The Very Image

by TambourineBlossom

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Sad, Other, Changelings
Length: 1175

Imago is a changeling living in Manehattan, separated from her hive by the failed assault on Canterlot. She does some things she's not proud of in order to survive.

Imago is a changeling living in Manehattan, separated from her hive by the failed assault on Canterlot. She does some things she's not proud of in order to survive.

AN: Written for the One-Shotober challenge.

Published 2013-10-07 06:00:02 UTC
Last updated 2013-10-07 06:00:02 UTC

The Very Image

I awoke to the ringing of my alarm clock, as I always do. It was late one summer afternoon in Manehattan, my adopted city. As always, the view from my window was beautiful.

As always, I wondered if the view was worth what I did to get it.

After a quick rinse in the shower and a coating of foal oil (to keep my carapace looking sleek; nopony wants to buy my services from a creature who looks abused), I put on my face.

Lime green mane, lavender coat, horn, aqua eyes. Long, thick lashes behind professional-looking glasses. Rose eyeshadow and the finishing touches on her mane. All that's left is her cutie mark, her namesake-- a sprig of forsythia.

It is a brief trot from my apartment to my 'office'. An unmarked door on an unremarkable wall down an easily missed alley. It is perhaps not the best location, but enough ponies seem to find the place from my print advertisements to suit my needs (and to be frank, my emotional tolerance). Those who need me will find me, and there will always be those who have need of my services.

I unlocked the door and took a seat behind a desk near the entrance. As I waited for my first customer of the evening-- ponies always seem too ashamed to avail themselves of my services while the sun is out; perhaps these things must be done away from their goddess's burning eye --I daydream wistfully of my days in the hive, where I knew my place and had a thousand thousand sisters to share it with. How different, my current predicament! The Forsythia illusion amuses me; nopony trusts a free changeling, but put a unicorn in charge of her, have her assure you that she's perfectly trained and no danger to anypony and suddenly you're one of the Big Orange's other tourist attractions.

The customers are always nervous, always guilty. Like a foal with their hoof in the cookie jar, I believe the saying goes. While neither Queen Sunbutt nor the Manehattan Council have ever expressly outlawed what I do, ponies quite clearly would rather their friends and neighbors not know of their visit. I wasn't even aware ponies made overcoats before I came to this city.

I suppose it could be worse; I'm no longer hawking my wares on a street corner, relying on word of mouth to survive. Pity is much less satisfying than my current fare, though the work is no less draining.

The creaking of the door snapped me out of my spiracle-gazing. I propped myself up on my front hooves, smiling a disinterested, professional smile. Customers seem to prefer Forsythia as polite and aloof, and I always give them what they want.

An old pegasus nag trotted in uncertainly; she seemed unsure if she was in the right place.

"You're here to see the changeling?" I asked helpfully, albeit vaguely.

"Yes, I- I suppose I am. I heard she can look like anypony so long as you got a picture or something to go off of?"

"That is correct, ma'am. Will you be wanting an hour with her, or two?"

"I'm old; I doubt I could last more than a few minutes, but I need this." She seemed ashamed; of what, I have no idea. Every desire she was no doubt having was perfectly natural. "You'll understand when you get to be my age, young filly."

It was not often Forsythia got called 'young' or 'filly'; 'well-preserved' would be more accurate. For some reason people trusted her more if she reminded them of their mothers. I will leave the psychoanalysis to the professionals and merely posit a connection with their goddess worship, not that I am likely to speak to anyling qualified to study my findings ever again.

"I'm sure I will. Your bits, please... and right this way, ma'am." I opened the door to the room where our business would be carried out. "Step inside, please, Imago will be in shortly."

Moments later, I took another door into the room. I was in my true form. Though the old nag was taken aback by my appearance, she did not flee. The thing that brought her here trumped mere abject terror, clearly. "My name is Imago, and I will be serving you tonight." I lowered my head respectfully; this seemed to put her at ease.

"There's... somepony I'd like for you to be, tonight. Is that all right?" The note of concern in her voice was unexpected, but not unwelcome.

"Of course. Do you have a picture?" She wordlessly handed me an old, yellowed photograph of a group of pegasi, all wearing the uniform of Celestia's Royal Guard. She pointed out a colt- no, barely a stallion, but a stallion nonetheless -in the first row. I winced; the picture reminded me of my own coming-of-age, and of all the changelings I'd never see again.

"His name was Clear Skies. He never had much of a head for numbers, but there was nothing he loved more than bucking clouds. He was always a joker, always finding a way to make you laugh." She sniffled, wiping her fetlock against her snout. "Loved his hometown, loved the Princess, loved his mama. Twenty years ago, he joined the Long Patrol. He sent us this from his graduation. Me and my husband-- he's dead and buried now, rest his soul --were old then and weren't up for travelling out to see him all dressed up on his big day, but he promised he'd come and visit as soon as he could get leave." Tears hung in her eyes, the old nag blinking them back before they could fall. "That was the last we ever heard from him. He got declared missing in action a month later." The tears fell, her composure failing. "I ju- I ju-hust want a chance to s-say goodbye to my boy." She buried her face in her hooves.

The pictures were unimportant, but they helped jog the memories of my clients. Got them talking about the things that mattered to them. Gave me a sense of their feelings, of a love that they couldn't let go. As she talked, I probed her mind. Before she could open her eyes, I reached into her and found the form of her son, everything from the way he talked to his tastes in movies. Imago vanished in a puff of acrid green smoke, leaving behind Clear Skies.

"Hey, Mama. It's been a while."

The old woman threw her hooves around me. Part of her still knew that this wasn't real, I'm sure, but for the moment this was just what she needed. Changelings can't cry, but ponies can, and so-- without much say on the matter --I joined her.

I didn't tell her when her hour was up. I don't need the bits as much as what she was giving me for free. I do things I'm not proud of, but some nights are easier than others.