Haute Couture

That evening, Rarity was awoken from sleep by the sound of shattering glass.

Blinking sleep from her eyes, she thought, My fans!

Then Carousel Boutique exploded.

Not a single article of clothing survived the blast. The walls and supports of the first floor blew out. The second floor pancaked the first, crushing what hadn’t been vaporized.

Opalescence survived. Rarity knew deep down that nothing made by ponies could kill Opal. She hugged the cat tight to her chest as the fire crews doused her life’s work with fire-retardant foam.

Dumbass, Opal said with her eyes. You played with fire. You got burned. Now you have the audacity to cry about it. You think you’re gangster, but you’re no gangster. You’re a punk bitch. I’M HUNGRY. FEED ME.

“I’m sorry Opal dearest,” Rarity sniffled. “Your food was... in... in there...” She burst into tears all over again.

Hoooly fuck, you’re so annoying. Lemme down, I wanna go murder a mouse. Opal wriggled out of Rarity’s grasp and strutted off. At least one of us has our shit together.