I whistle while I work. I always have. It’s a comfort, something that staves away the mind-crushing boredom of a normal day. Best part is, most ponies assume that I whistle because I enjoy my job. My boss walks by and hears me whistling some happy tune while I file papers or scribble something down and boom! I’m in my boss’ good graces because I’m such a happy-go-lucky worker, such a dedicated employee; a real model to my colleagues! I deserve a raise.
No joke, I got a raise just because I was whistling. Pretty sweet, right?
What my idiot of a boss failed to realize is that there are two main reasons why somepony whistle. One: there’s nothing better to do and they know that their boss is some sentimental dumbass who dishes out money to the ‘happiest’ worker. Two: the whistler is actually enjoying whatever it is they’re doing. As in, they’re having so much fun that the noise just escapes them. Three: the pony can’t sing and, out of the mercy of their heart, decides not to subject others to the terror that is their voice.
Yeah, I know there were three reasons. I’m not going to go back and change the ‘two main reasons’ to ‘three main reasons’. It’s kind of pointless anyway; you still know what I wanted to say. Which is funny, because even I’m not always sure what I’m trying to say.
You know what’s sad? I used to be joking when I said things like that. Yeah, it was all a joke; I knew exactly what I was trying to say whenever I tried to say that. And then things… changed.
Oh yeah, a lot of things changed. A lot of changing things.
Changelings.
Monsters from my childhood that killed everypony I loved and took their place. And I would never realize it. But they were just fairy tales; their kingdom, their Hive, was in a faraway place and no, they did not lurk through the night. I would be fine; I would be safe from the love-stealing monsters. And then mother dear would kiss me on the forehead. “Sweet dreams,” she would say. And I’d just freaking roll over and go to sleep.
Stupid.
Changelings are real, they’ve invaded my sleepy little town. They killed three ponies and took their place. We didn’t even know that the Changelings were here until we accidentally found a body. I use the word ‘body’ loosely; it was little more than a shriveled up husk. It barely even looked like a pony. Every single townpony that the Changelings killed ended up looking the same. Grey, wrinkled, their eyes literally popping out of their heads. It’s disgusting.
But it helped me realize something. I realized that the Changelings themselves are disgusting. They’re dogs, evil things that should never be allowed into a town, that should not live a single day in the company of real ponies. They have to be eradicated.
I had a purpose. For the first time in a long time I have a real, honest-to-Celestia purpose! It’s the reason I whistle while I work. It’s the reason why I whistle as I gouge into a chest over and over again. It’s the reason I whistle when I finally cut through all of that bone, when I reach inside of a rib cage and look for a heart, when I feel the warm blood trickle from my knife and drip from my hooves and pool under the poor thing’s body.
I feel bad when I find a heart. Changelings don’t have hearts. I always apologize when I kill the wrong pony. But it happens; I can’t dwell on my mistakes. I wouldn’t whistle if I dwelled.
And I always whistle. Even now, I whistle. I’ll write my final note, my Last Will to this town filled with those disgusting insects. Today is, after all, the day I die.
I’m sure I’ll die. The Changelings are controlling everypony else; they’re all conspiring against me. They’ll vote to lynch me, never understanding that I’m their savior, that I’m the one who’ll bring an end to this infestation!
No, they won’t be able to look past the dead body.
She’s a mare. A beautiful mare; a Show Mare who tried to distract me from my efforts last night. She said that she was scared and she needed a big, strong stallion to bring her peace.
I asked her to leave. She wouldn’t. That mare kept going on and on about wanting peace, how she wanted the horror to end and she just wished that the Changelings would leave and life would go back to the way it used to be so that she could see her family, blah blah blah. It got really annoying.
So I stabbed her. I stabbed her thirty seven times. I counted.
She got all wide-eyed and teary. I’m sure that she would have asked ‘Why?’ if she was able to speak around her collapsed lung. It’s alright, though; she died before I cut her open. Bit of a shame, that. I kind of like it when the heart’s still beating. It has a hypnotic effect.
Anyway, I don’t think even I’ll be able to talk my way out of this one. And I’m sure they’ll be coming. You see, back when the Changelings were first discovered, the Royal Guard set up some kind of spell that would lead the townponies to a dead body. He was killed the very next day. Go figure.
And so I was rather resigned to my fate and I thought, “Why not make a show of it?” So I picked up that poor, poor Show Mare and sat her down in a chair facing my front door. Then I made a cup of tea and sat down next to her. I waited and waited. Just to break the monotony, there were times where I’d wait. It was very exciting.
Okay, it really wasn’t. It was terribly boring. But it was worth it when the entire town burst through my door. First they noticed the Show Mare, sitting very comfortably in her seat. Well, except that her chest was still cut open and most of her internal organs were hanging out. Grim stuff.
Oh, but then they saw me! They didn’t say anything; I’m pretty sure that they were still trying to figure out exactly what I had done. I took a sip of my tea. You know, I make a fantastic cup of tea. Well, I took a sip before I looked up at each and every of the ten or so remaining ponies. And then I smiled.
“I swear,” I said, “I have no idea how she got here.”
***
They formed two lines, marking the way to the scaffold. I was marched through the middle, flanked by the two biggest ponies in town.
“C’mon guys!” I called to the crowd. “You know I didn’t do it! I was too busy enjoying my tea!” I threw my head back and laughed. “Honestly,” I just couldn’t keep a straight face, “I was upstairs reading a book. And when I came down there was this mare. So I stabbed her thirty seven times in the chest.” I laughed again; I just couldn’t help it! It was so stupid! Why did they vote for me? I’m on their side, I’m trying to catch and kill the Changelings!
They pushed me up the stairs. “Oh,” I shouted, “I see! You just want to see more of me, don’t you? Well, here I am! I’m above all of you, like I should be!” The noose went over my neck. I barely even noticed.
“Yes, I’m above you!” I continued. “I hear you whisper; you all think I’m some kind of Mad Mare. But isn’t that what we need right now? We need somepony who’s willing to put their knife on the line and stab and stab and stab until we know whether that was a Changeling or not!”
The townponies weren’t listening. Most of them weren’t even looking at me.
I spat in disgust. “You’re all filth, being controlled by the Changelings like that. You think that I’m crazy? Look at yourselves! You’re giving away one of the only things that is willing to kill a Changeling. And I’m mad? Why don’t you look in the mirror you stupid fucking ass—“ I grinned. More than a few ponies looked taken aback at my sudden shift. “You’re all going to die. You’re too crazy to live.” I felt my grin widen. I whistled for the last time. Ten notes. The classic motif for death.
I heard the panel slide away, felt a sudden drop. I could swear that I felt the moment my neck snapped.
Author's Note
Greetings!
Here's a quick one-shot inspired by Changeling Panic, the game of paranoia and trying to stay on-topic.
And no, people in the current game. I'm not the Mad Mare.
