The Head

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.