “stole some officer’s car.”

“Yeah… She torched it too. I saw it myself. I mean, that’s pretty cool I am not gonna lie,” Lightning said, after peering nervously over her shoulder for the fifth time in as many minutes.

“Ah, Dearie, what are you looking at?” I asked.

“Trying to figure out if Hondo’ll be back soon,” she explained.

The pang of realization hit me like a freight train. I gulped down more than just the lump forming in my throat.

“You know, we really should get going,” I said.

Lightning nodded. “Yeah. It would really sick if he turned up now. I mean, he’s a cool dude. I don’t want to have to shoot him. He wouldn’t be making any more of his newspaper columns if I did that. Unless, like… I just kneecapped him?”

I brushed her hand aside and stood up from the couch, where we were sitting. “Let me just get my things, Dar-Dearie. I had a bit of luggage and, well, if I must make myself scarce, I’d rather not have to do it wearing,” I pointed down to the torn mess of my outfit, “this.”

“A’ight. Have fun. Say, do you play that though?” she asked, pointing to the harp lying lengthways atop the stack of Belle’s luggage – it had all been shoved into an alcove in the hall, beside the hat stand and coat rack. “Because, like, there’s this rock band, HMU? They got a harp player in them. Some chick with a weird name? Larry, Lena, Laura... Awesome music anyway.”

I was just about to chide the gun-toting vigilante for babbling when the penny dropped. And it left quite the impact crater indeed. I allowed myself a grin – after all, was Lyra not utterly enthralled by the Other Rarity? So much so that she’d fuck her in a public bathroom mere minutes after she’d made her acquaintance? Yes. Yes, she was.

“I know her actually. Come to think of it, I had even promised her a visit,” I tossed Lightning the car keys, “Be a dear and load that all into my car and I am positive I can arrange a meeting between you and her.”

It was Lightning’s turn to smile. “You got it, kid. And thanks for the getaway vehicle too. That thing looks way better than a taxi.”

“My pleasure, Miss Dust. Now don’t go and leave while I’m powdering my nose,” I said, heading off again.

A minute or two later I was in my room. After freshening up a little – washing the blood off of my face, redoing my makeup to hide the bruises, putting my hair back in order, and changing out of the second dress I’d had ruined in two weeks – I realized that there wasn’t really that much I wanted to take; everything seemed so dull now, so common, so mundane. One bag I filled with everything of actual value I possessed, mostly jewellery and designer clothing, and it was still half empty by the time I was done. I packed a few necessities as well, nicking my geode and my father’s pistol out of the safe, and that was that. Rather disappointing – seventeen years and all I had to show for it was a kitbag of nice, but not that nice, things.

Sighing, I nodded goodbye to the place. I was just about to get sentimental when I spotted my mother’s car drawing down the street. I sprinted downstairs, out the door, and found that Lightning had just finished loading the harp into the car’s trunk. Immediately, I hopped into car and told her to follow.

“They’re coming,” I hissed.

“Got it, kid. This ain’t my first rodeo,” she replied, buckling herself into the driver’s seat and starting the car. Two seconds later and we were speeding down the road. Twenty and we had blitzed right passed my family. I made an obscene gesture.

Good riddance, you loathsome people!

Only Sweetie Belle noticed me. They didn’t follow. A second passed and they were out of my life forever. A weight lifted from my soul.

“So, like, where are we going exactly?” Lightning asked.

I gave her Lyra’s address.

It was raining by the time we reached her estate – a deep and choking blanket of icy grey rain, drowning away the world’s dust and sunlight both. I only had to smile at the guard for him to open the gate; he’d been expecting me, apparently. Lightning pulled the car into the garage and we both stepped out, but it did it a great deal more carefully than her. After all, it had been one of those days; nothing in my stomach but chocolate and hard liquor and nothing on my conscience at all despite the corpse I’d left behind. Despite the life I was going to leave behind.

I knocked on the door to the antebellum-style mansion. Of course, the knocker was horse’s head. Really, this girl. Utterly mad. But better to have the mad on my side than that of the law’s, anyhow.

A minute passed. My heart behind to pound. Lightning stood to one side, under the porch, arms crossed and foot tapping furiously, a cigarette drooping from her lips. The storm thundered on.

Eventually, the doors swung open to reveal Lyra herself. Her smile was beaming hard enough to turn the day’s clock back to a sunny noontime and she seemed to be struggling not to jump with joy.

“Hi Rarity!” she managed.

“Good evening, Dearie,” I said, giving her a hug, “I hope this isn’t inconvenient, but I am in dire need of a bit of charity right now. You see, see my human counterpart and I had a bit of a disagreement and, well, since you were ever so polite earlier, I thought I might as well seek sanctuary at your abode.”

Lightning rolled her eyes. “Understatement of the century.”

Lyra stared blankly at us both.

“I’m a pony. I’ve to stay a while!” I explained.

“Awesome!” Lyra cheered, “Come on in, please. You’ve gotta be soaked out there, Rarity. And, uh… you too, Miss?”

“Dust. Lightning Dust,” she said, pointing to herself, “You know, the Formula One driver? Son of three-time Grand Prix winner Red Tailspin and Air Force Commander Spitfire? That Lighting Dust.”

Lyra extended a hand. “I’m Lyra,” she smiled, “Lyra Heartstrings. I like horses.”

“No shit,” Lightning muttered, casting glances over to the track and stables in the estate grounds, the horsehead knocker, and then down to Lyra’s riding boots.

Well, if one only has one personality trait...

“Yeah. I also play the harp.”

“I know. Can I get an autograph for that one?” Lightning asked.

“Like, sure! Let’s do that inside? It’s about teatime anyway.” Lyra said, starting back in. We both followed her and found ourselves in a living room far grander and less blood-soaked than my own. Well, that which had been my own.

Tea followed, as did small talk. As I presume all egoists do, Lightning steadily grew more and more frustrated that Lyra was paying attention to me and not to her. Eventually it led to the point in which she stood up and marched out the house; fortunately, she took the stolen and now-emptied car with her, kidnly tying up that loose end.

Once she was gone, Lyra turned back to me, placing a hand a little higher on my thigh than I expected anyone to at six pm. “Wanna pick up where we left off?” she asked.

“Of course, Dearie. Shall we head upstairs?” I said, taking her hand.

Lyra’s smile nearly shattered her face. “Yes!”

“Music to my ears, Dearie. That harp’s yours, by the way. Consider it payment for service about to be…” I grinned, “… rendered.”

Author's Note

And we are at an end! Thanks for reading along lads and lassos. I had a great time writing this and I hope you had a great time reading it too. Rest assured that there will be an epilogue but, until then, have a good morning.

Epilogue

Canterlot City looked quite sad now, like a little piece of magic had been cut out of it one night while it slept beneath a stormcloud blanket. Under a perpetual fog of grim anxiety, the citizens walked with heads hung low and heels bent to break into a life-or-death sprint at any given second. The murders had shocked the populace, drained all the colour from their facades, left them cautious and weary. Although only a year had passed since the deaths of one Rarity Belle and Shamrock Kicks, most people look as if five had passed - five stressful years, necks crooked from constantly glancing over shoulders and behind corners, eyes bagged from sleepless nights and uncertain mournings. The myth that the magical city was one of joy and eternal G-rated Saturday mornings was dead and, with it, the trumpets of war had been sounded inaudibly.

Although the human world had no idea, it wasn’t their Rarity had been shot to bits one chill suburban afternoon and left, in a pool of her own steaming blood, for her supposed parents to encounter that evening. Rather, the once Formula One driver and now convict Lightning Dust had killed a rather important emissary; an Element of Harmony; a friend. And, power being what it was - that being more addictive that crack-laced heroin and more tempting to misuse than a whole bag of the narcotic stuff - it had gone to the new Princess’s head.

Spies wandered the grey streets of Canterlot, noting and document and recording and, most of all, preparing. Sunset Shimmer, now a relatively successful solo act, might have once had the idea to invade her homeland with an army of zombified teenagers - Twilight Sparkle, now a dictator who made King Sombra look like Ghandi, planned to invade the woman’s new home with an army of crack troops and magically-enhanced artillery. Across the portal, in a world crumbling from the destruction of its balanced harmony and one of its bearers thereof, millions awaited deployment.

But nobody on the other side knew that. Not even the General’s own counterpart, one Captain Shining Armor. He was oblivious, to that at least. Otherwise, had become fairly sharp - and fairly distinguished to boot. For his service in solving the Case of the Grand Theft Auto Killer; recovering the culprit’s remains and putting her own murderer behind bars; he had been promoted to commissioner of his city’s force and now enjoyed success equivalent to, and a bigger house than, that of his father’s. Not that he saw her much these days, both were so busy, but he would also insist that his wife was beautiful.

Said wife, still Cadance, was busy namely because she had taken on some rather serious reforms. Intent on stopping any more miscreants before such mayhem could happen again, ensuring that all her students could for once complete a year in which they all graduated alive and uninjured, she enforced some rather serious policy changes to the school she principaled - in the past year, Crystal Prep Academy’s growing spirit of camaraderie and cheer had been stamped out. Anything that would put the students at risk - anything that would enable another Rarity Belle - was prohibited. Dating, partying, even bunking classes; all were threatened with suspension, and followed through with expulsion.

How fortunate it was then that her own sister-in-law, one Twilight Sparkle, had graduated in the terms before such Cinch-like dictates were reinforced. Never having felt properly comfortable in the Rainbooms band she had left it soon afterwards - like Fluttershy had for Brazil’s rainforests and Sunset had for her own wanderlust - and Twilight had accompanied her girlfriend, one Sunny Flare, to the prestigious Everton University. There the two did fantastically, each knocking out an entire degree in eight months. First Sunny invented holographic clothing, Twilight a handheld lie detector. Then it was a hangover pill.

The other Shadowbolts, save for Sour Sweet who had at most a bit part in this story and thus shan’t be discussed, also did rather well for themselves. After at last attaining the autograph of one Billy Club, PI, Indigo Zap went on to have a particularly distinguished career - performing well enough to make herself famous not once but three whole times; an extra face on the front page news for each of her incapacitated siblings. Whether it was BMX, pro wrestling, or soccer, she excelled and managed, quite single handedly, to bring her family name back into good standing.

Sugarcoat, meanwhile, wrote a movie and called it Crystal Apocalypse [link] that was based on some quite odd coma dreams she’d had while stuffed in the stolen police car. Although it bombed, it remained a staunch cult classic and kicked off her career as a talk show host. There, on the ingeniously-named Sugarcoat Show, she gave mediocre advice to fantastic reception, being renowned for her blunt no-nonsense attitude and deadpan sense of humor. One time, she even managed to score an interview with self-proclaimed party rocker extraordinaire, and her old schoolmate, Lemon Zest.

Her band, Heavy Metal Ümlat - which she insisted had been spelled like that, that being incorrectly, on purpose - had done fairly well. In fact, it was world famous and ranked itself among such greats as Motörhead, Iron Maiden, and Black Sabbath, as one of the most influential metal bands of all time; despite, or perhaps because of, being a girl-band whose keyboardist claimed to be from another dimension and who regularly found herself appearing in scandals the likes of which even Italian politicians might think twice about initiating. Why, just last week alone, Rarity Belle - the Other one - had managed to crash her speedboat. Into the penthouse floor. From a helicopter!

But that was last week; this week and this morning, the self-proclaimed fashionista extraordinaire puffed her second cigarette of the day, spitting a nimbus of menthol smoke into the funk of her hotel room. Beside her, her girlfriend and regular partner in crime, Lyra Heartstrings moaned an eye open to stare at her lover.

“Why’d you stop, Rares?” she mumbled, lifting her face up off the pillow and pulling the covers back over her naked body.

Rarity paused for a minute. She sighed, brushing a fringe of amethyst hair out of her face as to better enjoy the dawn seascape roiling some hundred storeys below, the grey-pink waves nearly lapping sand and salt spray at the hotel’s foundations while the storm raged hail and heartache against the windows above. For a few seconds, she remembered the last time she’d awoken in this particular penthouse suite. Most of it, she recalled fondly – the preceding afternoon, not so much at all. Pulling herself up a bit, Lyra accidentally ran a hand over the lace of scars running down her girlfriend and bandmate’s forearm. That called for a shiver in response – and not a sexual one either.

“Did I do something wrong, my little pony?” the harpist asked, glancing nervously at the way her partner coolly stared and smoked.

“No, not at all,” Rarity eventually replied as the rains began to thunder down and blot out the scarlet skies, “Darling, you’re perfect.”

Quickly, she grinned. Faster, it faded to a frown. “Then what’s wrong?” Lyra repeated, turning fully to face her, drawing her into a hug. “I mean, you can tell me. Nobody will know.”

“Fret not, my dearest. I’m just really not a morning person. And, who would be, given that just night we… ah,” she paused for a few seconds as the haze of memories clarified through her hangover, “eighteen bottles of champagne, was it? I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

That and she still couldn’t get the smell of their blood out of her nose. She killed more since then, but had done a great deal of a better job hiding the bodies. Still, best to lay low with Commissioner Armor on the warpath again, catching “spies” right and left.

But lied to for the umpteenth time and being more aware of the wars fought in alternate dimensions that the deception – that being not at all – Lyra merely sighed relief. After releasing her lover with a kiss, she sprung out of bed to meet the day and to prepare for the evening’s concert. While she did that – fumbling on some suitably punk apparel over her lingerie – Rarity sighed.

The sociopath sniffed back a tear. “Sometimes…” she whispered, quite enough to be muffled out under the commotion outside.

Sometimes, she wished that she was normal.

But that will never happen.

Author's Note

And there we go. The story is done. Thanks for sticking around, mates. With luck and patience, this all shall hopefully be converted into original fiction and published one of these days. Until then, I've been Leroy and this has been Paper Girl.