Citizen Weevil

Chapters

Chapter One: Down in Six Points, Part I
Chapter Two: Down in Six Points, Part II
Chapter Four: Growing Family, Part I
Chapter Five: Growing Family, Part II
Chapter Three: Down in Six Points, Part III

Chapter One: Down in Six Points, Part I

Citizen Weevil

Chapter One

Down in Six Points, Part I

One dreary morning in the city of Manehattan, Weevil awoke with relief from anxious dreams, only to groan dejectedly once he remembered where he was.

The changeling stallion was lying uncomfortably on his insect wings in the same lumpy, undersized bed he'd been sleeping in for the last several years. Rubbing his heavy eyelids, he lifted his head up a little, but his view was obstructed by his belly that was so engorged it felt like a boulder tied around his midsection.

Weevil soon realized his wife was still sleeping on top of him, her body pressing close and her strong legs wrapped around his wide love handles. Their blanket had slid off during the night and was now sprawled across the floor. Even worse, the heater must have shut itself off, because their room was so chilly they were both riddled with goose bumps.

He turned his head away from her slacked muzzle, trying to escape from her bad morning breath and dreadful snoring, and scanned the bedroom with still bleary eyes.

The room they shared, too small for a married couple, lay silently between the four well-known walls, which were all decorated with old, brown wallpaper and framed photographs. In one corner of the room was a coat rack from which a matching pair of grey aprons hung. Next to that was a table where a thick ring of keys rested in front of an old framed picture of the couple; both of them smiling lovingly as they stood together, dressed in their old military uniforms and holding one foreleg around the other.

Weevil’s glance then turned towards the window. It was still pitch-black outside and he could make out heavy rain drops beating against the pane. For a split second, a bright flash of lightning lit up the whole room, followed up by a low, drawn-out rumble, and he curled up against his wife's form.

‘Oh, by the Kami,’ he thought miserably as he stared up at the cracked ceiling, ‘I really don't want to go and open shop today! Why couldn’t I have just gone into something like fruit picking or construction like the other changelings? To Tartarus with this!’ He felt an irritating itch on the top of his belly and tried scratching at it, but the damn thing was so big he couldn't reach the spot. Then he shuffled closer into his wife’s warm embrace and rested his head comfortably against her bosom, inhaling her familiar scent. ‘I’d even rather spend the morning here with my Echo...’

He lay there quietly for a while, trying to enjoy his one fleeting moment of peace for the day. But he couldn't even really do that as he gritted his teeth; the reason for his awakening was the simple fact that Echo’s lovely and loving mass was squashing him slowly like a bug underneath a hoof. As much as Weevil loved her dearly and was devoted to her like a good changeling husband should be, dying in the name of love was for fairy tales, and not a lowly shop owner with bills and debts to pay off.

The semi-peace was completely shattered when Echo began stirring and pulled herself up.

She yawned loudly, stretching her toned legs and back, and proceeded to rub the sleep from her eyes. At first, the mare appeared calm and content, but that didn't last long when she saw her husband lying next to her.

“What are you still doing in bed?” she asked irritably, keeping her voice hushed in fear of waking up their son, who was sleeping soundly in the other room.

“Give me a break, I just woke up,” he groaned, but sank further into the mattress under her withering glare. Echo was big for a changeling, even after accounting for the size difference between mares and the biologically smaller stallions. She possessed a large, powerful frame that, if she wanted to, could knock Weevil’s head clean off with a buck from her hind legs.

Echo pushed her bedmane back and reached over him to the alarm clock ticking away by the chest of drawers. She gasped and glared at him again.

“Weevil, it’s ten to six!” she hissed, giving him a rough shove. “The deliverypony will be here in ten minutes! Get your big rump out of bed, now!”

Weevil’s head snapped towards the clock for the first time that morning and he felt his blood run ice cold.

“Oh, damn it!” he almost shouted. She was right: it was ten to six, and the hands on the clock’s face were marching quietly on. The cheap thing must have failed to ring. "O-Okay, I'm up! I'm up!" Experiencing a sudden jolt of energy, he desperately began trying to sit himself upright, but his embarrassingly big gut kept getting in the way.

Echo rolled her eyes and eventually used her magic to lift him effortlessly out of bed. He struggled on his feet due to fatigue, so she gave his big rump a resounding smack for good measure, making him yelp in pain.

She then smirked toothily as she crossed her forelegs and watched him limp around the bed. “Oooh, I love that thing.”

He walked towards the coat rack, tail dangling between his legs in embarrassment and cringing from the sting on his flank. He would put his apron on, put the kettle and toaster on and hurry downstairs to open shop and meet the deliverypony.

“No, no, get yourself showered first,” she chided him with a wrinkled muzzle, begrudgingly climbing out of bed and following him now into their bathroom. “You seriously need one. But be quick, we haven’t got time to waste.”

“Yes, dear.”

Their bathroom was a cramped, green cubicle with a bathtub and shower combo and a slightly cracked sink with an overhead mirror cabinet. An unwashed mat was set down on the floor to prevent slip-ups like the nasty incident a week ago, and a white towel for their son was hung up on the radiator.

They took their turns showering. While she brushed her teeth, Weevil jumped into the shower and wasted no time cleaning himself. He took a few globs of shampoo and fleetly lathered it over his dark grey coat to wash away the dried sweat and stench that had accumulated overnight (he still had some of Echo’s slime on his neck, as well). He checked uneasily over his shoulder and cringed when he saw a bright green hoofprint on his flank; his wife had a mean hook.

He got out the shower minutes later and used a drying spell. Echo muscled past him and hopped right in, humming a little tune as she lathered herself up and washed her coat. Weevil walked over to the sink and hurriedly brushed his sharp teeth, particularly his fangs, which he felt were dulling lately.

As he stood in front of the mirror cabinet, Weevil couldn't help but really look at the changeling staring back at him. A weird feeling of bereavement flushed through him. In his glory days he was an absolute hunk of a stallion, literally stuffed to the brim with muscle, the kind any mare would want to sink their fangs into. Now, he couldn't find anything more than gelatinous fat. It didn't make him feel any better that Echo was as strongly built as ever, but then again, that was just how he liked his Nuzzle Bug.

He spat out the mouthwash and finished brushing his electric blue mane with his personal comb, noticing the clumps getting caught between its teeth. The stress of work was really taking its toll; his mane, once thick and wavy, had dramatically faded and was thinning so much that large bald patches had cropped up.

Now, his friends kept asking him, 'But Weevil, you're a changeling. Why don't ya just magic up some more mane?' To which he would always reply, restraining himself from decking the poor fools as he did, 'Changeling shapeshifting does not work that way!' Kami knew he wished it did. It would make his life a lot easier.

“Do you want me to wake up Shroud?” he asked Echo, morosely washing the comb clean under the running tap.

“No, I’ll do it,” came her agitated response. “Just hurry up before you miss the delivery!”

“Yes, dear.”

Now refreshed and active, Weevil trotted back into the bedroom while Echo finished up. He tied his grey apron around his back and tucked the keys into the small pouch before slinking out the main door and into the living room.

Weevil trudged through their small, cramped living room in the dark. He bumped hard into the coffee table and the soft chair until he finally found and turned on the lamp.

"Ah! Kuso!" the changeling cursed to himself quietly in his native language. He stopped and saw, between the closet door and the polished drawer chest, something that stood out from the rest of the room's furniture. Something that would be considered out-of-place for most of Manehattan's citizens.

It was a simple white box sitting atop a small, square table. Weevil approached it and looked down through its top glass window, a tender smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Inside, a large, roundish green egg lay nestled on a soft cushion next to a bright bulb that kept the inside of the makeshift incubator nicely heated.

His and Echo's second egg; the newest addition to their family. Through the translucent shell, the soon-to-be father of two made out the silhouette of a grub wiggling about in its fragile casing.

‘Not long now,’ he thought, planting a loving kiss on the warm glass. He then made his way down the staircase.

Unlocking the door at the bottom of the stairs, Weevil opened up and entered the front of his family’s convenience store; the product of their pains and labour.

It was a reasonably big store, consisting of four separate aisles as well as countless products filling up the walls. It sold everything a Manehattanite would expect to find: food and drink, cheap alcohol and toys, stationery, greeting cards, even behind-the-counter fireworks. What stood out from the rest was the wide assortment of changeling products imported from the Motherland, including ingredients for the best ramen this side of Six Points.

Weevil trotted behind the counter and flipped the light switch, casting the room in a yellowy glow. At the far end was what looked like a miniature cooking area, including a toaster and kettle, both of which he turned on. He really wished he could eat breakfast upstairs with his family for once, instead of while at work.

A loud knock came from the front door and he saw a burly earth pony waving at him through the rain. Weevil’s wings buzzed and he flew over the counter to the door, undoing the several locks and opening it up, ringing the little bronze bell hanging above.

“Good morning, Mr. Brawny,” he greeted politely, standing aside to let him in.

“Mornin', Mr. Weevil,” the pony muttered though rope in his teeth, which he was using to haul an enormous, tied stack of newspapers into the store. He was a big, beefy stallion and wore a dirty windbreaker jacket and cap. He gave the rope a tug and it came undone for him. “Got your order for ya.”

“Excellent.”

Weevil magically levitated the papers to place them onto the empty racks, ready for sale. As they flew through the air into place, he noticed the diverse range of papers they were selling: the Enquirer, the local Gazette, the Courier, and a large number of overseas papers in foreign languages, including Griffin, Changeling and Canid.

Nowadays, he could have sworn they were selling less of these things in Equine by the week.

“So, uhh...” Brawny held out his hoof expectantly. “You got somethin' for me?”

“Oh, of course.”

Once he finished, Weevil flew back over the counter, opened the cash register and took out a few bit bills, which he then hoofed over to Brawny. As he was doing this, freshly crisped toast shot out of the toaster and the kettle whistled. The delicious aroma made him salivate and a spluttering groan emanated from his belly.

“Much obliged, Mr. Weevil,” Brawny scanned carefully through the cash, before tucking it in his damp pocket, while Weevil buttered a slice of toast and brewed himself and Echo a cup of tea. "Lousy weather we're havin’, huh?”

“It could be worse,” said the changeling as he bit into his breakfast. “I hear it’s going to snow pretty soon. That’s the last thing we changelings need.”

He stared at him confusedly. “Really? And here I thought you bug ponies loved the cold.”

“No, it's the heat we love, that and the humidity. I don’t know how you ponies can stand this cold.”

“A neat little invention we call windbreakers.” Brawny zipped up his jacket, took out a few bit coins and set them on the counter. “Hey, gimme a lottery ticket, will ya? And, uh, I’ll have a soda, too.”

There was a massive wheel of lottery tickets drilled onto the table; they were selling like hotcakes lately. Weevil snapped one off the end and gave it to his friend, sweeping the coins into the open register.

“We got some grape in the other day. Feel free to help yourself.”

“Thanks. Morning, Mrs. Echo.”

The co-owner of the store was just walking through the backdoor at that moment, wearing her neat apron and having tied her violet mane into a ponytail. She was carrying a wooden crate labelled ‘fireworks’.

“Good morning, Brawny. How’s your wife doing?”

“Sandy’s okay, thanks.” Brawny tipped his hat to her and went to fetch himself a bottle of grape soda from the cooler. He muttered grumpily, “Yeah, she only stuck my head in the oven once this week.”

Echo tucked the crate on top of a second one beneath the counter and took her tea from Weevil with a slight nod of thanks. She then levitated a newspaper, the local Gazette, over and began reading, pausing occasionally to take a sip.

On his way out, lapping up his soda, Brawny stopped by the counter and addressed them again, this time sounding serious. “Hey, I just wanna warn you guys. There’s gonna be an ENF march goin’ on through the square today, so you might wanna stay inside.”

“Pfft, don’t you worry about us, Brawny,” Echo scoffed, her violet eyes, the same shade as her mane, never shifting from the main article she was reading. “The last thing we’ve got time to worry about is a bunch of loud-mouthed ponies.” She looked up at him, adding, “No offence.”

But the earth pony just laughed heartily. “Don’t worry, darlin’, it's no offence to me. We can't stand those ENF bums either."

Weevil, meanwhile, was busy buttering up his second slice of toast as he listened to their conversation regarding the infamous, far-right organisation with concern.

“I thought it’d been too quiet around here, lately,” he commented dismally, taking a chomp out of his slice. “It’s been four months since their last rally. So what are they complaining about now?”

“Same old crap, what else? Not like they've ever needed a reason to badmouth immigrants.” Brawny checked his watch and started out the front door at a faster pace. “Alright, I gotta get going. I’ve got other deliveries to make. See ya later.”

Once they were alone together, the couple silently got on with their work and breakfast, hardly exchanging a word. Weevil opened and spent a solid five minutes inspecting the money in the register, looking over each individual bill to make sure none were stuck together.

“It’s all there, Weevil, I checked yesterday,” Echo shook her head annoyed and left the counter to find her broom. “I’m going to do some sweeping. Did you remember to put up the ‘Help Wanted’ sign?”

“Yes, dear.”

"Great. Now all we need is somechangeling who'll work for below minimum wage."

“We've had our share of miracles before.”

After several minutes of silence that felt like hours instead, Weevil’s attention gradually drew to the newspaper his wife had been reading. What he read made him click his tongue in some kind of understanding.

CHANGELING POPULATION SURGES IN SIX POINTS

According to the latest government census, changelings now constitute 34.5% of the population in Six Points, making them the second most numerous species in our increasingly diverse district behind the collective pony population of 45.2%. The remaining 20.3% consist of a multiple species, primarily zebras and diamond dogs. This recent demographic shift, primarily attributed to Princess Celestia's open immigration policy of the past years, consequently marks several milestones for Six Points, the city of Manehattan and the country as a whole; the district is now home to the largest changeling community and is the most diverse nationwide, as well as the first in which ponies no longer form an overwhelming majority.

Over the last ten years, our historic district, previously populated by earth ponies and unicorns, has been subject to immigration on a scale the likes of which has not yet been witnessed in other urban areas in Equestria.

We have asked local residents from all species for their point of view on the matter of their changing neighbourhoods.

"I'm no fan of Bug Ponies, but hey; they have been great for my fishing business! Those people can't get enough of it. Years ago, I would've normally just gone and catch a few holds—probably used for caviar for some Canterlot dummkopf, no doubt—but now I can really put to sea, and they'll be used for something that's actually edible!" (laughs) "So yes, I'm still looking over my shoulder a lot now, but I'm getting quite rich too. I've just bought a new boat with the money! Balances out, I think."

—Klaus Sleek-tail, local griffin fisherman

"I don't know. These immigrants have been alright for the most part, haven't caused too much problems for me, and heck, I've even known a few griffins for years, but, you know...what about the dogs, and the changelings? I'm not speciesist, far from it, but it's just we don't exactly have the best histories with them, and with the community growing so fast, so soon... no, this could be trouble, way too easily."

—Square Deal, unicorn pet shop owner in Six Points

“These changes in demographics over the last several years are natural and are only to be expected. If anything, it reinforces the fact that we immigrants are here, we're integrating, and we're willing to follow the rules. We're asking only to be treated with the same fairness, dignity and respect as any native pony citizen, and if that is the case then there's no reason whatsoever why we shouldn't reciprocate. If Manehatten is willing to accept us, we'll make this city, and Equestria as a whole, even greater than it already is.”

—Digger, diamond dog representative of Manehatten's ISA (Immigrant Species Alliance) branch

“I get along with most people okay, pony, bug, whatever. As long as they’re all right to me, I’m all right to them. My neighbours are changelings and they're kind enough to send me Hearth’s Warming cards every year.”

—Tea Cosy, local earth pony retiree

“I’m happy that I can raise my hatchlings in a progressive, multicultural society like Equestria. Here, we are free to share and embrace each others’ cultures. I have made friends from all species in Six Points since moving here seven years ago and am proud to call this my home.”

—June Bug, local changeling mother of ten and community activist

“This is exactly what the ENF talks about while all the politicians in Canterlot don’t. I’ve lived here all my life and the whole place is now unrecognizable! They’ve (changelings) come here and taken over everything overnight, from schools to houses and local businesses. Ponies here are now already the minority and it’s only going to get worse, especially when they come here and have two dozen children! They strut about, spitting on the ground and intimidating us, acting like they own the place! Six Points—it should be called Bug Town!”

—Local pegasus, ENF supporter

“That explains it,” Weevil concluded, folding the paper in half and setting it back on the rack, not bothering to finish the article. No surprise to him that, for an article about changelings, only one local changeling was quoted. Still, he could picture the indignant scowls on the ponies of the Equestrian National Front’s faces as they picked up their copies of the morning papers, the veins in their necks pulsating so hard they would explode. As far as Weevil was concerned, they could and kick, scream and cry all they wanted; he had a store to run.

After he got bored with standing about and eating toast, he decided to take out the spritz and cloth and clean the counter. It was about time he got some work done. He might have had a cigarette or two if it wasn't so early and he was trying to cut down to just two packs a day. Halfway through his work, he looked up at the overhead clock and saw the hands slowly reaching ten to seven. They would need to go and check if Shroud was awake yet.

Just then, the backdoor opened a young changeling colt walked in. He couldn’t have been older than nine, sporting a mauve mane to match the colour of his eyes. Over his back, he carried a small but heavy green satchel filled with school materials and books.

“Oh, there’s Mama’s little helper.” Echo came up from behind the aisles, a warm, loving smile on her face the first time that morning. She craned her head and gave him an affectionate smooch on the cheek. “Have you got all your things packed, sweetie?”

The colt simply nodded.

"And have you finished all your homework?" She positively beamed when he nodded again and nuzzled him. "That's a good boy. Now, you go have your breakfast, my little Shroudy.” She then stood upright and instructed her husband curtly, “Weevil, quit standing around and get your son something to eat. He has to go soon.”

“Okay...” Weevil used his magic to turn the toaster and kettle back on while he continued monotonously with his cleaning.

Shroud set his satchel neatly behind the counter and waited there as quiet and still as a little garden gnome. His father soon turned around and gave him a plate of toast and cup of tea, mumbling, “Here you go.”

The colt sat cross-legged on the floor with the plate on his lap, eating his breakfast so quietly his father almost forgot he was there. That wasn't a surprise coming from a colt like Shroud; he never did leave much of an impression.

“Shroud, what are you doing on the floor?” Echo suddenly marched right over, a broom hovering at her side, and hoisted her son up onto the counter top. She stroked his little mane as he munched quietly on his toast and glared daggers at her husband. “What the hay are you doing?”

But Weevil was not having any of that. “Hey, I was cleaning that!” he complained, pointing at his once immaculately polish wooden surface, now defaced with an onslaught of bread crumbs.

“It's a counter, Weevil,” she retorted, “you clean it all the time. I won’t have my son eating off the floor like an animal.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake, I didn’t make him do anything—”

She stomped off in a huff before he could finish, going back to the sweeping and effectively ending the conversation. Weevil slumped his shoulders in defeat, then pulled up and plopped down on a wooden stool.

It wasn't long until Shroud finished and, throwing his backpack over his shoulder, trotted over to wait patiently for his Mama to take him to school. Echo soon appeared again, this time with an umbrella hovering at her side.

“I’ll be right back,” she told Weevil matter-of-factly as she guided Shroud outside and opened her umbrella over their heads. “Try not to let the store catch fire while I’m gone.” She slammed the door shut against the harsh wind, violently shaking the bell.

He grumbled some obscenity under his breath. At least now he had five minutes to himself. Instead of resuming his cleaning, he reached under the counter and took out a black leather box.

It was an odd little contraption that had a wooden front with several plastics knobs sticking out. A long extendable rod called an 'antenna' stuck out from the top on a pivot. He bought it off a batpony from the weekly market in Harmony Square two weeks ago. It was a relatively new invention called a ‘radio’, apparently invented by this batpony engineer whose name he couldn't remember. They were used to pick up signals in the air that blared out news broadcasts and music.

Weevil grunted as he kept fiddling with the knobs and twisting the ‘antenna.’ All he got was the broken sound of static. He slapped the side of the box with frustration; this damn thing cost him twenty bits!

He was so preoccupied with trying to get the thing to work, he didn't hear the bell ring or the sound of hoofsteps.

"Hey hey, morning, cuz!"

Weevil ignored the familiar Manehattan accent at first and kept twisting around one of the round knobs, thinking he was actually starting to make out something intelligible.

“That piece of crap ain't gonna work, ya know that?”

The moment the newcomer told him this, the knob broke right off, followed by a louder stream of distorted static.

“See, I told ya.”

“Kuso!”

"Woah! No need for the language."

Weevil glared up at the older, teal-maned changeling standing in front of him. He wore a black denim jacket and a pair of orange-lensed glasses, as well as a dung-eating grin that stretched ear-to-ear through his blue-green five o'clock shadow.

“Ohayou, Scarab,” he grumbled, both reflexively dipping his head in a bow and slipping back into his native tongue in his cousin's presence.

“Oha... Ohaya... heh heh, I haven’t used that one in a long time,” the older stallion chuckled, leaning against the counter with crossed forelegs. He tipped his glasses and eyed the radio like the worthless hunk of junk it was. “Wow... so this a huge piece if I've ever seen one. Did you buy this from a bat?”

“Yes.”

“You're kidding!” he nearly burst out laughing. “Oh yeah, you've been conned. That thing is worthless.”

“Are you sure?”

“Believe me, I know.”

Weevil slumped his shoulders, growled furiously and swept the radio away with a stifled “Buck!” It landed in a bowl of lollipops. He flopped back down on his stool, rubbing his hooves against his face, stewing for a moment in his anger.

That was twenty bits he'd thrown down the drain! If Echo found out he'd frittered their money on something so unnecessary and useless, she was going to have his head!

“Do you want me to find this dirty bat and get your money back, cousin?” Scarab asked, trotting over to the cooler to get himself a can of hard cider. “I do that sort of stuff now for money. I only need a vague description. Heck, I’ll even give you a family discount.”

“No, Scarab.”

“How about a cider?”

“Why not? I’m only the one paying for it,” he huffed. Scarab came swaggering back, tossing him a can of brand name Apple Family Cider. They cracked them open and both took a swig in a mock cheer, “To our health.”

Downing half his can in ten seconds flat, Scarab let out a loud, wet belch, using his lapel to wipe his lips. Apple Family brand was, without a doubt, the sweetest, most quenching cider on the market. Neither had met another changeling in Equestria who didn't enjoy it, especially since it was impossible to find back in the Motherland.

“Haven't you found a new job yet?”

“Yeah, Weevil, that’s why I just offered to beat up a bat for you for bits,” Scarab replied sarcastically. “... Jobs are running dry, so I'm thinking of getting into that 'soldier of fortune' bizz Gilda keeps talking about."

Weevil facehoofed at the very idea. "Oh Kami, Scarab, no..."

“And I’m serious about the discount.” He set his can down and got into a combat pose, setting himself up on his hind legs and holding up his fore hooves like a boxer of sorts. “I'd go up to the guy, tell him, 'Hey! You think you can cheat my cousin and get away with it?!' and kick his teeth in, like this... roundhouse!”

Scarab swung his hindleg around in a semicircular motion, only to kick a stand full of discount Nightmare Night products that had the misfortune of being in the way and fell to the floor with an unceremonious crash.

“Scarab!” Weevil shouted, looking over the counter. “What the hay are you doing?!”

Dizzily getting back onto his hooves, Scarab staggered for a bit and steadied himself on the counter, saying as he held his head, "Wow, okay, sorry about that. I got a little excited. What?" He saw Weevil glaring intently and pointing over at the tipped over stand. "Oh, heh heh, let me get that. Sorry." His horn glowed a bit and the stand was put back together in an instant. "So, um, what were we talking about?"

Weevil folded his legs and told him firmly, “Thank you, again, but the answer's no, Scarab. We've got bats who shop here and the last thing Echo’ll let me do is piss off the entire colony in Six Points, especially over twenty stupid bits!”

His cousin scoffed, going back to drinking his cider, “Colony? Is that what we’re still allowed to call them?”

“Not the point—”

“Because I can name a few things I can call those rat-eared, little—”

“Scarab!” Weevil banged his can hard against the counter. “Can we please just get off of this?!”

“Okay, okay, sorry. Don't go losing whatever's left of that mane of yours.”

Moments went by without another word being exchanged between them, before Weevil's gaze drifted over to the weather outside. It was still raining cats and dogs outside—though he wasn't sure if that was still the politically correct term, since the diamond dogs might kick up a fuss—and it showed no signs of letting up.

Weevil stroked the bristles on his chin, saying worriedly, “I wonder what’s taking Echo so long. She should've been back by now.”

A mirthless laugh escaped Scarab’s chapped lips, “Yeah, you know, I figured it was way too quiet in here. I haven’t been screamed at or had something thrown at me yet.”

Weevil couldn't help but chuckle along with him. “You know, in case you didn’t see the sign outside, we’re looking for an extra pair of hooves around here." He jabbed his hoof back at the store window. "Maybe you’d be interested?”

"You mean me working under your wife?" he asked incredulously, looking at him like he was growing a second horn. "You couldn't get me to do that if you paid me enough I could live like a hornkie in Canterlot.”

The two were laughing together now, like they used to when they were still colts back in their home village. He wouldn't admit it to his face, but despite his often shameful behaviour, Weevil enjoyed his cousin’s company.

The door suddenly kicked open, slamming so hard against the wall the hinges could have broken. Both changelings saw Echo stagger onto the mat, gasping for air and her mane and coat completely drenched. Water dripped off her like a running tap. Sticking out of her apron pouch was a stack of white and brown letters. She dropped the closed umbrella to the floor with a loud clatter.

“Oh-hey-you, Drippy,” Scarab sneered and waved at her as he unwittingly butchered his own language.

Echo said not a word, instead giving him a disapproving look as she rung her ponytail dry.

“Do you intend to pay for that cider, Scarab?” she finally asked, gliding past the two to put the umbrella back on display with the rest.

“Uh, no,” he answered flatly.

“I thought not. I take it you’re going to be staying for the day again?”

He shrugged, looking over his shoulder at the shorter, heavyset stallion. “Only if you two will have me.”

“We could set up a couple of seats on the porch when the rain stops,” Weevil offered, spotting the cleaning equipment he'd forgotten about and getting back to work. “The guys might come over around lunchtime.”

He grinned, clapping his hooves. “Awesome. If you guys don't mind, I’m gonna go have a nap on the couch.” Weevil nodded slightly with approval and the chiselled stallion’s wings came to life. He buzzed over to the back door, intending to head upstairs. “You know, I really hope it stops raining soon."

“Why’s that?” Echo asked disinterestedly as she started reorganizing a row of pickle jars and olives on one of the shelves.

“Because they might cancel the march if this keeps up.” Scarab turned around, hovering backwards, and pounded one hoof into the other. “I’m gonna jump one of those pastel-coloured pansies and stomp 'em!”

When he disappeared laughing up the stairs, the husband and wife shared a sigh. Echo took down a pickle jar that was a day out of date and brought it over behind the counter. She popped it open and Weevil retched at the briny smell.

“Why do you still allow him in our store?” She took a pickle, swirled it around in the brine and ate it. “He's a lout.”

“Maybe, but he’s also my cousin, Echo,” he reasoned. “We can’t just throw family out in the rain; it’s not like he bothers the customers or anything.”

“Much.”

“How was Shroud at the drop off?”

“Fine.”

Remembering the moist letters still in her apron pouch, and not wanting to engage in this lifeless banter any longer, Echo took the mail out and began sorting through it. As expected, the vast bulk of them were bills: water, gas, electricity, insurance, mortgage, pension. It all came together to form a painful headache for the couple to share. Other than that, she found only junk mail like an advertisement for the minotaur deli down the road or the griffin beer hall.

When she reached the end of the stack, Echo blinked upon reading the particular hoofwriting on the front of the envelope and to whom it was addressed.

“It’s for you,” she said, sliding it over the counter to him. “It’s from Samsa.”

Weevil’s already slack face dropped even further and took the envelope unenthusiastically. The penmanship was unquestionably Samsa's, with the Canterlot stamp serving as confirmation. For a moment, it looked as if he were about to whip out the letter opener, but he hesitated and tossed it to one side without another glance.

Echo asked knowingly, “You’re not still mad at him, are you?”

“I prefer not to talk about it.” He took a pickle out the jar and bit into it bitterly, hoping the foul taste would distract him from his thoughts.

“Suit yourself.”

A pregnant pause followed. Weevil stood there, his chops making loud chewing noises, while his wife skimmed the mail with an increasingly disappointed face. He knew what it was: no letter from the High Priestess had come.

There were schools all over Equestria that catered to pupils according to species or, to be more politically correct, “species language.” The all-changeling schools, acclaimed for their discipline and reports of high academic success, naturally put heavy emphasis on changeling religion, language and culture and were run by changeling priestesses. There were no schools Weevil knew of that only catered to ponies, but he figured that wasn't too difficult for their parents; they only had to enroll them at the local school once they fled to their new scenic town or village.

Echo had been trying to get their little Shroud into an all-changeling school for some months now. She had to compete viciously against the other changeling mothers who had their eyes on any open spot for their hatchlings, and even made the family attend temple more frequently to improve their chances. But by the looks of it, all her efforts weren't accomplishing much.

Wanting to give her some reassurance like a good husband should, he rubbed his soft, flabby hoof up and down against her huge, muscular foreleg.

“He’ll get in eventually, darling,” he smiled sweetly up at his giant wife. “They probably still just don't have enough places. Don’t worry, they'd be idiots not to take him at some point.”

She didn't appear to share his optimism. “Yeah, that's what they always say...” she murmured, folding a random letter in half and setting it down as if she were giving up on the whole idea.

“He’s our very smart, little colt, sweetie. He gets all that from you.” He assured her, and then shrugged, adding somewhat jokingly, “It's not like he gets it from me.”

Echo looked down at him wryly, cocking an eyebrow. “Weevil, are you seriously sweet talking me right now?” she asked, hoof on hip and not sounding all that impressed.

“Well, that depends. Is it working?”

Rolling her eyes and heaving a sigh, she nevertheless gave his remaining patches of mane an affectionate ruffle.

“You're lucky you've still got your way with words, Weevie.” she said, wearing a slight smile as she reached down and pecked him on the lips. “Look, I’m gonna go upstairs and take care of these bills.” She cantered towards the backdoor with the mail back in her pouch, stopping only momentarily to look back and grin, “Oh, and yeah, you're right, he does get his smarts from me. But I guess he had to get his handsome looks from somechangeling.”

Alone once more that morning, cheeks blushing green and grinning with satisfaction, Weevil whistled a little tune as he mopped up the puddle of brine. He took out another pickle and ate it with greater ease than the first, placing the jar beneath the counter with the fireworks.

That was the job of a good changeling husband: to be there for his wife and ensure sure she was as happy as he could make her. Echo even just called him “Weevie”. Now that was a rarity.

Still, no matter what he did for her, all Echo seemed invested in was their son. If it wasn't about Shroud’s stellar performance at school or his talented shapeshifting skills, it was about how he was going to get pneumonia if a single raindrop touched his precious little head. Of course, he adored his little son, but he had to wonder who she thought she was married to half the time.

And the Kami above knew it wasn't going to be any better when the baby hatched.

Author's Note

26/02/2014: This chapter is undergoing significant revision, mainly due to decisions in the direction of the story, improvements in characterization.

Chapter Two: Down in Six Points, Part II

Citizen Weevil

Chapter Two

Down in Six Points, Part II

The Six Points, the neighbourhood where Weevil and his family lived, was named as such because of its street design. There were six streets in total – Loyalty, Laughter, Generosity, Honesty, Kindness, and Magic Street – and all of them coalesced into one large intersection known as Harmony Square.

It confused Weevil as to why the names of many places in Manehattan and Equestria in general were so weird, but to the best of his knowledge the streets had been renamed within the last decade after the ‘Elements of Harmony.’ He had no idea if they were an actual thing or some fruity Equestrian concept, but it wasn't like he really cared.

Weevil and Echo came to Manehattan several years ago on a hot, stuffy airship across the sea, packed with about two hundred other changelings like sardines. It was easily one of the most unbearable experiences of his entire life, and the hyperbole felt entirely justified. It reminded Weevil of drunk college students deciding to see how many could fit into a phone booth at once. Of course, they never had to stay in the booth for eighteen hours straight with a wife who was heavily pregnant with the egg of their firstborn son and ravenously hungry because of it. Nor did they have to deal with nonstop buzzing sounds, an idiot's knee lodged firmly in their back, and the sneaking suspicion that every other changeling on the damn ship gargled bubonic plague-flavored mouthwash before they left that morning.

In abridged terms, it was not pleasant.

The couple knew Manehattan was where they were heading; it was where everychangeling on the ship was heading on their long journey to Equestria, some without even a bundle of their basic belongings to carry over their backs. For them, undergoing this hardship was worth it in order to escape the problems of the Motherland and arrive in the acclaimed land of “peace, love and opportunity.” And according to everychangeling back in their village, Manehattan was where all the jobs were.

Weevil also heard of changelings who were moving to more rural areas, like the town of Ponyville, to get into agricultural work like fruit and vegetable picking. He considered it for a while back when they were making plans to leave the Changeling Kingdom, but he knew Echo would sooner spit on her own grandmother’s grave than lower herself to become a field labourer. Besides, he had just enough money from selling his family home and from his grandparents’ inheritance to help them find somewhere to live when they got to the city.

When they finally arrived in Manehattan, after another three to four hours waiting in line for registration, they ended up at Six Points. Needless to say, the streets were not so much paved with gold as they were with the exaggerations and downright falsities of their fellow countrychangelings.

Six Points was statistically one of the most deprived urban areas in Equestria. The best way Weevil could describe it was an ugly jungle of grimy, old buildings towering over the dusty, littered streets and scraping the smoggy, grey sky. Echo summed it up in her candid manner after they were registered.

“This is a toilet, Weevil.”

“A what?”

“This whole place is one giant toilet, Weevil!” she ranted, motioning around the street they walked through, mountains of bags stacked on their backs, with utter contempt. “You made me leave my home and my family for this dunghole?!”

“It was either this or a hick town.”

“Oh, well, that just makes me feel so much better!” Echo guffawed, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Will you stop complaining?” he groaned, wincing under the pain of the tremendous load he was carrying. “Just be glad we finally got here.”

His wife held her dizzy head, whining loudly, “By the Kami, the air here is making my head spin!”

He pressed his ears back and grunted through his teeth, “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”

The first few months were pretty rough; they first stayed with Scarab in his closet of an apartment while they searched for jobs and their own place. Weevil got a job washing up in a local changeling restaurant - a temporary situation until something better came up. Meanwhile, Echo made it her everyday ritual, in between moaning about the polluted air and the filthy conditions of Scarab’s home and how they were “hurting her egg,” to harass her husband about the apartment search.

As fate would have it, the stallion eventually found an apartment for rent that was suitable for their budding family. It was located at the end of Loyalty Street, right above a rat catcher’s business, and it was one of the few—among the dozens he'd already inspected—that did not smell like cat piss.

The individual and his associates who owned the property offered a fairly reasonable price, one he could keep up with as long as he kept working.

The day after they moved in, Echo finally laid her single egg. Not too long after that, their precious little colt Shroud was hatched. For the first time he could recall since coming to Equestria, Weevil saw his wife genuinely happy as she cradled their hatchling in her forelegs. It made him happy too.

There was no denying the old changeling saying, translated into modern Equestrian lingo: if momma ain’t happy, ain’t nochangeling happy.

Now their life in Equestria had truly begun, but it still wasn't an easy one. For months, Weevil spent long nights washing endless mountains of dishes until his hooves shrivelled up like prunes. Echo also took up some foalsitting for local ponies in between raising their son, but the less said about that fiasco the better. Together, they brought in enough money to get by and saved every single bit they could.

It wasn’t all hard work that made up their lives. The changeling community in Six Points was both large and well-connected with their own institutions and activities, so at least they weren't alone. They made some good friends here, not just other changelings but zebras, diamond dogs and, yes, even ponies.

Weevil and Echo’s big break came when the rat catcher closed his business, having decided to take it uptown. It was Echo’s idea to buy the property off him; she came from a long line of both military officers and small businessmares and thus had inherited the ability to see a good opportunity when one arose. One of their pre-set goals for when they arrived in this new land was to set up their own business. The only problem, as far as Echo was concerned, was that Weevil didn't possess a “killer instinct”.

“I am not going to foalsit ponies’ brats for the rest of my life!”

“Not like any of them will ever hire you again, anyway,” Weevil grumbled under his breath

“Well, what how about you?” she asked him, poking his muzzle. “You think you can keep supporting your son by washing dishes? For Queen’s sake, we were in the royal army. We're better than this!”

“This isn’t like back home,” he tried however he could to reason with his most uncompromising wife. “Your parents didn't have any competition; there’re too many businesses here already. Look, my job's going fine, I think you can wait—”

Taking a piece of paper out from under the table, Echo shoved it into his face, saying, “I’m done waiting. Here.”

Weevil looked it over with difficulty. He was still working on his Equine.

“What’s this?”

“I’ve already bought the property.”

If there was any instance where Echo wished she had a camera, it was for the look on Weevil’s face when she told him that.

"Wait, you what?!”

“He was pretty desperate to get rid of it,” Echo explained, rolling her eyes as she recognized that whiny tone of his. This was not going well, but she tried to put a positive spin on it for him regardless. “Look, it didn’t even put much of a dent in your inheritance. We got a good deal, Weevil.”

It took him a minute or two, and in that time his jaw dropped so far she could see his breakfast, but he finally found his voice as well as his deeply buried anger.

“My inheritance? You mean my money?!” He raised his voice angrily, something he almost never had the guts for. “You did all this without saying a word to me? Are you serious?! You stupid mare! How dare you just—” In the middle of his little tirade, his lips suddenly found themselves sealed shut and refused to part, like they were stuck together with superglue laced with lemon juice. Echo lorded over him, glaring at him so malevolently his stallionhood completely vanished into thin air.

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me again, Weevil,” she warned him in a tone way too unnaturally tranquil not to be threatening. “ I'm doing what’s best for best for our family, not what's best for you or me. I'm trying to give our children a good start, and I'm not gonna doddle around simply because you're too gutless to take a risk!”Their faces got uncomfortably closer with each word, until their muzzles pressed. “Understand?”

“Y-Yes,” he gulped, retreating his head into his fat body.

The giant mare slowly pulled away and took a deep breath, looking a tad regretful. "Look... maybe it wasn't right for me to just go ahead without consulting you, and for that I'm sorry. But if your money's what you're so worried about, you’ll get it back, alright?" she told him after an awkward pause, still frowning but sounding far less mad than before. "I'm your wife, you have my word."

He nodded meekly, holding his head low, "Okay... a-and I'm sorry for losing my—"

"You're forgiven." She patted his shoulder lightly, though she kept her stony expression. "Now, first thing I want you to do is go give the restaurant your notice. You and I have a lot of hard work ahead...”

It would turn out Weevil was wrong. Again. Once they thoroughly cleaned the smell of rat poison out of the place, to the point where the smell of lemon burned their nostrils, they spent a whole week setting up shop and ordering stock. They decided to sell mostly convenience items, but also cater to the changeling and other minority communities.

Today, their store was doing quite well and the family was making a lot more than they ever did when Weevil was scrubbing dried noodles off greasy plates. As family matriarch, Echo was naturally in charge, having full managerial and financial control, while Weevil was relegated to spending most of the day working the cash register and doing the grunt work. He wasn't allowed to put a hoof on any of the paperwork, which he figured was her way of punishing him for being “selfish” and “unsupportive.”

Echo was kind enough to gradually pay back the little money she owed him for his inheritance. Still, he kept it all in a private account from then on, just to be safe.

From where they stood now, with their own steady business, Weevil could look at his family’s position and call it... okay. Money was tight more often than he’d like, but they were definitely better off than some of the other immigrants, Weevil and Echo having read stories of some unfortunate schmoes ending up homeless and prowling the streets, looking for food in dumpsters. Still, Weevil didn't feel he’d truly achieved the so-called 'Equestrian Dream' that was being preached by the bigwigs in city hall and the even bigger wigs in Canterlot. Not yet, anyway.

On the streets of Six Points, whether an immigrant or native pony, that feeling was mutual.

The rain persisted into midday, though its ferocity had been reduced to a drizzle and minor gusts of wind. The whole of Six Points looked like it was covered in a blue gel, like it was somehow night and day at the same time. The dusty, cobble streets were now covered with large muddy puddles, the swampy kind that, once stepped in, would require a Manehattanite to spend the better part of the day trying to scrape it off.

Harmony Square was used to being crowded, normally from the weekly market. Today, it was overflowing with ponies and non-ponies alike for a very different reason.

The crowd faced each other, split into two unequally sized groups. A thick line of officers from the Manehattan police department stood between the two camps, both of which looked ready to charge and gouge the other’s eyes out.

At first glance, one might mistake it for a bunch of supporters from two rival hoofball teams coming to blows before or after a match. Actually, it was something even more loud, caustic and obnoxious; a political march and its counter protest.

The Equestrian National Front stood in their smaller numbers by the opening of Magic Street. Their supporters consisted mostly of middle-aged, working-class ponies wearing emblazoned—and admittedly classy—denim jackets and faces like smacked rumps. Accompanying the ENF, albeit from a distance, were a few smaller groups representing trade unions, including a few livid mares the Equestrian Sex Worker Union. They preoccupied their time by parroting jingoistic chants and waving about their flags and oft-misspelled slogans that were scrawled on cardboard like a foal would its rattle.

‘Eqwestria for HERDS! No Swarms, Nestts, or Dog-Houses!’

‘REMEMBER CANTERLT! Stop Manehatan becoming a changling feeding ground! Stop the swarms silant invassion!’

‘CHANGLING KINGDOM FOR CHANGLINGS. GRIFON EMPIRE FOR GRIFONS. EQUESTRIA FOR EVRYONE!!?’

‘BLANK FLANK STOLE MY JOB!’

They were dwarfed in numbers by the counter protest: an amalgamation of mostly anti-racist organizations, students and hippies of all species. Their counter tactics were similar to their opponents, including waving about their own more legible slogans.

‘LOVE, NOT HATE!’

‘PONIES AND CHANGELINGS MUST UNITE! SMASH THE FASCIST RIGHT!”

‘Give Peace A Chance, Dude!’

‘ONE EQUESTRIA, MANY CULTURES’

It also including repeating their own tired pretentious chants over and over and trying to beat the ENF in a moronic shouting match.

“Get outta Manehattan, ya hornkey bums! Go back to Canterlot!”

“Pony Rights! Pony Rights! Pony Rights!”

"Hate And Woe Bring Out The Windigoes!”

“This is a pony nation! Pony jobs should be for ponies first!’

“YA FASCIST SCUM!”

Pow!

An ageing hippie named Plaster violently twisted his head after being struck and bounced off one of his fellow protestors before landing on the wet ground.

Babs Seed’s chest heaved in rage as she glowered down over the dazed hippie while Sweetie Belle wrapped her forelegs around her friend’s shoulders and pulled her back, stopping her before she did something she regretted.

“That was right in my ear, ya doped-up MOOK!” Babs yelled at him, furiously trying to squirm out of Sweetie Belle’s hold.

“Babs, cool it!” Sweetie hissed as she used her magic to physically yank Babs to one side so she could talk to her privately. “It was an accident. Do you want to get arrested?”

The gamboge earth pony brushed her off rudely and growled in her gruff, Manehattan accent. “Lay off, Sweets. How ‘bout I scream in your ear and see how you like it?” She pulled up the collar of her black jacket against the rain and shuddered from the biting cold. “I can’t believe you tricked me inta comin’ to this bore fest.”

“This is a peaceful protest,” Sweetie Belle said, speaking with her eyes closed like an intellectual and holding up a “LOVE, NOT HATE” sign. “As progressive students, it’s our duty to confront speciesism and fascism in all its forms. It’s not a punch-up.”

“Bull. Crap.” Babs deadpanned. “I bet you're just hoping Trey Triceps shows up and sees ya. Why dontcha save the fake hippie bull for him?”

A shade of pink livened up her pearly white cheeks and she twirled a lock of her mane. “What? That’s ridiculous. I’m here utilizing my civic right to protest like everypony else.” She then began looking around, insisting rather adamantly, “Besides, you know Trey and I are over. It was a mutual decision based on respect.”

Babs laughed hollowly and took out a cigarette. She put it in her mouth and held it up to Sweetie Belle expectantly. Taking the hint, the tip of the unicorn’s horn lit up and carefully touched the end of her friend’s cigarette.

“I don’t believe this,” she muttered to herself resentfully. “I coulda been hittin’ the noodle house right now, but no, I’m stuck surrounded by a bunch of phonies smoking poison joke.” She rolled her stick around and blew a ring of smoke, rolling her eyes up tiredly. “Luna, I wish I had some of that right now...”

The ultranationalist and anti-immigrant organization of the Equestrian National Front had planned to march through Six Points today in protest of the rapidly changing face of the neighbourhood. Never mind that half the ponies marching didn’t even live there. As soon as word got out, the anti-ENF camp mobilised themselves and descended upon Harmony Square to disrupt their march in a counter demonstration.

Had the young college mares known about the lousy weather or the swarms of loud, obnoxious phonies, Sweetie Belle might not have thought it was worth it, even for a bulking jarhead like Trey Triceps. His presence at the protest rally was as likely as Cloudsdale ever hosting the Equestria Games. It wasn't like they could just leave, either; they were so hemmed in, they were pretty much forced to wait until an opening came up for them slither their way out to the nearest bar.

The local sentiment wasn’t that different, particularly from those who were only a stone’s throw away from the protests.

“Okay... so it’s Monday, we’re in downtown Manehattan, it’s freaking wet and you’re seriously telling me this many ponies haven’t got anything better to do right now?”

“Evidently no,” was Weevil’s indifferent response. He stood on a wooden ladder propped up against the gutters of his store, pulling out crumpled cans and clumps of sludge and tossing them into his sack. The amount of trash that had built up was astounding; the cans were concentrated behind the store’s sign, covered and stuck together with mud. He shook his head disgustedly, “Gods' sake...”

“Come down, Weevil, and have a drink.”

Four creatures were sitting on his store porch drinking: Scarab, a griffin, an earth pony and a zebra. The rainbow collection of friends anointed this their favourite drinking spot, given its convenience and choice view of Harmony Square. A shame today it was anything but.

“I’m nearly done...” He bounced his bag up and down to make some room and steadied himself on the old ladder, which creaked loudly under his weight. He found a half-broken beer bottle and gingerly levitated into the bag. “How does this garbage get up here?”

A can flew over his head and hit the roof, rolling down the slope and into the gutters, sending dirty water splashing in his face. The changeling glared angrily over his shoulder at the griffin beneath him.

“Gilda!”

“Yeah?” The bronze bodied, white headed griffin asked nonchalantly, who was halfway through another can of beer from the cooler.

“Stop that!”

Gilda wiped the beer head from her beak and burped, replying hoarsely, “No.” She carelessly flung the same can over her head. It hit the roof and rolled down into the gutters again, resulting in Weevil getting another eyeful.

“Gah! Ugh, so that’s where they keep coming from!” Weevil glared at them all icily. Right now, he wished he had the power to melt heads with a look. “Alright, that’s it! Either you stop throwing your cans on my roof, or you can all go drink somewhere else!”

“Don’t listen to him, boys, he’s just blowing wind,” said the positively ancient zebra named Zigzag to his buddies. “He’d go nuts if he didn’t have us.” Cueball, a balding, overweight earth pony, let out a wheezy laugh.

Scarab looked like he had sunk into his chair, his breathing heavily and noisy as if he were sleeping. An extra-large green bottle of booze was tucked beneath his leg. He had been drinking all morning without putting a can or bottle down once. All his talk about picking a fight with the ENF fizzled out with intensifying light-headedness.

“Maybe we should check he’s still alive,” remarked an unconcerned Gilda, who did not even look at his inebriated form as she took out a wooden stick and jabbed him roughly with it. A low groan emanated from Scarab’s half open mouth. “He’s alright.”

“C’mon, Weevil, where else have we got to put them?” Cueball asked the changeling still on the ladders. “Your wife’ll bust our heads if she found us leaving our trash on her porch again.”

“Here!” The bag dropped to the porch with a heavy clunk. “Use this.”

Within less than a minute of it hitting the floor, the bag was stuffed with a barrage of cans, some still half full but flat.

Growling with frustration, Weevil opened a second bag on the roof and continued working. He only used magic for messes that were beyond his physical capabilities. Echo was somewhat conservative when it came to using magic around the apartment; she did not want her family becoming overly reliant on it, especially for straightforward tasks like cleaning.

He coughed violently when he inhaled the putrid stench coming out the pipe. It smelled like something crawled in there and died. In fact, he swore he could see the shadow of its crooked tail. Grimacing, he turned away from it and hurriedly grabbed whatever gunk was left and shovelled it in the bag before finally climbing down. If he stayed up here any longer, he was going to puke.

“I’ll take that beer now.”

Gilda threw him one, which unceremoniously hit him in the head. He grumbled and placed the cold sweating metal on the inflicted area with magic as he dropped his huge, slapped sore rump on his creaky chair.

“Is that it?” Weevil glared at the cooler, which now only held sloshy ice cubes in a pool of cold water. “Have you guys drunk them all up already?”

“It wasn’t us, it was Gilda,” the zebra accusingly pointed at the griffin. “She’s got that griffin beer belly.”

“Zigzag, shut the buck up,” she replied with total indifference.

“Look at the evidence: who here’s had the most beer? I told you to bring a second case, because old feathers here would drink them all, and I was right.”

A glint of aggravation appeared on her face, and she spoke straightforwardly while still managing to convey a threat, “Zigzag, I’m serious. I love ya, but if you don’t shut the buck up, the next words you say’ll be muffled by your own butt.”

“When do you think these guys will get lost?” Weevil asked seemingly at random, but it was really to change the direction of the conversation. He gestured towards the massive protest and wished the earth would split open and swallow them up.

“Who? The bigoted idiots or the pretentious dweebs?”

“Pick one.”

Cueball grumbled dismally, venting his own frustration, “I just want them all gone so I can get some customers today. I haven’t cut anypony’s mane in three days, and things are already hard as they are—”

“Nochangeling cares, Cueball,” Scarab muttered through his snoring.

The store bell rung and the hefty hoofsteps of a changeling mare followed onto the porch. All heads turned and saw Echo towering over them, carrying a bag of garbage over her shoulder.

Echo sighed and cantered down the porch steps, bumping her husband with her flank along the way. The day was not halfway done yet and the mare already looked drained.

She took a quick look around the circus and commented, somewhat humorously, “I’ve lived in Manehattan for years now and this has got to be the most police I’ve ever seen around here.” She turned and walked around the building to the dumpster. “Weevil, are you done with the gutters yet?”

“Yes, dear,” he groaned, knowing his minute’s rest was at an end.

“Come back inside. I need you behind the register.”

Weevil pushed himself off his chair and slunk back inside the store. Cueball whispered something to Zigzag and the zebra flicked his hoof, making a whipping noise and the two broke out snickering. Unfortunately for them, a returning Echo overheard their little conversation.

“What was that?” she hissed, casting a shadow over the pair as she leaned over them menacingly. Both their smirks vanished and they sheepishly shook their heads. “And I trust one of you has already paid for that beer?”

“Well, I think Gilda was gonna—”

“It’s Zigzag’s turn,” Gilda sent the zebra a hidden smirk.

Echo narrowed her glare at the two old stallions, tapping her hoof loudly now against the wooden floorboards. A loud gulp could be heard from their throats and, taking out a worn wallet, Zigzag gave her a few creasy bit bills.

She double-checked the money and bowed, telling them with begrudging politeness, “Thank you.” She departed with a whip of her violet tail and both stallions sighed with relief.

The griffin laughed and took another swig. “Pfft, dweebs.”

The classroom in PS 118 certainly wasn't as bad as some of the other state funded schools in the metropolitan areas of Equestria, but that was as polite as one could be in describing it. It was chilly, musty and all colour in the room looked like it had been forcefully sucked away.

All the children sat uncomfortably close together behind decades-old desks with tattered ancient textbooks and overused quills at the ready. Fewer than half the students in the classroom were ponies; the majority were a mixed stock of changelings, zebras, diamond pups and griffins.

The teacher was a unicorn stallion by the name of Graingrind, an undersized, shrivelled-up bag of bones whose grey coat, silver mane and dusty blazer made him blend right into the classroom. He was levitating a thick textbook to his face and a piece of chalk that scraped loudly against the old and scratched-up board as he read aloud.

Standing nearby him was a youngish bespectacled zebra stallion who looked fresh out of college. The school board had mandated that classes were to be taught in multiple languages due to the mass influx of students who spoke Equine as a second language or didn't speak it at all. His official job was to act as as an interpreter for the large proportion of zebra students in the class whose Equine skills weren’t up to scratch.

“... with the civil war over, the three predominant changeling races were now unified under one nation, which is now the modern day Changeling Kingdom, unitarily led by the horned and winged changelings known as hornet changelings.” Graingrind unfurled a map of the far eastern island nation of the Changeling Kingdom and hung it on the chalkboard as the interpreter relayed the message to the zebra students.

Shroud sat square in the middle of the class, eyes snapping left and right from his textbook to his scroll with the precision and dedication of a finely oiled automaton. All the other changelings were following a similar fashion: every possible note was taken down, including facts, dates and hoofnotes. Most of the non-changeling students—or “soft skins”—did not work with the same diligence; he spotted out of the corner of his eye a diamond pup chewing on his textbook.

He was a smart colt, smartest in the class. He had his Mama to thank for that. She oversaw him doing his homework every night and checked it over twice. The soft-skins thought if they kept acting nice to him, he would let them copy his homework. It was so pathetic he could laugh.

Occasionally, his glistening mauve eyes twitched slightly further to the left than normal. A zebra filly was right next to him, listlessly jotting down notes with her own fuzzy pink quill instead of one of the school-issued ones. Her silky dark mane was combed over to one side and she wore a couple of golden rings on her left ear.

Shroud kept his head firmly down, but he kept glancing at her, mentally caning himself to refocus when he thought she was going to look back.

“... and that’s pretty much it. Afterwards, we had the Scaragowa Shogunate and the civil war, but that’s all you need to know now about modern changeling history. Any questions? No? Good.” Mr. Graingrind shut his book and dropped it on his desk with a loud clunk and rerolled the map, placing it within his desk drawer. “Now, while you finish off summarizing your notes before recess, or copying them, whichever you prefer, I do have an announcement to make.”

As the interpreters did their job, Mr. Graingrind rummaged through his desk for something else: a stack of letters. He sent them out one-by-one to the students’ desks, who looked at them with curiosity.

Shroud’s eyebrow raised when he read the bright pink piece of paper. The header image was of the planet with a smiley face and members of each species surrounding them in a daisy chain. But what really broke him, if just for a second, from his note-taking was the phrase in bold capitals on the first paragraph:

INTERNATIONAL DAY

“You’re to give these to your parents tonight,” Graingrind informed them, holding a spare copy up to demonstrate. “Next week, we’re going to have an ‘International Day’ at the school. What this is, basically, the whole school is going to get together and put on a show for your parents and the city about Manehattan’s increasing diversity.”

“What’s diversity mean?” asked the diamond pup who was chewing on his book as the interpreters were translating.

One overweight pegasus colt piped up, “Duh, it’s an old, old wooden ship that sunk when it hit an iceberg.”

“Bigmouth, I’d be surprised if the school board wanted us to dedicate a whole day to an old, old wooden ship, but nice try,” Graingrind responded with the driest, unimpressed tone he could muster. “Diversity refers to all the different species and cultures that live in Manehattan now. So for ‘International Day’ you’ll get together in your species and represent your cultures. Yes, Zamira?”

The zebra filly who Shroud had been glancing at lowered her hoof, blew her fringe and asked, “Uh, why are doing this?”

“Because it’s important to the school board for us to look like we’re all getting along. Any other questions?”

“Do we have to do any work?” Bigmouth asked.

He rubbed his temples exasperatedly, groaning, “Yes, Bigmouth. We’re going to go into this later, but yes, you’re required to work in groups to research your cultures. Yes, Scruffy?”

“Isn’t this all really just a political stunt set up by city hall to put a smiley face over the city’s neglected and growing problem of inter-species relations?”

It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Everycreature turned around in their chairs and stared at the diamond pup, who sat there innocently with his mouth covered in slobber and shredded paper.

“Just chew your book, Scruffy.”

Shroud, meanwhile, was busy dwelling on his own thoughts. His mother had many articles of their native clothing from the Motherland, mostly mare’s kimonos. He also once overheard his parents talking about how his mother kept their family’s ancestral katana somewhere in a trunk.

He raised his hoof.

Briiing!

“Alright, recess. Get out.”

The students stampeded out the door like a herd of wild animals so fast the whole classroom was emptied in a matter of seconds, leaving several chairs overturned and crumbled papers littering the floor.

An average day at the store was busy—thank the Kami above—but the combination of cold city weather and smoggy air made it all the more arduous for Weevil and Echo. Their regular weekday customers included local changelings and pensioners, and while it was easy enough to cater to that familiar crowd, there always seemed to be one idiot per day whose sole purpose for being there was to make life difficult.

“Your change, June,” Weevil bowed to his wife’s friend, speaking in their native tongue and pushing the exact change, two heavy paper bags full of ingredients and the fireworks across the counter. “It's always a pleasure to have you. Oh and...” He reached underneath and took out a bunch of brightly coloured bags full of sweets and pushed them towards her. “Here. These are for the kids.”

June Bug, a beautiful changeling mare who looked too young to be the mother of her enormous family, appeared taken aback by the kind gesture.

“Oh, Weevil, you shouldn’t—”

“No, no, it’s fine, really, I insist. I never got the chance to thank you properly for taking Shroud trick-or-treating and that was ages ago.”

“Thank you, Weevil. You’re so sweet.” June Bug beamed, rubbing her hoof against his. The contact made his ears and fur stand up, if just for a moment, but thankfully, she didn't seem to notice. June grunted and levitated the bags to her shoulders in a precarious balancing act as she made her way out the store, unconsciously showing her body off to the stallion in the process. Her shoulders were slim and narrow, giving her a sleek and feminine build that accentuated her much wider hips, the perfect kind for bearing clutches of eggs...

A certain somechangeling cleared her throat from across the room, “It must be hot in here, Weevil. You’re turning green.”

Looking out the corner of his eye and seeing Echo stoically checking off a list by the stock, Weevil audibly gulped. He could feel his cheeks heating up and saw a tint of green; June Bug’s soft, dove-like voice had that effect. She was a prime grade cut of changeling, no questions there.

“Focus on your work.”

Vehemently resisting the urge to blush any further, Weevil brushed down his apron and slicked back his mane. The awkwardness in the air was broken, much to his relief, when another customer, a pony mare, came up to the counter.

She was unquestionably a tourist, judging by the large camera hanging around her neck, her tight pink shirt and the ridiculously large style in which she wore her mane. Her items included a newspaper, a bottle of water, a Manehattan snow globe and three postcards.

“That will be ten bits, please,” he said after counting the price in his head in a matter of seconds. After years in this line of work, this skill became second nature.

It started as a usual transaction, but things got awkward again when he hoofed over her bags.

“Here is your change.”

“Thank you,” she spoke in a very thick Mustangian accent. “Can ah just say? Your Equine sounds really good.”

Weevil paused before replying somewhat uncomfortably, “Yes, well... thank you.”

“You know, ah’ve never been in a bug pony’s store before,” the tourist went on idly, talking like she was in a conversation with a close friend. “Ah mean, sure, ah’ve seen y’all workin’ on the railroads back home—you know, the ones without horns or wings—what are they called?”

“Beetle changelings.”

“That’s right, Beetles. Ah don’t think ah’ve never seen y’all runnin’ yer own businesses. It’s so organized, so clean...”

“Y-Yeah, thank you,” he said with rolling eyes, wishing only the conversion would end.

She held her camera up to her face, asking, “Hey, ya mind if ah take a picture?”

“Yes.”

That answer did not come from him, but from his wife, who Weevil could have sworn learned how to silently teleport without his knowledge.

The static enthusiasm suddenly drained from the tourist’s features, the changeling mare’s large presence obviously intimidating her.

“Ahhh’ll be going now, bye.”

She was out of the store before she even finished her sentence. Echo scoffed and resumed her work, mumbling something under her breath that sounded like “bucking tourists.”

The fixation ponies had with how well other species spoke Equine was something that always got under Weevil's skin. With other species, it kinda made sense, but with one whose trademark was all about changing their appearance and voice, then learning another language should never really be an issue, except for the foals. In fact, most changelings and non-ponies spoke the language better than the native speakers, considering they could do so without sounding like they were talking with mouths full of syrup.

At recess, everypony and everychangeling’s favourite game was Canterlot Siege. Basically, the goal was for the changeling students to try and push past the line of ponies and take over the jungle gym. The jungle gym was Canterlot Castle, the pony colts were the Royal Guard and the changeling colts were the Changeling Army. The biggest changeling filly got to be the Queen and that role always went to Mimic, a hefty filly with the disposition of a wild boar. She once got suspended when, during recess, she threw her entire weight on one unlucky colt and knocked the poor sap out cold.

Canterlot Siege was actually banned on school grounds, so some students had the job of keeping an eye out for any teachers that were nearby. They did not know why the teachers blew their lids at them for playing a stupid game; they figured adults just liked to spoil everyone’s fun.

“Mimic always gets to be Queen!” one of the fillies yelled, stomping her tiny hoof against the tarmac. “I wanna turn!”

“You can’t be Queen!” Mimic barked, shoving her in the shoulder. “You’re too scrawny to be my commander!”

“None of you are being Queen!” Ms. Hickory yelled over the mass of bickering colts and fillies. “You’ve all been told a hundred times you’re banned from playing this game! Now all of you, report to the principal’s office—h-ey! Hey!” The crowd quickly broke up and the students scattered in all directions. “All of you get back here! I’m taking your names!”

Over by the hockey area, Shroud, Zamira and Scruffy were playing against Bigmouth, who was playing as the goalie in front of a tipped-over trash can.

“With ten seconds to go, the offense makes its move! The bug pony heads for the goal, passes the ball to the dog, the dog passes it to the zebra, the zebra shoots—oh, and the shot is blocked again!” The ball bounced right off Bigmouth’s stick and skidded against the tarmac. “Proving once again only ponies can play hockey!”

“It’s not fair!” Zamira shouted. “Fatmouth’s fatter than the goal!”

“I’m not fat, I’ve just got a sweet hockey body!” The flushing colt shot back, sticking his muzzle up haughtily. “Besides, my mom says I’m big boned!”

Zamira leaned on her hockey stick and snarled sarcastically, “Sure, you’re two hundred pounds of bones, alright!”

“Hey, you wanna try, go ahead,” Bigmouth left the goal and rejoined the group. “And if you miss, you gotta admit I’m the best hockey player in the school.”

“Pfft, fine, let’s do this.”

All of them rearranged into the new position and got ready for the attack. Bigmouth took the first shot, and Zamira beat the ball back so hard the colt barely had time to duck as it soared over his head.

“What’s that you said? Only ponies could play hockey?”

“I wasn’t trying.”

Bigmouth concentrated and aimed his second shot carefully, but the zebra filly sent it packing again, this time right in his knee. He shrieked, dramatically grabbing his knee as if he had been stabbed.

“Ow! That really hurt!”

“It’s a tennis ball, Fatmouth. Stop being a crybaby and shoot the ball.”

“No way, you play too rough!” Bigmouth tossed his stick to the tarmac and stormed off in a huff, declaring, “Screw you guys, I’m going on the monkey bars!”

Watching him go, the three kids shook their heads in disgust. Bigmouth always did this; he got mad, threw a fit and sulked off like the big crybaby he was. A lot of the time, Shroud didn’t get why anyone wanted to hang out with him.

Scruffy shrugged and walked off, picking shreds of paper caught between his teeth. Shroud and Zamira were now alone together on the playground.

“So... you wanna play?”

He nodded.

Shroud calculated in his head six different ways he could get the ball in the goal. He tried each angle, but Zamira was way too agile for him and not a single ball went in. By the time he took his tenth shot, he was gasping for air and sweating bullets and his magic could no longer hold his stick. He was now so tired that he misplayed the rebound.

Bam! The ball struck him square in the forehead. His legs buckled and he toppled over, landing hard on his back.

“Oh boy.”

“I think ya killed ‘im.”

“Hey. Hey! You dead, roachie?”

Shroud’s temple was throbbing. His eyes flickered open and his blurry vision made out three separate forms standing over him, all of them zebras. When it steadied, he saw Zamira’s face inches from his own and felt her warm breath against his face.

She helped him up and the two other zebras departed, looking kinda let down he wasn't dead.

“You took one hard shot to the head,” she said, going as far as putting her hoof on his forehead. A flush of heat ran through his body from the touch. “You know, Shroud, for a smart guy you shoulda seen that coming. You alright?”

He nodded earnestly, reaching up to touch the inflicted area, unintentionally touching her hoof as well. Both recoiled as if each other’s hoof was burning hot.

Rubbing the back of her head, Zamira apologized uneasily, “Look, sorry about that. That was an accident. Maybe you, uh... wanna go to the arcade with the guys after school?”

Hearing that made the pain from Shroud’s weeping forehead fade and even brought a smile to his lips.

“Y—”

Briiing!

“Aww, dang it,” Zamira whined and trotted towards the school building, head and tail held low. “I swear, somepony’s setting that clock forward...”

The students trekked begrudgingly through the schoolyard and back inside with the slowness and lethargy of a zombie horde. Shroud himself stood where he was for a moment, temporarily stunned, but eventually pulled his hooves away and returned inside to his studies.

What were they studying? Yes, ancient runes and scriptures, that was always a favourite of his.

The slushy machine had been nothing but a problem for Weevil since day one. Its tanks were never fully filled for a start, and it had a nasty tendency to break down at random. He would have sent it back, if not for its popularity with the kids. He’d lost count of all the letters he wrote to the company telling them about the problems he was having, and they always sent some greasy, hairy slob who only tinkered with the machine for a bit. But at least they got it working again, until its next breakdown two weeks later.

This week the machine decided to make loud, spluttering noises whenever the lever was pulled, and the slush barely trickled out. Weevil prayed it was just the low tanks, but knowing his luck, the mechanisms were probably bucked up. He’d have to bring it up to the refill mare, who was scheduled to come in today.

“How’s life, handsome?”

Weevil felt his spine shiver and he poked around the floor with his hoof, staring down at his open cash register to appear like he was counting bills. He was actually trying to avoid looking at her altogether.

“Good. Y-Yeah, life is good.”

Every time she came over to do her job, and it was always the same mare, Weevil felt his dorsal fin hidden beneath his mane rise up and stiffen, and he became hot under the collar.

She was a young and vivacious mare with a sleek, slender figure and decked out in a brown uniform that was a size or two too small for her, especially her large pair of pegasus wings. Her plush coat was a vibrant mint green and her wild, hot pink mane had this nostril-tingling strawberry scent to it. With her... equipment, she looked better suited for the catwalks than topping up slushy machines.

“So what’s the problem here?” She asked, standing behind the machine and opening the back compartment to take out the empty jugs of syrup and replace them with two full ones: raspberry and blueberry.

“It keeps making this noise when I try to tap—uh, make—slushies, and it hardly comes out.”

“Typical.” She shut the compartment and walked out the side of the machine to face another screwed covering. “I’ll give it a look over.”

“Oh, no, you don’t need to do that,” Weevil trailed off, biting on his lip. He now had a perfect full view of her well-sculpted rump and could witness every elegant wag of her shiny tail.

Whipping out a little screwdriver, the slushy mare opened it up, assuring him, “Don’t worry, I’ve been around these things for some time. It sounds like you’ve got a jam in the works. I can deal with it.”

As she worked, Weevil forced himself to walk away from the register, keeping his hind legs firmly shut. He had to find something to do to distract himself.

“E-Echo? Honey?” he called out for his wife as he turned the counter. “Do you need some help back there?”

“And just what do you think you’re doing?!”

Weevil stopped instinctively and stepped back. “Sorry, I was just asking—”

“How dare you try and steal from my store, you horrid little colt!”

“Lemme go! I’m not doing anything!”

It dawned on Weevil that Echo wasn't talking to him, which was confirmed when the mare came out from the centre aisle, levitating a bat colt up by the ear and dragging him to the counter. He kicked, screamed and dragged his hooves.

“Echo, what are you doing?" Weevil asked flabbergasted. "Put that kid down!”

She reluctantly dropped the urchin roughly to the floor, who would have bolted if she didn’t hold him magically by the tail.

“What's going on here?"

“This little thief tried to steal from us,” Echo pointed at the small satchel the colt was wearing beneath his wing. “I saw him taking beer from the fridge.”

“I was gonna pay for it!” he snapped defiantly.

Both changelings could have laughed at that, and Echo levitated whatever bottles were in his bag and placed them on the shelf, sneering as she did, “Oh, and I guess you’re eighteen as well?”

“And kid, you should be in school,” Weevil chastised him, taking a few bottles himself, “not running around shoplifting from people like some little jackass!” The colt crossed his legs and scoffed, which only incensed Weevil further. “Oh, you think that’s funny? Well, I don’t think your parents will when they find out what you've been doing!”

“Who do you think he’s stealing it for?” Echo remarked in disgust. “I told you to stop letting these bats in. All they ever do is steal.”

This colt’s eyes flashed with anger and he span around, shouting, “Buck you! You’re just a stupid, stinky old cockroach!” He then gathered up all his saliva and spat on her holed hooves.

“Oh! Oh, that is it!”

Realising he was now in real trouble, the colt tried to bolt, but he had forgotten about Echo's magical hold and his hooves only skidded on the floor. He was trapped.

Echo kept the foul-mouthed colt restrained the air and furiously marched behind the counter with him in tow. She sat down on the stool and placed him belly-first on her lap, firmly pinning him in place. This little punk had a snowball’s chance in Tartarus if he thought she was going to take that sitting down.

“Put me down! Put me down!”

“I’m gonna do what your parents should've done years ago: teach you some respect!” She raised her hoof and brought it down on his flank, and he yelped in pain. She then raised her hoof again and slapped down even harder.

“Ow! Owww! Stop that! Ow!”

The large mare kept spanking him relentlessly for a solid minute. Weevil, as it went on, covered his face in embarrassment. He looked behind at the slushy mare, who had momentarily stopped working on the machine and was now watching bewildered at the spectacle. Weevil grinned nervously and opened his mouth as if he were going to attempt to explain, but he ended up only chewing his bottom lip.

When Echo was finished, she brought the colt, tears streaming down his sniffling, tomato-red face, to the front door and set him down.

“Now you go home and think about what you’ve done,” she admonished him and pointed at the door. “And don’t you think about coming in here again, understood?” The colt nodded miserably and she nudged him on. “Good. Now get going.”

Halfway out the door, the bat colt wiped the snot and tears from his face and looked back over his shoulder and yelled, “Just you wait! I’m gonna go get my mom and she’s gonna buck you up! You’ll see!”

“Good! Go get her!” she screeched after him, stepping out onto the porch, where her family’s confused friends were watching, completely baffled by what was transpiring. “I can’t wait to meet the mare responsible for raising an ill-mannered brat like you!”

Scarab suddenly came alive in his chair. He rubbed his eyes and asked, yawning groggily, “Errr, did I miss something?”

“Shut up, Scarab!” Echo kicked the door closed with a buck of her leg and paced up and down, seething infuriately through her bared fangs, spittle spraying over the floor like a broken fire hydrant. She saw her husband leaning against the shelf, head in hoof and looking very tired. “Oh what?”

“What?”

“I know that look.”

The exhausted, overweight stallion didn't reply right away and slunk back to his place behind the counter. When he got there, he rested his knees and caressed his cheeks in his open hooves.

He heaved a defeated sigh. “Why did you have to smack him? Just... just why, Echo?”

“We shouldn’t have to put up with that, Weevil,” she spoke defensively, still pacing out her frustrations. “We didn’t when we first came here, and I’ll be damned first if we do now.”

“Y-You think this is a civil rights issue?” he asked incredulously. “Echo, this wasn’t some punk writing ‘Go home, cockroaches!’ on our window or leaving flaming bags on our porch; he was a little kid stealing a couple bottles of beer, for Queen’s sake! And not even the good beer either. It's that cheap crap the griffins piss in before they sell it.”

“Well, I didn’t see you going out of your way to stop me.”

He retorted in their dialect, “Because chances are you would’ve put me over your knee, instead.”

A sly smirk formed on her face. “Aww, and I thought you liked it when I did that to you.”

“This isn’t a joke!” Weevil massaged his pulsing temples before he had a migraine. “...All you needed to do was throw him out, Echo. You didn’t need to hit him and you know it. Now you’re gonna bring his whole colony down on our heads!”

The faltering of her scowl and the way her eyes cast downward clearly read she was feeling some regret about what happened. Now that she had the chance to calm down and look back on it, how she handled the situation looked pretty heavy-hoofed. But they didn't have anything to fear, right? Bat ponies were nothing but snivelling cowards who were all hisses and no bite. Right?

“He’s kinda right,” said the slushy mare, who both changelings had completely forgotten was there, and whose head was still poked deep in the machine’s inner workings. “Ya see, my uncle used to do business with bat ponies. When he welched on this big deal once, the bat he was working with got all his buddies and cleaned out my uncle’s entire house when the poor guy was sleeping. They even somehow made off with all the copper wire in the walls! True story, I swear to Celesti...” she trailed off, her shift in tone indicating she found something and it didn’t sound good. “Uh, ma’am... I think I found the problem.”

What she yanked out that was caught between a pair of teethed gears made Echo flap her hoof over her mouth and Weevil’s skin crawl so intensely he thought he was going to moult then and there: it was a huge, stinking, dead rat!

“Ewww!” Echo's hooves flew over her mouth and she gagged.

“Yeah,” the slushy mare cringed and held the dead vermin as far away from her face as possible. “Ew.”

Weevil slumped his head against the counter with a clunk. The health inspector was going to tear him a new one for this.

Author's Note

A/N: Sorry immensely for the length of time it has taken for me to update. I want to assure you that this story is far from dead and once Maternal Instinct is finished - and it is nearing the end - I will be dedicating my fanfic writing time to this story. Anyway, enjoy this chapter, it is perhaps one of my favourite chapters so far of all my MLP stories.

Edit - 08/08/15 - I decided I wanted to include the presence of trade unions protesting alongside the ENF, given some historical opposition to mass immigration from trade unions as brought up by commenters. I fear I might be at risk this early of tarring anyone in this story who is critical of immigration as just radicals like the ENF, which is certainly not my long-term plan. I also wanted to alter the chants a bit, to focus more on the threat some ponies feel from changelings specifically.

Chapter Four: Growing Family, Part I

Citizen Weevil

Chapter Four

Growing Family, Part I

Saturday mornings were, among many things in his sad, pitiful life, the bane of Weevil’s existence. It was the busiest day of the week for the store. It was good for business, but not so much for the stress vein pounding on the poor changeling’s temple.

“Here you are, Mrs. Tea Cosy.” Weevil hurriedly finished packing her woolly saddlebag and slid it and her change across the counter. “I’m sorry for the wait.”

Tea Cosy rolled her eyes irritably and took off with her heavy bag of prune juice, hardly making a dent in the ridiculously long line of customers, who were growing more aggravated and restless by the minute.

“C’mon, Weevil!”

“This is getting ridiculous!”

“Hey, who touched my flank? Somepony touched my flank!”

“Okay, everyone! Everyone!” he shouted over the customers’ screaming kids who were running up and down the aisles. “Listen, I know this is taking way longer than it should and I’m sorry, but if you’ll all please just bear with me, we can get this done faster—hey! HEY!” He saw a trio of colts going for a joyride on the revolving greeting card stand, throwing greeting cards all over the floor. “You kids stop that! That isn’t a ride! Lady, could you please tell your kids to cut that out?!”

The colts’ mother, who was too preoccupied with reading a gossip rag of which she probably had no intention of buying, dully told her disobedient kids without so much as looking at them, “Kids, don’t mess with the nice bug pony’s things...”

Weevil looked like he was about to wring that dumb, welfare-dependant mare’s neck when he heard somechangeling else call his name from across the store and driving yet another nail into his splitting head.

“Hey, Weevil! Weevil!” Cueball appeared from behind the aisle corner, an open pint of milk in hoof. “I think your milk’s gone bad.” He opened the lid and took a whiff, but immediately recoiled and held his muzzle. “Oh yeah, that’s rank!”

“Cueball, what are you doing drinking my milk?!”

He wiped the white moustache from his lip and shrugged, “But how else am I supposed to know if it’s any good?”

“What are you—you buy it first, then taste it, you idiot!” he growled as he juggled ringing up the next customer’s bag of frozen hayfries and taming the serious urge to glass that mouldy milk in his nincompoop buddy’s face.

“What? Do ya want me drinking spoiled milk?”

“Okay, I’ll deal with it! Just give me a minute!”

Two hours. That was how long the store had been open and already Weevil wanted to set the whole building and everychangeling in it on fire. Echo was upstairs right now with the children, doing Kami knows what during their ‘mommy time’ and left him alone to these wolves. Just as worse, he’d managed to get barely any sleep last night and the stress was already giving him his hundredth headache that month.

And the real icing on the cake? The keys on the cash register were sticking again. It was like that ever since Shroud accidentally spilled his soda on it, which made ringing up hordes of unbearably rude, obnoxious customers even longer.

If he had to clean up one more filly’s spilled juice box or pick up a stand that’d been knocked down for a third time, he swore he was going to... to... okay, he didn’t exactly know what he’d do, but you bet it was gonna be ugly!

“H-Hey, uh, is my milk off, too?” queried the next young, nervous pony customer, donned in very stereotypical nerdish clothing, complete with thick glasses and braces. He looked at his pint with unease as if it were radioactively contaminated. “I’m working on a big college project, right now. I can’t afford to get sick.”

“I don’t know, maybe,” he answered testily, wanting just to bag his groceries and hurry the line along. “I can’t tell; there’s no expiration date on the bottles.”

“Well, that’s stupid!” remarked the old stallion standing next in line.

“I didn’t make the bottles, Pocket Watch!”

“Couldn’t I just taste it like that guy there?” The nerdy pony gestured to Cueball, still standing stupidly like a lost chimpanzee with his own pint, even curiously sniffing it.

“No, because if you open it, I can’t sell it.”

Pocket Watch piped up again, “If it’s off, why would you sell it, anyway?”

The nerdy pony, meanwhile, had already secretly opened and gave his milk a taste. Almost instantly, the poor fool sprayed it out over the counter and clasped his throat, gagging, “Ugh! Oh! That tastes like pee! Dear Celestia, I think I’m gonna hurl!”

Weevil, covered in soured milk and incompletely exasperated at this point, threw his forelegs in the air and barked, “Alright, that’s it! Gimme that!” He angrily snatched the bottle from the nerdy pony and banged it hard on the counter. “There, no milk for anychangeling! Happy?”

“What about my babies’ yoghurt?” demanded a changeling mare at the back of the line who was simultaneously carrying her three crying hatchlings and her week’s supply of groceries. “That better not be off, too!”

“Well, if you don’t like it, why don’t you all just go to Muleshnik’s?!” Weevil yelled, flipping out on the poor bespectacled shmuck still standing in front of him. His cheeks were now burning lime green and his voice was on the verge of cracking. He then snapped his hoof out the door to the store opposite the street. “Unless you mind everything you buy tasting like hoof ointment, you can always go and shop there, you know! Be my guest!”

Perhaps that wasn’t the best suggestion, as a number of customers dropped their groceries then and there and began filing out the store, the frightened nerdy pony being the first to flee in fear as he wiped his soured tongue on his collar.

“Yeah? Well, at least there it doesn’t take half an hour to get served!” Pocket Watch huffed on his way out. “And Muleshink’s got arthritis, for Celestia’s sake!”

An elderly griffin who had the appearance of a shrivelled up turkey added distastefully after he discarded his bag, “Ja, and he doesn’t put the eggs at the bottom. Who does that?”

With most of the customers gone and his line cut half, Weevil buried his face in his hooves and groaned into them cathartically. Great, that was several customers he’d lost to that damn donkey’s store! And after that outburst, it’d be a real struggle getting them back.

“Feeling better?” he heard Gilda’s distinctive voice ask him. Through the holes in his hooves he watched the griffin drop a six pack of griffin-imported beer on the counter, while tapping her talon against her bright banana of a beak gently. “Seriously, Weev, you’ve still got some foam on your lips there.”

The overworked changeling silently rung up her beer with the monotony even a zombie pony would think more lifeless. He didn’t have the will right now to deal with her smart-aleck remarks.

“You should pop an aspirin,” she pointed a talon at the shelves of over-the-counter drugs and cigarettes right behind him.

“I’ve 'popped' four, they don’t do crap,” he replied snappily, repeatedly tapping the uncooperative key to open the cash drawer. It finally sprung open and sent the change scattering over the floor. “Kuso!”

“Oh hey, do you still take IOUs?”

“Get the buck out, Gilda.”

“Okaaay, smile for mommy!”

Shroud’s eyes burned as a blinding light flashed from the bulb of his mother’s oversized camera.

The colt stayed sat down and cross-legged on the hard floor and kept his now very tired foreleg wrapped around the egg, which was nestled comfortably on its purple silk cushion.

The photograph slowly printed out from the camera. Echo levitated up to her face and looked upon it with fondness.

“Wonderful,” she beamed. “This is even better than the last one.” She slid the picture carefully into the open photo album that was already stuffed to the brim and weighed a ton. “Alright, I think we might have enough. You can stop now, sweetie.”

He sighed with relief, dropping his aching leg and nursing his cheeks which were sore from smiling so much. Thank goodness they were finished, because if he had to keep this up, he was going to get wrinkles around his mouth like an old nag.

Little Eggy was scheduled to hatch into his maybe baby brother or sister any day now and their mother couldn’t be more excited. She always adored hatchlings when they were still snuggled innocently in their cosy eggs, and she wanted to save every moment of it while she still could.

He’d been posing like one of those snotty pageant fillies all morning, during which Echo used up a whole film roll on the two. So much for the colt having a fun and carefree weekend at the arcade with his buddies.

“Now we’ve got that done...” As she set the camera down, Echo’s horn lit up and a large trunk dragged itself across the floor to where they were sat. “I think I promised to help you with your school project, hmm?”

Shroud’s face livened up, and he nodded his little head eagerly.

Echo opened up the trunk to reveal an eclectic treasure trove of old clothes inside. They were all genuine Changeling articles too (mostly mare’s kimonos), some bright and colourful like they could have come straight from a noblechangeling’s castle. A few, however, were so dull and plain the lowest peasant wouldn’t be caught dead wearing them.

She pulled out a small colt’s yukata kimono and held it up for her son, showing off the soft cotton texture and its beautiful pattern of white cranes flying across a dark blue sky.

“Handsome, isn’t it?” She grinned proudly as she gave it to him. “Go ahead and try it on.”

As he slipped on the robe and searched through the dark for the collar, he caught a whiff of its overwhelmingly musty smell and coughed. It smelt like an old charity shop, the kind his mother kept buying cheap second-hoof foals’ toys and books for the baby from.

“It was your grandfather’s when he was your age,” Echo pulled the collar over his head so he could breathe and stepped back. She held her hoof to her mouth and gasped in amazement, “And you look so much like him in it, too.” She did a twirling motion with her hoof. “Could you... turn around so mommy can get a good look at you?”

As sick as he was of modelling for one morning, he sucked it up and demeaned himself nonetheless, spinning around on one leg like a little ballerina.

“Oh my goodness, you really do! I... wait a minute...” Her eyes narrowed and peered in on the sleeve, holding it in her hoof. “What’s this?”

A purplish stain stood out on the lower sleeve like a griffin’s snapped talon; a pretty old one at that, going by its darkened colour.

It took a moment for her memory to jog. “Ohhh, that’s right,” she said, endearingly tracing circles around the blotch. “Don’t you worry, darling, it’s only ursa blood.”

Shroud gawked wide-eyed at her. Did she just say...?

“Yeah, your grandfather’s family were in fur trading. His mommy used to take him out hunting ursa minors for their fur when he was only five.”

All colour drained from Shroud’s face and he worriedly inspected the immaculate robe for any more traces of blood. The idea of his granddad, barely out of his hatchling years, violently hunting down and skinning giant bears made him squeamish for some reason.

Echo giggled, not noticing his discomfort, “Oh, he loved hunting ursas with his mommy! He’s never gotten tired of it, heh heh...” She started sounding uneasy and rubbed the back of her neck the more she thought about it. “We’re, uh… we’re kinda worried about him. Aaanyway, I think there might be a fur in here somewhere...” She rummaged through the trunk, wanting to move on from that minefield.

“Echo!” Weevil’s voice bellowed from the staircase. “ECHO!”

She rolled her head towards the creaked living room door and called back irritably, “What now, Weevil?”

“I’m about to blast my brains out down there! I need you to come down and give me a hoof!”

“I’m taking care of the kids!”

“The shop’s really busy!”

“Well, I’m busy!”

The door swung open and a very haggard Weevil marched in, several bottles of milk floating at his side.

“Milk’s out of date,” he grunted in response to their odd looks and set them down by the wall. “We need to start ordering these things in jugs.”

“Weevil, we both agreed Saturday mornings are ‘mommy time’,” Echo explained to him as if she were talking to an idiot. She lovingly stroked their son’s head. “Shroud here’s been playing model with his sister for me.”

“You’re still taking pictures?” he asked incredulously. “Echo, you’ve already got enough to fill a catalogue!”

“Oh, you know what? That reminds me.” She levitated their egg off its cushion and placing it back in its incubator with the greatest care. “We can’t let little Chryssie get cold, can we?”

He might have wanted a filly to pop out that egg, but Weevil still didn’t like the name his wife picked. He didn’t have much of a choice, though. Echo had always been in favour of giving one of her babies a regal name, especially after the reigning Changeling Queen, her idol. It helped that she came from a family of hard-line Changeling royalists where naming a hatchling after a changeling monarch was common practice. And you did not disrespect the Queen in their presence.

“Besides, Shroud’s also got his big ‘International Day’ coming up. Doesn’t he look just like dad in his kimono?”

His eyes fell on Shroud and he was pretty astounded. “Wow, you really do. It’s kinda creepy in a way—wait!” Weevil slapped his forehead frustrated and got back on track. “Echo, please, it’s a jungle down there!” He was about ready to get on his knees and beg. “Just come down for ten minutes?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll be right down,” she promised begrudgingly with her forelegs akimbo. “Just let me finish up here first. Do think you can survive that long?”

The changeling family then heard a loud smashing sound coming from downstairs. All three of them cringed. It sounded eerily a lot like a large bunch of jars breaking...

“Weevil! Uhh, don’t be mad...” Cueball’s nervous voice followed. “But I think somepony knocked over your jars of pickled eggs!”

“Ohhhh!” Weevil’s entire being shuddered with revulsion and he had to channel all the energy to his legs to practically force himself down those stairs.

Echo sighed, “Better make that five.”

Five minutes, she said. Yeah, right.

He’d been waiting twenty minutes now for her to come down. In that time, poor Weevil had to brush up all the shards of glass and put up the wet floor sign before anychangeling saw an opportunity for a lawsuit, all without getting his own hooves cut up. Meanwhile, the flow of customers may have slowed down, but that didn’t stop their brats from still treating his place of business like a playground.

It wasn’t big news Weevil didn’t like kids a whole lot. He adored his well-behaved son and soon-to-arrive hatchling, don’t be ridiculous, it was just everychangeling else’s precious little angels he felt like picking up and punting into heavy traffic.

The only thing he could think of that was worse?

“Excuse me, can we, like, get a sample?” a cyan-coloured teenage pony standing by the slush machine with her candy pink friend asked Weevil in a voice that was dripping with such ‘valley girl’ it was like a red-hot poker being stuck in his ears.

“Girls, this isn’t an icecream parlour,” he informed them unfocusedly. His attention was divided between trying to open a seemingly welded shut bottle of aspirin for his pounding head and on the spiralling trails of mud prints left behind by a group of muddy colts fresh out of hoofball practice. “We don’t do samples.”

“But how am I gonna know what it tastes like?”

“It comes in blueberry and strawberry, so I imagine they taste like that.”

The pink teenager asked, managing to sound even more obnoxious than her friend, “What percentage of fat is it?”

He stared baffled at the two, “It’s syrup and frozen water!”

“Is it high in calories?”

“I don’t know!”

One of the dirty-faced tiny hoofballers rode over on his skateboard, marring Weevil’s precious cleaned floor with ugly black skid marks and blurting loud enough for the whole store to hear, “I heard they found a rat in there!”

The girls’ eyes went wide as dinner plates and their pastel faces turned green.

“A RAT?! Ewwww!”

“NO! No, no, no!” Weevil exclaimed, waving his hooves rather too desperately. “I can guarantee you there was no rat!”

Both he and Echo were lucky the slushy mare was a pal enough to keep schtum about the ‘blockage’ she found between the machine’s gears. If she hadn’t, the unholy formidable force of the Manehattan City Health Department would most definitely have smote them with all their divine power.

“Yes-huh,” the colt retorted. “My big brother said so!”

“Well, you’re brother’s a liar!” he finally popped the bottle open and choked down a couple of pills dry. He glared at the idle pair and said gruffly, “You can either buy something or leave, so what’s it going to be?”

The blue teenager harrumphed, took out a plastic cup and tapped herself a blueberry slushie. Nothing came out the nozzle, except a few blue squirts and a familiar low whirring noise Weevil recognized as a bad omen.

Pfffbt! The nozzle suddenly came to life at full force and sprayed all over the unexpecting ponies in blue slush.

“AAAAIIIIEEEEE!" they both ear-piercingly shrieked.

‘That’s new,’ Weevil mused.

“WHAT THE HAY IS GOING ON?!”

Echo kicked the door shut with a bang. She stood there seemingly frozen as her dumbstrack eyes scanned the store. A messy pile of shattered glass and liquid that made the whole room reek of vinegar; feral ragamuffins running rampant; a pair of shivering teens dripping wet; and her husband, who was on the verge of a nuclear meltdown.

She hollered, “What happened here?!”

Everychangeling beside Weevil dummied up and stopped whatever they were doing in her presence. Even the rowdy hoofballers now looked like a group of deer caught in a train’s headlights.

“What do you think?!” Weevil shouted back. “Cueball happened!”

Her voice lowered dangerously, “Where is that big, bald idiot?”

“He bolted, Echo, you missed him twenty minutes ago!” Thwap! “OW!” A hoofball flew through the air and beaned him hard against his face. He glowered darkly at whichever one of the little punks who did it. “I said no balls in my store!”

The colt on his skateboard whispered to his buddy, “Wow, that guy’s freaking out.”

Weevil’s now glowing eyes pulsated with rage. “I’m not freaking out!” he screeched.

“You’re totally freaking out,” the pink pony said as her friend wrung the syrup from her mane.

“SHUT UP!”

Echo decided to douse this fire before it really got started. “Alright, that does it. Shop-is-closed!” She magically opened the door and directed the young ponies out. “Teenagers, soccer colts, everychangeling out before my husband has a stroke!”

A colt whined, “Aww, but I wanna slushie.”

She reiterated, giving them the deadliest of looks, “Out. Now!”

All the hoofballers were the first out door in seconds, tailed by the more defiant mall brats with their muzzles stuck up, despite their sticky, uncouth appearance.

“We’re so gonna sue you for this!” growled the blue pony as they stormed past the changeling matriarch, tugging on her ruined top.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” Echo incidentally slammed the door so that it unceremoniously hit the little tramps square on their rumps. After flipping the open/closed sign, she turned back to a quite dumbstruck Weevil and firmly instructed him, “Weevil, go upstairs and lay down!”

Weevil didn’t know if it was the headache making him see things, because he couldn’t believe what was happening. Echo closing the store early? And on a Saturday? It could only mean one thing: Tartarus was finally freezing over.

“B-But what about the store? It’s a mess.”

“I’ll deal with it. Upstairs!”

He didn’t bother putting up a fight; he put the aspirin bottle back on the shelf, left his second home behind the counter and trudged back upstairs.

He was probably going to thank her a lot for this later.

Weevil kept his eyes shut and purred softly through tightened lips. He laid flat against his huge belly on the floor rug like the beached whale he was, back straight and forelegs at his side, while Echo knelt over him tentatively.

His wife was a mare of many talents besides being a successful businessmare and an exceptionally talented cook. One of Weevil’s personal favourites had to be her knack for giving the best deep tissue massages he’d ever received.

Her skilled hooves ran smoothly along his coconut oiled daubed back and shoulders, passed his parted wings, kneading his folds of doughy skin with thoroughness but also a surprising amount of care. You could easily tell she’d been doing this for years now.

“Mmmmm, I haven’t had one of these in a long time...” the stallion, clearly enjoying himself, grinned from ear-to-ear. The silky cushion they’d been using for the egg was even tucked underneath his chin for extra comfort.

“Yeah, well, I think you’re long overdue.” She worked harder on his shoulders, where he was carrying the most tension. “This is the worst shape I’ve seen your back in ages.”

Weevil moaned with pleasure the more jellified his muscle became and mumbled something into the cushion.

“What was that?”

He briefly lifted his head, saying, “I said I still don’t know why you didn’t become a masseuse.”

Applying another dash of oil to his lower spine, Echo chuckled, “Hmm, so you’d be alright with me rubbing other fat, sweaty changelings’ backs?”

He winced from the cold touch and a chill ran up his spine and the rest of his body.

“If you ever did, I’d kick those bakas’ teeth in.”

“Wow!” the mare let out a hearty laugh. “Is this you being protective, Weevil?”

Weevil playfully indulged in his swelling pride a bit and smirked, “Nochangeling gets their back rubbed by my Nuzzle Bug except me—ooh, ooh! Easy, easy!” He gritted his teeth in pain when Echo began exerting a lot of pressure with her bent knee.

“Stop whining, it’s for your own good!” She eased off only slightly and added, reprimanding him, “After that performance of yours downstairs, you looked like you were going to pop a vessel.”

Being reminded of the incident caused his muscles to tense up again, and a long exhale left his tar lined lungs.

“I’m sorry, darling. I know I should’ve kept my temper back there.”

“Oh, shush, Weevil. After you had to deal with those dregs all morning, I guess I can’t blame you that much.”

“We gonna—ooh!” He heard a quiet popping from his back. “—gonna reopen the store?"

“Mmm, maybe not for a while,” she said, giggling a bit through her fangs.

He smiled, somewhat relieved, shifting his leg a bit, “Could you... do my neck next?”

Echo returned an alluring grin of her own, and, lowering herself close enough he could feel her breathing against his neck, lifted up her hooves to massage the muscles in his neck under a thick layer of flab. Some of his more tender muscles were located here, and, thanks to her ticklish touch, Weevil’s tongue unfurled limply from the corner of his mouth.

“You know, you’re going to be doing me next,” he heard her nicker close in his ear. They both broke out into soft, mischievous laughter.

In the apartment kitchen, meanwhile, their son was standing on a stool on his hindlegs in a precarious balancing act, busy giving his unhatched sibling a bath in the sink. The bulbous egg buoyed in the warm, soapy water as Shroud dabbed away at the excess slime oozing off the shell with a big yellow sponge.

The family had a rota set up for ‘eggy’s bath times’. You see, changeling eggs had this nasty trait of excreting this mucus-like gunk time and again; a kind of “natural defence mechanism against predators in ancient times”, Shroud remembered reading about in his biology textbook.

It wasn’t just super gross, but a colossal waste of time too: the water in the sink was turning the same icky green colour and the goo just clung to the sponge like strands of mucus to a ball of tissue. Yech!

Shroud carried on dispassionately cleaning the shell and inwardly groaned at listening to his parents’ foalish giggling in the living room; they always got like this after ‘massage time’. For all his mother’s posturing and henpecking, she and his dad managed to have their tender little moments now and then. Too bad their ‘moments’ made him want to stick his hoof down his throat...

The egg suddenly began rocking to and fro in its makeshift bath, taking the colt by surprise and splashing the icky water right in his face; some even got in his mouth!

He heard his father’s yowl of pain from the living room, followed by the drone of his mother’s wings growing louder towards the kitchen. Echo appeared flying through the doorway and was at the sloshing sink before Shroud could even blink.

“Issheokaywhatdidyoudoyoudidn’tdropherdidyoudidyouusetherightsponge?!!” she spoke so rapidly the words practically came out in one ugly blurt. “Let me have a look!” She took the rocking egg in her forelegs and cradled it, panic evident in her violet eyes as she remained hovering in mid-air, looking rather ridiculous doing so.

Echo took a few deep breaths, repeatedly muttering to herself to calm down and levitating over a dishcloth to frantically dry off the dripping water and slime. She looked over her shoulder at the living room, beckoning her husband, “Weevil, get in here, quick!”

“Why?”

“I think the egg might be hatching now!”

“Oh cra—o-okay, I’m coming!” A few strained grunts and a solid thud. “Ugh! No wait... Echo, I can’t get up!”

Hearing this made both mother and son facehoof themselves out of sheer embarrassment, the former cringing, “You have got to be kidding me! I’m gonna have to tell baby her daddy missed her hatching because he couldn’t get off his gut—!” Her ranting broke off once she realized her egg had gradually stopped shaking around, save for the occasional twitch.

The tension in the apartment diffused with that, a lot like a fuse on an explosive that had been snuffed out at the last minute.

“Well,” Echo began disappointedly. “I guess it was a false alarm then. I could’ve sworn...” She reached down and petted her visibly worried son on the head. “Don’t worry, darling, you haven’t done anything wrong.” She then carried the egg back to the sink, shouting back to her husband in the other room as she did, “Don’t pull a muscle, Weevil! It was a false alarm!”

“Phew! That’s a relief...”

Echo carefully settled the egg back in the warm water, before using the same dishcloth to clean away the coconut oil she’d forgot still coated her hooves.

“Thank you, Shroud, but I’ll deal with this now,” she told him soothingly, picking up the sponge and taking over the bath time. “Why don’t you go play outside with your friends?"

Shroud shook the remaining bits of slime from his person, and, eager at the first chance to actually enjoy his weekend like a colt his age should, bowed to his mother and bolted it without a word.

“Shroud? Son, could you help daddy up?” Weevil asked his son as he galloped carelessly past him and out the living room door. “Shroud, wait, get back here! Shroud!” He tried once again pushing himself off his belly, only to flop ungraciously back on the floor. “Grrr, Echo!”

An hour and a dozen cups of tea later, their store was open again and Weevil and Echo were back to the grind. Thankfully, the customer flow was a lot slower this time around and his wife was there to have his back. Now they just had to contend with working with the overwhelming smells of lingering vinegar and gag-inducing cleaning chemicals giving poor Weevil the worst heartburn.

“That was close, you know?” said Echo, biting into her wheat biscuit after dunking it in her tea.

“What was?” asked Weevil, who was holding a tissue to his snout.

“Chrysalis,” she answered as she uncaringly flipped the page of a beauty magazine she’d plucked from the rack. “She could have hatched today and you would’ve missed it.”

“I would’ve been there if you or Shroud helped me,” he argued and gave his belly a gentle slap. “In case you’ve forgotten, you have to help me out of bed every morning.”

“Then start going to a gym,” she prodded the sloshy, low hanging gut in its side, her hoof sinking into the folds like it were made of memory foam. “or better yet, you could get back on the diet.”

There was a snowball’s chance in Tartarus of Weevil joining a gym. Running a family-owned business was a demanding mistress and there were better ways he could think to spend his time and money. Also, to him, losing a few ounces of weight definitely wasn’t worth the emasculating embarrassment of his big flabby hide sticking out in a hot, unbreathable gym crowded with perfectly cut ponies who practically lived their lives there.

The diet idea didn’t sound so bad the first two dozen times, but who was he kidding? Nochangeling or pony kept to those things. His last diet last only two hours before he was shovelling an extra thick slice of chocolate cake down his throat.

Wanting to move the conversation away from this, he said, “You know, I’d nearly forgotten how soon eggy’s gonna hatch.”

“I know what you mean,” said Echo reminiscently. “It feels like only yesterday I was brushing leftover bits of shell from Shroud’s mane.”

“I remember that time he and the other kids got fleas at kindergarten. Heh heh, you went ballistic on those diamond dogs.”

“You bet your flank I did.”

“Just so you know, I was on your side until the police got involved. Things went a little too far at that point, don’t you think?”

“Well, that’s what they get for infecting my son with blood-sucking parasites...” she promptly sighed and cupped her chin with her hooves, staring off reflectively into space. “Where does the time go?”

He frowned, “Oh, just out the window, nowhere special. And when baby hatches, whatever’s left of our free time goes out too.”

A surprisingly mature and independent for a colt his age Shroud had never really been a hoofful for either of them; by the time he was five, the kid was pretty much taking care of himself (which naturally didn’t stop Echo mollycoddling her only son every chance she got). But now, on top of keeping a business afloat, a second mouth to feed was on the way and there was no guarantee he or she was going to give them an easy time like their brother did.

Weevil touched the top of his head and felt through the remains of his parched mane. Whatever was left of his free time wasn’t the only thing he was kissing goodbye.

“It’s all part of being a parent, Weevil,” Echo replied lethargically, taking a sip of her tea. “We signed away our ‘us time’ a long time ago. Drink your tea, it’s getting cold.”

The changeling stallion stared at his long ignored cup of tea with disinterest and simply brushed it aside. A pregnant mare approached the counter (he could tell from the abundance of ice bags, chocolate and pickles she was buying) and he rung her up.

He mulled over their conversation as they went about their work. He regretted his choice of words. Their people’s culture considered parenthood one of life’s most precious gifts, but from the way he and Echo talked about it, they made it sound like it was something worse than horn rot! That wasn’t how they felt; they only pined for easier days.

‘When was the last time we spent a night out together by ourselves?’ he thought. ‘Just as husband and wife?’ Weevil could hardly remember. There was that time they had dinner at a newly opened changeling restaurant while Zigzag foalsat for them - Weevil spent the night holding Echo’s mane as she was throwing up in the bathroom.

A lot of ponies would look at their relationship and probably write off Echo as an overbearing nag, and sometimes, well... they weren’t half wrong. However, there was no way soft-skins could possibly see the softer, gentler side of her like he did. She was a big kitten beneath that grumpy hide, and, as the old bug she’d been married to all these years, Weevil should know.

He smiled as he recalled their earlier, happier years together, back when they were still courting and the first years of their marriage. A favourite pastime of theirs when they walked flank-to-flank around the military compound at night: them gazing at the stars, him giving her whatever gift he could smuggle in, both of them getting wasted and making out in the soaking wet trenches...

‘Wow, we really were a wild pair of kids, weren’t we?’ he thought bemusedly, shaking his head.

What he’d give to get some of that old fiery magic back again. After all, they both still had it; their lip wrestling session following their skirmish with the bat ponies earlier that week was proof. They often just didn’t have the chance anymore.

The changeling had himself a small light bulb moment. He thought it over carefully. Who was to say they couldn’t squeeze in some more ‘us time’ before the endless nights of crying and late night feeding, the round-the-clock diaper changing and overall oozing and sneezing started again?

“... Echo?” he eventually asked.

“Uh-huh?” She’d become engrossed in her magazine by now; she was reading this fascinating article about the changeling mother who’s claimed to have laid the most eggs in one clutch: a whopping thirty healthy eggs!

“What would you say about... you and me going out one night?”

Echo blinked and stared down at him.

“Go out? What... you mean like, go out for dinner or something?”

He shrugged, “Maybe. Something like that, if you want to.”

It was hard to tell from her puzzled expression what she thought of the idea. “We haven’t gone out in—I don’t know, years now?”

“I know.” Weevil pawed at the floor, looking quite bashful as if he were asking her out on a date for the first time. “I was thinking—maybe tonight—we could go out and, I don’t know... go to a nice restaurant and a movie together.”

“Wait, tonight?” At this point, she was analysing his features as if she were searching for some symptom of illness. She asked him, honestly confused, “Why?”

“Well, you know, I...” He was now really regretting opening his mouth in the first place. “You know, it doesn’t matter, forget I said anything. Let’s just get back to work.”

When Weevil was about to turn back to his register, he felt Echo’s hoof take him under his chin and she spoke to him in a softer tone.

“Hey, come on, tell me.”

“It’s just... we probably won’t get another chance for a long time,” he explained sheepishly, but quietly indulging in her touch. “So I figured... we should go out and enjoy ourselves while we still can before number two arrives. You know, like how we used to.”

Whether it was out of pity or genuine intrigue, a sympathetic half smile gradually spread across Echo’s muzzle and she patted him on the cheek, saying, “D’aww, Weevie, that’s very sweet of you to offer, but... I don’t know.” Her smile and his dropped and she gestured around the store front. “We’ve got a lot on our hooves right now, and I’m not sure this is the best time for us to go out having fun.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t have to do anything big.” He shuffled closer to his big bulky wife and looked up at her affectionately, like he was going to rest his head against her like a hatchling. “Think about it, honey: a nice, peaceful night, no kids, no store. Just you and me stuffing ourselves at a five—okay, three star restaurant and a fun movie for afterwards.” He cocked his brow suggestively. “Maybe we could throw in a little candlelight and a few bottles of sake? I know how much you like that.”

“Weevil,” Echo whispered stunned, her cheeks blushing and eyes darting around for anychangeling within earshot. If she had lesser control, she might have giggled like a filly. “My, my, somechangeling’s gotten feisty all of a sudden.”

“You couldn’t blame me, could you?”

She held her hoof to her fangs, squinting her eyes in thought. Weevil inwardly smirked, knowing he’d gotten to her. He could tell from analysing her facial inflictions; it was something all soldiers in the changeling army were trained in, part of the basics even.

“Hypothetically speaking,” she began with an amorous smirk creeping in and coiling a leg around him like a hungry serpent and brought him in closer, tighter. “If I were to say ‘yes’... where would you take me?”

He said, nuzzling against her chest, “Wherever you want, my Nuzzle Bug.”

“Alright, Weevil,” She flashed a set of polished predator’s teeth in a grin that caused his legs to shiver. “I’ll do it. Tonight. And tell you what? You can surprise me.”

Weevil’s ears perked up and his eyes flittered in excitement. “R-Really?”

“In fact, you can even choose the movie if you want, just as long as you give me a fun night. Deal?”

“D-Deal! Of course, you know I will!”

“Good,” She picked her magazine up and returned to her reading. “Though you realize I’ll have to find somechangeling to watch over the children.”

“I’m sure we can find somechangeling—”

“Zigzag.”

“Yeah, that’s who I was thinking.”

They heard a loud clanging noise and looked up and saw that a formerly neatly stacked pyramid of bean cans which Weevil had spent half an hour putting together last night was now in a messy heap on the floor.

And an extremely guilty looking colt was standing right next to the miniature catastrophe.

“I didn’t do it,” was all he said the second he noticed the two changelings glaring at him.

Echo flipped her magazine shut and trudged off. “I think I’ll just call him now,” she groaned.

Author's Note

(A/N) Hey, everyone, I apologize for the very long time it's taken to upload this chapter. Now we're on to what is essentially the second arc, episode of the story.

Chapter Five: Growing Family, Part II

Citizen Weevil

Chapter Five

Growing Family, Part II

For the first time on a Saturday, Weevil and Echo had reason to be excited. It’d been far too long since they’d had a night to enjoy just each other’s company like the same couple of horny youngsters who met at boot camp, with no hatchlings nipping at their fetlocks.

Ever since arriving in Manehattan all those years ago, he’d been collecting for himself a little list of leaflets, detailing all the places he planned to visit with Echo or his friends. Most of them were bars and restaurants. Unsurprisingly, as the store ate up so much of his and Echo’s time, they very rarely had the chance to make it out.

Tonight, however, their luck was going to turn around. There was this nice new restaurant only a short train ride from Six Points. From the reviews he read up on, it wasn’t half shabby: the food, service and the atmosphere had been well-received by its local patrons.

Weevil could hear his bottomless pit of a belly whining to be nourished ages before they closed shop.

Even Echo looked more than just a little impressed when he showed her the place’s promotional leaflet.

“Four stars, hmm?” she mused while reading through it, taking in by the offers of quality wine and her favourite dish; roasted mutton leg served with a garnished salad on a mahogany plank. “And there’s no reserving?”

“Nope,” he smirked, sounding proud of himself.

“And you’ve picked the movie?”

“That’s right, baby.”

“And that being…?”

Weevil held her gently under the chin, saying smoothly, “Ah ah, that’s gonna be a surprise, my sweet. We can even get a few drinks afterwards if you want.”

“Well now,” she chuckled and playfully used the leaflet to bat him on the snout, speaking to him in all too suggestive tone, “somechangeling’s working real hard for an extra special treat tonight.”

Knowing precisely what she was talking about caused his face to turn green with embarrassment. “Honey!”

Laughing her flanks off at his expense, Echo planted a fat kiss on his forehead. She then hauled an overflowing washing basket into their bedroom with the intention of preparing their clothes for the following week like normal, only this time carrying herself with ten times the enthusiasm.

“Who knows?” She stopped for a few seconds, sashaying those wide, egg-bearing hips and behind, designed to get a particular rise out of her hubby. “If all goes well, you might just get lucky.”

In the confines of his mind where he still possessed the body of a chiseled stud in his prime, Weevil was doing somersaults forward and back.

It’d been awhile since the two of them made sweet, hot ‘snu-snu’, and an even longer since Weevil had a proper burst of love to slake his inner-hunger more than that government swill ever could. His wedding night was, to tell the truth, the single most amazing night of his life; come sunrise, they’d literally destroyed their honeymoon suit.

True, he may no longer was quite the same stud muffin from back in the army, but all the pounds put on by beer and his wife’s cooking couldn’t change the fact he still had it. Yessir, tonight, he was gonna mount that beautiful, magnificently-toned flank!

Weevil’s tantalizing fantasies ceased when he realized he was panting out loud and touched his face to find it covered with a film of sweat.

‘Ugh, what is wrong with me?’ he thought as he went to wash his face off in the bathroom sink. ‘Save it for tonight’s action, soldier. It’ll be worth it.’

Hangovers were the worst.

As a young mare in college, Babs was no stranger to Discord’s nectre. Heck, she was a member of the Apple clan, for crying out loud, and they packed away cider like fresh spring water. She remembered having her first mug of crisp cider at only ten-years-old and the buzz she felt back then was phenomenal. You may not remember the first time you got drunk, but you’ll always your first hangover.

Her Manehattan socialite parents, casual drinkers themselves, naturally wouldn’t let her anywhere near the stuff with a fifty foot pole at her young age. Then along came highschool and the saddle came right off. From that point on, she was exposed to, among other things, ciders, wines, lagers, ales. You name it, she’d already tried it.

Dear old Dad, as he was pouring her her first sparkling rosé, gave Babs some advice she wouldn’t soon forget.

‘I feel sorry for ponies who don't partake, Babsie, because when they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they're going to feel all day.’

If that was the case, Babs envied all those sissy teetotallers, because the hangover she had right now made her feel like she was going to puke her very soul out every orifice of her body.

She opened one heavy eye to scan around her huge pigsty of an apartment bedroom. The bleak winter overcast was thankfully blocked out by the window blinds, leaving her with the bliss of darkness and the familiar smell of old fast food, beer and used clothes. She hadn’t a clue what time it was in the afternoon, not like she gave a damn. Thank Celestia she turned off her alarm clock.

Babs scarcely remembered what went down last night. She had flashbacks of herself at the nightclub with Sweetie Belle and their college buddies, tossing down appletinis and going on her third u-boot of the evening. They were out partying again. The occasion? Well, when you were a college mare and had the money her family had, you didn’t exactly need a reason to party your plot off.

The blinding strobelights and pounding beats of the music were still playing in her mind like a tape on unending repeat, the intensity threatening to pop her skull open.

“Sweets…” Babs croaked after an eternity of agonizing silence, a trembling hoof rising weakly out of the thick blankets she was snugly buried under. “Sweets…” She angrily lifted her head from her scrunched, drooly pillow and forced herself to holler, “Sweetie Belle! I know ya can hear me!”

No sooner than she called, Sweetie Belle appeared in the doorway, a self-pitying frown on her muzzle. She carried with her a box of reheated pizza from last night and a sixpack of beer.

At the sight of light pouring into their room, Babs let out a shrill vampire’s shriek and buried her face in her blanket.

“Morning, sunshine,” Sweetie Belle sighed heavily as she braved her way through the landfill, unable to move without stepping in something sticky or crunchy. “Oh, Celestia’s sake… Get up, Babs. I got your stupid breakfast.”

Babs kept the blankets close to her chest and futilely nursed her throbbing temples, reluctantly sitting up on the mattress. Sweetie Belle dropped the open box of pizza on her lap and cracked open a cold one for her, which fizzed a bit over the lip.

“And here I thought we had somepony to keep this place clean,” she joked dryly.

“Same here,” Babs bitterly ravaged the lukewarm slice of pepperoni and cheese, regarding the newly lit bedroom with disgust. “The place’s still a dump. Where the buck is Cicada, anyways?”

“I think her kids are sick.”

“Seriously?! Ugh, that’s what ya get when you have two dozen kids. Un-bucking-believable...” She took a swig of beer, some sweet hair of the dog, and bristled like a twig from the sensation. “Brrr, that’s the stuff!”

Sweetie looked around and heaved another sigh. Knowing full well Babs wasn’t going to do anything about this mess, she used the magic she was supposed to be honing in college to excavate the thick layers of rubbish herself.

“I hate it when you get like this,” she muttered.

“Sweets, it’s like there’s a buckin’ drill in my head, okay? I’ll be as grouchy as I buckin’ want!”

Neither said anything else for a while, save for the frequent groans of disgust and disapproving tut-tuts from Sweetie Belle. Babs felt her hangover, as well as her attitude, assuage with each sweet, refreshing gulp she took.

Babs checked her mute clock. 1:37 PM. Damn. That must’ve been one heck of a night out.

“What time did we get home?” she asked.

Sweetie folded up a Manehattan Nyx jersey with a dried mustard stain on it. “I got home at eleven. You somehow found your way back around six. That’s the last time I carry you into our bed!”

“Thought I smelt strawberries last night.” Babs stuffed one last rolled-up slice in her mouth and hauled her plot out of their queensized bed. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Good! I suggest you take a good, long one, because you smell like a brewery!”

“Buuuck you.”

Stumbling into their bathroom, huge enough to put a changeling bathhouse to shame, Babs clambered lazily into their narrow, walk-in shower. The chilled sensation of high-pressured water running down her back was just the wake up she needed. Sometimes, she’d sit in this secure glass box for a straight hour, letting the high-pressured downpour blast the shame off out of her mane and coat.

She gargled a mouthful of shower water and spat it on the wall, ridding herself of the lingering taste of beer and pizza in her mouth. Her monster of a hangover was also now crawling back into whatever dark crevice from whence it emerged.

Washed and refreshed, Babs swaggered out the bathroom and took a deep breath of clean, lemon-scented air. She met up with Sweetie Belle, who was sitting in the kitchen, reading a magazine and applying what looked like eye drops into those gorgeous green orbs.

“Eyes still hurtin’ ya?” Babs asked, taking one of two lattes Sweetie had prepared for them both.

“That jerk used ursa mace on me!” Sweetie gritted her teeth in anger, squeezing droplets into the other stinging eye. “Daddy’s looking if we can sue!”

“Still thought it was awesome the way you called that pig a ‘pig’” Seeing her still vexed, Babs put her legs over her shoulders comfortingly. “Hey, c’mon, at least now you can call yourself a real activist, now you’ve suffered for your cause and all.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Sweetie's face and she put her hoof over hers. “Nah, I’d much rather my eyes didn’t hurt.”

“Aw, c’mere you…” Babs rubbed her bristly gamboge cheek against Sweetie’s white plush, before reaching down to work the neck, inhaling her natural aroma mixed with strawberry shampoo. Sweetie’s face lit up with crimson and she let out a soft, low nicker. “C’mooon, where’s that smile? You want Babsie to kiss ya eyes better? Cuz you know she’ll do it.”

Her normally upbeat demeanour flaring up, Sweetie nuzzled her back. “Heh heh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary!”

They topped off their embrace with a kiss. Babs stayed where she was, using Sweetie’s mane as a makeshift cushion as the latter resumed nonchalantly reading up on article about her favourite zebra pop singer, her eyes only a minor distraction.

It’s thanks to the little moments like this Sweetie Belle wasn’t too regretful she agreed to become roommates with Babs when both first enrolled in Manehattan U.

The two of them were an original odd couple. Bab’s crude and abrasive behaviour was topped only by her sloppiness; a chimera’s den looked like a five-star hotel in Canterlot compared to her bedroom. Sweetie was naturally the polar opposite. Growing up with her big sister Rarity likely contributed to developing her compulsive need to keep things neat and tidy; her doctors put it down to a mild case of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Maybe that’s what gradually drew her to the mare. ‘Opposites attract’ wasn’t just some cheap throwaway line to describe peculiar relationships.

“So…” came Babs’ muffled voice from the mulberry locks. “Ya wanna come out with me again, tonight?”

And just like that, Sweetie once again regretted every decision she ever made.

“Babs!” she snapped incredulously, banging down on a printed copy of Bomb Chell’s face. “I mean, seriously, is partying all you think about?”

“Of course not, I think about plenty of other stuff…” Babs stroked her chin, racking her brain for something, anything. “You know, like about how much joke I'm gonna have to blow after my tests and lectures.”

Sweetie raised her hoof, looking as though she were about to say something. She gave it second thought and sulked off into the living room with her magazine, her disappointment clear by her shaking head.

Babs sank down at the table and stayed sat for a good long while, slurping her now lukewarm latte all by herself.

Slowly but surely with each refreshing sip, she could feel whatever remnants of her hangover fade into nonexistence and her overall mood improved. The gentle tapping of rain against the kitchen window in the otherwise total silence was quite therapeutic as well.

After polishing off a third latte, Babs fixed herself a daffodil and daisy sandwich. Then she went off in search of her roommate in the living room, who she found curled up deep into their hideous brown faux leather sofa which stood out like a cracked horn.

“Whatcha readin’ there?” she asked with her mouth full.

Sweetie’s eyes didn’t leave the article she was on. “Ah, Zuri’s had tail extensions. Apparently.”

“Oh Celestia!” Babs snickered, nearly choking on her sandwich, dramatically holding a hoof to her forehead. “Can’t blame her! That girl’s plot’s so big, I almost forgot she had a tail!”

“Uhh-huh…I’m thinking of getting mine done.”

“Go for it, girl.” She stuck the sandwich corner in her mouth. “Dunno how hotter you can make that flank, but feel free to try.”

A naughty idea coming to mind, Babs took a seat on the sofa next to Sweetie. She curled up to her slowly, snuggling against her coat as if it were a silk cushion.

The two of them looked like a pair of beached whales splayed out on the tacky leather.

When it became painfully clear she wasn’t getting any further reading done, Sweetie dropped the magazine to the floor. Languidly, she rolled on her side so their muzzles touched.

“What?” She cocked an unimpressed brow.

A cheeky, ear-to-ear grin stretched the aspiring young mane stylist’s face. One toned gamboge leg snaked around Sweetie’s chest, crossed her shoulder, and hugged her tight to her chest. She then whispered something into her ear, tickling her with her skilled tongue.

Shades of pink popped from underneath Sweetie’s fur, turning her stunned face from white to scarlet. She tried but failed to stop herself from breaking into a giggling fit.

Before long, they were on top of each other, wracked with the intimate laughter found only between the closest of ponies. Babs darted in for the crook of her neck, peppering her with kisses.

“Babs, you cut that out!” cackled Sweetie, wiping he now salt stained cheeks. She shoved away her hungry lips with both hooves. “It’s too early for this, c’mon!”

Babs stayed on top of her, keeping her pinned down by her shoulders. “Okay, ya wanna I whine and dine ya first?” she suggested with that suggestive tone of hers. “I’ll take you out for lunch again, on me.”

Both eyes rolled across to Babs’ red saddlebag, which had been left open on the coffee table in the middle of the room from the previous night. It was practically overflowing with thick wads of cash and flashy credit cards from her parents. They were crying desperately out to the pair, begging to be spent on designer clothes and fancy dinners at five star restaurants.

Sweetie must have heeded their cries, because the idea of lunch with Babs was sounding quite appetising to the young singer-in-training. “Oooh, you know, I really liked that restaurant we went to last week for lunch.”

“Wherever my Sweetie Sweets wants,” Babs said almost patronizingly, cupping her cheeks. “Sounds like a plan. And ya know what? I don’t hafta go drinking; we could go out for roach food for dinner tonight. I’ll pay; I’m feeling piggy.”

“You really spoil me, Babsie.”

“I do, don’t I?”

Their plans set, they climbed off each sofa, their hooves eventually finding their way onto the crunchy carpet.

“I just gotta finish my vocals first,” Sweetie jabbed her hoof in the direction of the door leading into her own private rehearsal studio. Another generous gift from Babs’ parents to go with their deluxe apartment. “Maybe you should get some practice done too. I seem to recall you’ve got workshop tomorrow.”

“Alrigh’.”

They parted with one last fat, fizzy smooch on her cheek, and true to her word, Babs got straight to searching for her practice mannequin bust. It was no easy task, considering the state of… ‘organized chaos’ she kept the place in.

Miraculously, after rummaging through a random pile of jerseys and hoodies, she found the damn thing.

“Daaaaaamn!”

This bust had been completely mutilated, lipstick and mascara mushed over the expressionless plastic surface; the horn had been broken off, for what perverted purpose she didn’t want to imagine. Worst of all, the faux mane half the mane had been shorn off, whatever was left dyed in at least five mismatching colours and a knitting needle tangled in the mess.

“The buck happened here?” she gawped at the horrific handiwork.

“You were baked off your plot,” Sweetie answered from her studio’s shut door.

“Ah yeah.”

With the chilly, soggy afternoon rolling on, Shroud found himself spending it with his friends, sitting around a pile of comics on his parents’ dampening porch underneath the canopy. It wasn’t their first choice, and the weather hadn’t been too bad when they began, but Shroud wasn’t prepared to give his mother sass and risk incurring her wrath over something so petty.

Besides, they could always move along if the rain died down. Scruffy’s parents were out and Bigmouth was absolutely adamant that they couldn’t read at his place. That just left their friend Chirper’s apartment, but only once his mother was finished with the stallion she had over for an ‘appointment’.

Ponies and changelings kept coming and going through the shop’s front door, most carrying heavy brown bags with them as they brazened out the rain and wind smacking them in the face. The colts and lone pup didn’t care about the customers coming and going out the door so much as they did the overhanging bell constantly ringing.

“Shroud, dude, seriously? I’m gonna smack you over the head with that bell…” grumbled Bigmouth, under whose weight the porch’s inferior wood was whining.

Shroud ducked back into his Power Ponies comic; it was the second in a current four issue arc about the team’s latest clash with their arch-nemesis, the malevolent Maneiac. His friend Chirper only introduced him to the world of these brightly coloured picture books two months ago and already he was caught up with almost a hundred issues and two micro-series.

It beat reading nothing but the thick, oversaturated tomes his mother always got for his birthdays. Not like these comics were exactly Haycarte in terms of quality. You could mostly put it down to endless exquisite drawings of sexy mares clad in skintight spandex.

A harsh gust of wind blew some comics off the pile and smacked both him and Scruffy in the muzzle. Bigmouth and Chirper laughed.

“Dude!” Scruffy tore away the bristling paper that seemingly wanted to glue itself to his face. “Why can’t we just go read inside your house?!”

“Because Shroud’s mom always thinks you’ve got fleas!” Bigmouth remarked snottily, pushing Chirper off him, who was trying to use his plushy body as some kind of bean bag chair. “I could be chillin’ on that sweet couch right now and eating chips if it weren’t for you.”

“Ugggh, I-don’t-have-fleas!” he insisted, diddy fangs bared and a growl rattling his chords. If you were a Diamond Dog, you’d know the most annoyingly stereotype tossed about your species, aside from supposedly being dumber than a sack of hammers, was always the damn flea thing. It drove the young pup up the wall. “I’m so sick of you guys saying I’ve got fleas! I’ve never had them once in my life!”

Bigmouth snorted, “Yeah, right, you scratch yourself all the—See, you’re doing right now!”

He immediately ceased scratching himself behind the ear with his hind leg and yelled, “That’s because I get dry skin, you Lardo!”

Listening to those two loudly exchange shots made ogling the Masked Matterhorn from behind too great a challenge for Shroud’s normally focused mind. His attention drifted away, lazily surveying Loyalty Street and Harmony Square; the usual stuff was there like Muleshnik’s place, the barbers, and the edge of his family’s favourite changeling restaurant. The gloomy weather was all too common as well.

Honestly, the only thing worthy of the colt’s interest was the potpourri of different creatures bustling past, none paying his existence any notice. Most of them were changelings, so much so Shroud created a game out of the non-changelings he saw. 10 points for a zebra. 25 for a pony. 50 for a griffin. 100 for a dragon. He’d include donkeys, but if he had to count points every time Old Muleshnik came out, spitting tobacco and cussing at the kids loitering outside his store, there’d be no point in playing.

When he got up to four ponies for 100 points, he spotted Zamira walking by and lost count then and there. She was in a group of other zebras he guessed were her family, who carried a load of plastic and tote bags. They must’ve been doing a lot of shopping today.

Shroud didn’t think she could see him, which was fine. It was easier admiring and mentally photographing her beauty this way. That sassy, confident way she carried herself as she trotted on those pretty striped legs. Her mane hanging to one side and those earrings shining in their grey surroundings, both statements to tell the world she didn’t give a buck what they thought, that she did what she wanted, when she wanted.

What he would give to lick her face.

“Dude, are you drooling?”

Reality came a knocking like wiffle bat over the head. Shroud looked from Chirper to the silvery line of drool creating a puddle on his comic, wiped his mouth and made himself out to look like nothing happened.

Chirper, a matchstick of a changeling colt whose hoodie looked too big over his needly frame, just grinned mischieviously, holding a new comic on a certain page up to his face.

“Heh heh, dude, check out Marvelous.”

Another sideways glance and he saw Zamira was already gone, much to his disappointment. The two proceeded like the naughty colts they were to gorge their eyes on a choice page showcasing a sweet shot of Mistress Marevelous’ tight, firm flanks. Shroud figured the artists did it on purpose, that they knew exactly what their young readership wanted and were just refilling the troughs.

He and his buddies were interrupted from their reading session once again by the jingle of that infernal doorbell. Only this time, it was accompanied by a familiar, sing songy voice beckoning from inside the shop.

“Shroudy dear!” If Echo had screeched it any louder, Shroud would’ve sworn she was standing right by his ear.

Snapping the comic shut and nearly shoving it in Chirper’s mouth, he instinctively stood up to greet her, putting on his most innocent ‘mama’s angel’ facade for her.

Echo returned a loving smile, carrying with her a tray of plastic cups filled with cola, which she gave out to her son and each of his friends.

“You boys playing nice?”

“Yes, Mrs Shroud’s Mom,” the group, sans Shroud, collectively droned, though Bigmouth and Scruffy still glared at each other.

“Shroudy, your father and I are going out tonight,” she told her son, holding him under his chin.“We’re having ourselves a…” she blushed and chuckled, covering her mouth, “romantic evening. Zigzag’s gonna be looking after of you while we’re gone.”

Behind his figurative mask, Shroud was retching violently. So that’s why he saw his father acting so upbeat all afternoon, even after his embarrassing meltdown just hours ago. He’d been cantering around the store with a spring in his holey step and an actual smile as he served his customers. It was as if somechangeling, probably Mom, had snuck up on him and stuck an adrenaline shot in his rump.

That would’ve been the only plausible explanation until now. Now it all made sense. Mom and Papa were gonna make the four winged monster tonight. The same four winged monster he had the grave misfortune of walking in on one traumatic morning after waking up from a particularly bad nightmare.

Just thinking about it made him want to molt his chitin. At least that way he’d feel a little less dirty.

Worse still, the thought wasn’t lost on his friends, who were bursting to hide their snickering.

The matriarch patted her cherished grubling on his cheek and disappeared back inside her store, her flank bouncing left and right all the way.

“Dang, Shroud, wish I was your Dad.”

All eyes rounded on Bigmouth, muzzle in his cup and lapping up his cola like a foal on its bottle. He looked confused by the withering glares he was getting all of a sudden.

“What? It’s a compliment. Your mom’s foxy!”

Shroud gave no retort, as per usual. He downed his drink, weighed it in his hoof and then lobbed it straight at Bigmouth’s head.

Closing time couldn’t have come quicker. The last of their customers were out the door and with that came the sweet relief of flipping the door sign to ‘Closed’. Another day fought and won.

“Where is Zigzag? He should be here by now,” fussed Echo, applying her small jade earrings in front of her vanity and opened her lip balm. She checked the clock on the table. If they were gonna get a meal and have enough time to catch a movie, they’d need to get going soon.

“He did say he might run a little late,” Weevil replied while he sprayed on some of his cheap cologne, but was too concerned by the clock hands ticking away. Good thing they were near enough ready to go already. “Don’t worry, we’ll get there in time.”

“Remind me why we can’t just fly there again.”

He stopped rubbing the musky perfume into his neck, looking really uncomfortable at the mention of flying.

“Train’s quicker,” he muttered, though the logistics of that he really had no idea. “‘sides, I like taking the train anyway.”

“Flying’s healthier.”

“There’ll be too many ponies flying by now anyway, Echo. Last thing I want is knocking into another pegasus’ flank like last time.”

Satisfied with her plump and supple lips, Echo moved on to the mascara, the same type that made her eyes pop like firecrackers. There was something putting him off taking a short flight besides the off chance he’d accidentally crash into a very large and very angry mare’s backside again. That psycho pony chased him around the city skyscrapers for hours on end. Echo wisely chose not to prod him about it, preferring not to provoke an argument over it.

“So…” her voice trailed off, concentrating not to poke herself in the eye. “Sure you don’t wanna give me a clue about that movie you’re treating me to?”

Weevil rubbed the musky perfume into his neck, grinning as he cantered over to her, “Nuh-uh. I told you, it’s a surprise.” He put his legs over her shoulders and his chin found haven in that spot where her collar ended and shoulder began. “You’re gonna enjoy tonight… oh baby, did I tell you today how hot you are?”

“Mmm, probably,” she spoke silkily, taking his hooves in her own. “Wouldn’t mind hearing it again, though.”

They marvelled each other’s reflections for the longest time; after almost ten years married, they still found each other irresistibly attractive. Together, they were living proof of their culture’s teachings, despite the many, many, many bumps in the road: that when a changeling finds the right partner, they mate for life.

The fact changeling temples didn’t permit divorce had nothing to do with it.

Weevil moved his mouth to her ear, his forked tongue tickling her ever so slightly, whispering, “Alright, baby, you’re so… gawgeous, when the Kami made you, they broke the mold.”

Echo’s body became wracked with a shiver and she gave a little shimmy. “Ooo, do go on, big colt,” she whispered back. “I like it even better when you talk dirty.”

“Oh yeah, baby? Well, when we get back, I’m gonna carry you all the way to bed and ride you like a…”

A knocking from downstairs shattered the mood.

“That must be Zigzag.” She gave him a parting lick on the snout before she got up and went off downstairs. “I’ll get the door. You go sort out your mane, it’s a mess.”

“Okay, okay.” Remembering his trusty comb still to be in the bathroom sink, gathering mold, he made for the bathroom. Might as well have some mouthwash while had the chance.

He opened the door to find Zamira, that zebra filly who his son hung around with at school. She was standing at the sink on top a plastic stool, not noticing him come in, rather too busy gazing and making kissy faces at the mirror.

Seeing this child in his bathroom didn’t seem to shock Weevil much at all, nor did it cross his mind how she got into his apartment. He instead cleared his throat. The little zebra’s head spun around, eyes shot wide, mouth agape, and in a burst of green magic Shroud had taken her place on the stool.

Weevil jabbed his hoof over his shoulder. “Out.”

Shroud, face as green as a seasick crocodile, stumbled over the stool in his mad scramble out the door.

The elder changeling shook his head and, after rinsing his comb of flakes, got busy tidying up his mane. Sometimes, he wished it’d hurry up and fall out entirely and spare him the effort of keeping these ratty remains kempt. He’d most likely regret thinking that later down the line.

It then dawned on him after he’d finished that he now had a rare moment alone. Choosing to make the best of it, he locked the door, returned to the cracked and smudgy mirror and shut his eyes.

When he opened them again, he saw a very different changeling staring back at him, somechangeling Weevil hadn’t seen in in a long time. This guy looked a lot like him, save for years younger, a couple hundred pounds lighter and rocking the mane of a rock idol. A demigod chiseled from the marble of the Kami themselves.

“Hey there, stud, been a long time,” he spoke, only the voice that came out his mouth was younger and dripping with confidence than his own, perfectly suited for his youthful doppleganger. “Whatchu been getting up to?”

“Oh, you know, been pumping my guns, beating off the mares with a stick,” his reflection replied proudly in the exact same voice. Raising his foreleg, he flexed his ripped-up triceps, glowing green veins rising over the chitin. “You know, the usual. My life’s awesome. You?”

“Me? I’m gonna go paint the town green with the missus tonight.”

“So, you’re gonna wasted too?”

“Maaaybe.”

Mirror Weevil flexed again, this time showing off his prominent, rock hard pectorals in sync with Weevil, smirking arrogantly as he asked, “And I bet tonight you’ll be showing her the thickness, right? You still got that, don’tcha?”

“I’m gonna take my Echo Echo straight back to the trenches!”

Weevil spent the next few minutes posing and exchanging compliments with his equally vain mirror counterpart. It was a hobby he indulged in whenever he had the chance, which given his daily workload was few and far between.

“Weeeviiil!” he heard Echo holler him from downstairs. “Get your rump down here!”

In a flash of green, Weevil’s younger, handsome body was gone. His worthless mane and haggard face returned, topped off by the undignified whoosh of his huge gut between his legs.

Judging from his wife’s tone, she wasn’t too happy. He hit the lights on his way out, grumbling, “Oh, what now?”

“What do you mean you can’t foalsit?!” Weevil’s voice reached several octaves in the span of a sentence.

Zigzag stood deflated across from the irate changelings, the counter separating them and the hot tensity in the air re-creating bad colthood memories in the old zebra’s mind of his school headmistress’ office. Not to say a pair of pissed off friends matched the anger of mare who with her stick moulded posteriors more than she did minds. Honestly, neither were preferable.

All he could offer was an innocent shrug, “I can’t foalsit… What part of that don’t you guys understand?”

“He means why.” Echo sighed, looking more annoyed compared to her positively enraged diminutive husband.

“You said you could!” Weevil stressed the words through iron clenched teeth.

“I know that, and I’m sorry, but something came up at the last minute and I can’t put it off.” Zigzag held up a calming hoof to the fiery chitinous dough ball. Past his prime and balding he may be, he knew Weevil could still deal out some serious pain when pushed far enough. “But don’t worry, cuz I have an idea: I’ve got somepony who’s happy to fill in.” He turned his head to the store door. “Hey, Cue, get in here!”

The tip of what looked like a large, speckled egg peeked out into view. It was one stallion’s big bald head as Cueball walked into the dim shop, wearing a nervously hopeful expression, the reasons being obvious to everybody in the room.

Echo made her feelings clear immediately.

“Ohhh, no! NO!”

“O-Okay, okay, now Echo,” he stammered, wiping away a layer of sweat from his forehead. “I know you’re probably still mad about earlier—”

She guffawed.

“But lemme make it up to you, okay?” Cueball tried to reason, taking his spot next to Zigzag. The changeling couple saw their perfect reflections in the sweating mass that was the stallion’s head; Echo brushed back a few loose strands. “I’ve got no other plans… I never do.”

“No!”

“I’d be happy keeping an eye on little Shroud and Eggie.”

It took Weevil a pregnant pause to reply. “Eggie?”

His wife beamed and headed to the backdoor with a dismissive flick of her tail. “Welp, I better go and order a pizza. It was a nice idea, Weevil, we can try again another night.”

Alarm bells rang inside Weevil’s flaky head. Like a rickety house of cards, his plan was falling apart. No fancy dinner. No film to get the blood-pumping. No film meant no drinks for extra measure. No sweet, sweet poontang! He wouldn’t allow this to happen. He’d already come this far!

“W-Wait! Hold on!”

Everyone stared at him concerned, Echo herself frozen midway in pushing open the door.

“I mean, look,” he laughed uneasily, working hard to regain his composure and save face. “L-Let’s calm down, huh, honey? I think we’re underestimating our friend. Cue, you’re good with kids, right?”

“Yeah, they love me,” Cueball said but sounded unsure himself, itching the top of his head. “Well, least I think they do. A lot of them like to rub my head for good luck.”

Before the changeling could exclaim with all the enthusiasm of a cheerleader that Cueball was hired, Echo took him rough by his ear, dragging him on his hooves across the floor. She gave their friends a look telling them ‘give us a minute’ as she took Weevil behind the backdoor.

“Weevil, we’re not leaving our offspring in this rube’s care,” she told with him with a certain finality in her tone which Weevil normally crumble under.

“Why not?” he asked exasperated. “Look, Cueball’s a nice pony. He likes the kids and I’m pretty sure Shroud… doesn’t mind him.”

“So you’re okay with him breaking our property?” she snarled back, hooves crossed firmly against her barrel.

“He’s not that careful, I’ll give you that, but it’s not like he’s, you know, a dick about it,” he argued, even though he didn’t sound too convinced himself. “I trust him.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring!”

“Uh, we can hear you,” they heard Zigzag’s voice from beyond the door.

“You guys are bad whisperers,” Cueball chipped in.

Glaring white, hot daggers to both her husband and the two stallions past the varnished wooden door as if with x-ray vision, the matriarch stormed up back to the counter. Like a frightening, imposing golem of days old, she towered with unnering silence over the slapheaded stallion who was now wishing he’d stayed at home with a bucket of saltlick and hayfries.

For what felt like forever, even though it could’ve only been minutes, Echo glowered at Cueball with her piercing violet eyes, unclear whether she was analyzing him and the situation or contemplating lunging forward and crushing his skull with her impressive teeth.

The tensity in the air was provided with some welcome relief when Echo arched her back, a subsequent groan signalling her defeat.

“Weevil,” she said, “go get our coats.”

Ten minutes later everybody was out on the porch, the streetlanterns already lit and covering the streets in their amber glow. Echo and Weevil were cozily wrapped up in their jackets, the latter dragging a cigarette while Cueball was chittering by the doorway. Shroud was there too, still as a statue, completely unaffected by the biting temperature like his caretaker.

“... The egg’s already been given her bath,” Echo said, giving him the final run through of instructions while she checked the insides of her saddlebag, “so all you need to do is keep an eye on the incubator, make sure it stays on.”

The earth stallion pinned a mental sticky note of it to the fridge that was his mind. “Okay, but… what if she suddenly starts hatching?”

“Don’t worry about that, we’re only going to be gone for a few hours.”

Weevil took the cigarette from his mouth, clearing his throat, “Shroud won’t be much to handle. He’ll be up in his room finishing his homework.

“Just have Shroud in bed and the building standing by the time we get back,” his wife added cooly.

Cueball smiled, “I think I can manage that.”

“Alright then!” Doing a happy little twirl, Weevil galloped down the steps, simultaneously rounding off any last necessary details, “Money for pizza’s on the counter, don’t order from the ponies down the street, they’re buckers, aaaand yeah, have yourselves a great time, we sure will.” He held a hoof out back to her in a romantic gesture. “Coming, my love?”

Echo shot him a glare telling him to hold his horse flies. She got down on her knees so she could address Shroud first, cradling his chubby little face in her softened hooves.

“Now sweetie, you be a good colt like you always are,” she then whispered in his ear, “and try not to let Mr Cueball break anything while we’re gone.”

With an affectionate parting kiss on his cheek, Echo made her way off with her special hunk of stallion, their tails crossed and flanks side-by-side.

“You two have a fun time together, we’ll be fine!” Cueball called as they waved them a goodbye. “I’ve got it all under control, don’t you worry.” He gave Shroud a hearty pat on the shell, much to the lad’s discomfort. “Right, partner, now it’s just you and me. Let’s go order that pizza. I’m gonna get so much garlic bread…”

When they were inside, Shroud dashed straight upstairs. He gazed out his bedroom window; it sure was a pretty night for his parents’ date.

But the weather wasn’t what he was focusing on. Down by the pitch-black alleyway by Muleshnik’s store, he made out a bunch of colourful eyes staring right up at his window. He flashed the tip of his horn, giving them the signal to wait just a little longer.

Mom and Dad weren’t the only ones who got to have fun tonight.

Author's Note

(A/N) Christ... this one was a long, long, Looong time coming.

Okay, guys, I'll put my hands up and say it: I am sorry that it took over a year for this story to be updated. I had a lot of stuff on my plate, including getting Maternal Instinct finished, work, my slow writing and writer's block. I know those are pretty expected excuses by now, and I'm sorry, but that's just the case.

Now that I've finally finished chapter five, I want to assure you all know that I do intend to continue on with this story. I am deeply invested in this story and its characters; the Slice of Life stories of Weevil and his friends and family are something I'll always loving coming back to, even when I'm also writing other stories on the side (including another short one I'm working on right now as well).

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and to those of you who've still been following my story all this time especially, I thank you so immensely for all your loyalty and patience.

Ps, special thanks once again to my editor Chaodiurn for all his help on this chapter.

Chapter Three: Down in Six Points, Part III

Citizen Weevil

Chapter Three

Down in Six Points, Part III

Shroud hated P.E.. Apart from a good game of hockey, he utterly hated anything to do with Physical Education. It wasn’t just because he was, by all my means, a nerd, but also because he had the grave misfortune of being a changeling colt.

As a male of his species, he could never hope to grow as big and muscular like the females often did; the only reason the Changeling Kingdom conscripted countless stallions were because they made for good cannon fodder. He couldn’t get anything out of this class other than humiliation and pulled muscles.

The school auditorium/gymnasium was crammed with students from different grades behaving like a horde of zoo animals let out of their cages. The bad weather meant P.E. had been relegated indoors for the day, to the joy of lazy dough balls like Bigmouth, whose most arduous exercise included the trip from his living room to his fridge.

Shroud was sitting on the bottom of the bleachers in his small group of friends, made up of Zamira, Bigmouth and Scruffy; some of the few students who weren't running amok.

Bigmouth finished licking his hooves and the inside of his potato chip bag and let out a long, drawn-out slovenly burp. “... Oh, dudes! I’m totally stuffed.”

Zamira shot him a genuinely surprised look. “That’d be a first. You know Posy’s probably gonna make us climb the obstacle course today.”

He belched again. “So?”

“So you gotta do the flying section, cuz you’re a pegasus!” she snapped, retching and waving away his noxious gas. “And when was the last time you could lift your big butt off the floor?”

“Pfft, I got that covered...” He took something out from under his pigmy wings and showed it to them, smirking confidently. “Check it.”

All three of them stared baffled back and forth from Bigmouth to what was a crumpled-up napkin with quite possibly Equestria’s most pathetic excuse for a fake doctor’s note ever poorly scribbled in green felt-tip.

“You know, Bigmouth, I get you’re stupid, but this is just you showin’ off,” Zamira declared, Shroud only shaking his head unimpressed. “There’s no way Posy’s gonna fall for this!”

“You didn’t even spell ‘can’t’ right,” Scruffy pointed out amongst the ‘note’s’ many, many flaws. “And what the heck is ‘Achy-Breaky Pelvis’?!”

“It’s a real condition, Plotfaces!” he snapped as he folded the napkin and tucked it away. “My grandpa had it! Just you watch: old Coach Psycho’s not gonna have a choice—”

The double doors kicked open, but the sound was lost in the tidal wave of noise created by the wild animals known as children, picked up only by the small group who let out a collective ‘eep’ and hurried into a line. The rest of them did not notice the mare marching into the room, that is, until her terrifying, booming voice shook the foundations of the room.

“SHUT UP OR I WILL KILL YOU!”

Most of the students shut their traps immediately, some even flash-freezing where they stood as they recognized the voice that made them want to void their bowels and saw its owner standing over them like the golem she was.

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND! SHUT UP AND GET IN LINE OR I WILL PHYSICALLY-KILL-YOU!”

They were all lined up perfectly like a company of soldiers, none making a peep, before she was even finished yelling.

She was a pegasus mare with a titanic frame made up of an overabundance of massive muscles rippling under a plush crimson coat and black tracksuit. She also sported a jet black mane done up in a short style. With such a figure, at first glance, let’s just say some honest mistakes were made... with unpleasant results.

“Alright, you little mutants, listen up!” Coach Rosy Posy began as she marched up and down in the line of students in a brisk military fashion, keeping her smouldering eyes forward and flexing her mighty wings. “As you know, because of today’s weather and the do-good bureaucrats who’ll freak out if so much as one of you little punks gets a cold, today’s P.E. will be taking place indoors.”

Shroud almost snickered aloud. Bureaucrats were nothing to worry about. If his mother found so much as a single cut or graze on his leg, she’d come down to the school and literally rip all the teachers in half like catalogue books.

“Now since the newest equipment still hasn’t arrived from Manehattan prison, we’ll be playing a school pastime instead...” She whipped a large red rubber ball from under her wing. “DODGEBALL!”

The gym came alive again with the older students cheering in jubilation, while the silent majority's faces collectively contorted with grimace. A certain pair, one a bronze-headed griffin and the other a milky white earth filly, both of them wearing the dumbest, slack-jawed expressions Shroud had ever seen, were in an uncontrollable fit of giggles.

“Huhuhuh, dude, Slaughterball!” The filly laughed stupidly, hoof bumping her best friend and flinging her lime and pink stripped mane from her face.

“Excellent!” They cheered, standing up on their hind legs and playing an air riff.

“Wikus and Metalhead, shut the hay up!” Posy yelled. Both of them shut their traps and got back in line, albeit still struggling to restrain their laughter.

The musclebound mare brushed her mane back, calming down and resuming her march down the line. “Now before any of you little maggots dares asking, I’ve already assigned your groups. Any questions?”

“Eh-hem! Coach?”

She stopped and sighed exasperatedly upon hearing that obnoxious voice from below. Her head cranked down to stare unimpressed at the little turquoise tub of goo standing smugly at her hooves.

“Alright, Bigmouth, what’s today’s excuse?” she asked him dryly. The hefty colt took out his ‘note’ and hoofed it to her, retaining his confident smirking and posture. She skimmed through it, seemingly able to make out the chicken scratch, before glaring at him intently. “... ‘Achy-Breaky Pelvis?’. Really?”

“It’s a medical condition,” he retorted. “Ask a doctor!”

“My office, Butterball,” she ordered stonily, pointing at the double doors. “Now.”

Bigmouth huffed and sulked off with the musclebound mare giving him an ‘encouraging’ nudge as she followed him out. His classmates hardly bothered to mask their laughter, Shroud and Zamira especially. That fat little lump always managed to get away with murder, and seeing him get what was coming to him was immensely satisfying.

“Told ya it wouldn’t work, fatso,” she whispered when was still within earshot.

“Bark chewer!”

“What did you say?!”

“Enough!” Posy spread her wings to keep them apart. “Crete! Get your classmates started before I get back while I take care of this! You know what to do.”

An oversized minotaur calf blew a whistle hanging from a lanyard around his neck before she was even out the door and began ordering the other students around. Crete was Posy’s unofficial 'assistant' and judging by his exceptionally large size, even for a calf, it wasn’t difficult to see why.

As class got underway, Zamira glared daggers at the door, huffing and chewing her inner lip upset. She heard what that fat brat said and saw the satisfied smirk on his face as he and Posy left, and she made a promise to kick his teeth in the first chance she got.

She felt Shroud’s hoof around her shoulder and the fire in her belly simmered down.

“Yeah yeah, I’m fine,” she muttered, even if it was obvious she wasn’t, as they got into their groups. “C’mon. Let’s get this over with...”

Dodgeball. If Coach Posy was their executioner, that game was her blood dripping axe. There was no point in Equestrian Dodgeball’s existence, as far as Shroud was concerned, other than pure, unchecked sadism. It was the only thing in school two knuckleheads like Wikus and Metalhead were good at and they enjoyed every minute of it, more so than any normal creature should.

The only thing he could hope to do was keep his head down and brazen through it, and not only protect his soft, supple carapace, but more importantly, his precious and irreplaceable brain.

It didn’t bode well when he found out what team he was in: his third-grade class against the fourth.

“Oh, dude, this is weak,” said Scruffy.

The third-graders’ team was puny compared to the fourth-graders, whose line-up included a disproportionate number of griffins and minotaurs (some of whom had been held back) and, worst of all, Wikus and Metalhead. The griffin ran his talon over his throat in a slitting motion, grinning psychotically at the lambs to be slaughtered.

Zamira threw her hooves in the air incredulously. “Aw, come on, Crete! This is bull—”

The minotaur just blew the whistle and the match had begun.

Before the half the third-graders who registered what happened got to halfway to the line of balls, they were all already in their opponents hooves, hands, claws, or whatever. The hopelessly outclassed third-graders froze in their horseshoes, it all happened so quickly. They didn’t even stand the slimmest chance.

“Beautiful,” one changeling filly said simply, grinning toothily like a Cheshire Cat and raising all three balls she’d acquired with her magic.

It was literally like shooting fish in a barrel. The fourth-graders didn’t even have to try, but they still struck each of them down without mercy as they scattered around their half of the court like headless chickens.

Zamira was the first to get floored by one ball coming at her at full speed and smacking her in the muzzle. One unlucky colt got hit left, then right in the face, making him spin a little before he landed hard on his belly. The only one to try and put up a fight was Mimic, but she was mowed down in the end by a barrage of three balls at once.

“Heheheh, hey, Metalhead, watch this!”

Wikus slammed his ball hard against the floor, sending it bouncing high in the air. It plummeted whistling down to earth, homing in on Scruffy, who did not nothing but running around on the spot, screaming, until the ball beaned him on the head and fell down without even an ‘oomph’.

“Dude, huhuhuh, you totally busted that kid’s skull!”

“Score one for mathematics!”

The last third-grader standing was Shroud, who hadn’t moved from his spot the moment the whistle was blown, instead watching the carnage in stunned silence from an unsafe distance. A creeping horror dawned over his stoic features: he was next.

Buck this noise, he was bailing. He spun on his heels and sprinted for the doors, running exceptionally fast for a little colt.

“Hey, Crete, that roach kid’s making a break for it!”

The minotaur, who had been standing on the side-lines as referee, grabbed the nearest ball and hurled through the air at the changeling. Shroud kept running as fast as he could, even forcing his little wings to lift him off the ground, but that wasn’t enough to outpace a rubber ball coming at you with the velocity of a fired cannonball.

The ball pelted him against the back of his head. He skidded violently across the polish floor and came to a squeaky halt. He lifted his head at the pair of huge crimson hooves in front of his face.

Coach Posy bounced the ball from one wing to another, glaring down at him with smouldering eyes.

“No flaking!” she growled, holding the ball high over his little head.

Back in Harmony Square, the leaders of the protesters on both sides were now making their speeches. Most of their hoof soldiers had blown their pipes screaming and trying to claw at each other and were on rest while somepony else blew the hot air.

On the ENF stage, a unicorn stallion in a heavy black trenchcoat over a three-piece suit and sporting an oily combed over mane, stood at the podium and giving his speech. His name was Soap Box, chairpony of the Manehattan branch of the ENF.

“The Six Points used to be a traditional working-class area, and a face of the hard-working culture that has made Equestria what it is, but now it has become a no-go area for law-abiding indigenous Equestrian citizens!” He bellowed into the several microphones so his fiery voice could be heard across the waves of already incensed ponies. “A line has been grossly crossed from immigration into blatant colonization in which ponykind is being ethnically cleansed from their homes, and it is all a direct result of Canterlot’s Open Door policy.” He levitated a document and showed it to his loyal listeners, “Criminal statistics from the police state that over 30% of all crimes are being committed by non-ponies and foreigners!” A bottle flew over his head, which clipped him on the ear. “Ow! H-hey, you! You, I saw you!”

Over by the opposition rally, their speaker was an ageing earth pony hippie by the name of Tie Dye, leader of the local EASF (Equestrians Against Speciesism and Fascism) branch. He wore a matching tie-dye shirt that was too big for him and a pair of purple-lensed glasses, which he adjusted as he read from his speech papers.

“So, like, the Six Points is a multicultural area that’s proud of its diversity, okay? But these jackbooted thugs think they can march down here all the way from Canterlot and occupy this neighbourhood so they can spread their trash and divide its community—”

“Dude, talk about the Poison Joke,” whispered one of his fellow hippies who was standing by him.

Tie Dye covered the microphone with his hoof and hissed over his shoulder, “Shh! Quiet, man, I’m getting to that!”

The Manehattan police were the ones caught dead in the middle of it. None of them wanted to be there in that pony and dog barrier, especially in a wretched hive like Six Points. It was rumoured back at the station that lowest on the pecking order were sent down here—hence the large number of diamond dog rookies. Lucky for them, they were clad in protective riot gear that kept out the cold and lobbed bottles.

“Ma’am, ma’am! Step back!” One officer barked at Sweetie Belle who was waving her picket sign in his face. The college filly was clearly doped-up on more Poison Joke than she could handle. He held up a spray can to his face. “This is the mace that they use on Ursas, ma’am! And I will use it!”

“Screw you, pig—” Hsssss! She fell to the ground, covering her face and screaming in agony. “AAAIIIEEEEE! MY EYES! MY PRECIOUS GREEN EYYYES! AAAIIIEEEEE!”

“What did I just say?” The cop looked to his diamond dog subordinate. “You heard me, McGruff. What did I just say?”

“You said you’d use it, Sarge.”

“I said I’d use it.” He noticed the dog discreetly dropping a small club at Sweetie Belle’s hooves and gave him a nod of approval. “Nicely done, McGruff.”

Weevil, meanwhile, was now seriously getting sick and tired of all these obnoxious idiots and their protesting for one afternoon. Gilda was right: these ponies really had nothing better to do, especially jobs. Running the store on a day-by-day basis was stressful enough, but at this rate, combined with finding a damn rat in his slush machine, he was going to be completely bald by the end of the day.

Sweet, sweet beer and a cigarette in hoof were the only things keeping his sanity check as he stood on his store’s porch again on his short break with his friends, all of them doing their best to drown out the protesters’ noise and talk about something else to get their minds off it.

A still tipsy Scarab, in between lifting his bottle to take a whisk now and them, asked whether anyone had seen the new Daring Do movie yet. No one did, the most popular reason being how it was by the same director who brought such cinematic excrement as the Ponies of the Caribbean series.

“I’m gonna go and see it this Friday!” Cue Ball told them with a contrary enthusiasm. “They say it’s got that Bomb Chèlle in it playing Daring Do.”

The very name Bomb Chèlle gave Weevil goose bumps. Now that was a young mare who had it. There wasn’t a horny teenager in Equestria who didn’t have a pinup or magazine with the Manehattan-native actress on the cover in their bedroom.

Cue Ball went on to say, “You know, I bet mares like her don’t even have to try to get coltfriends. They all probably line up for her like I do at the pawn shop every Saturday...” He trailed off, rubbing his chrome dome despondently, “Not like she’d be interested in some barber with a thinning mane. No... she’d turn and run, just like my wife did...” He heaved a sigh and took another drink.

Following the awkward pause, Gilda commented, “Your depressing love life aside, save your couch money, Cue, the critics have already torn that piece of crap to shreds.” She stuck her tongue out disdainfully. She didn’t see what was so hot about that Bomb Chèlle chick anyhow. Of course, she was a pretty face with well-toned flanks, but she’d seen way hotter. “It’s a bomb, alright.”

“Nopony cares if it’s a lousy movie, Gilda,” Weevil said as he put out his cigarette by stomping it against the floorboards. "They're too busy staring at Daring Doo's flank."

“Yeah, all I wanna see is Bomb Chèlle in a safari outfit…” Scarab hungrily licked pale tongue over his lips, salivating as his imagination conjured up the image of Bomb Chèlle in the hot, humid jungle, clad in a tight safari outfit clinging to her sweating and glistening fur coat...

He practically leaped up from his chair, carelessly dropping his half-empty bottle with a smash, shouting with newfound vigour, “I can’t wait anymore, we gotta see that movie!”

“I wanna go too!” Cue Ball practically squealed like a school filly as both he and Zigzag got up, the idea now sounding like a plan.

Weevil was the first to put a stop to it. “Okay, first of all, I’m not going anywhere because I’ve got a store to run. Second, you’re not going anywhere, because of that.” He pointed out towards the impregnable wall of police and protestors, and his friends let out a collective groan. In their excitement, they’d forgotten all about the nuisance. There was no way any of them were going to get through that safely.

“Damn it, if the cops don’t break out the tear gas soon, I’m going to go home, get my spear and... and...” He looked over the occupied street and saw the path to his home was completely block now. “Aw! Aww! I can’t even get to my home now! This sucks!”

“Hey you!”

The feminine voice stood out from the chorus of the protesters, and, it was unquestionably directed at their group. They looked up where it had come from and witnessed a bunch of bat ponies - five in total and all mares - landing right at the steps of the porch.

The mare at the lead, dark grey in coat and a bluish-grey in mane and white hot fury etched on her face, singled out and pointed at Weevil, snarling ferociously, “Yeah, you! You sonuvabitch!”

It didn’t take a genius to put it all together.

“Oh crap,” Weevil muttered, face wincing and shoulders slumping. His friends’ reactions were that different as they slowly shuffled as far from him as they could.

Scarab’s head recoiled into his jacket like wanted to disappear. “Oh ho, boy...”

The bat pony flew right up into Weevil’s personal space, pulling up short and hovering vertically in the air in front of him, both to make herself look bigger and to look him in the eye with fire and brimstone burning in hers.

She grabbed him by the collar of his apron and roared in his face, “HOW DARE YOU PUT YOUR HOOVES ON MY SON!”

He cringed as his face was showered by her spittle. Instead of trying to provoke her, leaned back and raised his hooves defensively, though what possible defence he could have hoped to put was beyond even him.

"Lady, lady! Calm down!”

“What’s the matter?” she challenged. “Too scared to hit a grown-up!?”

“Lady, what are you talking about?!" he protested. "I didn’t touch your kid!”

“Oh yeah, then who did?!” She spat, poking him hard in his flabby chest.

“His wife,” said Cue Ball straight-faced before taking another slurp of beer, and who promptly received a swift punch in the face from a set of griffin claws balled into a fist.

The overweight changeling cringed and nervously grinned at the bat colt’s furious mother, whose flaring nostrils were chugging out steam in his face.

“O-Okay, look…” Fear-induced bullets of sweat ran down his face as he did his best to explain in a breaking voice. “Funny story, you'll laugh. You see, heh heh... my wife caught your punk kid stealing our beer—”

“What?!”

His knees buckled out of sheer fear and his thoughts turned to running inside for his wife like a foal. He wouldn’t have got halfway to the door before the bats jumped him and beat the living tar out of him.

“So she put him over her knee and started spanking him—” He literally slapped his forehead, amazed at his own stupidity. ‘W-What am I doing?! This isn’t helping me!’

The bat mare’s face turned redder than a ripe tomato. She now seriously looked like she was prepared to snap Weevil’s horn off and shove it up where the sun doesn’t shine.

“We’ll see how she likes it when I kick your ass!” she yelled, grabbing him roughly again and raising her hoof threateningly. Nopony touched her foals, especially not an overgrown cockroach of a pony!

“Get your filthy hooves off my husband!”

All heads snapped around to see a livid Echo standing in the door frame, violet eyes ablaze and one hoof up against the now cracked glass of the door.

Changeling mares, strong and domineering were, unsurprisingly, intensely territorial creatures. Unless you had the excuse of being extremely ignorant, you did not threaten them and theirs, and that included their turf, property and, most of all, their family.

And Echo did not like the sight of the bat pony standing thuggishly over her cowering husband. Not at all.

In a crack of green fire, the changeling matriarch vanished and reappeared right in between Weevil and the mare. She bared every inch of her dagger-sharp fangs and outspread her insect wings as her frame cast a shadow over the bat half her size.

The small group of bat ponies instinctively took a few steps back in face of this new larger and stronger opponent, but their leader’s bravado faltered for only a moment, before she got into Echo’s face in a vain attempt to intimidate her.

“You’re the one who hit my son?”

“What of it?”

One of the bats’ equally outraged friends spoke up for the first time, “You’ve got some nerve!”

“You owe my cousin and her son an apology!” another yelled.

Echo’s scowl didn’t as much as twitch. “No.” She bluntly told them, a low, primal growl rattling her vocal cords. “Your son can apologize to me!”

The mother refused to back down, however obviously outclassed she was. "You..." She grinded her fangs so hard they looked like they were going to crack. “Just who the buck do you think you are?!”

“I’m the mare whose business your little brat was stealing from!”

“How dare you! My son would never steal!”

“Buck off!” Echo shouted in her face and gave her a forceful shove. Whether there were five of them or more, she was no way near the type of mare who stood down and let her family and property be menaced by dirty, degenerated bats. “I’ve put up with you and your colony stealing from my store for years! And now you have the gall to come here and threaten my husband?! Well, I've had it!"”

“And my cousin would like his money for that radio back!” Scarab chipped in from his safe distance on the porch.

“He what?!”

Weevil, who was hiding safely behind Echo’s ample flank, glared at his cousin and furiously ran his hoof over his neck in a slicing motion, which translated as 'shut the buck up, you bucking idiot!'

“I have the ga—” The mother blustered, her whole body bristling with indignation. She turned to her companions for support, but none of them looked ready for a fight anymore; most of them now looked deathly afraid of getting their jugulars ripped out. “I’m—I’m gonna have you arrested for foal abuse, you cow!”

“Go ahead and try it, sweetie,” A hollow laugh emanated from the mare’s throat. “If the cops won’t come for me, they sure as Tartarus won’t come for you.”

“I’ll—”

“You’ll nothing! I’m gonna make this clear to you...” Echo slowly advanced on her, forcing her and the other bats to back off further, with Gilda and Zigzag bringing up the rear. Her face got progressively closer to hers until their muzzles nearly touched, daring her to hit her. “You and your ilk are banned from setting hoof near my store! If I ever see you here, threatening my family again, I’ll bite those ugly rat ears off myself!”

The bat, scared and desperate, suddenly swung her hoof up at Echo’s face. She caught it with her own effortlessly, unflinching. Before anyone knew it, the bat mare was on the ground, her hoof covering the blood gushing from her muzzle. The others gasped. Echo, in a short deft movement, had lifted the mother up and head-butted her square in the muzzle.

She then lowered her voice to a tone that chilled the bat ponies’ very bones, “Now get the buck off my property!”

The bats didn’t need a second invite and took flight and fled without a word of protest, the mother, who was still nursing her muzzle, being last to leave as she shot Echo one last pathetic glare before fluttering off like the punk she was.

Echo snorted and returned to her porch, ignoring her friends’ stunned faces and gesturing Weevil to follow her.

As they silently walked back inside, they headed straight for the backdoor. Echo gave the few customers in the store an informative look that they would be back in a few minutes. The moment they were in the back at the hoof of the stairs, Echo took Weevil into her forelegs and hugged him. Her grip was so tight it wasn’t possible for him to hug her back.

“Did they hurt you, baby?” she cooed, gently tracing circles in his little mane with her hoof. She now spoke to him in a caring, motherly tone, the kind she would save for Shroud if he ever came home crying.

“No, Echo…” he mumbled into her heaving chest. He decided to just let her coddle him; she was likely more upset by this than he was. “E-Echo, c'mon, stop it. She barely touched me.”

She tenderly kissed him on the bald patch of his head. “It’s okay, darling. I’m here now...” she shushed as she sat them both awkwardly on the bottom step of the stairs, where she continued to caress his head and smooch him on his muzzle. “My poor little hubby—Mwah! Mwah!—nochangeling touches my stallion—Mwah!”

Weevil’s cheeks blushed lime green; his body melted in his wife’s strong legs like a slab of butter on a frying pan. It was like he was being hugged by a huge, muscular teddy bear.

He was so glad Echo came out when she did. If she hadn’t, the bat ponies would have most certainly beaten the hay out of him. In that regard, it was for their own good they hadn’t the chance to batter him; Echo would have left them in hospital with kicked-open skulls otherwise.

He was so lucky to have such a mare as his wife.

“You love me like that, don’t you?” she asked him after a minute in a silky smooth voice.

“Like what?” he asked playfully.

She giggled and hooked him around the neck with her foreleg, tensing her muscles against his throat. “You know what I mean: showing off my big muscles like that,” she spoke so softly in his ear, it sent a shiver run up and down his body. “It’s what turns you on, isn’t it?”

“You bet it does, Nuzzle Bug...” Weevil wormed around on his belly so their loving eyes could meet. In a matter of seconds, their legs were wrapped around the other like a pair of horny octopi as their salivating lips locked in a passionate kiss.

The couple rocked to and fro against the loudly squeaking staircase, too enthralled in their passion and love for another to give a damn. It was just like back in the barracks.

A faint knock came the door, followed by somechangeling’s voice.

“Uh... are you guys coming out? My mother wants her magazines or she says she’s gonna break my legs.”

“I told you in a minute!” Echo yelled with her mouth full of tongue.

By the time Shroud and Zamira walked home, the protests were finally finishing and the crowds dispersing, letting the residents of Six Points to return to some degree of normality, even if it was around sunset. They were getting so fed up with all these protests constantly disrupting their lives that many were appealing to the city hall to see if something could be done to put a stop to it.

‘No wonder my parents say freedom of speech is overrated,’ Echo once said at breakfast on the morning before a protest between pony vegans and EMC (Equestrians for Meat Consumption).

“Well, that was a bust,” Zamira pronounced flatly as the two trotted side-by-side up Laughter Street.

Their trip to the arcade was pretty dull. 8-bit’s Arcade was a popular hotspot for the kids of Six Points, who didn’t have much else to do except for hanging out on the littered and graffiti-tagged streets and parks. Today, the arcade was completely overcrowded, making even playing the air hockey tables a ten minute wait in line, especially with Bigmouth putting all his coins down so he could get more turns.

“But I gotta hoof it to ya, Shroud, for a cockroach, you play a mean game,” she admitted, giving him a playful jab in the ribs.

Shroud blushed slightly and his head sunk between his shoulders like a turtle retracting into his shell. Hey, coming from Zamira, that was still a good compliment.

“Heh heh, and you totally made lard butt cry. On the inside, anyway.”

They reached the abandoned Harmony Square, where they saw the ground had been pounded with an army of hoofprints and dozens of buntings and whole picket signs were simply left abandoned.

“Jeezum crow, we musta missed one hay of a party!” Zamira went to pick up a sign and turn it over and read, “‘Soap Box is a Fas-ist’? What’s a fas-ist?” Shroud only shrugged. “Sounds like a sports horseshoe or something.”

A heavy crash suddenly came from Loyalty Street, catching the attention of both children. Shroud cringed and covered his face when they saw a certain changeling stallion being roughly thrown out of Shroud’s family’s store by a familiar mare.

“Aw, c’mon, Echo, just a few more minutes!”

“I said ‘OUT’, Scarab!” Echo yelled, giving Scarab a swift kick in the rump onto the wet ground. “You’ve sucked down enough of my beer, now get lost!”

“You could at least let me finish.”

She carelessly threw a brown bottle after him. “Here! Now screw off!”

As they watched Scarab scuttle off with his small consolation prize tucked in his jacket, Zamira gave her most embarrassed friend a confused look.

“Dude, isn't that your mom?”

He looked like he was going to say ‘no’ when the mare saw him and immediately beckoned him over.

“Oh, Shroudy dear, there you are!” Echo yelled cheerily and loudly, waving at him as if he seriously couldn’t hear her. “It’s time to come inside, sweetie! Mama needs her little helper for dindin!”

Shroud dropped his head to hide his greening muzzle and, like an obedient dog, followed his mother into the store, making sure to give his bewildered friend one meek wave goodbye. Zamira just watched him go without a word of her own, not all sure whether to laugh or feel sorry for him.

That night, Echo made the family’s favourites that night: a whopping buffet of chicken and pork ramen, sushi, soup, dumplings and steaming egg-fried rice. Back home, she could hardly feed herself and Weevil, but with the large market in Six Points and its many diverse ingredients, she now cooked up what would be considered buffets for their relatively small but growing family.

In between feeding herself and her own love to her beloved egg that sat between her crossed legs, Echo took the time to read through the letter her son brought home from school and she was positively ecstatic.

“This is fantastic, Shroud!” she beamed with an ear-to-ear grin and she reached over to pet him on the head before dumping another heap of rice on his plate. Shroud gulped at seeing his third helping of the night but faked a smile back at her. “I can get that little farmer colt’s outfit out the trunk for you. You’ll look just adorable, won’t he, Weevil?”

“... the important thing is you tried, son...”

“Weevil, you’re not even listening!”

The stallion was actually busying himself with sucking up a seemingly unending line of noodles from his pork ramen while he read a letter of his own from underneath the table with steely eyes. His wife’s terseness brought him back to Equestria and he blinked at them stupidly, acting for a moment like he had no idea where he even was.

“Sorry, dear,” he rubbed his forehead where a throbbing pulse could be seen and slid the letter back under the table. “Sure, Shroud’ll look wonderful. I’ve still got my dad’s straw hat that might, uh... fit.” He petered off lamely, making his disinterest in the subject apparent.

“Great. So…” Echo levitated her chopsticks and plucked up an exceptionally big and puffy dumpling. “What does Samsa want?” she asked innocently before taking a bit.

He paused, the chopsticks in his own magical hold dithering. Tucking the letter she was referring to under the table, he started picking out some sushi and answered, “He... he’s gonna be in Manehattan next month and, well... he wants to visit.”

An awkward silence fell on the table, broken only by the sound of Shroud forcing down his own ramen from his adult-sized bowel, the discomfort on his face completely unnoticed by his parents.

“Don’t worry, I’ll write him back and tell him ‘no’.”

Echo looked genuinely taken aback by such a statement. “What? Weevil, you can’t do that. It’s rude.”

“Fine, I’ll write him that you’ve got wing fungi.”

“Weevil!”

“Okay!” he groaned exasperatedly. “I’ll just tell him I've got Achy-Breaky Pelvis!”

“No! You’ll—” She had to take a double take when her mind registered that last part. “Achy-what? Never mind.” She shook her head dismissively and got back to the point. “You’ll do no such thing! For goodness sake, Weevil, he’s your brother!”

The sushi broke apart in his chopstick’s grasp. Weevil grumbled into his barrel chest, “It doesn’t mean we’re still on speaking terms.”

“Regardless, you will invite him.” She loured him down when he opened his mouth to protest. “And that-is-that.”

Browbeaten once again, Weevil lowered his head and silently resumed his meal, using his magic to clean up the mess he made on the side.

“Shroud, what’s the matter?” Echo broke away from feeding more love to her egg and asked her son concerned when she noticed his eating slowing down. She pushed the plate of dumplings towards him. “Do you want some more? Here.”

The colt bit his lip and pressed his hoof against his already ballooning belly. If he ate any more rice or another dumpling, his entire body was going to rupture. In making her grand meals, Echo had overlooked the fact she was now feeding her little colt more than a grown stallion. But a behaved little Mama’s hatchling like Shroud daren’t tell that to his mother, fearing he would hurt her feelings.

“Maybe he’s had enough.”

Prodding Weevil on his tank of a belly, she remarked, “If that's the case, you had enough years ago.”

“Wow, that wasn’t totally uncalled for,” he muttered angrily. “Thanks, Echo.”

“Oh, you know I’m kidding,” she giggled and then looked down at Shroud with affection, holding him under the chin. “Now sweetie, you need to eat more like a big colt, otherwise you’ll never get big and strong like your Mama. Like your father, too, before he got all doughy.”

“‘Just kidding’, yeah, sure!”

“And don’t forget to drink your love juice,” the matriarch reminded her son, pointing at the bubbling, dimly glowing glasses of pink juice that hadn’t been touched all dinner. “That goes for you too, Weevil.”

The father and son exchanged grimaces, but braced themselves and drank from their cups anyway. They always hated love juice; everychangeling did. It was delivered to their apartment in the mail by ponies in grey uniforms. According to the pamphlets Shroud read, they were supposed to provide them with the “government standard weekly dosage to sustain the changeling body”.

Weevil wrinkled his muzzle and shuddered, “Too bad it tastes like rat urine.”

“Oh, don’t be like, it’s not that bad,” Echo rolled her eyes and brought her own cup to the lips. The mare gagged and retched the moment in touched her tongue. “Ugh! Oh Kami... I think you’re wrong, Weevil.”

“You're serious?”

“Yeah,” she set her cup down. “Rat piss would taste better. Want me to put the kettle on?”

“Sure.”

Rising to her hooves, Echo hoofed over the egg to her husband, and trotted off to get the tea, leaving little Shroud to brazen it out... until a mound of rice lifted off his plate and over the table to his father’s. Weevil gave his son a wink. Shroud winked back.

Author's Note

(A/N) Sorry for the long delay, my friends, but I am glad to present you with chapter three of Citizen Weevil, the part of what you could call the first arc, or rather, ‘the pilot’ arc. Now, let’s be clear that this isn’t merely a series of separate stories here, but rather it chronicles of Weevil and his families’ lives here in Manehattan, with a lot of the events nit together, such as the upcoming International Day.

I guess what I’m trying to do here is something laid back, just showing lives, or to quote Nostalgia Critic, “It was a life!”

Anyway, I hope this chapter and I also hope you love the titlecard, courtesy of the one and only Jowybean.