Chapter 2View OnlineThe Cat Is Dead.Chapter 2It's a Friday. Or perhaps Tuesday? Whatever the time may or may not be, Rarity finds herself in a fashion frenzy. There are five separate commissions that need to be finished by the end of the week, and there are even more clients lining up with oodles of bits to spare. These are projects that can only be done by a professional. Coco Pommel and Sassy Saddles have offered to help, but Rarity simply can't afford any mistakes. At least—she assumes that's what they were writing her about. There's a stack of envelopes at the front door of her Manehattan apartment with her business partners' names on it; Rarity hasn't opened them. There just isn't any time. Rarity levitates a veritable forest of pins, needles, thread, and silks all around her. She finds herself zig-zagging between multiple bundles of unfinished outfits. The mare is somehow working on all at once, so that it feels more like a grand tapestry instead of a myriad of different tasks. She can't stop now. She has to concentrate on finishing these and nothing else. The blinds to the city are closed. All doors are locked. At some point—in the middle of a dark cloud in the blurred eye of the dense hurricane that is her work—the fashionista feels her stomach growling. When was the last time that she had eaten? It's getting harder and harder to tell. There's just so much to do and her health has taken a back seat. So—if only to help herself concentrate—Rarity plans to make a fitting meal that will satiate her demanding belly. She sets it up in the kitchen between dashing trips back to her work area. Sliced lettuce. Seasoned potatoes. Boiling rice. Boiling rice...! Rarity gasps. The half-finished dresses fall to the floor all around her. Panicked, the mare spins and runs breathlessly towards the kitchen. Her eyes lock on the boiling pot of water on the stove. The water is hot and scalding and within perfect jumping distance of— The cat is dead. Rarity skids to a stop. She pants. She stares wide-eyed at the steam rising from the stovetop. The cat is dead. She swallows a lump down her throat, eases her muscles... ...and exhales with relief. She almost even rolls her eyes. Turning, the mare catches the flash of something in a picture frame. She reaches to the table and pivots the image—not to see the ponies photographed thereupon—but in order to see her reflection on the sheen of glass. She sees a purple mane that's been frazzled into disarray from hours of work. Bags hang under her eyes and her makeup has faded. She clenches her jaw in consternation, places the picture face-down onto the table top, and trots briskly back into her work area. She will tend to her hunger soon enough. Rarity accomplishes everything eventually.
Chapter 3View OnlineThe Cat Is Dead.Chapter 3“And so...” Prim Hemline finishes a dainty sip of wine before placing the half-empty glass down on the restaurant's table. “...the Trottingham Theatre Company has agreed to let Fashion Rarity design their entire ensemble.” “Oh my stars!” Rarity nearly drops her glass to the floor. Only with expert telekinesis does she keep herself from horribly soiling this priceless moment. Both of her front hooves are currently being employed in fanning her smiling, blushing face. “Does this mean what I think it means...?!?” “Absolutely, my dear...” Prim Hemline smiles proudly at her fashion accomplice. The old mare's face is wrought with wrinkles and her pink mane is peppered with gray, but right now Rarity considers her the most beautiful pony on the face of the planet. “You will be creating every ballgown for the gala event this winter. Just in time for Octavia Melody's grand tour.” “Sweet merciful heavens...!” Rarity leans back in her chair, teetering slightly. Some of the patrons glance over, worried, maybe a little amused. “This is something I've always dreamed of! I think I j-just might die!” “Don't perish just yet~” Ms. Hemline reaches across the table, tilting Rarity safely back into a balanced position. “Hemline Couture has invested quite a lot in this venture.” “Ahem... but of course, darling...” Rarity straightens her bangs and sits again with ladylike posture. “I shan't do anything to sour your accomplishments—” “But make no mistake...” Hemline's smile is accompanied by a narrow squint. “...this will be all about your work, Miss Rarity.” “M-my work?” “Fashion Rarity will be the only name listed to the costuming credits,” Prim Hemline declares. “It will be your time to shine in the spotlight. Isn't that what you always wanted?” “But... but...” Rarity blinks, her lips pursed in mixed confusion and concern. “...I've only gotten this far because of you.” “Now that's an utter fabrication and we both know it.” Hemline sighs through a tired smile. “How many years have you been my protege? And in all that time—quite frankly—you've put me to shame.” “Oh, honestly—” “There's no debating it.” Prim Hemline slices the air above their table with a hoof. “You've quite surpassed me, my dear. My time of working on dresses is coming to an end. Ages ago, when I was young and ambitious, I promised myself that I wouldn't be one of those old nags who would linger about in the wings, trying to soak up the success of the young and talented who have moved beyond my own limits.” She raises a glass in her hoof and swirls its contents thoughtfully. “Consider this an ascension, my dear. Trottingham is all yours. Don't put my teachings to waste; soak it up for all its worth.” Rarity fights tears, smiling in earnest. “You can count on me, madame.” “Well, then, you'd better start contemplating just how many bags you'll pack,” Hemline says, taking a final sip. “Bags...?” Hemline takes her time finishing the wine before replying: “Why—of course, my dear.” She places the glass down and exhales. “Designing for the oldest theatre company in all of Equestria is no small task. You know this. You also know that—” “—I will have to move to Trottingham,” Rarity says in a detached voice, her eyes staring off towards some incomprehensible horizon. “Across the pond, as t'were.” “That is not going to be a problem, is it?” Hemline raises an eyebrow. “Being away from the mainland for so many months?” “No!” Rarity hops in her seat. “Not at all!” She smiles wide. “In fact, I greatly look forward to coming up with fabulously woolly travel-wear for Trottingham's frosty highlands and—” Just now, she freezes, her pupils shrinking to pinpricks. “Oh my.” “What is the matter?” “Well...” Rarity squirms, muzzle tightening. “It's just that, if I'm going to be away from home for so long, I will need to find somepony to—” The cat is dead. Rarity blinks. “Somepony... to..” She teeters briefly, throttled by her own stupidity. The next breath comes out in a frustrated groan. Prim Hemline cocks her head to the side. “Are you quite alright, dear?” “Mmmmm... absolutely...” Rarity takes a sip from her glass. She smacks her lips, then smiles across the table. “A thousand apologies. Muscle memory and such; some old habits die hard.” She takes a deep breath, levitating the bottle from the tray adjacent to the table and pouring even more wine. “...some harder than others...” She raises her full glass for a toast, beaming. “To success!”
Chapter 4View OnlineThe Cat Is Dead.Chapter 4Rarity is successful, famous, and more than a little bit wealthy. Right now, all she wants to do is sleep. This is a difficult feat, given the bumps rattling her with each turn of the train car. She looks up, squinting out the dark windows at yellow lights flickering by. Maybe she's on a bridge... or inside a subway tunnel. Either way, it's a long ride on the Trottingham Metro from the art district to her apartment suite. The dark gloss of night cocoons Rarity within that shell of rattling aluminum, and she pulls her bags of things tighter to her on the trio of seats she's been forced to occupy. Nopony's complaining. Nopony's talking. She's alone with her thoughts, and that's the coldest chill of all. Rarity exhales. Even inside the train, the Trottingham temperatures make her breath show. She tightens her glittery cloak and rubs her fetlocks together. The fashionista puts her mind on her itinerary. Tomorrow... Tomorrow is Sunday... The Trottingham press will be interviewing her about the forthcoming theatre season. Then on Monday she will be rendezvousing with Octavia Melody to size the mare up for her next tour. Tuesday... Tuesday... “Ah...” On Tuesday, Rarity needs to book her next travel arrangements to Prance. There's a fashion show happening in two weeks and Rarity needs to prepare an ensemble that could make a splash in the Stirrupean scene. After all, it's not too late to expand her boutiques overseas... even if 'overseas' feels more like the Equestrian Mainland to her these days. Wednesday...? Nothing for Wednesday. Her painted eyelashes flutter. Her vision goes narrow. Dark. Thursday—though—she has to be back in downtown Trottingham for a business meeting. The profit from Manehattan has been small as of late, and she needs to seriously reconsider her expansion into Baltimare. This meeting will likely spill into Friday, which means... ...Wednesday and Saturday are the only days Rarity can arrange to speak to her landlord. Not that it's a particularly pressing issue, but the Trottingham pest control could use something of an upgrade. Rats have started popping up all around the apartment, and since nopony running the place appears to care, the fashionista has resorted to buying and placing mats of rat poison all around her home. Rat poison... ...placed all around... ... … ...poison...! ... in her home!!! Rarity gasps. Her eyes widen. She leaps out of her train seat. Lights flicker through black lenses. They paint pale swaths across her frazzled face and hollow cheeks. Rarity pants and pants and pants and— The cat is dead. —finally relaxes her breath. She straightens her mane—or at least tries to. Fitfully, and shivering a bit, she looks all around. She's alone in the subway car. It's the dead thick of night. The bumps rock her gently, and soon she sinks back in her seat, readjusting her bags, her cloak, her bones. It's been a long day, but now she can't rest. She can never rest. With a twinkle of unicorn magic, she lifts her trusty notebook out of one bag, opens it, and meticulously plans the next week after.
Chapter 5View OnlineThe Cat Is Dead.Chapter 5“Ah... but of course...” The stallion is handsome, chiseled, and speaks in a thick accent. He gazes through the hazy air of the bar with equally smokey eyes. “A household name, no? Fashion... Rarity...” “Mmmmm...” Rarity smiles thinly, her painted eyes eclipsing the moment. She raises a glass of wine to her lips and sips as she looks the delicious specimen up and down. She sits on the stool in a fabulous robe, her tail flicking with slight punctuation from underneath the frilled fabric. Soft music plays across the hotel lounge, serenading just the two of them and a midnight bartender who right now feels miles away. “Just rolls off the tongue, does it not?” She licks some moisture off the glass' lid before placing it down on the counter. “Among other things.” He laughs with a noticeably Stirrupean lilt. The lights of Prance outside waft through the windows and accentuate his mane, his stubble. He's absolutely gorgeous as he finally says, “Judging from your... uhhhh... accent...” Masculine eyes narrow. “Mainlander, yes?” “Guilty as charged~” Rarity mewls. “I have always wondered...” The stallion gestures as he speaks, swiveling a bit on his barstool to face the fashionista. “There is such... how would you say... 'obsession' with Stirrup's art scene. Over in the Mainland, there is, I mean.” “You are not wrong.” “But all that you have done with... ehhhhm... with Fashion Rarity. The splendor. The...” He mumbled a few words in his own language before belatedly translating for her: “...the presentation... … … it comes across as so natural!” “Heeheehee...” Rarity leans back, loosening the collar of her coat—only slightly. “Now that is a divine compliment.” “Then truth compliments you, madame.” He winks. “You do not imitate. Far from it. Ehmmmm... you... you...” He scratches the back of his neck. “...I do not know Mainland Basic for the term. But to be an angel of higher quality of creation.” “Ah!” Rarity beams wide. “I think I'd rather keep it a poetic mystery!” Both share a mutual laugh. They lean in closer. “Your success, Madame Rarity... is... is...” He gazes beyond her for a moment, attempting to articulate correctly: “... … … most enviable.” “Oh, I'm not too terribly sure.” She looks at him... looks down... then looks up again. “The moment I saw you, I penned you as being... more than gifted.” He chuckles lightly at that. “I am... uhhh... afraid that I am only starting my career in art.” Rarity weathers a tiny sigh. She gestures to the bartender for another pouring of wine. “Is that so...?” “Mmmm. Quite—quite. I am aiming to be a painter. It is all the rage in Prance.” “So I've observed~” With a fresh glass of wine, Rarity pivots to face her acquaintance once again. She sips. Stares. Thinks. “Must be quite the competition—the Stirrupean art scene, I mean.” The stallion sits up with proud posture. “Surely you of all mares are well-aware~” “Humor me.” “Well, in just my first year alone, I've had to spend over—ehm—one hundred hours studying the complete works of Picassoats! Do you have any idea just how many different thematic stages that stallion went through?” “All in your first year, hmmm?” “Yes. For my second year... ehm... I am hoping to expand my horizons into—what is the Mainland Basic name for it—ah! Post Modernism! Yes!” Rarity finishes her latest sip. She tastes the remote corners of her mouth, squinting into some sudden distance. “You've yet to start your second year?” “Yes. Yes indeed. The Prance University of Art.” He points out a random window. “Just a brisk trot down the canal! Absolutely beautiful sights! Would be lovely to walk together, no?” “Heeheehee... yes, quite... but second year?” Rarity smiles. Humored. Curious. “Then that must make you barely past—” The cat is dead. Rarity's smile fades. Her expression pales over. Silence permeates the lounge. The moment. Clearing his throat, the stallion struggles to push things back on track. “Are you... ehhh... familiar with Picassoats? He spent the last few decades of his life in Cheval. He had a major... ehm... impact on the art scene there. As a matter of fact—” Rarity blinks. The wine in her glass ripples beyond her control. She sees the lights of Prance off in the distance. All faded and yellow and distant. The fashionista exhales in a shudder. Opalescence was over twenty years ago. “...is something the matter, Madame?” Her heart has already chilled over. She can't remember if she is sitting or standing. She places the glass down onto the countertop before she could utterly drop it. “Uhm...” Rarity strafes sideways a few inches. She bumps into her bag of things on the floor. Her horn flickers, struggling to grasp onto a lifelong telekinesis spell. “I... uhm...” She clears her throat. She reaches into a bit bag and drops several coins—inordinately—before the bartender. “I'm afraid I'm feeling rather... t-tired...” Her mouth is dry. The taste of wine has completely receded. Her eyelids hang heavy, trying to shut out the stars. “...a lady knows when to take her leave.” “Awwwww.” He sounds wounded, hurt—like a little colt. He is a little colt. “Won't you stay a bit longer, madame?” “I... I-I...” The cat is dead. “No.” She jolts. She moves. She fumbles, then turns to magically lift her bag—then limps her way out of the lounge completely. “T'was lovely. I hope to see you again sometime, d-darling.” “Soon?” He echoes sadly from a distance. Smokey eyes blinking. Vanishing. “Yes?” She says nothing. She looks ahead. The hotel lobby looms. Elevator doors like gravestones, sleek and familiar and lifeless. Rarity shivers at a stop before them. She fishes and flops through a fog to find a call button. The cat is dead. She sucks in her breath. With teeth clenched, she presses against the panel. The cat is dead. Rarity sweats. She struggles to keep her bag floating... to not hyperventilate. She presses the button again... and again and again and again. The cat is dead. The music is gone. Somepony across the lobby coughs. She swears she sees heads behind the front desk swiveling to face her. Locked on. Throbbing in waves. The cat is dead. Rarity clenches her eyes shut. The cat is dead. She wheezes against the doors. Fogging them. Her horn flickers— —and at last the doors open. Rarity stumbles inside on numb limbs. She turns around and immediately hits the number of her floor. The doors close. They're a bright metallic sheen and the elevator's lights are bright. Rarity gasps. The reflection blanches back. The old mare's face is wrought with wrinkles and her purple mane is peppered with gray. Rarity feels forward, but there's no warmth. No shining light. There are envelopes unopened on her bedside table; one of them is from Hemline's daughter. A funeral service is on the forwarding address. The cat is dead. The cold doors reopen like an unearthed sepulcher. Instead of Ponyville outside, there're hallways after hallways. Dimly lit and devoid of life. Rarity threads them like old tweed, and not in the same straight line that she used to. She teeters and bumbles, smelling hotel after hotel, each intestine reeking the same. Baltimare or Manehattan or Trottingham or Maredrid. All the shadows converge identically, entombing her in next week's schedule, always moving and yet always staying. The cat is dead. Rarity trips. She clasps her head, seethes, and forces herself forward. Always forward. The cat is dead. She reaches the door to her room. She's hyperventilating now. She fiddles for her key card. She jabs it at the door. She stabs. She murders. It doesn't die. The cat is dead. It doesn't die. Over twenty years ago. She doesn't— The door opens. She rushes inside, but there is no relief. Stirrup. The Ocean. Equestria. The whole world is spinning, closing in. She collapses to the lush carpet, surrounded by silk and luxury and gold. Everything is scented like flowers but all she smells is decay. The cat is dead. Where are your friends? Panting and panting, she runs— Into the bathroom, disrobing, whimpering— The cat is dead. Where are your friends??? The toilet— No. The shower. She falls in. She twists the faucet. She soaks herself in an icy deluge. The train car rocks but she can never sleep. Days and hours and months of meetings and shows and tours to exhibit. An ocean stretching her to the thinnest of fabric; no room left to fit. Not even an inch to scream. She chokes on one sob. Then another, until she's wailing into the frigid spray, feeling alive enough to die, but still never close enough. Not even for all her galloping forward. There are ever still mountain peaks to climb, and only enough room atop each for one. She hates it. She loves it. Everything in between is simply reflection, and it's simply too horrid to spare even a moment for that. Simply too horrid for tears. Rarity waits until she's properly submerged in the hotel tub before opening her eyes, when there's no way to parse the tears from the rest. Now—and only now—can she breathe easily.
Chapter 6View OnlineThe Cat Is Dead.Chapter 6Warm. Soft. Fragrant and inviting. Rarity's cloak eases her dry fur as she strolls across the hotel suite. It's a comforting feeling. It should be. She created it... like so much else. Calming, assuring, familiar artifice. She makes a quick stop in the mini-kitchen. Pulling a bottle of wine from a cooler, she pops the top and pours herself a liberal glass. Upon the first taste, there's little to no effect. Rarity's grown more familiar with wine than blood at this point. There are times when Rarity wonders if there's actually any blissful buzz to be had from drinking anymore. She's long settled for the fact that it's something that she needs. And needing something creates the illusion of something needing her in return. Another artifice, but so far it's carried her well enough. Even carried her this high—in towering luxury—aloft among the stars. Deadpan and contemplative, Rarity trots towards a window overlooking the affluent districts of Prance at night. The world below is a pinprick matrix of gold and platinum, twinkling up at her with admiration and approval. She might as well be flying; the mountaintops of the fashion scene are her only perches. Still room enough for only one. For a moment, her thoughts drift to the stallion she saw downstairs. In hindsight, his stubble was quite ghastly. Unkempt. She ponders designing a jacket for him, but all she can muster up is adding rows upon rows of dangling belts—only because she's absolutely certain the delicious ruffian would leave them unbuckled. This elicits a slight chuckle from her lips. Between tastes of wine, Rarity thinks of turning around and sharing an anecdote out loud— The cat is dead. She exhales calmly. Then, after another sip, she purrs at the dwindling lights of Prance down below, vanishing one after another, like tears down a sterile drain. “All for the best~” There's no time for distractions. There simply isn't. Rarity is tired, aching, and more than a little bit inebriated. But instead of going to bed, she hobbles over to a work desk, hunches over, and reviews her schedule for next week.
Chapter 1View OnlineThe Cat Is Dead.Chapter 1The door to Carousel Boutique unlocks and then swings wide open. A narrow swath of bright sunlight barrels into the fabulous studio, accompanied by a gust of autumnal Ponyville air. A shadow slices its way in. It's Rarity—young and ambitious—huffing and grunting as she struggles to carry inside three large bundles of imported silk that she just acquired from the post office. The task turns out to be far too taxing. So Rarity places one bundle down on the outside stoop of her establishment and hauls the other two carefully inside. The fashionista is preoccupied, focused on some creative thought or another. But—halfway through the beeline trot to her work desk—she skids to a stop with a gasp. She spins about wildly, gaping in horror at the wide open door. In a panic, she places both bundles down then gallops across the Boutique to close the entrance immediately— The cat is dead. Rarity doesn't stop immediately. It is a lingering end. Slow. Anticlimactic. She finds herself standing—cold and alone—in the center of the Boutique. She stares at the uninvited sunlight being allowed through the gaping atrium of her domain. It does not warm her. She sighs. She feels like crying. But there is no time. She has work to do. And—all things considered—this merely simplifies things. After the unnecessary pause has run its course, Rarity walks the rest of the way to the entrance, picks up the third bundle, and carries it inside. When she closes the door, it is with a light push. It doesn't even close all the way. She keeps herself from stressing over it.
