Chapters Rarity was thinking to herself, Goodness me, that mare’s outfit looks... like, familiar? But worse? when said outfit burst into flames.
“Shit,” said Rarity, “fuck, shit. ” She grabbed her iced mocha latte and doused the mare, who let out an ear-splitting shriek. Everyone in the Ponybucks turned to look at Rarity.
“What was that for?” the mare demanded.
Rarity blinked. “Sorry, come again? It sounded like you said something other than thank you for saving my life. ”
The mare kicked the empty plastic cup. “You just ruined my mane!”
“Your mane? Your—” Rarity took a beat to compose herself. “I understand the value of a good blow-out better than anypony. But, and correct me if I’m wrong here, I’m fairly certain that oat milk and espresso is not as bad for your mane as fire.”
The mare squinted hard at Rarity. “You own the boutique on the south side of town, right?”
“Southeast. The arts district. Sorry, we’re getting off-topic, I just didn’t like how you said ‘south side of town’ like that. There’s a lot of new developments there. The stabbing rate’s blown completely out of proportion. There’s a local news segment debunking this.”
“What? No. I’m saying, you’re a fashion pony. How do you not know about Seasonal Fashion?”
“I’m familiar with seasonal fashion as a concept. Are we having the same conversation here?”
“Not seasonal fashion. Seasonal Fashion.”
The mare picked up a charred fragment of her outfit from the ground. On the tag was written:
⊹₊🔥⋆｡°✩
Seasonal Fashion
a transitory experience by
SASSY SADDLES
⊹₊🔥⋆｡°✩
“The whole thing boils down to magnets,” Rarity said with a chuckle. “I’ve always been a mare of the arts, but as a worldly pony, I found the science of it quite fascinating.”
Across from her stood Sassy Saddles. Her jaw worked slowly from side to side. Her hooves dug deep marks into a folded stack of six hundred dollar sweaters.
“My R&D department helped make them.” A ghost of a smile played across Rarity’s face. “Your time-delay mechanism has a magnetic component next to the fuse. Takes almost nothing to heat it up enough to cause a spark. I’m honestly surprised your R&D teams didn’t catch that.” She giggled. “Unless... you don’t have an R&D team.”
Sassy’s lips peeled back. “I’m so grateful you caught that design flaw.”
“Perhaps for future variations, you could run your designs past my R&D team! It’s the princess of friendship. She has access to all sorts of labs and equipment. If you’re ever in need —” She put a little more spin on those words than was strictly necessary. “Just say the word.”
“You’re so kind.”
“I know! Technically speaking, I’m generosity, but I know what you meant.”
“So this... flaw, in Seasonal Fashion... did you tell anyone else about it?”
“Why, of course not! I am nothing if not tactful.”
“Tactful, yes. Except the event you hosted yesterday—”
“Oh, yes, that.” Rarity pinched a piece of dust off a six hundred dollar sweater. “Lucky for you, I thought of this ahead of time. Obviously nopony wants your signature line to be thrown into disrepute just because you can’t afford your own R&D. I did the right thing and omitted credit.”
Sassy’s eyes twitched. “You didn’t credit my work?”
Rarity shrugged. “Like you just said, I wouldn’t want to tell anyone else about your line’s sloppy, messy, lawsuit-inducing flaws.”
“Technically speaking,” Sassy said, her voice rising, “that’s not actionable. You sign a waver when you buy the outfit.”
“Ah,” Rarity giggled. “Silly me. I wouldn’t know! I got them all secondhoof.”
“What is actionable, Rarity, is what you did last night. If you programmed the showcase, and if you dissed my line, and if you used my hard work and ingenuity as a pyrotechnical background for your own line without giving requisite credit—” Her voice fell back to baseline. “Then there could be legal issues.”
“You’re so absolutely right, dear. But I think the blame ought to lie less with the mare who lit the fuse and more with the mare who put bombs in her skirts, hmm ?”
The electronic bell above the door played cunty indietronica as Rarity walked into Sass by Saddlés. Sassy stood behind the counter, talking a younger customer through the merits of each different color of oversized cargo jorts. She noticed Rarity, gave her a professional scowl, and walked over to her.
“Rarity, dearest, it’s so good to see you.” She kissed Rarity’s right cheek, then her left. “Sorry about the face. It’s part of the uniform. Showing emotion is out again. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Well, it’s not out, it’s more that being mean is a throwback to early 1000’s post-NMM anxiety as a response to the decline of the New Sincerity movement and emotional maximalism—” she stopped herself. “Not important. I’m here about your latest line.”
“You’d like a pair of reverse-ethically sourced jorts? I didn’t take you for the type, if we’re being honest.”
“No.” Rarity waved the charred tag in Sassy’s face. “I’m here about Seasonal Fashion.”
“Oh!” Sassy’s face broke out into a smile, which she quickly squashed. “I am absolutely over the moon in love with Seasonal Fashion. I am Narcissus, and Seasonal Fashion is my reflection.”
She motioned Rarity to follow her deeper into the store, where Seasonal Fashion dominated the shelf space. As Rarity scanned the rows of tops and jumpsuits and casual dresses, a molten-hot iron ball of rage formed in the pit of her stomach. As she moved from one display rack to the next, the rage moved up her esophagus, burning all the way up. When she finally finished circling the display area, it was practically touching her molars.
“Do you have any thoughts on the line?” Sassy asked.
“Yes.” Rarity spat out the lump, spewing sparks. “It’s mine. ”
The friendly scowl melted off Sassy’s face, replaced by the calculating look of a tiger sizing up its next meal. She ran a hoof over the nearest outfit, a snatched romper with an open back and rips in all the right places. “Legally speaking, that statement is not actionable.”
“Legally speaking, I definitely won’t light your shop on fire and dance in the ashes. Oh, wait! You already programmed all your clothes to do that anyway!”
“It’s not a computer chip, dear. It’s a time-delay fuse. It activates when we take the security magnet off.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“Yes, I fear I am. It’s Seasonal Fashion, Rarity. Emphasis on seasonal. What could possibly be more ephemeral? Fashion celebrates life and form, but my line takes on higher meaning. I am doing nothing less than invoking the specter of death. I’m saying, Look hot while ye may. For tomorrow the bells may toll for thee. ” Then she pointed to the mechanical bell above the door. “That bell, specifically.”
Rarity walked over to Sassy and slapped her.
Sassy stumbled backwards and knocked over a display rack. “Be careful,” Rarity said. “Those are literal ticking time bombs.”
Sassy struggled to pick herself up. Her lips trembled. “You... don’t approve of my vision?”
“Your vision is going to bleed me dry!”
“But you’re not doing anything remotely similar to Seasonal Fashion.”
“I do seasonal fashion every year!”
“That’s seasonal fashion. I—”
“Stop. Don’t finish that sentence or so help me I will strike you again. The only thing that’s unique about your line is the bombs you sewed in the stiching.” Her eyes scanned the racks. “You’ve been busy. I see Coco Pommel’s summer lineup, and a shitty half-baked clone of Monochrome’s Enchanted Librarian , and Janx Spanx’s Sexier Third Wheel ... goodness gracious, who haven't you ripped off?”
“You know what they say, Rarity. Great artists steal. Plus I’ve been over this with my lawyers. My line is derivative. It’s not theft.”
“I’m not saying that what you’re doing is illegal. Not even the bomb parts. I think.”
“Then what are you angry about?”
Rarity jabbed a hoof in Sassy’s face. “It’s a good idea, and I didn’t think of it first.”
The latest edition of Cosmarepolitan hit the shelves, for lack of better words, like a bomb. The front cover featured an image of Sassy Saddles and an accompanying six page glazefest on her and her Seasonal Fashion line.
Deeper in the magazine—much, much deeper—a half-sized paragraph of critique from Rarity was sandwiched between ads for plus-sized candy lingerie and check cashing services.
“They didn’t even print the entire critique!” Rarity chucked the magazine into the trash. “I sent in six pages. Six!” She held up two hooves to Opalescence. “This times three! Six!”
Opalescence meowed back as if to say, You’re being a whiny little bitch right now. What are you gonna do about it, huh? Be a little foal and complain? Run your mouth? Write some more critique? Idiot. The zeitgeist is passing you by and all you can do is cry about it.
“It’s valid critique! It’s not my fault nobody cares about intellectual property anymore. It’s all streaming culture and rentification. I am being taken advantage of by richer, more powerful ponies.” She picked up Opal and held her up high in the air. “Why can’t I be the rich and powerful pony for once?”
In the southeast quadrant of Canterlot, there stood a warehouse with exposed brick interior walls and a ceiling made of disco balls and string lights. A hundred years ago, the warehouse had been used to manufacture steel. Later in its life, it had been a vital waypoint for a complex grocery distribution chain. As the area gentrified, industry was pushed out. The warehouse was structurally unable to be converted into chic artist lofts for the ultra-rich and their children, and therefore fell into disuse.
Now, its manicured grime played host to Rarity’s latest bid for the spotlight.
808s hammered from rented subwoofers. Spotlights swung, searching for something shiny. Rarity’s six hundred closest work friends jockeyed for standing room around a massive runway. At the center of it all—by design, of course—was Rarity. Every few minutes she arrived on the catwalk in a new bombshell creation, ranging from the gorpy to the serene to the scandalous.
It was going great—but she knew it could be better. She got polite standing ovations, but only because the show itself was standing room only. She wasn’t killing it the way she wanted to.
Luckily, she had a plan.
At the party’s apex, Rarity signaled all the models back to the catwalk. Each pony wore the unmistakably derivative hits of Seasonal Fashion. The lights dimmed. The crowd watched with bated breath as Rarity levitated two oversized magnets on either side of her. She paused for a moment to let the suspense linger in the air. Then she took off down the runway at a gallop.
The magnets had an immediate effect. The tiny time-delay system in each outfit glowed red through the fabric. One by one, the outfits burst into brilliant flames of every color of the rainbow. The crowd ooh’d and aah’d , but their awe turned to full-blown adulation when they realized that underneath the immolating Seasonal Fashion was Rarity’s newest line of actual seasonal fashion.
As Rarity bathed in the applause and the sparks still raining down on the stage, she noted a few stragglers slipping out of the warehouse. Perfect, she thought. Message received.
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.
Past a certain age, crashing on a friend’s couch no longer feels like a slumber party.
Rarity was trying to scavenge some semblance of a skincare routine from Twilight’s guest bathroom when she stumbled upon some interesting light reading in a basket atop the toilet. The book was smaller than the usual fare Twilight indulged in. It had no title or author credits—just a uniform red hardcover.
As the frankenstein moisturizers and cleansers did their work, Rarity skimmed through the book. By the fifth page, she found herself nodding along. By the seventh, she was seeing parallels. By the tenth, she was getting ideas.
“Twilight!” Rarity didn’t both washing her face off before tromping through the castle. “Twilight, I have questions. Questions about literature!” she hastened to add.
Twilight shot around the corner so fast her royal shoes kicked up sparks.
Rarity’s outfit for this latest gathering had taken a decidedly martial turn. Her mane was tucked beneath an olive military cap. A pair of epaulets rested on her shoulders. The old her would have died of shock at the sight of so much camo and primary colors, but the new Rarity knew better. Camo was in again.
“These demons, these dogs, these betrayers of culture, ” she shouted into the microphone, “ought to be dealt with swiftly and publicly. There is no other way to atone for their crimes. Vengeance is both our duty and our privilege!”
The assembled ponies were a little confused. The posters had advertised a fashion show, and given how fun Rarity’s last one was, they were eager to get in early and stay late. News of the attempted assassination had only served to bloat the guest list even further.
“There are those among us, demons disguised as ponies—no offense to our changeling comrades—who take advantage of natural pony creativity for their own greedy ends. They steal the labor of our cultural toil, process it into mush, then sell it back to us at an obscene markup.
The crowd nodded their heads and clapped their hooves. Most had parents or significant others in just such an industry. Many of those same parents and significant others paid their rent. Still, Rarity was speaking with the kind of passion that made all of those facts irrelevant. It was all about the vibe, and Rarity had vibes to spare.
“Will you make a new line to commemorate the revolution?” a pony asked.
“The names of the fashion revolution will be Equitable and Decentralized. No longer will the creatives of the community be preyed upon by the vultures of capital.”
“Will it have bangles?” another pony asked. “I really liked it when you put bangles on that one dress.”
“Those who mine bangles in the northern bangle mines will be compensated—to each according to their needs. The distributors will be watched with a careful eye to ensure honesty. And the creatives will be able to focus their talents without fear of being copied by lesser designers!”
A long beat of silence fell upon the rally.
“And the dresses will have bangles.”
The crowd burst into rabid applause. Rarity’s heart swelled with pride. This will show Sassy, she thought. Ignorant bitch. Try to steal my slice of the pie, will you?
Rarity continued, “You are all instrumental to the next phase of the revolution! Each and every one of you!” She pointed out ponies at random in the front row. “You! And you! And you!” One of the ponies she’d just singled out squealed like a filly at a Haylor Swift show. Another ponied at Rarity’s cap and made a ‘gimme’ gesture. “Oh. Uh. It’s my cap, actually. Sorry.” The gesturing redoubled. “Well, to each according to their need...” She hoofed the cap over, ignoring the twenty other ponies now pointing to her outfit and making similar gestures. “We are all in this together, ponies! Together, we shall seize the means of creativity! We shall topple the old regime of exploitation! We shall burn down the factories of mass consumption and rebuild them anew! A more equitable future! A more just future! A future with hot uniforms !”
The crowd’s rabid enthusiasm waned. Before Rarity could get ahead of the turn, one potential party member asked, “What factories, specifically?”
“All of them. They’re all owned by the same monsters who have their boots on your necks.”
Another pony asked, “Are we gonna burn down the factory that makes Kate Stirrup?”
“Or what about Gucc?”
“Is streetwear gonna be allowed if we’re all wearing uniforms?”
“Are we gonna get rid of everything decadent? I kinda like decadence.”
“Yeah! What about Chocky Chip Cheez-Bitz?”
“Ooh yeah, we should keep that one,” another pony chimed in. “I love Chocky Chip Cheez-Bitz.”
Rarity’s face contorted. “We are not keeping Chocky Chip Cheez-Bitz.”
“What? Why not?”
Rarity sighed audibly into the mic. “Chocky Chip Cheez-Bitz is owned by Bitz Bizz, LLC. It’s a subsidiary to Krafty Kreations, LLC, which is itself a vertical of Sassy Holdings Groupe.” The crowd still wasn’t getting it. “Sassy Saddles owns Chocky Chip Cheez-Bitz. It’s getting burned.”
The effect was immediate. A chorus of boos rose up from the crowd.
“Now just hold on a minute!” Rarity said. “Chocky Chip Cheez-Bitz is listed as a direct cause of 42 percent of new diabetes cases! They’re killing us! Actively! For profit!” The crowd remained unmoved. “Alright, fine, we’ll build a more equitable factory that makes reduced-sugar Chocky Chip Cheez-Bitz!”
“That’ll take, like, a whole year!” one pony shouted.
“You can’t trample on my rights!” another pony added.
“Yeah!” a third pony agreed. “We’re here to trample on somepony else’s rights!”
The crowd whipped itself up into a frenzy from which not even the most skilled, most hottest orator could talk them down. They marched outside. Torches were acquired. In short order, three zebranese restaurants and a yak-owned laundromat had been torched.
Rarity found her military cap among the trash on the ground, patted it free of dust, and went back to Twilight’s.
Fall Formal Fashion Week actually took place in the middle of August. Some ponies may have found this strange, but then again, the festival also lasted ten days and focused mainly on experimental fashion and streetwear. None of that false advertising stopped Equestria’s top designer talent from converging on Canterlot for two hundred and forty hours of panels, runway shows, and secret backdoor deals.
Sassy Saddles was there, sporting a specially-crafted variation of Seasonal Fashion that would burst into flames after only twenty minutes. Her entourage followed close behind her, armed with cameras and replacement outfits. Everytime her outfits immolated, she got a polite oooh from the audience.
What brought an even bigger smile to her face was the sight of Rarity, her mane humble and barely-curled, sporting the signature pieces of Seasonal Fashion. It must have seemed like a capitulation to a superior opponent, Rarity thought as she made her way through the crowd to Sassy.
“Rarity, my darling.” Sassy kissed her right cheek, then her left. “You are so brave to be here today.”
“You’re too kind,” Rarity replied, feeling the barbs in Sassy’s words. “How has your FFFW been?”
“Better, now that you’re here. I was wearing the exact same thing an hour ago. It’s my favorite combo.”
Rarity looked down at her own outfit. “Signed the waver and everything.”
“I hope you’re not sore about being an inspiration.”
“No, actually I’ve come to appreciate what you did. I was thinking about doing the same right back to you—making a modified version of Seasonal Fashion that doesn’t burst into flames.”
“That would defeat the purpose of Seasonal Fashion.”
“That’s the statement. Overcoming the inevitable.” Rarity smiled faintly. “Do you remember what you said to me in your shop? The statement you were trying to make with Seasonal Fashion?”
“Capturing the ephemeral?”
“No, not that.” Rarity pulled out a knife. “Look hot while ye may. ”
