The Head

Chapters

SOMEONE Was Going To Write This And It Might As Well Be Me
The Idea Has Escaped Quarantine
Only Way It Could Have Ended

SOMEONE Was Going To Write This And It Might As Well Be Me

It was a harsh thing to even think about, and Rarity did her best to never say the words in public because somepony surely would have told her to seek counseling. But there were times when the talent suite granted by her mark felt -- incomplete.

She was a marked dressmaker and when it came to the associated gifts and skills, that meant more than most ponies suspected. Her eyes could distinguish between colors of the finest shades, and she always knew when a hue had been inappropriately shifted. The sense of touch had been heightened: how else was one supposed to recognize thread count on contact? Designing was the core of the set, of course: creativity, the ability to dream in light, gem, and fabric. But what just about nopony recognized was that she was capable of creating the fabric itself. Rarity lacked the earth pony magic which would have allowed her to prime and guide the developing seeds -- but give her a cotton plant to work with, and she would almost immediately comprehend every step required to bring it through the harvest, get past the combing, and ultimately wind up with something suitable for wrapping into a full bolt.

Her talent allowed her to understand the full process of dress creation. What it hadn't done was give her the slightest bit of information on how to run the actual dress shop.

(It hadn't done anything about teaching her how to be a Bearer either, but she did feel it was unreasonable to believe that her talent could have ever seen that coming.)

She'd had to teach herself accounting from scratch, and still found her head swimming as numbers failed to dance between columns. (Double-entry bookkeeping mostly seemed to mean increasing her chance for errors to roughly 200%.) Advertising, marketing... absolutely nothing associated with her icon had given her the faintest clue for how those were supposed to operate, and her success rate suggested that the education was still a work in progress.

Skills in arranging light and shade, moved slightly sideways, allowed her to put together what she felt were rather artistic displays of her work within the Boutique, because she understood that the presentation could be just as important as the product. And of course she'd wanted to have her very best creations to be visible through the windows. Illuminated, rather charmingly, by Sun's light. That radiance did a lot for the sparkle of gems and the white of cotton.

Rarity had thought she'd understood the fiber. And yet her mark had never bothered to inform her that when you left unwashed white cotton fabric under sunlight for too long, it would gradually turn yellow.

Absolutely nothing about her talent suite had taught her how to deal with customers. Those who only pretended to the title were worse.

And really, how was she supposed to know that wooden dressmaker display forms would eventually wear out?

...very well: so perhaps 'wear out' was the wrong term. A long day of dealing with customers (and non) could elevate her frustrations to the point where the false eyelash binding glue wasn't the only thing on the verge of snapping and... she had to take it out on something. Her options seemed to be 'kick the actual ponies, thus placing myself in court, eventually prison, and finally getting a chance to revise those hideous uniforms' -- or land a few solid hoof impacts on the wood models known as ponikins. Admittedly, the latter was slightly more intelligent than the average Boutique non-buyer, but also happened to be rather less likely to press charges.

Fall Formal season was hours away from being upon her: Ponyville's secondary schools would soon be hosting their annual student dances, and Rarity offered dress rentals in adolescent sizes for the occasion -- marking one of the very few times when she was in active competition with some of the town's other shops. This year had even seen her put together a new line exclusively for the first-time lovelorn, and she was especially proud of having rigged each dress to leave the wearer no way of subtly smuggling in age-inappropriate drinks. But it hadn't been an easy process, her stress had been elevated to the point where a private session with the ponikins seemed best, and...

As it turned out, even those who lacked earth pony strength would have been advised to limit their total number of kicks on any one ponikin. And perhaps should have spread out the impacts a little more. Along with inspecting the most frequent stress relief site until they spotted the slowly-spreading network of fine cracks.

Rarity knew a wood sculpture spell: something which had kept her roughly entertained at boarding school until she'd had the chance to make her escape. But it wasn't good for sculpting fragments back together. There was a mass limit for the final result, and that prevented her from just looking at a thick tree branch and conjuring up fresh pieces. And the Formal rentals were only days away. She didn't like the looks of the other frequent targets, had kicked them out before anything else could go wrong -- and that meant she needed a full set of display models.

So she'd placed an emergency order...

In soon-to-arrive retrospect, the deliverypony had been utterly nice about the whole thing and viewed from the same red-blurred temporal perspective, it didn't help.

On the day when it all started, Rarity was outside the Boutique, cleaning the windows with a corona-held damp cloth while awaiting her delivery and squeezing out the results into a bucket. The building required a certain amount of maintenance, and her mark hadn't bothered to tell her that either. And if left to her own devices, she could only really clean the lower levels. She could certainly project her corona to the upper without having it lose cohesion, but she couldn't see the finest bits of dirt while standing on the ground. Eventually, a pegasus was going to fly by, notice, and comment. If it was Rainbow, the comments would keep coming for a while, largely in the hopes of triggering Rarity's rupophobia and getting a laughworthy sort of freakout. The wooden ponikins spaced around the perimeter of the upper level didn't exactly help. Spring always came, and Fluttershy couldn't talk the entire avian world into not building nests between the ears.

The cleaning didn't really bother Rarity. It was something to do while she waited, and the scheduled early morning weather was pleasant enough, especially for the first week after Nightmare Night. Warm breezes arrived with a regularity which suggested Rainbow had allowed another member of the weather team to manage the Boutique's area for once.

She wiped, hummed to herself, watched light glint off clean glass, smiled at Opal as the cat watched from an upper window, wondered whether she needed to adjust her rates -- it was understood that students weren't going to have very much money, but these were merely rentals and she still had to cover her costs -- and waited.

It wasn't a long wait.

She heard the squeak of cart wheels first. Approaching hooves came after that: fairly heavy impacts which suggested the touch of extra body density found in an earth pony...

"Miss?" a rather polite stallion voice asked. "Are you the proprietor?"

She turned, looked into open, almost charming red features and favored the deliverypony with a smile. "I am! And if that tarpaulin-covered cart you're hauling along --" using very strong legs and shoulders: she was almost tempted to ask for the stallion's measurements "-- is carrying what I believe it is? Then you, good sir, are ahead of schedule." The smile brightened, increased the radiance of sincerity. "I wasn't expecting you for at least another hour!"

"I got an early start," the stallion admitted. "But, just to check -- seven new ponikin models, right?"

"Yes," Rarity assured him. "Just unload them here. I can save you a little time and carry them inside myself." When it came to levitation, her strength was strictly average -- but a single ponikin would need to be made of black ironwood in order to bring its mass over her limit. "In fact, if I may assist you in the unpacking?"

He smiled back, nodded. The cleaning cloth was placed on the bucket's edge, and careful application of soft blue energy helped to get the tarp off.

Rarity looked at the contents, then nodded her approval. The heads and bodies of each ponikin had been wrapped in canvas strips to give them some protection during the journey, but anything from the pasterns on down was exposed. It let her see the utterly inoffensive light beige which served as a neutral serving platter for the offering up of fabric-incarnated dreams.

"Four," she counted to herself. "Five, the sixth seems fine, and the last --"

She stopped. Eyes which registered colors perfectly decided to squint a little, just in case that somehow improved matters. It did not.

The seventh ponikin was the same size as the others. The overall rigging was proper: it could be placed independently on the sales floor, or carefully secured into a pole mount. But the oddly-distorted shape of the wrapped head didn't match any of the others, and the hue of the false limbs was -- yellow.

A now-churning stomach dearly wanted to define the exact color as 'yellow'. Her talent, which was rather more exacting about such matters, gave it a little more consideration and invoked a toilet trench. One where the continual flow of water had been blocked, allowing any additional -- liquids -- placed into the mix to... combine. Add all of those little shades together, distorted by whatever the contributors had been consuming on that day, then stir well and apply as a stain. From a great distance.

That seemed to account for the color. Any degree of residual phantom stench was purely the product of her imagination.

Rarity had a very good imagination.

She swallowed. Then she swallowed back.

"I... don't believe that one is mine," she carefully told the deliverypony. "I ordered a matched set."

He looked. Winced.

"I'm sorry," he immediately said. "I didn't load this. I took custody after the cart was already packed. And there were a lot of customized orders going out today. There must have been a mixup somewhere." Which was followed by an utterly sincere, "Miss, I'll do whatever I can to fix this. I promise."

To know Applejack was to learn what true honesty sounded like, and so she forgave him immediately.

"It's quite all right," she made herself say. (It wasn't, and it would only get worse.) "I understand that it wasn't your fault, and I'm not going to blame you for an error you had no part in." With a little sigh, "But I did need a full set. With the Fall Formal coming -- oh, you wouldn't be interested. I suppose you'll have to take them all back in order to sort this out --"

Rather quickly, "-- no." And he managed a smile of his own. "Let's make this easy. You need ponikins. Just take custody of this group for now. We'll fill out the receipt form together: I know how to write it in a way which means you're temporarily accepting the shipment. And then I'll go back to the factory, find out where your real seventh went, and somepony will come by with it to make the exchange." Apologetically, "It may take a few days to track it down..."

Such a gentlepony. Rarity wondered if he would accept some fresh juice before departing.

She looked at the -- yellow... again. It would be hard to work with that, and 'hard' seemed to be setting the hurdle bar too low. But it wasn't his fault, and he was trying to make things right.

"That," she warmly told him, "is more than acceptable. Are you thirsty?"

She carried the seventh ponikin in, and did so while subconsciously trying to create some extra distance between her corona's borders and the contents of the bubble. The results tended to rattle.

Carefully, she allowed her energies to unwrap the six standard models, and did so while chiding herself for not having done it outside. Ideally, before they'd mutually finished the modified receipt form. Deliveries had to be inspected prior to being signed for, but -- she trusted the stallion. In the worst case, she'd be sending back more than one piece.

But the six from her purchased set were perfectly fine. Motionless, featureless, and possessing a color which could only offend if you were desperate to see anything else.

The seventh...

She unwrapped the body first. The 'yellow' sadly held its hue throughout, but -- at least the proportions were right.

Then she reached the head.

Soft blue carefully gripped the trailing end for the wrap of protective cloth. Unwound --

-- the trouble, Rarity reflected as she carefully picked her recoiled body off the Boutique's sales floor, wasn't in describing the ponikin's head.

Imagine a spell which can hear and remember words -- but can't think about anything it's taking in. It records without comprehension, no more understanding what it's being told than an accounting ledger is capable of recognizing a number upon its pages. And make the spell blind. Words, yes: images, never. It can't see who's speaking to it, or even recognize the base concept of 'speaker'. All it does for now is absorb vocabulary and wait.

Now: tell that spell what a pony's head should look like. Use general terms. Leave everything approaching specific proportions and ratios out. Pretend that the casting has the intelligence of a pony and can figure out where you're going with this, because the truth is that it can't match the mental capacity of a fly. A fly, upon seeing certain reactions of movement from a pony, can at least recognize that it's a really good time to get out of the way.

Give the spell a block of wood. Tell it to render the material into the shape of a pony's head.
Examine the results.
Then scream.

The false ears didn't seem to emerge from the top of the skull so much as they served as a direct extension of the neck. They were permanently cupped forward, as if trying to pick up on audience reactions. Criticism. The wooden hollows looked as if they could bounce around the echoes of retching for at least an hour.

Nothing was right about the snout. The overall length suggested that at some point, the pony who'd tried to teach the spell had accidentally switched into describing Saddle Arabians, and even that had gone wrong. It was stretched too far forward. There was an odd narrowing just past the cheekbones, leading into the kind of dark hollows you got when you either lost too much weight in a hurry or had recently had somepony trying to ram two poles together. Through your face.

In one of the surest signs of pony aggression, the wooden lips were pulled back from the teeth. The teeth themselves had been rendered with something close to loving detail. You could teach a class of dental students with those teeth, as long as the subject was extraction. Of the student, from the school, because nopony exposed to the head for multiple classroom hours would ever want to deal with teeth again.

The upper lip mostly served as extra support for the deep hollows of the nostrils. You could store things in those nostrils. Rarity was presuming that a lot of hopes and dreams would fit within the space, especially after they'd been crushed.

And then you had the eyes. They were perhaps a sixth the size they should have been: twin flat, circular disks of highly-polished madness. The yellow was just a little brighter there, and remained so right up until you reached the black voids of the pupils. Those were where the actual crushing took place. To listen closely while regarding the false eyes was to hear light being crumpled.

It was very easy to describe the ponikin's head. The hard part was in making herself stop.

Slowly, she straightened up, then turned and trotted away from the thing. It only took three glances back before she began to believe it wasn't following her.

Rarity fetched the Fall Formal display sample dresses. The seven new ponikins were carefully arranged in the designated order and placement, and then her corona began to dress them. She'd made the samples in proportions designed for the wooden models and for that, there were no issues. The... unexpected addition was at least the same size as the others.

After a while, she shuffled the dresses. The base beige models worked with anything she put on them. The 'yellow' -- well, having that with the blue gown found the migraine beginning to fade after a mere ten minutes, so it was technically the best.

She stood back and surveyed the results. Then she stepped further back, just in case she wound up needing some space. It could take a few seconds for a fleeing pony to reach full gallop --

-- I'm being ridiculous.
They've all told me to try and be more aware of when my standards are... not quite meshing with the local reality. This is very likely one of those times. Other ponies won't react in the same way.
This can be managed.

She looked again. Left to right, from red to violet. She had to wrench her gaze off the fifth position.

Maybe if I just -- take that one out...

This was tried. The other six were placed somewhat closer together.

...no. The mind instinctively recognizes the gap. Perhaps not on the conscious level for all observers, but -- something within would know there was supposed to be blue there. And I intended to debut them as a group of seven. A full prismatic collection. Without that... the original intent...

Along with the original idea -- although she wasn't about to admit that in public. One did not tell Rainbow that the pegasus had been an inspiration if one wished to ever stop hearing about it. Or, just about as likely, to be told that Rarity had done it wrong: the resulting number of murder fantasies would then increase the unicorn's personal total by roughly twenty percent.

But even if the reaction to the yellow and the -- head -- was solely her own... there was a reason ponikins were designed to be featureless: that made it all the easier for a customer to picture themselves in the display model's place. The missent piece had nothing but features --

-- wait...!

She laughed. An open, dancing bell of a laugh. How could she have forgotten? The solution was right there! She was the solution, her very own self...

"I know the wood sculpture spell!" Rarity giggled. "This is going to be simple!"

The first step, of course, was to get her camera. This was going to be a temporary sculpt: one which would need to be reverted when the model was returned to its true owner. (She had questions for that pony, and the first was going to be 'Why?') And while she was certain that the head had burned its distinctiveness into her memory -- one quick nap would probably find her verifying every horrid detail in her dreams -- it would help to have a photo guide for reference during restoration. Spike, as the amateur photographer in their group, would be happy to develop the picture for her, and she would of course pay for the chemicals.

Rarity went up to the residence level. Opal spotted her while she was hunting for the camera, followed Rarity down the ramp, took one look at the yellow ponikin, and hurtled back up the ramp again. Rarity considered that to be a sign of how well she'd trained her cat, and was sincerely impressed. She didn't even know she'd been teaching Opal how to have taste.

She took the picture. (The film didn't emit any smoke, but the lens kept trying to unfocus itself.) The camera was placed on her desk, and then soft blue was projected forward. Surrounded the wooden form, collapsed inwards --

-- her corona shattered.

It wasn't painful: simply disorienting. There was a sudden surge of dizziness, all four knees bent, and then shards of light and sparkles were dissipating on her sales floor.

Rarity forced herself fully upright again.

It's already been sculpted.
And somepony put a lot of effort into making sure it would hold the current form.

Twilight would likely be able to overwhelm such defenses, but -- the new casting would need to be applied as the old one was breaking, and the librarian didn't know the wood sculpture spell. Some castings were tied to temperament, and those who lacked the proper perspective could find them extremely difficult to learn. In her own way, Twilight was an artist -- but she sculpted with magic itself. Shapings, sound reproduction, illusions -- not strictly outside of her range, but she wasn't good with any of it. And when it came to reworking wood, Rarity suspected Twilight didn't want to learn the casting. Leaving Rarity with a piece of magic she could truly claim as her own.

Several dyes were tested on small sections of the model's hooves. The defenses also held up nicely against all attempts to change the yellow.

Rarity went into her workshop. Sewing devices briefly buzzed, and then she returned with a rather crude sort of hat. Milliner work had never been her strength -- but in this case, the hat was mostly there to test the effectiveness of the brim-mounted dark veil.

She placed it upon The Head. Part of her mind noted the recent acquisition of capitals.

...no. The yellow is too bright. A proper veil must have something of gauze about it, or the pony wearing it can't see out. Anypony trotting by can spot that something is wrong. Thicker fabric simply invites the question of what I'm trying to conceal.

Additionally, the ears are starting to come through the crown.

She'd ordered adolescent-sized ponikins. She had plenty in the standard adult proportions. So perhaps if she used the wood sculpture spell on one of those and just tried to -- sculpt it into taking up less space...

Eventually, she decided to be grateful that when the entire piece had finally fragmented, all of the splinters wound up collapsing inward. Then she finished cleaning up, looked at the clock, judged how much time she had before the Boutique needed to open, sighed to herself, and gathered the camera before heading for the front door.

Generosity needed to ask the local merchants for a favor.

It was twenty minutes past the time when the secondary schools closed, and that meant it was also the hour when Spike had custody of the library.

"And none of them would lend you a ponikin?" Twilight's open disbelief inquired. "You usually get along so well with everypony in the tradesponies group!"

Rarity sighed, adjusted her position behind the sales desk, and dearly wished Twilight was taller. The little mare's height was fully insufficient for blocking the majority of views, and The Head...

"Twilight?"

A little awkwardly, "...yes?"

"You keep glancing backwards. Trying to peer over your own tail."

"...I keep thinking it's coming up behind me," the librarian confessed. "Seriously, Rarity. No help from anypony?"

"One of the reasons we all get along so well," Rarity reluctantly admitted, "is because I'm usually not competition for anypony else. But I'm hardly the only mare renting out Fall Formal dresses, Twilight. So I was told, over and over, that all of their properly-sized models were already in use. And would remain so for the whole of the rental season. And because it's the rental season, I can't take a day and go into Canterlot to find another." With a sigh, "I'm currently stuck waiting on that kind stallion to conclude his investigations."

"Is it kicking your sales?" Twilight quickly asked. "You're the one who's always telling me how fickle customers can be, Rarity. And --" The narrow rib cage shifted across the length of a slow, uncertain breath. "-- I don't know how long I'd want to be in a room with that... Head."

"The feeling is mutual," said the unicorn who'd already risked a few recovery sessions in the bathroom. "But thus far, it's been a rather slow sales day. There were two pickups of previous orders, one of which was for a regular, and -- I spotted both mares approaching through the windows, then brought their dresses outside. I can't tell you how any customers have reacted to The Head because I haven't had anypony reach the Boutique's interior." Thoughtfully, "Of course, there is that one window angle which allows it to be seen. But a pony has to be moving around the Boutique in order to catch a glimpse." It was the first time she'd ever been grateful that the building's structure made extra display zones almost impossible to add.

"I'm sorry," the little mare sighed. "I wish it was better for you. I know how hard slow days can be."

And I know how far you had to come in order to say that. "Don't worry too much, Twilight," she reassured her friend -- then added a smile. "In fact, given the hour, you may be just in time to witness the beginning of the surge."

"A surge?" With open confusion, "Why would there be a --"

Best to assume that the Gifted School didn't have dances. And if they did, then... Which was when Rarity put the thought away, because there was too much misery dripping from the ellipsis. "Schools have let out for the day," she simply explained. "And this is the launch for Fall Formal season: that's why I was so hoping to have everything ready this afternoon. I may not earn anywhere near as much income on rentals as purchases, Twilight -- but it all helps. Given travel time between the nearest secondary school and the Boutique, I would reasonably be expecting my first young clients in a few minutes."

Perhaps the strength of youth provided extra resistance to The Head. And they probably wouldn't have to worry about the side effect of being in its presence.

Rarity had spent much of the day on the sales floor. Where she could see it, and the tiny flat eyes could absolutely not see her. Because they weren't alive. And therefore could not perceive the shop, the owner, or anything else. There certainly wasn't any brain in the wooden skull, which clearly meant having it plotting against her was right out.

It couldn't sense anything, much less think. But something about being near it for hours made her feel as if The Head was slowing down time.

"I'll just stay a little longer, then," Twilight decided. (This was followed by an involuntary backwards glance. Again.) "Until the first ones come in. To give you company. And then I'll get out of your way. You..." It was a weak smile, but a true one. "...don't want me trying to sell again."

That much was true. The most Rarity could do in asking Twilight to watch over the Boutique while the designer made a gallop for something was exactly that: to watch over the Boutique. Attempts to place customers within what the librarian would somehow decide was a good look quickly turned -- mathematical. Vectors got involved, especially when Twilight decided to see how much strain different kinds of movement would put on the fabric. Ultimately, a pinkish corona would ignite. Matters tended to go downhill from there.

One of Rarity's minor regrets regarding her circle of friends was that none of them were suitable substitutes. She couldn't ask a single one of them to try selling -- with the exception of Fluttershy. Only Rarity would have to ask her up to four times. Which would be followed by exactly that many firings, and that ultimately led to the unicorn awake in her bed at all hours under Moon, trying to figure out how the pegasus had swapped clothing and manestyles at that level of speed. Especially given the sheer amount of mane.

They waited. They talked. Twilight occasionally twitched in the general direction of the exit, and generally managed to stop herself before she vibrated more than two hoofwidths towards escape. But after a slowed-down time, the door opened, and two adolescent mares merrily trotted in.

Both ignored the adults, because they were at the age where they knew everything and anypony older was just going to try and correct a few 'facts', purely from jealousy. Instead, they began to browse the interior, laughingly sniffing their way past anything which was clearly designated for slow-decaying virtual fossils and as that category included Rarity's own age, she chose to give them some space until they reached the rental section.

Let them breathe. They'll see the new line soon enough. That earth pony looks like she would benefit most from the verdant assembly. Of course, it then becomes a matter of convincing her that I would actually know best. Patience...

The adolescents reached the new display. They began to browse. The body language of dismissal slowly began to fade. Slow nods of consideration began to make themselves visible, and the pair moved along the color curve --

-- both students froze.

Something had just caught their attention. And it wasn't the dress.

They stared at The Head and it, being incapable of blinking, silently announced its intention to stare right back until the Boutique aged into dust. Something which, given the virtual slowing of time in The Head's vicinity, was going to take about twenty thousand years or until Rainbow's ego was fully under control: whichever came first. Rarity's mind silently opened the intangible wager books, then crossed out all potential wagers on Rainbow.

The fillies kept looking at The Head. Rarity, who'd never checked it for additional magic, was starting to wonder if there was any visible difference between being enscorcelled and simply being horrified --

-- their heads turned. They glanced at each other.

And then two young forms were bolting from the shop.

The door swung shut behind the pegasus, and did so with an echo of finality.

Rarity winced. The left upper tier of false eyelashes tried to slip.

"Oh, dear," she sighed. "Oh, dear me..."

Twilight's emotional development was currently being demonstrated in an expression replete with echoed pain. "Oh, no..." the librarian groaned. "There's -- no way that's a good thing, is there?"

"Rather not," Rarity reluctantly said as she forced herself to come out from behind the desk. "I truly wanted to keep the full set together, Twilight. Taking any single piece out of the display would hurt sales. But it would seem The Head is creating a similar effect." Was she actually having to force herself into approaching it? "I suppose I can simply place it in the basement and leave a note in its place. Saying that the blue is available, and to please inquire for further details." Thoughtfully, "Actually... I could simply take a picture of the dress and place that in view, could I not? I may need to ask Spike for some help after all --"

-- the Boutique's front door opened.

Two adolescent mares just about galloped in. The same two who had just galloped out.

They were followed by two more.

The quartet knew exactly where they were going. Four youths went directly towards the blue dress, with the unicorn's awkwardly-loaded saddlebags jostling unevenly against her sides.

I could have that rebalanced for her in about four minutes, Rarity dazedly considered. Account for the growth spurt. Oh dear me, did the first two actually fetch their friends? More ponies to appreciate the design? Is this going to be more than one rental --

Twilight, who wasn't sure what she could do without breaking the moment, was just about frozen in place. Rarity's normal desire to let new customers browse at their own pace (and she'd had to learn about that too) found itself at war with her need to officially get the rental season under way via the first booking, and the conflict pushed her legs into motion. Carefully, almost casually closing in.

This can be salvaged.

No. Better.

This can be normal --

-- four youths stopped in front of the blue dress. Directly within the sightless view of The Head.

Two of the young mares giggled. The unicorn student's horn instantly ignited, and a zaffre corona went directly for the right saddlebag lid. It was a sight which left Rarity momentarily paralyzed because as colors went, you just didn't see zaffre in the wild. She wanted to make a design which would coordinate with it. The opportunity to work with one of the rarest shades of blue...

...the saddlebag opened.
A camera came out.
The young unicorn got it into position. Aimed the lens directly at the head, fiddled with the zoom a few times until it stopped trying to retreat, and took three shots.

The girls looked at each other. At The Head. Went back to mutual regard, laughed as one, and then sixteen hooves galloped their way out of the Boutique. Leaving Rarity and Twilight staring after them, as the door swung shut again with a sound very much like doom.

It bounced around the sales floor for a while. Several dreams were knocked into The Head's unseeing eyes and instantly died.

"...Rarity?" Twilight finally risked. "I -- only really deal with ponies as customers when the library has remaindered sales, and I know those are different. So I don't understand how a lot of this works. I know I don't. So I try to stay out of the way when you're selling, because I know I'm not good at it. And I don't want to make things worse for you." With a fast-rising blush beginning to underlight the fur, "Not after the whole vector fiasco."

The designer found the strength for a small nod.

"But..." the little mare reluctantly pushed on, "...that -- wasn't normal, was it?"

"No," Rarity said, and wondered why her voice felt so hollow. "It was not."

The friends simply looked at each other for a minute, or an hour: being near The Head made the exact quantity hard to determine.

The Boutique's front door opened.
Six secondary school students came in.
The four just-barely-still-colts were being led by the original two fillies.

Rarity didn't generally get males in the shop: especially young ones, who tended to feel that simply being in the place somehow diminished them. But she supposed the priority had been to find anypony else who had a camera.

Flashbulbs went off.

The Head drank in the light, possibly as the first stage towards destroying most of it. Reflected back highlights of improperly-cleaned restrooms. And when the next group of students happily trotted in to get their own look, Rarity began waiting for the thing to strike a pose.

The Idea Has Escaped Quarantine

She dearly wanted to sleep, needed the rest in order to gain some small degree of recovery -- and yet she couldn't seem to manage the feat.

The autumn chill of the evening schedule should have helped her cause. She'd even opened a window to let somewhat more of it in. Invite just a touch of cold, then place herself beneath layers of blankets. Thermal armor, offering both protection and comfort. And thus, doubly insulated from the world, she should have been able to drift into dream. Venturing into her nightscape, because whatever awaited in the realm of the unreal had to be better than what was currently lurking on the Boutique's sales floor.

But she couldn't sleep.

Opal had joined her on the bed, and Rarity usually didn't mind that: her cat was often a source of comfort, and the gentle vibrations produced by purring warmth could help to relieve stress at the end of a long day. But Opal wasn't purring. Most of the current vibrations were being produced by a semi-intermittent series of twitches. And to make matters worse, the feline had decided to curl up on one of the pillows. Placing herself in direct proximity to Rarity's head.

The unicorn tried to discourage that. She was almost never fully motionless in sleep, didn't always check the area before starting to move upon waking, and she hated the prospect of giving Opal an accidental horn poke. But the cat didn't want to leave. Any attempt to lower her onto the floor, or using soft blue to place her upon any other portion of the bed, simply found Opal coming back to the pillow. Doing so at the exact moment when the cat decided that Rarity was no longer paying attention. Over and over.

In a way, it was understandable. The Head was still in the shop, and claws really didn't do much against wood. Opal might have simply felt slightly more comfortable in direct proximity to an extra weapon.

It had been a rather strange day.

Rarity was an artist: one who could dream in light, cloth, and gem. But on a slightly-removed level, she was also a small business owner and she supposed that some of those dreams significantly overlapped those experienced by other tradesponies. For example, there was the one which had her shop crowded with so many customers that she couldn't possibly work out whom she was supposed to assist first. Not that it really mattered, because they were all shoving bits towards her with hooves and snouts and coronas which had precise aim on the overflowing portions of her till. And that fantasy had a rather natural followup: the one where she staggered towards the bank while flanked closely on left and right by two magnificently powerful earth pony stallions, both of whom made sure to maintain close -- almost intimate -- contact at all times. It was the only way of keeping her upright against the weight of money-laden saddlebags.

It was an old dream, perhaps a nearly universal one. And the recently-concluded day had seen a portion of it come true --

-- technically.

The shop had been crowded. She'd had about three hours of steadily-increasing pony presence, to the point where she could barely see across her own sales floor -- and yet somehow, she'd always retained a perfectly-clear view of what everypony had come to see.

Three hours. That had been the reasonable maximum. Those who'd been pushing their way through the heavy hoof-and-wing presence in the Boutique were expected to turn up for dinner on time, and Rarity wasn't sure their parents would understand the proffered excuse.

Three hours of constant traffic flow, and all of it had come to see The Head.

Just about every last pony had been an adolescent. A few adults had come in to see what the fuss was about, and two mares had each hauled older siblings across the line -- but to have reached the age of full voting rights seemed to disable whatever protections youths possessed against The Head, and anypony older who got close to it immediately cast their ballot for I Am Leaving Now, then declared a 1-0 victory and refused all recounts.

But with the students...

They got as close to it as they dared. They whispered to each other. Some of them laughed. Pictures had been taken, to the point where Rarity eventually swore that every last camera in Ponyville had passed through her shop -- and that very much included the possibility that The Head was giving Barnyard Bargains' photography department a rather strong sales day.

And then they left.

Because even with dozens of ponies passing through the Boutique, the vast majority had come to see The Head.

Nothing else.

It had infuriated Rarity, and she'd done her best to try and conceal that state. Hiding the anger had taken a little more effort. She'd never had a dress catch on like that, or seen so many citizens just about lining up to get a look at one of her creations. Why couldn't the surge of interest be attached to something she'd made?

...not that she wanted anypony to believe she'd created The Head.

They had all come in to see that -- thing...

I am not jealous.

(She also wasn't Honesty, but Rarity typically didn't see that as a problem. Besides, a lie told to oneself was clearly meant for calming and the protection of the artist's fragile ego. Falsehoods could be carefully woven in a noble cause, and on the day Applejack finally understood that...)

She'd thought about sticking The Head in the basement, putting out a picture of the absent dress, and then installing a few more locks on the basement door. (No more than a dozen, as anything over that number might have appeared unreasonable.) Place the focus back onto her -- the Boutique. Force the youths to once again regard the full contents of the shop.

But the thing was... when you had that many ponies coming in, then subtracting out a vast majority could still leave a pretty significant remainder.

The students had come, in pairs on up: Rarity presumed this was for mutual reinforcement. Giggling had resounded, over and over. Pictures had been taken. Repeatedly.

Why do they need so many pictures...?

But once that was done... some of the fillies had remembered that there was a Fall Formal approaching. And they were going to need a dress.

She hadn't collected anywhere near enough rental fees to require external support during the deposit trip. But she'd taken in more than she'd initially projected.

She'd also tried to talk a few fillies out of choosing the blue model. The colors had been all wrong for them.

...and are they picking that one because it's the style being used by the Head?

She didn't want the ponikin in her shop. It clashed. Rarity considered this state to be universal, especially as she was sure it didn't go well with the most local portion of the universe. But if it was actually assisting her rentals...

There is no school tomorrow, or on the day after that. She'd posted an adjustment to her hours accordingly, but didn't expect to see very much early-morning traffic: Head or no Head, most adolescents confronted with a day off would almost always choose to sleep in. But with more time available for the youths to shop...

The unicorn sighed to herself.

It must stay where it is.

Then she very carefully got out of bed. Opal jumped down from the pillow and followed her pony right up until the moment Rarity reached the top of the ramp, whereupon the cat figured out what the destination would be and stopped right there.

It didn't matter. Rarity wasn't going very far. Just down the slope to the point where she could see tiny, sightless, mad yellow eyes technically failing to look back at her -- and doing so from the expected position.

She couldn't sleep. And part of her insisted upon making sure The Head was staying exactly where it was.

The Boutique was open, and so Rarity had to stay on the sales floor. Remaining at the top of the ramp, peeking down from the residence level at all times, didn't quite give her a full view of the Boutique. The shop was decidedly round in structure and yet when it came to the possibility of shoplifters -- including those who just tooth-stripped a few gems off the dresses and then tried to falsely saunter out with their mouths tightly closed -- it still managed to claim a few hidden corners.

(She'd once come close to flavoring the gems, spraying them in the same bitter apple Fluttershy used to keep cottage residents from chewing crucial items. But some failed designs were dismantled for other purposes, and she didn't want to risk making Spike ill.)

She had no choice but to remain on the lower level, even when it kept her in close proximity to The Head and she was waiting on her first potential rental customer of the day. But she supposed it was giving her the chance to become accustomed to the thing's presence.

Surely the spontaneous little twitches would fully go away in another hour.

Perhaps two.

The weekend had to be enough to do it --

-- the Boutique's front door opened.

Most of the Bearers came with their own design challenges. With Fluttershy, Rarity always had to face the sheer scope of the incredible tail -- and the fact that on the rare occasions when the caretaker dressed up, she wanted the entirety of the fall to be fully concealed. Rainbow could mean coordinating with a lot of colors, and Applejack's outfits had to be reinforced against the possibility of the farmer spontaneously turning one into a working dress.

With Twilight, it was size. The librarian was small in stature: quite a few adolescents outmassed her, and that was after factoring the earth ponies out. She also didn't have much in the way of muscle tone. Using Twilight as a living easel for the art of the dress meant dealing with the fact that the available display space had lost a few square hoofwidths.

For Twilight to make a game attempt at frustratedly stomping into the Boutique could be an exercise in comedy, as the little mare barely possessed the mass for an effective stomp in the first place. To see her doing so while wearing saddlebags which were clearly overburdened with books of all sizes, with the fast-accruing weight of paper having its way with her spine and absolutely no earth pony models helping her along...

She was trying to stomp her way in, and adding a few tenth-bales in hardcovers did have a positive effect on the impact. Watching her struggle to get the next leg in line to raise, however, could take a while. And then there was the way her vertebrae were trying to enter a consensual relationship with the abdominal wall.

Rarity almost leapt out from behind her sales desk.

"Let me take some of that!" Her horn ignited, and soft blue projected forward: surrounding the overladen saddlebags, propping up the mass. "For Sun's sake, Twilight: if you're going to carry that much, then place some of it in a corona bubble!" Chiding a little, "It's simply common sense." Which was followed by a rather quick frown. "Actually... as New Release Day for the week was several days ago, why are you coming in with so many fresh recommendations for me right now? Did you happen to find a stable sale which was selling titles from a previously-unseen author?"

The little mare, now capable of moving somewhat faster, narrowed her eyes and continued the approach.

Rarity inspected her friend's expression, then helpfully added, "Recognizing that our tastes in literature are not the same, of course. But regardless. Show me the first covers? I can generally pick out the quality of the production by the number of sails rendered for the cover's mast --"

"-- show you the first covers," Twilight half-spat, and the poorly concealed anger almost made Rarity pull back. "Right. I can do that..."

The librarian came to a stop in front of Rarity, and furious purple eyes glared up at the designer.

"...Twilight?" seemed appropriate, if slightly desperate.

A narrow rib cage expanded from the force of a furious breath.

"The library's been open for a while," Twilight slowly said. "Weekend hours."

Rarity wondered if a nod would help. "Well, yes. Our working times hardly match. You started well before I did. Does Spike have custody right now, or --"

"-- I noticed a lot of secondary school students coming in," Twilight fiercely cut in. "I thought there was homework involved. A big research project where they were allowed to choose their own topic, because they were going everywhere. And none of them wanted help. If I went up to one, they would just tell me they could take care of everything themselves."

"Ponies of that age are often reluctant to accept aid," said the mare who personally felt herself to still be rather close to those years. "As having already decided one knows everything can make it difficult to take in new facts. I had a few issues with some of my rental customers yesterday --"

"-- and then," Twilight said as her tones dropped into the too-soft register of danger, "one of them didn't quite manage to reshelve a book all the way..."

Her horn ignited. Pinkish light poked at a soft blue saddlebag coating, which parted to let it through. The left lid was flipped back, and a tome went past Rarity's eyes before she could get a truly good look at it.

"Er," Rarity carefully tried. "Twilight..."

"Behind you," was nearly a whisper.

The hardcover landed on the desk with a !THUMP! which made the sales ledger jump, and Rarity turned to look at it. The act did her the courtesy of clearing her sight line from The Head --

-- until it did not.

The book's topic appeared to be a fictionalized military history, and Rarity would have normally assumed it was poorly written because the right cover of the cover showed a drove of yaks in full retreat. Yaks generally didn't do that. Any military unit of yaks found moving away from a battlefield could be safely presumed to have found something better to break in the opposite direction.

Except that they might have found something worth running from.

The left side of the cover showed an Equestrian unit on the advance. And the charge was being led by The Head.

The designer -- snickered.

"Rarity!"

It took a second to push most of her reaction down, and little bubbles of mirth kept drifting out of her throat to burst along the borders of words. "Oh, Twilight... can't you see how silly that is? Finally, something which can actually make a yak turn away from the prospect of gleeful destruction! That which anyone of sanity would reasonably fear! Did somepony paste this over the face of the general?" She squinted. "The alignment isn't exactly perfect, and of course they couldn't match the hues for the original neck --"

"-- this is what I've been able to track," Twilight softly said. "I know you had fillies and colts in here yesterday, taking pictures. From all sorts of angles, right? Because it's only got the one expression, but changing the approach can at least give you some different views. Some of those kids had their pictures speed-developed. And then they went to the print shop, and Mrs. Bradel --"

Another book emerged. The Head was at the front of a classroom, preparing to lecture the near-foals of Magic Kindergarten on how a corona worked.

"-- transferred all of it --"

The third showed a maternity ward. A proud new mother was about to be presented with her first foal and since she'd just given birth to The Head, it was safe to guess that she wasn't going to be proud for much longer.

The fourth...

"-- to stickers -- stop laughing!"

It took a special effort to force the current outburst back.

"Twilight," Rarity finally managed, "if you would simply attempt to perceive the humor in having it raise Sun --"

"-- it's defacing books," the librarian fiercely said. "Every book they can get their mouths on! Spike started going through the shelves just before I left, and he found more than two dozen before I cleared the front door! There's probably at least a hundred which were already ruined --"

Rarity was squinting again. "The sticker doesn't appear to be evenly placed," she noted. "The edges are starting to bubble up. A rather weak glue?"

Twilight paused.

"Well, yes," she reluctantly admitted. "Mrs. Bradel doesn't do a lot with stickers, and it all has to come from her central equipment. So it's not a strong binding, because that might gum up the press. It's mostly just a quick peel and wiping down the cover. Carefully."

Do not giggle. "Twilight, they are merely having a little fun," Rarity tried. "I realize some of the results are rather -- incongruous. And they are creating extra work for the library: I acknowledge that. But it's just about completely harmless --"

The fifth book emerged, and pinkish light held it directly in front of Rarity's horrified gaze.

She had her own tastes in literature, even if Twilight sometimes insisted that Rarity's primary interests should never have counted as literature at all. Rarity, if left to her own devices, went for the sort of story where a beautiful, somewhat-naive mare would wind up foalnapped by pirates. The pirates themselves would, for the most part, be utterly uncouth. The captain merely needed the love of a good mare to set him right -- at least, once she'd gotten close enough to see the gentlepony lurking underneath.

One of her regulars had described Rarity's preference as 'bodice-rippers' and the designer, confronted with the term, had naturally needed to ask a few questions. Somepony who didn't have female minotaurs as friends generally wound up requiring some very cautious inquiries before they could learn what a 'bodice' was.

She recognized the cover, because she always took a proper number of sails as a sign of good research and that helped her find favorites. She knew the author, and recognized the Mare In Distress: the sign of that last was having the dress strategically ripped over the mark, and most of the distress went to the fabric. Of course, the mare's portion was strictly temporary, because she was mere chapters away from learning that she was in love.

With The Head.

It almost aligned with the original art. There was a certain clash of hues, and also of reality.

She blinked. A number of personal fantasies flew from her eyelashes and landed in The Head's sightless pupils, where they were instantly crushed beyond all hope of repair.

"...oh," Rarity softly said.

"Do you get it now?" Twilight patiently, evenly demanded. "It's not even the only thing they've been trying! I didn't bring any of the others because -- well, because the books are in my custody and while I could pick up most of the rest, ponies would be asking questions. You haven't seen the rest of it, and I don't even think I found everything! And when I spotted one of the students outside, told her what she'd been doing was wrong -- she said I was too old to understand! I'm only a few years clear of the Gifted School!" And in tones of near-ultimate offense, "And I got through my post-graduate work early!"

Rarity took a breath. Then she internally examined the remnants of her shattered dreams and took two more, because she was clearly facing at least a week in which breathing was the most fun she could reasonably hope to have.

"Twilight?"

"I know this isn't your fault, you didn't ask them to do it and they all just latched onto the same idea, but it has to stop --"

"-- check it for magic."

The librarian's entire body hesitated. Breathing and pulse rate took a three-second timeout, then reluctantly returned and discovered the situation hadn't changed.

The "...I don't want to," emerged with an unintentional imitation rate of 85% Fluttershy.

Another blink. An entire fleet of nightscape sailing ships instantly sunk, with every impossible romance lost at sea. "You don't what?"

With faint abashment, "I don't want my corona touching it -- Rarity, please don't give me that look. You've got rupophobia. You don't jump into mud unless Sweetie's involved. If anypony should understand..."

That brought out a soft sigh. "I do, Twilight, and -- I apologize." Carefully, as notes of respect wove themselves into full sentences, "But I must repeat the request. As you said, they all latched onto the same idea. And adolescents talk, fads spread -- but there's a chance this is being produced by something else. Through a spell. A casting we haven't encountered before, and that would be a factor for which Ponyville will need you. And if so -- we have to know. Jumping into the mud, to protect them. So -- please?"

Twilight managed a slow inhale, and her bangs shifted across the minimal length of the nod.

"Go into the workroom."

Immediately, "I'm staying right here."

"Rarity," the Element Of Magic lectured Generosity, "some enchanted items have their own defenses. You know that. And a few set those defenses to go off when somepony's trying to analyze the castings, because that's a pretty good way to keep the problem from being solved. If this has workings on it, then I don't know what any reaction might do or -- if it could hurt you. I don't want you getting hurt. Distance might provide some protection. I probably can't get you to leave the Boutique, but -- go in the workroom. Please."

"And I," Rarity immediately countered, "have no desire to cower in relative safety while my friend is risking herself."

"I could teleport with you to the other side of town," was unexpectedly fierce. "Leave you there and return directly to the Boutique. By the time you galloped back --"

"-- you might be critically hurt, with nopony present to go for help." Almost savagely, "I possess only a fraction of your strength, Twilight. I am aware. But if the theoretical defenses are aimed at the analyzing party, then you would benefit from having somepony present to knock you out of the way."

The mares locked eyes and after a few seconds of silence, it was invisibly agreed to each let the other believe that somepony else had blinked.

"Stay behind me, then," Twilight finally said. "So I can try to counter any spells first. And you can push me from the back."

Rarity nodded, and the two mares arranged themselves a few crucial body lengths away from The Head.

"I think it's watching us," Twilight whispered.

"It cannot," Rarity insisted. "It can't think, Twilight. You're the one who's always told me that the creation of a true mind through magic is effectively impossible. This cannot be the exception."

"I still feel like it's watching us."

"Why are you whispering?"

"Because maybe it can hear us too -- all right, I know I'm being silly. The eyes are just wrong. I don't think they could even be right if they were a normal size. Something about those pupils --" Her head abruptly shook itself several times, fast and hard. "-- I'm stalling. Let's get this over with."

The librarian's corona carefully removed her saddlebags: that much less weight to shift in an emergency. All other glowing holds were released, and the full intensity of the pinkish light flowed forward. Surrounded The Head and, for that matter, the body and the dress. Twilight's corona hue really didn't work with any of it, and the 'yellow' readily decided to look that much worse.

The sparkling borders shifted, pushed here and there. Little fragments of light moved across blind wooden pupils, with no hopes of making it to the other side. Rarity watched, kept her own horn attentive for the feel of an abrupt thaumatic surge, got ready to charge --

-- slowly, carefully (and a little reluctantly), Twilight exhaled. The corona winked out.

"It's been sculpted," she said. "I'm familiar with how that spell feels, because I've sensed the results after you cast it. There was no carving involved in making this, Rarity. Everything about that -- face -- and body was created with magic. And then they secured it." The lecturing tones were starting to come back. "Usually, that makes an object impossible to lift with a corona unless the original caster is doing it. Everypony else gets to see their effort slide off. But this time... they were trying to make it proof against further change, and they succeeded."

"No alterations possible," Rarity considered.

"Well, you can't sculpt it," Twilight darkly clarified. "There's a lot of other ways to change it. Just for starters, I'm pretty sure I could turn this into a mound of splinters. I'd just have to squeeze. But when it comes to magical alteration of the current form -- you can't, not without breaking the securing spell first." She paused. "There's also some minor effects. Preventing stains, a bit of dust repulsion. I think somepony just wanted this to always look -- like it does right now." She winced. "For some reason."

The designer nodded. "I knew about the protection against being sculpted again," she admitted. "I tried to make it temporarily match the others in the shipment. My apologies for not having told you."

"It's all right."

Rather warily, "And -- the rest?"

"That's it."

Rarity blinked. The upper left arch of her false eyelashes made a break for it.

"That's it?"

"It was made into that shape," Twilight delivered her verdict, "and it maintains the shape. Rarity, that's all. It doesn't radiate emotional resonance, and I thought I was potentially going to find an obsession bomb. Make ponies spread the image around town. And it might have even been rigged to only do that to ponies who aren't adults. Having that casting solely go active when fillies and colts get close. That trigger can be buried, and it'll escape casual passive notice -- but not direct examination. I didn't feel any more workings, Rarity. It's -- not doing this."

Both mares thought about that for a while. The Head watched them do it or rather, it shouldn't have. Twilight had just confirmed that it was utterly incapable of that sort of action, and so Rarity found it rather irritating that the Head just went ahead and did that anyway. The supposed ponikin clearly had no respect for advanced thaumatological investigations.

"You said," Rarity finally ventured, "that the books aren't the only thing they've been trying."

"Hardly," had just a little bit of a snarl bound up in the frets.

"I expected them to sleep in," the designer admitted. "As those of that age often do on the weekends." As she sometimes wished she'd been able to, just a little more than she had -- but she'd opened the Boutique when she still technically should have been in school. "But a number of secondary school students are clearly out and about early, because they reached the library and -- whatever else they're doing. And since none of them have yet to enter the Boutique..."

Her own horn ignited, and a sideways projection of soft blue fetched a warm traveling cloak. She'd seen the weather schedule, and the cloak's hood also made it very slightly less likely that somepony would spot her.

"Show me," Rarity requested.

"The Boutique is supposed to be open right now," Twilight hastily pointed out. "You'll lose sales --"

"-- mostly rentals," the designer qualified. "And perhaps not. They have clearly found other things to do this morning, and might not reach me for some time. You've lived in Ponyville for a while now, Twilight. You know the streets, and you've seen things which I haven't. So -- show me around."

The first stop was going to be the cinema. Twilight had been rather insistent on that.

"The Coming Attractions posters," Rarity guessed.

"Yes."

"Aren't they kept behind glass?" the designer checked. "As some ponies have apparently taken to --" and hesitated, because it was a market she'd never quite been able to work out. "-- 'collecting' them. As Stiff Neck does with the films themselves, only with somewhat less -- anger."

"Yes," Twilight sighed as the front wall of the building came into view. "That's why the students have been putting the pictures on top of the glass. And since the place hasn't opened for the matinee yet..."

They both stopped in front of the row of posters.

"...oh," Rarity finally said.

"Coming Soon," Twilight summarized. "To everything. In everything."

"It almost seems to fit with that one on the far right," the designer considered. "Except for where it's visibly making everything worse. More -- nightmarish. Inescapable --"

"-- that's a horror movie."

"I stand by my judgment."

They mutually shifted down the row. Stared for a while.

"I was going to see this one," Rarity finally admitted. "Three weeks from now. And -- yes, there's Stalwart Stallion. Cast as the male lead again."

"Mostly cast," Twilight corrected. "Since somepony did a post-filming edit swap on his head."

They kept looking.

"Are we sure about that?" Rarity's false lightness inquired.

Twilight missed it. "What do you mean, 'are we sure'? You can see where the sticker was pasted --"

"-- I follow the industry rather more closely than you do," Rarity stated. "As so many who work in film wind up with a pressing need for fashion. Stalwart Stallion has been, shall we say, trying to keep up his looks. When the force attempting to drag them down is commonly known as 'time'. The rumors claim that he's tried out a number of experimental spells."

"And of course," Twilight's innate natural sarcasm chimed in, "since a rumor is an unfounded story which only a few ponies can be bothered to pass on, it just has to be true..."

Rarity ignored it. "There were also zebra potions. And one story claimed that he'd hired a yak to kick him in the face. Strategically."

"To -- kick him -- in the --"

"-- makeup hides the bruises and the swelling gets rid of wrinkles." Rarity's snout, as part of the overall expression of distaste, was currently overcompensating in the other direction. "But of course, he then encounters certain difficulties in maintaining a full range of expression. Without screaming. So I suppose in a way, he was heading in this direction from the start..."

They resumed their mutual trot. One of the town's public notice boards came into view.

"...yes," Rarity eventually said. "Rather easier to adjust the alignment when you don't have to work on top of glass. Are the miniature versions of the posters also considered collectible?"

"I wouldn't know," Twilight stated. "And I'd rather not let this get far enough to figure out what it does to the sales value of books."

They read a few of the notices.

"I see Alla Prima is having a gallery show next moon," Rarity noted.

"Looks like."

"I always appreciate how she places her own image into her announcements," the larger of the unicorns added. "An extra piece of art. Although judging from the bleed around the edge, somepony may have put the sticker over her face before the printing fully dried. Very well, Twilight: they are altering more than just books. Anywhere a pony's head might appear becomes a potential place for substitution. Is that all of it?"

The little mare slowly looked up at her.

"Rarity," Twilight carefully said, "where do pony heads usually appear?"

"Let me think," a desperately flailing sense of humor offered. "On pony necks?"

Papier-mâché.

Years had passed since her last attempt at that kind of crafting, because even her filly self had wanted to remain as clean as she could and the side effects of such craftwork included having dirt adhere for a few days. Also dust, scraps, and any small objects one might happen to touch. The glue got everywhere.

It had been years -- but Rarity still remembered how it was done. Strips of fine material -- normal paper, a little pulp, potentially even cloth if she ever decided to desecrate it that way -- coated with adhesive, carefully layered, then painted and allowed to dry. The results, if they had the chance to set properly, could wind up with the strength of stone.

Of course, you needed at least a day for the hardening to truly take, and two was better. So the adolescents racing down the streets while wearing half-solidified replicas of The Head were jarring the results with every hoofstep. The left fake ear on the smaller of the earth ponies was about one good speed burst from coming off entirely -- or one good collision. The latter seemed more likely, especially as the young crafter had duplicated exact proportions for The Head's eyes and was thus staring out at the world through pinpricks. Rarity had no idea how the filly could even tell where she was going.

The students galloped, made unexpected turns and jumps to put themselves in front of adults, and laughed. The ambushed mares and stallions typically responded by picking a random direction. One which led to Anywhere Other Than Here.

The taller of the youths spotted the two unicorns. Swerved, got ready to jump --

-- it was just possible to see a little bit of the true eyes through the tiny holes and given how the filly was squinting, rather more in the way of eyelids.

"It's you!" the student exclaimed as she stopped two body lengths away from Rarity. "You're the one who has it!"

...and when I want to be seen, nopony knows me. But if I desire to remain slightly anonymous... "Yes," Rarity made herself admit. The aftertaste immediately began to settle onto her tongue.

"You're so mean!" the youth laughed. "And if you weren't being mean, then your timing is horrible!"

"...I am?" didn't quite seem to work, and "...it is?" was no improvement.

"Don't you care about anypony younger than you?" the filly giggled. "We all needed to see this last moon! Do you know how many Nightmare Night costumes you cost us? Every class could have been disguised as this! The tribute offerings would never end!"

Rarity calculated exactly how much she would be willing to give in order to make it all go away, then kept the silent agreement within.

"I'll see you later!" the student told her. "I need more reference shots!" Paused. "And maybe a dress. I think there's this one colt who's getting ready to ask me to the Formal. Just as soon as he decides he's almost a stallion. Bye!"

They were making their way back to the Boutique. The jumpscare attempts had wrapped up after the fifth try, and none of them had actually worked. Rarity had to share a building with the real thing --

-- a tiny amount of fine liquid mist touched the fur of Rarity's forelegs, and immediately soaked in. She'd gotten a little too close to one of the town's larger fountains. She looked up, checking her proximity to the spray.

Then she kept looking.

"Ambitious," she finally said.

"I think," Twilight considered as she made her own evaluation, "the more appropriate term might be 'vandalism'."

"That's if it's permanent," Rarity countered. "I'm fairly certain that shell is going to come off. Although if they layered the papier-mâché strips on top of the original head, it might take a few solid kicks to dislodge. Possibly some lightning..."

"So the West Fountain," Twilight summarized, "now features a sculpture of The Head."

Rarity automatically checked the second center statue.

"Twice." Paused. "How many of the town's fountains have been modified?"

"Do you really want to know?"

The designer looked up again. The replicas had captured at least thirty percent of the original's qualities, which was a minimum of thirty-five percent too much.

"...no. Let's -- just go back. And we'll split up at DelMar Avenue. Spike is waiting for your return, and I need to reopen the shop."

There was but one window in the Boutique's structure which allowed an observer to potentially spot The Head. Under normal circumstances, doing so required moving around the building, and the observer's line of sight had to be at precisely the right angle.

That was for normalcy.

With the current conditions, it also required standing in line.

Rarity was typically only spotted when she didn't want to be. It took three increasingly-loud repetitions before the door-blocking circle of adolescents created enough of a gap to let the designer into her own home.

Only Way It Could Have Ended

All things considered, having a living shadow trying to trot into the Boutique was among the least surprising things Rarity had seen all day. When it came to the mare's freshly-arrived presence, she'd pretty much been expecting the three-dimensional silhouette to turn up at some point.

All of Rarity's friends offered up full slates of individualized design challenges. Ponyville's chief of police was worse. She possessed a singular blend of fur hues: some gray-greens which just about matched her eyes, dark blues, and scattered strands of stranger shades. Put it all together and a nude mare was just about impossible to spot in the dark -- but place her within just about any light source, and Miranda Rights couldn't be missed.

Rarity had created a few patterns for the surprisingly-young officer, and anything meant for dates almost had to be brightly hued. Dance clubs were known to turn down the house lights for slow numbers, and dressing Miranda in anything based on shade tended to leave her partner trying to waltz with a support column.

She'd been expecting Miranda. The only minor shock was in seeing the unicorn trying to trot into the boutique. When this particular mare wanted to go somewhere, wise ponies moved out of her way. Adolescents, who could still turn to the myriad of legal protections offered due to being minors (and felt they were intelligent enough to abuse every last one of them) occasionally tried to make a very visible point of staying in the center of her path for as long as possible. Sometimes while smirking. And then they would move, because while they knew they were the smartest sapients ever to exist and thus proof from any form of harm, they weren't sure she did.

The mare carefully moved through the crowd of youths, which was naturally thickest near The Head. Hue-blended irises focused on Rarity, then directed their owner towards the sales desk. The designer, who currently had nopony willing to openly admit to needing her help in front of age group witnesses, had tried to take a degree of shelter behind the furnishings. This was fully inadequate. It didn't block any sight lines to The Head -- and if it had, then she needed those. Because some ponies did attempt a degree of theft, and when the Boutique was this crowded...

Miranda closed the last portion of distance, then stepped behind the desk: this made her only the third adult to voluntarily remain in an enclosed space with The Head. Rotated her body so that she could face outwards, watching the shop's milling, giggling, picture-snapping activity through the mask of a carefully-crafted neutral expression, then spoke to Rarity from the side of her mouth. A soft, carefully-pitched means of communication, where the speech was meant for the designer alone.

Rarity had also been expecting that. The actual first words, however, came as a shock.

"Are they buying?" Miranda quietly asked. (Rarity had never been able to work out what the officer's name meant, and asking directly had won her a minor head dip, the statement that part of the mare's family lived outside Equestria, and a silent pupil-focused instruction to not ask again.)

"Um," the disbelief replied, mostly as a means of buying time to think of something else.

"...oh, right," the officer self-corrected. "It's Fall Formal season. Are they renting?"

More adolescents moved around the perimeter of The Head. Flashbulbs went off, and the giggling got louder.

"Some are," Rarity softly admitted. "If expressed as a percentage of those expected to attend the dance, then the numbers are somewhat higher than expected."

"And if viewed as a fraction of those in the shop," Miranda accurately guessed, "those numbers start going down. Especially since I can see just about everypony from here, and I know some of them are too young to attend the dance."

The sigh was automatic. "...yes. I noticed that. The average age has been dropping throughout the day. I supposed they picked up on what the older children were doing and made the usual decision." To try and join in on it, thus making themselves come across as that much older. Fillies and colts forever trying to accelerate the race towards adulthood, while mares and stallions desperately sought a means of galloping back the other way.

The dark head casually nodded, then turned somewhat. Regarding Rarity more directly, while still keeping a well-practiced side-eye on the shop.

"Rarity," Miranda carefully said, "why do you believe I'm here?"

"Tracking down the cause," Rarity immediately said. "I'm rather surprised it took you this long. Have there been any charges?"

"Minor," the officer admitted. "Vandalism, defacing public property. Nothing which is going to lead into a trial. It's mostly a matter of getting them to reverse what's been done. Which I've been able to enforce by reminding them that I can go speak with their parents. Something they openly don't care about right up until the moment I pick them up in a corona bubble and start carrying them off so we can explain it all to their sire and dam together."

There seemed to be very little reason for talking around the point. "Are there any charges against me?"

A bad police officer would have deliberately hesitated, and done so in the most visible manner possible. Used the pause to watch the tension soak into their victim's features, then allowed the heat of a false smile to set the whole thing ablaze. A horrible one would have come in with a full squad behind her, because things like Testimony and Evidence never mattered when compared against Spectacle.

Miranda simply took a breath, and the grey-green eyes went through a slight change in focus. The mare's gaze initially traveled to meet Rarity's own, and then moved slightly to one side.

Really, Miranda? Really? Because Rarity knew what the police chief was looking for, and the insinuation alone felt insulting.

"That would depend," Miranda carefully said. "On whether you purposefully arranged for all of this to happen. Directly encouraging them to act, or -- placing the thought in their heads through a different means. So talk to me, Rarity. Explain what's going on. Carefully."

She did. It was an explanation which had to take place across three interruptions, as two rentals were finalized and one student wanted to make sure Rarity had every last color in her size. But Miranda was patient.

"So no magic," Rarity finally wrapped up. "If you trust Twilight's judgment there, although I'll certainly understand if you wish to perform your own evaluations. For -- legal reasons." Which was how she could allow her friend to effectively be second-guessed without having a rather more vocal tone of insult emerge. "And I'm not supposed to have The Head in the first place. It'll be recovered eventually." She risked a glance at the nearest clock. "Likely not today, though." Sun would be lowered soon and even with autumn making the event relatively early, she still wasn't expecting a pickup after dark.

Miranda thought it over.

"I'll need to see your receipt for the models. In case I wind up needing to speak with somepony at the delivery agency."

Soft blue ignited around Rarity's horn, then flowed forward and opened the appropriate drawer. A slip was floated up for Official Inspection, and Miranda carefully read it over.

"No charges, Rarity," she quietly stated as the paper was put away again. "Since I don't feel that you're lying to me."

Almost instantly, "What reason would I ever have for --"

"-- Rarity," the officer cut her off, "there are times when you lie with slightly less effort than you breathe." With a slow head shake, "Twilight once told me a theory that there could be an -- opposite form of matter. And since it was Twilight, I barely understood any of it -- but the core was that we haven't seen it because it can't come into contact with the standard composition without destroying both. And ever since then, I get just a little nervous when it looks like you and Applejack are going to touch." And added a faint sigh. "But the chain of evidence is solid here. Along with the chain of custody. I'd just love to know who originally made it. And why. And when it's going to leave."

Rarity's answering nod (which was obviously intended to solely agree with the final portions) felt oddly tight. Almost -- wooden.

"But as long as it's gone within the next day or so," Miranda continued, "then -- the party who originally has -- or in this case, introduces -- the idea? Isn't necessarily responsible for what somepony else does with it." She briefly glanced down at the ledger, then went back to her previous subject of focus. "I understand that you need the rental fees, and I'm not trying to cut them off. Technically, I could ask you to get it out of sight -- but the pictures are already out there. Speaking from the mark, removing the display isn't going to do anything. Getting the ponikin back to its proper owner might. And I'd just like this to end."

Somewhat too steadily, "The same." And then she thought of something. "You've clearly been making investigations. Has any degree of fallout from this reached the others?"

"The Bearers?" Miranda accurately guessed. "Other than Twilight, no. Rainbow's been laughing at some of the results, but papier-mâché takes more effort than she cares to put in on a spontaneous prank and in what's probably ironic, her mandible dexterity isn't great. She got tired of asking ponies to peel stickers off her teeth. And somepony tried to set up a really big image of The Head in front of the cottage, so it would be the first thing Fluttershy saw when she opened the door."

With open worry, "And?"

"Her residents found it first." Shadowy shoulders shrugged. "There's also no charges stemming from clawing paper to death. Although I understand she needed about four minutes before they would stop attacking it."

They both watched the adolescents move around the shop, although not as closely as they could have. Staring at too many detonating flashbulbs in a row wasn't good for the eyes.

The front door opened and closed, over and over. The Boutique's thermal defenses were slowly losing out to autumn chill.

"I don't see your sister," Miranda noted. "Or the other two."

"I turned them out," Rarity immediately stated. "And told them that if they were caught taking part in any of this, I would turn them in myself. They may be somewhat better, but I recognize a relapse opportunity when it comes into the Boutique on four motionless legs."

Youths milled. Laughter rang out. More flashbulbs went off, and the dark unicorn squinted a little --

Rarity's rest had been of decidedly poor quality. She was tense. The current portion of her life was being spent in too great a proximity to The Head. And she'd spent the last few minutes in being openly, silently insulted. It all added up.

"-- stop it."

"Stop what?" Miranda asked, thus proving that a police officer's mark talent suite didn't include a talent for sounding innocent.

"Stop," Rarity's near-whisper offered up in a half-hiss, "looking at my eyes. Or rather, the borders of them. You are checking for twitches. To see whether, in your opinion, I am coming close to 'losing it'. That is openly insulting, and you know it --"

One of the fillies nearly knocked a ponikin over. Rarity forced her body and features to remain steady. If only it had been The Head...

"-- and do you really want to tell me you're in a good emotional place right now?" the dark mare softly challenged. "Keeping in mind that I'm aware you lie a lot." The pause likely hadn't been meant as dramatic. "Or, to get a jaw grip on your phrasing, 'add fashionable verbal highlights'. How are you feeling, Rarity? Because temporary insanity is a real defense -- but when you hit your limits, the first thing you've been known to do is pick a target. Followed by going right for it. And I don't need anypony getting hurt."

Rarity's mouth opened --

-- she stopped. Forced herself to think. Then she looked at that one window, where so many of those youths who couldn't possibly fit into the Boutique were pressed up against the glass. Trying to see The Head from the only angle they had. And even then, they were mostly trying to look through a thick crowd of their fellows.

Ponies filled the Boutique. Ponies who weren't buying.

...all right: some of them were renting, and more than she'd expected. But when the income in bits was compared to the rising emotional toll...

"They come to see it," Rarity softly answered. "Not my creations. Nothing I've done or would wish to accept credit for. I may lie on occasion, Miranda: virtually all of us do if the situation requires it, for the truth can harm. Even Applejack has been known to present, shall we say, some well-timed silences."

The officer listened. She was good at that.

"I have spent my career in trying to dream of a design which would attract this level of interest," the dressmaker continued, careful to keep her voice pitched low. (Not that the adolescents would likely listen anyway, as it was just an adult talking.) "Apparently I should have given up on using beauty as my lure and gone directly for travesty. It feels offensive to see them all here, Miranda. Not for me, not for my dreams. For that. There was a moment when I did try to hide it away, but -- they asked to see it. I can't slip away from it to recover, not with so many ponies in the shop and no others to watch them. And when I briefly proposed charging for the view, somepony told me, and I quote, 'Information wants to be free!' What does that even mean?"

No reply. Miranda generally won her matches of Shhh! through creating conditions where the other party could no longer resist the urge to fill the silence.

"I had to leave it up because at least ponies are coming in," Rarity forced herself to continue. "And a few rent. But the adults are staying away from the rush, so purchases have been impossible. As you noted, some of what I am seeing is too young for the Formal. They are simply here to look. A decision which never sits well when my own creations are under consideration, and now they crowd at the one window, they trot into the shop merely to look, they keep coming in..."

"Rarity?" And the tones had been brighter: a quality which almost matched the hues which the designer so often had to place the dark mare within...

"Yes?" Because she knew an i-dea! when she heard one.

"If it's just a matter of their wanting to see it -- then why do they have to come in?"

Miranda's head tilted. Back and up.

Blue eyes widened, and did not twitch.

"Ah."

"Whenever you're ready," Miranda said. "But I'd suggest waiting until you're at least temporarily empty. So there's nothing to watch, and nopony who'll want an immediate explanation."

The designer nodded. "Hopefully soon, then."

They both watched the youthful herd for a while, or mostly so. Miranda never entirely stopped monitoring Rarity's eyes.

It was such a simple solution and when the tides of non-business temporarily ebbed, Rarity put Miranda's answer into action.

They all wanted to see it? Then all she had to do was make it more visible.

Relocate The Head.

(Artistically!)

She waited until the shop was momentarily empty. Then she ignited her corona, got The Head in a bubble, and allowed the loose fit to rattle the thing all the way outside.

Rarity took a moment and locked up, then allowed a second projection of soft blue to flip the door sign to Will Reopen Shortly. The step after that was a backwards one. Getting a little distance between herself and the Boutique, so she could look up.

The building had its quirks. The circular design wasn't always easy to deal with. It was something of a nightmare to heat, and Rarity tended to let the lower level coast during winter nights while leaving herself buried beneath layers of comforters and inviting Opal in to snuggle. And yes, there was very little practical reason to have pole mounts for ponikins around the residential level. If anything, the results blocked some of the better views.

This no longer mattered. The poles were there and Rarity, smiling to herself as she looked up at a gradually-darkening sky, was prepared to use them.

It took a while and because the Boutique had only been momentarily empty, she wound up with an audience for most of it. But nopony was asking questions. The young herd simply watched, as she went about her business.

Unfortunately, it was rather difficult to use one's corona on something which couldn't be directly or clearly seen and before long, Rarity's business had to take a quick side trip to the fix-it shop, where Ratchette readily loaned her a pair of binoculars.

It took some time. Remove one of the extant ponikins from its mount, and she was mostly working by feel at the end. Levitate The Head up to where it had been, and fix that into position. Because if they wanted to see it so badly, then she was making it perfectly visible to everypony outside the Boutique. Yes, it would disrupt her carefully-arranged display -- but she could always use a picture of the blue dress in the appropriate location, or ask fillies to step outside for a moment. Besides, when it came to any potential losses in rental fees, there was effectively an exchange being made and once she didn't have to look at The Head all the time, Rarity was certain she would be trading Bits for Sleep. Perfectly acceptable.

The trickiest part was aligning everything for the fresh fastening. The wooden body was fairly standard, and that meant there were holes available for use -- but even with the binoculars in place, she was still working from a fairly awkward angle. Plus she hadn't thought to recut the dress for the intrusion -- but she seldom sold her display pieces and in any case, repairs could be made.

(A very small part of Rarity's mind, which lay in direct proximity to the talent, tried to point out that she was deliberately damaging a dress. The overwhelming internal majority silently held up a countering mental picture of The Head, and the dissenter shut up.)

Fillies stared. Colts watched. Rarity secured the last screws, adjusted the drape of recently-pierced fabric, smiled, and reopened the shop.

There. They can all see it now. Furthermore, they could do so from a distance. As word has spread that this is where the real thing is to be found, nopony should assume this is a poor replica. They can stare at it. Take pictures. Perhaps one of them will even notice it staring back. Although there would be some cause for concern if The Head then managed to materialize its own camera.

Let all of Ponyville look. For that matter, let it look at all of Ponyville. Searching for its duplicates, if it so desires and any remain after Miranda's cleanup.

It's not in the Boutique, and it'll be picked up soon. Taken away forever.

But starting from this instant, it is not my problem any more.

She reopened the shop. Most of the students remained outside, at least until Sun was lowered and they had to scramble off because the adolescent gift of knowing everything somehow didn't include any information on how they were supposed to make their own dinner. A scant number came into the Boutique, all seeming to be oddly subdued about the whole thing. A few rentals were recorded in the ledger. Considerably less than she'd been seeing earlier in the day.

And Rarity was happy.

A mind which found itself awake at three a.m. was prone to all sorts of thoughts. Some of them concerned pony anatomy, and Rarity considered every last one to be fully reasonable. For example, ears. Yes, they could be flattened against the skull. But that didn't exactly block out all sound, now did it? There were always decibels creeping around the edges, looking for weaknesses in her defenses. And then they shoved.

For that matter, take earplugs and in her opinion, you could take them a rather long way off before starting the fire: she really didn't need to add the scent of burning foam to her sensory problems. Well, yes: pony anatomy made it rather difficult to slam one's forelegs over the head to add pressure onto that ineffective block. This meant earplugs were also very hard to place. Even a unicorn working in front of a mirror was going to have trouble. And because a herbivore herd species which technically qualified as prey was going to have some concerns about blocking out all sound, earplugs leaked a little. Or a lot.

But to go back to the original anatomical issues: eyes. Why did they have to be so light-sensitive? The eyelids clearly weren't doing enough on their own. She had her sleep mask: in fact, she had several, and layering wasn't helping -- beyond the part where she was learning still more about her own internal arrangements, because the extra elastic bands were trying to cut into most of them. And for that matter, blackout curtains. They clearly didn't. If they really wanted to live up to the name, then they needed to be enchanted with a few dozen not-quite-fatal offensive spells and anypony who got too close to her bedroom window would suffer a blackout. The followup tumble to the ground clearly wasn't Rarity's problem.

Although she supposed that the impact would also be audible.

Everything seemed to be audible.

(Opal had solved it all by hiding under the bed. Rarity didn't fit.)

...really, who knew that the mere act of hovering was so loud? She could hear every flap, and so many of them were accompanied by giggles...

They were being careful, of course. Just about none of them crossed onto her property, or violated the Boutique's minimal airspace. They hovered, laughed, and took pictures from the public portions of Ponyville. But it was all close enough to hear, as flash after flash obliterated whatever protection was offered by curtains and masks to keep her awake, because there were display poles close to the windows and she'd just happened to choose the one in front of her bedroom. She could always try to open the lower panel and yell, but she suspected there was a special giggle waiting for that act of futility.

And it occurred to Rarity that they were doing it all at three a.m. on a fairly chill autumn night. When everypony involved was an adolescent or younger.

Which means they're awake and out of their homes well after their bedtimes.
I could turn them in to their parents --

Portions of her bloodstream froze and in doing so, placed the tightest sections of ice around her knees. It was all the better for setting up the ache.

-- I just had that thought.
I am old.

Eventually, the youths left. The last thought continued to keep Rarity awake.

Sun was raised. It didn't help.

She staggered outside into autumn chill, unsure of the time. It was possible that the Boutique should have been open for at least an hour, especially as there was quite a bit of traffic on the street. The younger portion -- at least two dozen assorted adolescents and somewhat-younger sundries -- was gathered fairly close to the Boutique and had clearly been waiting for her to open, or at least emerge. The adults tended to scurry by while keeping their gaze low to the ground. A few pegasi swapped 'avert my eyes' for 'avert my wings' and wound up picking themselves out of the road accordingly.

Rarity didn't know how late it was, as bleary eyes had refused to focus on a clock. However, glancing up at The Head told her where she was. Location, at least. There seemed to be some question as to which reality she was operating in, and she wanted that resolved. Quickly.

She looked at it. The Head looked right back at her, crushed down the radiance of her anger into something which would fit inside an artery, then rebounded the whole of it and waited to see if the blockage would stop her heart.

It didn't. Blood caught fire, and the rage burned away all doubt.

Her horn ignited. A somewhat more intense blue than the usual, with the corona borders displaying sharp spikes in all directions, shot towards the upper level. Tried to twist The Head loose from the mounting and when that didn't work immediately, began to rock it back and forth. Preparing to yank.

This could damage it.
It isn't mine.

But she no longer cared.

Her corona intensified. Another tug, and she heard fabric tear. She didn't care about that either --

"-- what are you doing?" asked a fairly young voice. It was a voice which was still trying to decide what its adult register was going to be, and compensated by trying out six of them in each sentence.

"Taking it down," Rarity replied without bothering to look back. "And putting it in the basement." Possibly under the basement. How long would it take to dig the hole?

The young herd thought about that for a second. Rarity rocked The Head again. Three small gems tumbled from the dress.

"But it's a meme!" somepony protested. "You can't just get rid of a meme!"

The unicorn's weary mind examined the word. Processed it, running the term through the vocabulary hopper a few times in the hopes of spinning out a definition. And when nothing emerged, gave up.

"A what?" she asked, and braced herself for The Stupid.

"It's what we're calling it," an angry colt called out. "A new word! When something is so weird that you have to share it with the whole world, and you put it everywhere!"

"Creatively!" shouted a filly. "As a reaction!"

"Because it sums up what you're feeling!" somepony else added.

"And we feel like it's just that weird," a final colt concluded. "Meme."

Rarity thought it over.

"I think I perceive the word's origin," she decided as the barrel of the ponkin tilted against the mounting pole.

"We just made it up --"

"-- 'look at me-me-me-me'," the unicorn viciously interrupted. "Cut slightly short."

Two dozen adolescents, each of whom knew everything, collectively failed to conjure a comeback.

"And I see we have a new definition of creativity!" Rarity's false brightness thought to add. "See what everypony else is doing and then, rather than try to come up with something new? Do exactly that. Follow the herd wherever it leads, because surely all dreams have already entered the world and the only thing left is to offer summaries of that which already exists. Even when it shouldn't." The rocking was picking up force, and each additional movement made the corona spikes that much brighter. Sharper. "A reflection of my own industry, is it not? Clearly originality exists solely to be dismissed -- but simply slap another piece of mindless duplication onto a display surface, and just drink in the applause!"

"You're not being fair!" announced a filly whose voice alone was six years away from attending the Formal. "If we want to see it --"

"-- you have pictures enough for a lifetime," Rarity announced through gritted teeth as the mounting pole itself threatened to bend. "Revisit them at your leisure. And visit the Boutique for your Formal dress, when the time comes. But when it comes to this --"

"-- leave that where it is!"

It had been an adult voice. A stallion's, and -- familiar.

The students collectively went silent. When two adults wanted to be stupid, the funniest results came from letting it happen.

...why would he...?

Rarity didn't know. But she made the mistake, and turned to look at him anyway.

"For the purposes of argument alone, Stiff Neck," she carefully began as the light from her own spiking horn continued to flow backwards, "why?"

The stallion sniffed. He was good at that, to the point where a number of ponies expected him to have a mark for it. However, those who'd caught him on the rare occasions when he was undressed reported that the icon was of a film's reel canister and for those who knew Stiff, that was a reasonable expectation. Those who truly understood him were never surprised to see that the metal was on fire.

He might have been born into middle age. Rarity genuinely had no idea how old Stiff was, and attempts to get the answer from the easiest source (Pinkie) had gotten a response of "He doesn't celebrate or care, so I don't know." The best guess at a maximum was usually made by subtracting seven from his startlingly attractive spouse's age and then doubling that result: this usually wound up taking several minutes, as any attempt at that approach would be repeatedly interrupted by questions about what she was doing with him.

The earth pony (small for his species, off-white fur with a tinge of yellow, like cotton with too much Sun exposure or silver nitrate just beginning to react) had started going bald early and completely unlike Cranky, hadn't so much leaned into it as gone for the outright embrace. He'd shaved just about the whole of his mane away, was suspected to be dying any remnants to match the fur of his scalp, and was probably one stupid comment from doing the same to a drooping tail.

A seldom-seen smile was somewhat too wide. A happy Stiff tended to leave observers reviewing the exact location of every vein in their throats.

He wore glasses, and had ordered the lenses to be at least thirty percent over the size he actually needed: all the better to catch things coming from odd angles. Stiff was also one of the very few ponies in town who always got dressed up: fall had him going around in what was just about a full suit, and it took the hottest days on the summer schedule to make him openly reject the idea of full nudity yet again -- but he wasn't a clothist, because he never covered his hooves. No soft boots, and having anything nailed to the keratin was right out. There could be hip-high snowdrifts in the heart of winter and Stiff would take them on without a single piece of hoof protection. Nopony understood why.

The stallion had a unique sort of voice. To hear Stiff speak was to have the listener's mind get stuck on 'declaim', with a frequent modifier of 'snidely'. He usually attempted to adopt tones of great intelligence at all times, which didn't do anything about the fact that any attempt to pronounce 'intelligence' was going to lose the 'c' at least one time in ten. The overall effect was that of a lecturer who'd blundered into a hall for the wrong subject and was going ahead with their speech anyway.

And he hated movies.

He hated them so much as to watch them all the time, because hate was love with its tail turned and Stiff kept glancing over his right shoulder.

Because Stiff's form of hatred was openly, vocally critical and treated the rest of the audience as something which absorbed sound, he'd eventually found himself banished from Ponyville's cinema. Canterlot was still writing up the last few restraining orders, but the multiple screens in the capital also felt that it was rather hard for ponies to enjoy a film when the stallion behind you was in his tenth minute of explaining every hole in the plot and the movie had only been running for eleven.

Stiff needed to loathe films, and so had taken the extraordinary steps of arranging to do so in his home.

He owned a projector and was forever scavenging spare parts. A screen had been found somewhere. Nopony understood how he'd managed to rig a magic-powered sound system.

Numerous contacts had been made at multiple studios. Generous amounts of bits placed canisters into his possession after the film's initial theatrical gallop had wrapped. And then he would watch the movie in what absolutely wasn't the privacy of his living room, because Stiff gestured and commented and ranted against the contents of his private screen, from the opening credits to the closing ones. And ponies looking for a cheap form of entertainment would head over to his street, get a good line of sight on the window, and -- enjoy the show. Not the movie, because you couldn't see that. Stiff Neck.

Multiple ponies said he was actually a fairly effective critic, and did so while simultaneously agreeing that he could never make it in print. It was rather hard to capture a spontaneous offensive foreleg gesture in text.

"Rarity," Stiff Neck declaimed, "have you taken a good look at that thing?"

She carefully considered her answer. Rarity generally tried to be patient with Stiff. Part of that was because they both appreciated the interaction of light and shade or in his case, anti-appreciated. But it was also because he was a customer. She seldom made anything for stallions, but he frequently needed to have portions of his extensive wardrobe repaired and she accommodated him whenever possible. He had a good eye for fabric and besides, an earth pony who was fully dressed and making a truly offensive spontaneous foreleg gesture was probably going to tear something.

"Several," Rarity understated.

He gestured his right foreleg up, pointing at The Head. Four shoulder stitches gave out.

"It's hollow," Stiff declaimed. "It's heatless. It is soulless."

The silent adolescents mulled that over. Rarity briefly waited for the inherent Knowledge Of Everything to offer explanation, then gave up.

"Stiff," her calm voice began as the corona spikes went nowhere, "I've lifted this a few times now. Please trust me when I say it is not fully hollow, or the task would have been considerably easier. I suppose 'heatless' is fair, though. Since it's an inanimate object and reflects the temperature of the ambient air. As for the last part, I am dearly hoping you're completely correct because if that thing has a soul, we may all be in very deep trouble --"

The bare left forehoof stomped.

"I meant as an artistic statement," Stiff snidely clarified. "It may be one of the worst things ever created, Rarity. The only thing I can see in it is pain. Dream-crushing agony. Especially around the pupils."

"Which clearly means I must remove it from public view," Rarity tried -- and then saw the new look in his eyes. "...doesn't it?"

The stallion looked up at The Head again, and a declaiming voice became soft. Reverent.

"There's a film," he said. "The Stable. Ever heard of it?"

Rarity made a mistake. She shook her head.

"Amateur production," Stiff told the world. "A pony who couldn't write also couldn't direct, act, edit, or get a shot right after forty takes. But what he could do was pay ponies --"

"-- to do all of it?" Rarity asked, because she did understand what a producer was.

"To pretend he could. As long as the money kept coming," Stiff explained. "And the result is one of the worst films ever recorded. It is legendarily bad, Rarity. You wouldn't think that a stallion's inability to pronounce 'hi' without somehow adding an 'a' could mean so much, but you'd have to see the results. And, just as bad, hear."

The wince was automatic. "I'll take your word for it. But I fail to see how this relates."

"The Stable is one of the worst films ever made," Stiff semi-repeated. "It may be the worst. And it is so bad that it's had a Canterlot cinema screen booked for the last two years. Ponies are still showing up to marvel at its badness. They travel to see it, Rarity. From gallops away, taking the train for days to catch ninety minutes of purest pain. To say they did. Some Canterlot residents might have seen it a dozen times."

"Ponies," the designer drastically understated with no awareness of any irony, "can be rather strange. I still don't see --"

He reared up, and both bare forehooves crashed into the stomp. "All of those ponies have seen it -- and I haven't. Because I'm blocked from entering that cinema, and the studio won't sell me a print until the film is completely out of theaters. It may never end its run."

The stallion looked up at The Head again, and his eyes once again filled with the mist of reverence.

"I don't know why this calls to me," he softly told them. "Why I just know. But I understand, Rarity. Maybe I'm the only one who does. I understand that in its way, it's just as bad as The Stable ever could be."

"Which means I must remove it --

"No. It can't be locked away. It has to be kept on permanent, public display. Right where it is, for maximum clash. Celebrating the pristinity of its horror." And in the tones of something very close to prayer, "Forever."

"Forev --" was as far as she got.

"Because when you have a travesty on this level," the stallion explained, "it needs to keep existing. For comparison. Or how would ponies appreciate and understand what a true travesty even is?"

Something odd was happening to the world. It was well after Sun-raising, the roses and oranges of the orb's arrival were gone -- and yet, something about the air seemed to be tinting towards red.

I can't destroy it. The Head belongs to another. It must be returned. I can only remove...

But the corona spikes were coruscating. Searching for a target.

Her vision seemed to be blurring. Odd distortions manifested in her ears. Little squeaks and rattles. No sleep, no recovery, no chance...

"And surely," Rarity's lie of levity inquired as she turned to look at the students, "you all agree with this? To have your 'meme' on permanent display? As I would effectively be adopting it for my own?"

Multiple expressions of pure alarm flitted across the gaps between two dozen faces. And then the youthful herd made its collective decision, in the final instant before the oldest filly offered up the ultimate adolescent argument.

"Do whatever you want."

Dismissal.

"...whatever -- I... want?" Rarity's voice offered in staggered stages.

"We're pretty much done with it," the filly shrugged.

"You were obsessed!"

"So? There'll be other memes," said the filly who was a few critical hours away from having her rental short-stitched and would spend an entire dance dragging her hips across the floor. "Maybe we can even meme something you did. Don't you bring out your worst-selling designs for Nightmare Night every year? If there's anything we can sticker onto posters..."

Multiple long days. Sleepless nights.
Building frustrations, to the point where the eyelash glue wasn't the only thing on the verge of snapping.
She had to take it out on something.

Her corona brightened, began to approach a hot white at the core, and that finally made the students back up. Stiff, unable to counter her efforts, could only watch as Rarity's energies flowed. Moving directly for the thing which had done it all, and it belonged to another, she knew that, but she was Generosity and such clearly extended to paying for damages. Mysterious, unaccountable, total damage.

She wasn't very strong: in terms of what her magic could accomplish, Rarity held down the center line of the unicorn bell curve. Strictly average. But she didn't need to be powerful for this. It was a question of where she applied the force. She couldn't sculpt the horror away, but she could squeeze. Push at the right place and the ears would go. Blind eyes could try to not-see while in six pieces. A little more focus meant having the pasterns fracture --

-- no. She would only move on to the body after destroying the subject of greatest offense. The Head.

And she turned to face the Boutique again, looked up at something she could barely see through red and rage, her corona twisted and yanked as The Head started to come free of the mounting pole and the squeaks got louder and louder --

"-- and I finally got here!"

It was a happy sort of voice. There was open delight leaking out from between the syllables and Rarity, whose very soul failed to understand how anypony could feel that way in The Head's presence, found herself distracted enough to turn.

A rather young dark blue earth pony stallion was pulling a lightly-loaded cart towards the Boutique. The beige ponikin in the open back rattled a little with every turn of the wheels.

"That's mine," he said, gazing at The Head.

"That," Stiff came in first, "is yours --"

"Although I'm guessing the dress is yours," the new arrival told Rarity. "Still, that was really nice of you! Putting it up high like that, when I've never been in Ponyville before and didn't know my way around. I was tracking it from the moment I entered town!" He gradually dropped the speed of his approach, ignored every fast-fading corona spike of rage (because confusion did a lot to negate those), and came to a full stop. "So if you can just take it down and remove the outfit, I'll get it back to the shoot!"

"...the shoot?" Stiff instantly perked up. "This is for a film?"

The young stallion proudly nodded, then inclined his head towards a movie camera mark. "I'm an intern! They just sent me out to make the swap. One of our custom pieces got mixed into her shipment."

"Well, no wonder I hated it so much!" Stiff delightedly announced. "Let's hear some details! Which idiot did you hire for the script?"

"Um," said the intern, who was rather new to the profession and all things considered, was probably best off encountering something like Stiff Neck early on.

"They're all idiots," Stiff confided. "Every writer, or they wouldn't be writers. And the actors, too."

"You're saying," the intern tried, "that actors are stupid --"

"Stupid and worthless. Did you ever eat with one? Anyway, give me some spoilers! At least tell me the genre. Horror, right?"

"Actually," the intern managed as Rarity's frozen gaze failed to shift away from the insanity, "it's a romance. A really tragic one."

Everypony, of all ages and professions other than 'intern', took a moment to think about that.

"You're putting that in a romance," Stiff carefully asked on Ponyville's behalf.

"Well..." the intern reluctantly admitted, "we're not sure it's a very good romance. It's based on this one author who mostly does the same plot over and over. With waves. So we're mostly hoping ponies come to see The Head."

The design, who had a lot on her mind, missed some of it.

Was I used? A deliberate mistake in the shipment, to create a zone for promotional display...

No. The studio would have picked Canterlot. This had been a true accident.

Protective spells to create consistency across all camera shots. No dirt can adhere. Reinforced to hold the look. Maintain the set...

"Anyway," the intern hopefully said, "can I get it back? Undressed, of course. And we'll make the swap." He smiled at Rarity. "I hope this wasn't any level of inconvenience for you. The deliverypony who tracked the mistake to the studio said you were really nice."

Silently, the unicorn mare turned to face her shop. Looked up at The Head, which stared down at her with the brainless non-expression of an inanimate object which knew it had won.

"Could you please go into my shop?" a surprisingly weak voice asked, using the last of its owner's strength to retain a faint tooth grip on the accent. "There's binoculars on the sales desk. Bring them out. And I could use some pegasi volunteers from the audience to go up and supervise my attempts to free it. My eyesight seems to be a little blurry."

The students, who were mostly aware that there had been rage spikes in the corona and they were all a little too close to any potential return, cooperated. The intern, who was utterly pleasant about the whole thing, assisted where he could, politely pointed out the damage to the dress, and made sure all the paperwork fell in Rarity's favor. She was gifted with multiple cinema passes "for your trouble," and then --

-- The Head was wrapped. Wooden 'yellow' features vanished beneath cloth. The results were loaded into the cart.

And then it was gone.

Nearly everypony was gone. Stiff had accompanied the intern, because he always relished the chance to hate movies in the presence of an industry representative. Most of the students had vanished. Three fillies were waiting for Rarity to open the Boutique, because rental dresses needed to be chosen.

The designer mentally reviewed her supply of headache medicine. Tried to figure out how long she could be awake before collapse, and then slowly forced herself to approach the front door. Her speed increased once she remembered what no longer lurked within.

On the whole, she decided, it could have been worse. At the absolute minimum, the thing was gone. And the meme -- the fad -- would fade in time. They all did.

A few moons at most, long enough to gain a favor from Luna and ask for all traces to be blocked from her dreams. And then she would never have to see The Head again.

A mare who was known to lie with enough frequency to counterbalance Honesty still took being sworn in very seriously, and so her testimony during the trial hit all of the salient points. That she'd been burning off a number of free passes. Learning that one of her favorite authors had a film adaptation coming out -- that had given her a natural priority for use. And there had been no real attention paid to the poster outside the cinema, because some ponies were slow to drop fads and she'd presumed that stickers were still being burned off.

The jury, upon hearing all of it, agreed that her reaction had been instinctive, conducted without thought. This made it easy to find for temporary insanity, and they let her go. After all, upon seeing The Head again (at fifteen times the normal size, with an extreme closeup focus on the teeth), the screaming, maddened, rage-spiking unicorn had only assaulted the screen. And a mare who understood fabric on the level of her mark, going after a giant flat sheet...

(She'd finalized the total destruction just as the sailing vessel had returned to the reels. So if you counted the not-very-good romance, two ships had been sunk.)

So she was released to make her own way in the world. And because it was Rarity, it wouldn't be her last trial -- although the majority were conducted with co-defendants at her flanks. After all, she had friends.

But when it came to putting That Movie into Ponyville (as opposed to Canterlot, where it took over from The Stable for eight moons, and the cinema got the restraining order against her in advance), the jurors agreed that the studio really should have seen it coming.