Author's Note

Disclaimer: This chapter has a brief sequence containing futanari.

Delusion

I watched as the desert landscape blurred by outside. It wasn’t that the scenery was especially interesting—you see one cactus or butte and you’ve pretty much seen them all—but it was certainly more entertaining than the alternative.

With an exaggerated sigh out my nostrils, I turned away from the window and looked at my travel companion. That was perhaps a generous word for him, but it had a better ring to it than ‘custody transfer officer’, or whatever the heck they’d called him back in Canterlot. He sat there, quiet and distant as ever, reading a Faulkneigh novel and barely even batting an eye in my direction. Thankfully, he wasn’t wearing his armor—a final kindness from the Princess, I assumed, so as not to attract too much attention to me upon my arrival. I was looking to start in Las Pegasus with a clean slate, after all.

I idly glanced down at my own body. I’d been asked by the Princess’ aides to create a pony form for myself—preferably an original one—in order to blend in with a still changeling-wary populace. While the beige-and-brown earth pony mare I’d decided on wasn’t terribly imaginative, I was actually quite pleased with it. Again, the less attention I brought to myself, the better. I’ll admit I was proud of the cutie mark, though: a pair of theatrical masks, one smiling and one frowning. I doubted any of the ponies would catch the irony, but still, it made me chuckle.

The hours of silence, punctuated only by the clackity-clack of the train, nearly suffocated me. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Ugggghhh!” I whined, flailing in my seat before going limp. “I’m so bored!”

“I told you to get a book at the train station,” the guard droned without looking up.

“Meh.” I looked out the window again, propping my cheek on a hoof. “What I wouldn’t give for some music right about now. Why haven’t you ponies invented… I dunno, a portable record player or something?”

“I’m sure we have a crack team of engineers working on that.”

I snorted at the sarcasm in his voice, then turned and looked as deep into the desert as I could, searching for any sign of my new home. “You ever been to Las Pegasus?” I asked when I found none.

A brief pause. “Once.”

“What’s it like?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “Big. Flashy. I wasn’t there for very long, and it wasn’t exactly for sight-seeing.”

I hummed in understanding, then fiddled with my hooves for what must have been a good five minutes, my tail flicked behind me in my seat. Partly borne of curiosity, and partly for want of something to talk about, a thought flickered through my mind, one that had been niggling me for the better part of the day.

“You’ve never told me your name,” I stated, cutting my eyes in his direction. “We’ve been traveling together since yesterday, but you’ve never said. Any reason?”

He still didn’t look up from his book. “Maybe I don’t feel like telling you.”

I shifted in my seat. “Because I’m… a changeling, right?”

He took a deep, deep breath, then released it in a mighty stream of air through his nose. “You know what? Yeah. It is.”

“But… why?”

“Why?” Finally, he looked up, setting the book aside as he turned to face me with a frown. “You really want to know?”

I merely looked at him, my ears folding back.

He stared at me for an uncomfortable moment. Then: “You were there, right?”

“Wh-where?”

“In Canterlot. During the wedding?”

My body went rigid. With a gulp, I nodded.

A muscle in his cheek twitched, and he said, “So was I.” His gaze shifted a few inches to the left, past me and out the window. “I was almost killed.”

I made an awkward attempt at a smile. Hoping to lighten the mood, I said, “W-well… horseshoes and hoof-grenades, right?” I winced as soon as the words left my mouth. I hadn’t meant anything by it, but… really, Naamari? Insensitive much?

His frown turned into something like a snarl, and I could practically see a whole slew of angry retorts passing through his mind. Instead, he composed himself and said, “The only reason I didn’t get killed is because a fellow guard—a friend of mine—saved my life.” His eyes met mine once again. “At the cost of his own.”

My mouth opened… and then just sorta stayed like that. All I managed to get out in the awkward, oppressive silence that followed was: “Oh…”

He snorted. “Yeah. ‘Oh’.” He turned forward in his seat again, picking up his book and opening it. “Now, I’m not saying that you, personally, are responsible. And if Her Majesty vouches for your character, then that’s good enough for me. I’m willing to accept that you’re a decent sort, and that you deserve a chance at a new life. But you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not eager to be your friend, or if I’m not thrilled to be given this assignment.”

He resumed reading, and I simply sat there, suddenly feeling filthy. In something of a daze, I turned and gazed out the window again, my mind abuzz.

I’d come to Equestria because I’d been wounded. And I don’t mean my wing; that had just been a dislocated socket. The wound in question was somewhere deeper; someplace a little more tangible to a changeling than words like “soul” or “heart” can do justice to.

After my meeting with the Princess, that wound had started to heal and scab over. I had convinced myself that here, in Equestria, I could be whole again. Undamaged. How could I have been so stupid? This poor stallion had just ripped that scab right off, and frankly, I deserved it. I only had myself to blame for the wound, and I’d been foolish to think my sins could be cleansed so easily.

I cut my eyes in his direction. After a moment spent biting my lip and hesitating, I opened myself to him, letting his emotions seep into me. It was like drinking water from a tree stump. Just as dark, just as filled with debris and other unsavory things. And all because of my kind; because of what we were. What I was. No amount of running would change that.

I wracked my brain for something I could do, but my mind came up blank. I raised my hoof and reached toward him, as if to place it on his shoulder—a pony gesture of comfort, as I understood it. But about half-way there, I thought better of it, the hoof freezing in the air before returning to my lap. I gave a quiet sigh.

“I’m sorry…” I said simply, my voice a tiny, wretched thing. “For everything.”

When he didn’t reply, I turned and looked out the window again. And just in time, too. We passed a ridge of rock, and instantly I found a metropolis spread out across the desert, gleaming towers and cloud structures above and endless expanses of homes; a veritable island of civilization carved out of the desert sands. My eyes widened at the sight, and a feeling—anticipation? nervousness?—welled up inside me.

This was it. My new home.

The sound of his voice startled me. “My name is Silver Thorn.”

I turned my head in his direction, eyes even wider than before. He didn’t look up from the book, but that was alright. It was still enough to make me smile.

Silver Thorn turned a page and continued the story.

I’ve never been a very sociable creature. Even back at the Hive, I was always something of a loner, and not much has changed since coming to Equestria. It’s not that I’m shy, really. I can function just fine in social situations, whether it’s entertaining my clients or just shooting the breeze with some random pony. But I don’t exactly have much in the way of friends. Oh sure, there are a hoofful of ponies who come close. I get along well with the girls at Mare Green’s, and Middleman and I have a friendly-bickering sort of thing going on. But there’s always this… wall there. I suppose it’s no great mystery. I’m a changeling in a land full of ponies. An outsider.

No. When it comes to friends, only one really fits the bill.

And so, as I step off the bus, I smile at the familiar sight before me: an unassuming little Mexicoltan restaurant. The sidewalk outside features several tables for outdoor dining, shielded from the sun by Aztequine-themed awnings. And there, at one of the tables, sits a little pegasus mare with a bronze coat and a light green mane and tail. She spots me right away and waves. I feel my smile widen, and step in her direction.

“There you are,” she says in that quiet voice of hers as I approach.

“Sorry, Tanssi,” I say, taking a seat across from her. I don’t even bother looking at the menu—I practically have it memorized by now. “I missed my usual bus. You haven’t been waiting too long, have you?”

“Not really,” she replies. For a changeling, she’s not a very good liar. I know her well enough to know not to dwell on it, so I push on with the conversation.

“So, how’ve you been?” I ask.

“Oh, same old, same old. You know how it is.”

I snort, reaching for a chip. “You kidding? I could write the book on ‘how it is’.”

Tanssi’s one of my fellow agents at Persona. She and I actually knew each other back at the Hive, though we were little more than acquaintances in those days. I was a scout, whereas Tanssi worked in the nurseries, taking care of the younglings. Imagine my surprise when, about a year ago, she suddenly shipped in from Canterlot, having defected just like I did. I took her under my wing right away, and the two of us became fast friends.

The waiter shows up and takes our order. I order my usual chili relleno, and Tanssi gets some kind of hay chimichanga. One of the first things I did after Tanssi came to Las Pegasus was introduce her to pony food. Having spent time among ponies in the old days, I was familiar with their food, but it was foreign territory for my quiet peer. In no time at all we made a tradition of getting together every week to chow down and chat away.

“So,” she says once the waiter’s gone, idly stirred her iced tea with a hoof, “What’ve you been up to lately?”

“Oh, nothing much.”

“Really? Because rumor has it you got that big assignment in Canterlot last week.”

I pop another salsa-laden chip into my mouth, speaking as I crunch away. “Yep. Not much to tell, really. Aside from going to Canterlot and having a really mysterious client, it was fairly routine.” I take a sip of soda, then add, “More or less.”

“I bet it was fun, though,” she says a little dreamily. “I’ve only been to Canterlot the once. It’s such a beautiful city.”

I hum in agreement.

“Rumor also has it you got quite the bonus for that job,” she continues with a grin.

I raise my eyebrow. “There seem to be quite a few rumors flying around lately. Is there anything else being whispered about me around the water cooler?”

She sees my eyebrow and raises me one of her own. “Well, it’s your own fault for being so reclusive, Naamari. It makes the others curious.”

“Fair enough.” I give a long-suffering sigh, then grab another chip. “And to answer your question: Yes, I got a pretty handsome bonus, if you must know. And I fed so well I’ve been able to take the past week off.”

An odd expression passes over her face. I’m no mind-reader, especially since both of us have been severed from the Hive Mind, but I can guess what she’s thinking.

Before I can say anything, though, she forces a smile and says, “So, what’re you going to spend it on?”

I watch her for another moment, then decide to let it drop. “I dunno,” I say through a sigh. “I bought a little bit of furniture, but…”

“Oh, I’ll have to come by and see it sometime. I don’t think I’ve been to your place since… gosh, it must’ve been right after I came to Las Pegasus.”

“Sounds about right. But really, Tanssi, it’s just a little bit of furniture. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“Well, I know, but… This sort of thing just fascinates me, for some reason.”

“What does?”

“You know! Homes. Decorating. Ponies are just so creative at that sort of thing. I’d love to get my place all fixed up just like a pony home.”

I scrunch my nose at her. “Yeah, but… that’s ponies, Tanssi. I don’t think a knack for color schemes and spatial flow are really in the changeling gene pool.”

Tanssi’s ears fold back against her head.

I silently kick myself. “Or maybe it’s just me,” I backpedal, averting my eyes. “No matter what I do, my apartment always seems so… boring. Like, no matter how many things I put in it, it still feels empty.”

Her expression warms into a small, sympathizing smile. “Maybe you’re just lonely. I know I am, sometimes.” She gives a tiny sniffle. “Maybe if we just had someone to share our homes with. Maybe that’s what makes ponies different.”

“Tanssi…” I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose with a hoof. “We’ve been over this. You know we can’t do that.”

“But why not? Are we really supposed to be escorts for the rest of our lives?”

“Well, what choice do we have?” I reply, my voice rising to a growl.

She looks at me for a moment, then whispers, “We could meet somepony. We could… fall in love?”

“We’re not ponies, Tanssi!” I whisper in turn. “We’re changelings! I don’t even think we can fall in love.”

She recoils as if I’d struck her.

Our waiter chooses that moment to bring our food. If only to occupy the following moments with something other than awkward silence, I take a bite of my chili relleno, but even the cheesy, greasy food does little to make me feel better. I chance a look at Tanssi, finding her staring down at her plate, unmoving.

I swallow, then mutter, “I’m sorry, Tanssi.”

“Do you really think that?” Her voice a tiny, tiny thing. “Do you really think we’re incapable of love?”

“I don’t know… Maybe? Would… would we need to steal it if we had it inside ourselves all along? You remember how it was back the Hive. Love was a commodity. Like currency.”

Tanssi sits there, staring silently at her still untouched food.

“I’m not saying we can’t, necessarily,” I add hurriedly. “I could be wrong. It’s just… How can we know?” I fidget in my seat, poking my food with a fork. “Wh-what do you think?”

She finally takes a bite of her own meal, chewing slowly as she considers my question. “I think we can love,” she says after swallowing. “Or… maybe I just need to think that. I have to believe there’s more waiting for me than just being an escort for the rest of my life. I’m grateful that Persona took me in, but I just… can’t do this forever. I need more. I want more.”

I reach across the table and touch her hoof with my own.

Otherwise, I hold my tongue. I don’t tell her how small her chances are of being accepted by ponies, or of finding love with one of them. Because what pony in their right mind would willingly love one of us? We’re parasites. We steal love—betray it and corrupt it. Do we even deserve to have it given to us? If nature had intended that, we wouldn’t have evolved into what we are: liars and deceivers.

That’s why Persona’s arrangement is so ideal. Sometimes ponies want to be lied to. Sometimes a fantasy is easier to take than reality. It’s the same thing with Tanssi. If the hope of finding love with a pony is the lie she needs to tell herself, then who am I, as a professional liar, to take that away from her?

In the end, we all lie to ourselves from time to time. It’s how we make peace with the inevitable mistakes and disappointments of our lives.

So I say, “I’m sorry, Tanssi. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s a pony out there for you.”

She sniffles. “And what about you?”

“Me?” I wave my hoof nonchalantly. “Heck, I’m happy as I can be at Persona. It’s fun, it keeps me well fed. And… and I like to think that I can give my clients something a little more meaningful, too. That I can help them in some tiny way.”

“Well, if the customer feedback you get is any indication, I’d say you do.” She chuckles. “You’re something of a legend around HQ.”

I snort, then take another bite. “It’s the least I can do, considering… everything.”

I can feel her eyes lingering on me. Finally: “You’re a good changeling, Naamari. You deserve to find somepony, too. You… you know that, don’t you?”

I pause in mid-chew, looking up at her.

She gives me a warm, kind smile. “Everyone deserves to be loved, Naamari. Or they at least deserve the chance. Even you and me. We all deserve a chance to be happy.”

I return her smile, but don’t say anything. I know she means well.

The door to my apartment swings open, and I stand in the doorway for a moment, gazing into the lengths of my apartment with drooping, lethargic eyes. I have to struggle against the urge to turn around and find some other place to while away the afternoon. The thought of spending yet another day lying around my apartment with nothing to do but ponder the solitude makes my stomach turn.

With a heavy sigh, I take a step, only to hear the crinkling sound of paper under my hoof. I look down, and find myself standing on a manila envelope.

And finally, I smile. Middleman must’ve slipped it under my door while I was out.

I reach down and grab the envelope in my teeth, then trot over to the sofa and plop down on it with a giggle, like a filly with a Hearthswarming present. The funny thing is, after that night with Selardi, I’m still not very hungry. But if all this assignment gets me is some killed time, then it’s time well spent in my book.

I open the envelope and begin sifting through its contents. For the second time in a row, only information on my role for the evening is included. No biggie. Knowing something about the client is convenient, but not necessary for me to do my thing. Changelings are born improvisers.

I read over the client’s description of my role, giving a low whistle as I finish. “Man, whoever wrote this has it bad.” It’s so hyperbolic, in fact, that it seems almost comical. Something about it—the wording; the subtext—strikes me as odd, actually.

With a shrug, I get up and trot over to the mirror. A final, careful study of the photograph included, and green flame washes over me. Once the transformation is complete, I look myself over in the mirror, searching for any necessary adjustments. Purple eyes meet their reflected counterparts, set in a blue, feminine face. A horn, framed by a silvery mane, protrudes from my forehead, and on my flank: A wand casting a crescent-shaped swath of stars.

With a satisfied nod, I look back to the paperwork.

“Huh. I’ve never seen adjectives in the name space before.”

I set the packet down, then look at the clock. I still have a few hours before I’m supposed to meet up with my client, giving me plenty of time to get into character. I take a deep breath, then smile.

“I think getting my mind off my troubles will do just the trick.”

In the two years that I’ve lived in Las Pegasus, on all the hundreds of assignments I’ve been on, I’ve never been to Hayrrah’s casino. Not that it’s all that different from the others, décor notwithstanding. I suppose the whole casino scene isn’t really my cup of tea. I’d rather curl up with a good book or a nice record than fritter my bits away at a craps table.

Nonetheless, as I step into the lobby, I give my mane a haughty flip, turning my nose upward as I make my way to the casino bar. Nopony else seems to be paying much attention to me, but that’s not important. Details are the mortar that hold the bricks of an assignment together.

I trot into the bar, as instructed, and take a seat on one of the stools. I cast a glance back and forth, as if my client might already be there waiting for me. No such luck.

“Good evening, miss,” says the bartender, startling me from my lookout. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“Just water, please.” I usually find it’s wise to stay as sober as possible when I’m on duty. Kind of a bummer, I suppose, considering how cheap drinks are in places like this.

With a gracious nod, the bartender fetches my water and heads off to help another customer. I take a sip as I resume my search for my client. At this hour, there aren’t too many ponies here, which I’m silently thankful for; crowds tend to complicate things. In one corner of the room, a stallion sits at a piano playing some jazzy number, and I let myself drift away with the music, the minutes slipping through my hooves like water.

Finally, after some unmeasured amount of time, I sense movement to my right, followed by the sound of a barstool creaking under sudden added weight. Idly, I glance in that direction, then promptly freeze.

My first thought is that somepony placed a mirror next to me. Except, my reflection appears to be wearing a hat and cape. That’s odd. I quickly realize it’s no reflection, but a pony. A pony who shares my assumed appearance down to the smallest detail.

Then, another realization dawns: This is my client.

I try not to panic. Had Persona made a mistake? Somehow gotten the client/role information mixed up? They’re usually pretty organized, but the proof is in the pudding, as they say. At a million miles a minute, I mentally rifle through an entire list of questions and courses of action and measures of damage control; anyway at all to salvage this situation and make up for the agency’s mistake. I’ll offer her a full refund if I have to! My honor as a professional will stand for nothing less.

But my frantic train of thought is instantly derailed when the mare turns toward me and gives me a sultry smile. “Why hello,” she says. “Trixie was wondering if she’d already be here.”

I raise an eyebrow, meeting her eyes and searching them for any clue as to what’s going on. Is this all some kind of practical joke? Or did I misunderstand something in the paperwork? Then, it clicks.

Oh.

Oh dear…

She wants an evening with herself. That’s… a little awkward, actually. Though, it does explain a thing or two. Believe it or not, I’ve never had this come up before. I suppose that even now, after all the fetishes and fantasies I’ve seen to, this job can still surprise me.

Yay?

I give her a shaky smile. “I… uh, couldn’t wait, I guess.”

“Mmm, Trixie knows what she means,” she purrs, reaching over and rubbing my cutie mark with a hoof. Or should I say ‘her’ cutie mark? “She’s been looking forward to this for quite some time. And, suffice to say, she isn’t disappointed.”

The weirdness of the situation very nearly makes me shiver at her touch, but I shake it off.

Focus, Naamari! I think to myself. Yes, this is one of the… odder situations you’ve been in, but you’re a professional. Pull yourself together and stay. In. Character!

Turning my attention to my date, I smile with as much heat as I can, reaching down to press her hoof more firmly against my flank.

“Well, who could blame y—… uh, that is, who could blame… her?” My face scrunches up in confusion. Blame ‘us’? Blame ‘them’? I shake my head and power through. “You know what, uh… Trixie means.”

I see something like an approving glint in her eye. “Too true.”

I very nearly sigh with relief when the bartender returns to take Trixie’s order.

“Trixie will have a scotch, please,” my date says primly. “Neat.”

The bartender gives her a nod, fetching her drink even as he turns in my direction. “And for your sister?” It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about me. I suppose there are more embarrassing assumptions he could have made. The truth, for one. “Or, are you fine with just water?”

I cut my eyes toward my ‘sister’, then point at her scotch and say, “Make mine a double.”

We spend a good half hour in the bar, just chatting. It’s awkward going at first, but I adapt to the situation quickly enough. I suppose the buzz of the alcohol doesn’t hurt, though I’m careful to keep it in moderation—just enough to take the edge off the weirdness, but not so much as to throw off my mad changeling skillz.

…okay, maybe I need to rein it in a teensy bit.

Ahem!

Anyway, I have to say that Trixie doesn’t make the best first impression. She comes across as boisterous and conceited, and her habit of talking in the third person is more than a little obnoxious. But as we talk, I find myself warming up to her more than I expected. I begin to sense something else to her—a kind of vulnerability, perhaps. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she actually has a sweet heart underneath all the glitter and firework shine. During an anecdote about her exploits in Hoofington, I get curious and take a pull of her emotions, hoping to get a better read on what, exactly, she hopes to get from this evening. Immediately, I’m hit with a swell of powerful energy. At first, I think it’s simply love, of a degree that would put any narcissist to shame. But the more I turn the ‘taste’ of the feelings over, the less sure I am. There’s something far more complicated going on with those emotions—shades and hues, the nature of which I can only guess in my alcohol-fondled state.

Soon enough, Trixie settles our bill and leads me out of the bar. The next part of our evening, she explains to me, is a show. And not just any show.

I squint at the poster outside the Hayrrah’s auditorium as we pass it, bearing the likeness of a mauve unicorn in a dark cloak. “The Marvelous Mirage…” I read.

“Oh, yes,” Trixie replies, levitating a pair of tickets out of her cape. She sighs dreamily. “Our idol. When she heard that he would be doing a show in Las Pegasus at the same time she would be in town, she couldn’t help herself.”

Once inside the auditorium, we make our way to our seats, down close to the stage.

“Have we ever been to one of his shows?” I ask once we’re seated.

It takes her a moment to respond. “When we were a filly.”

I study her face for a moment. Sensing there’s something being left unsaid, I try to decide whether I should press the matter, but apparently we’d gotten there just in the nick of time, because before I have a chance to say anything, the lights dim, and the chatting of the other ponies in the audience dies down to a white noise of excited whispering and hums of anticipation.

Suddenly, a single firework launches into the air, whirling to and fro over our heads, coiling and spinning in a luminous arc. The entire audience, myself included, gape at the dancing point of light, then watch as it turns back toward the stage, splits into three, and each one explodes above it. And there, outlined by the burst of light, stands an equine figure that hadn’t been there before.

We see the figure for but a moment, and then the stage goes dark again. The audience instantly breaks into a round of applause. As the noise dies down, a stallion’s voice, likely amplified by a spell, sounds out in the dark auditorium.

“Welcome, fillies and gentlecolts,” the voice says, mysterious, commanding our attention to the precipice of his every word. “Tonight, you shall bear witness to a display, the likes of which have rarely be seen before. For many years, I have traveled the world, studying magic in all its vast diversity—from the veldts of the Zebrahara to the sands of Saddle Arabia; from the mountain monasteries of the rams to the stampeding grounds of the buffalo.

“Learning these mysteries was no mean feat, but no feat is too mean for…” A whole arsenal of fireworks and sparks burst into the air, filling the auditorium with light. “…the Miraculous Mirage!”

The audience bursts into wild applause, and even from here I can see a smile coiling across his face.

“Let the show begin!” he cries.

And begin it does. For the next hour, he proceeds to perform the most impressive magic show I’ve ever seen, and considering that I live and work in Las Pegasus, I’ve certainly seen my share. From complex acts of telekinesis to invisibility spells, from acts of time travel (his future self assuring him that his show would be a hit) to come-to-life spells (including a dance number involving articles of clothing donated by the audience)—we watch it all in amazement.

It’s particularly impressive to me, though I’ve always been fascinated by unicorn magic in general. It’s far more diverse than changeling magic is. Aside from shape-shifting, all we can manage is elementary telekinesis and, for scouts like me, a couple of offensive spells. But even the average unicorn could magic circles around most changelings in terms of range and power.

But I’m not the only one who’s impressed. I look over at Trixie and take a moment to enjoy the look on her face. Her eyes are wide, unblinking as they reflect light from the stage, and the corners of her open mouth are tugging upwards into a smile. That expression, so filled with almost foal-like wonder, really suits her.

Finally, Mirage takes a moment to address the audience.

“So, how is everypony enjoying themselves so far?”

The crowd cheers and stomps in enthusiastic reply.

The magician hums in approval. “Good, good. Now, for my next feat, I’ll need somepony from the audience.”

Dozens of volunteering hooves dart into the air.

“Oh, dear,” Mirage says in mock surprise. “Perhaps we’d best leave it up to fate.”

His horn launches a single spark of magic into the air, and it whirls around in a spiral before descending towards the audience, until finally it stops… right above Trixie’s head.

“There we are,” Mirage sing-songs as a spotlight comes to rest on the mare to my right, the beacon above her fizzling out. “Come on up, my dear.”

The crowd, despite a few scattered hums of disappointment at not being picked, begins to stomp in applause.

But me? I can only watch Trixie as she sits there, suddenly petrified, her pupils shrunken to pin-pricks. Her hooves are curled around the ends of her chair’s armrest so tightly that I fear she might break them. And radiating off of her: pure, unbridled fear.

“Now, don’t be shy,” Mirage encourages, prompting the audience to cheer louder than ever.

I lean towards her. “Trixie, are you okay?” I say just loud enough for her to hear me.

But she merely continues to sit, unmoving, staring at the stage as if it might swallow her if she walked onto it. I glance up to the stage, just barely able to make out Mirage raising an eyebrow.

What am I supposed to do? My job is to make sure that Trixie has a good night, and that obviously doesn’t include her being put into a situation she isn’t comfortable with.

I have to do something to help her.

“I’ll do it!” I call, standing and raising my hoof. I sense Trixie jolt beside me, as if struck.

“Mmmm,” Mirage hums in a vaguely annoyed tone. “And who are you, miss?”

“I’m, uh…” I cut my eyes in Trixie’s direction. She stares back at me, mouth agape. “I’m her sister.”

“Very well,” Mirage says with a shrug. “Come on up.”

The crowd begins to applaud again. With one final look at Trixie, meeting her wide, conflicted eyes, I turn and begin making my way to the stage. It feels like it takes half an hour to walk up there, everything passing by me in slow motion. Truth is, I’m no more eager to be up there than Trixie was, but I don’t for a second think that my decision was the wrong one. I can still picture the look of terror on Trixie’s face.

Though, I can’t imagine the look on my own face is much different as I step onto the stage and approach Mirage. I try to distract myself with observation. Now that I see him up close, Mirage looks older than he did from the audience—or, for that matter, on the posters outside. He appears to have aged gracefully, however, attaining that look of sophistication peculiar to older stallions. I can practically tell, just from the weathering on his face, that his accounts of his travels were no exaggeration. I’m not sure whether that makes me feel any better being up here.

Finally, I come to a stop, sitting awkwardly on my haunches before the magician.

“So, my dear,” he says. “What is your name?”

I glance into the audience. I can just pick out Trixie among all the other ponies, though I can’t make out her expression from here.

Alright, I think, taking a deep breath. Just stay in character.

“T-Trixie, sir,” I reply.

“And what do you do for a living, Trixie?”

Well crap. Hoping it doesn’t come back to bite me in the flank too much, I say, “I’m, uh… a magician, actually.”

He gives me a smile, as if accepting a challenge. “Is that right? Then I guess you’re familiar with a wide variety of magic?”

I gulp, then nod with as much of Trixie’s usual confidence as I can.

“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to cast something particularly exotic.”

Okay, I really don’t like the sound of that.

Before I can even react, he reaches forward, grasping my face with his hooves, squishing my cheeks in the process. I can see his horn pulsing with magic above me, but my eyes remain locked with his, more surprised than anything.

“Just remain calm, my dear,” he says.

I can feel something strange happening to my body as his magic dances across it, but I try to do as he instructs, trusting that he won’t try anything untoward with a room full of witnesses.

“Are you calm?” he asks.

I nod, even as the odd sensation continues. Finally breaking eye contact, I try to look back at what’s happening to me, but I can’t turn my head with him holding it.

“That’s good,” he says, his smile turning mischievous. “I’d hate for you to… go to pieces.”

I hear an almost comical pop behind me, followed by the sound of the audience gasping, and I feel a shift in the weight of my body—or rather, I feel a sudden lack of the weight of my body.

“What?” I ask, still trying to turn my head. “What did you do to me?”

“Here, let me show you.”

Then, he turns my head for me, with unsettling ease. In no time at all, I see why.

It takes me a moment to register the sight before me. Namely, the sight of my now headless body standing unsteadily a few feet away, the end of its neck a smooth, rounded stump. In my shock, I subconsciously try to take a step back, which only causes my body to trip and fall onto its back like a turtle.

“Oh my,” Mirage says to the audience. “Looks like she’s getting… ahead of herself.”

The crowd starts laughing and cheering.

“You… you decapitated me?!” I growl.

“Oh, relax,” he says quietly into my ear. “It’s just a trick. They always eat this one up.”

“Yeah, well, a little head’s up would’ve been nice.”

“Really? I thought that’s what I did give you.”

“Yeah, real funny. Now could you put me back together?”

“Hmmm, I have a better idea.”

Before I can say anything else, he turns my head back in his direction, holding it in one hoof like a prop from a Flankspeare play. With his free hoof, he silences the audience.

“Let’s just give her a moment to pull herself together, shall we?” he says. As the audience breaks into another round of cheers, he takes a few steps away from my body and sets my head down on the stage. Addressing my body, he says, “If you want your head back, you’ll have to come and get it.”

Oh. So that’s how it is. Bastard.

Trying to drown out the sounds of the crowd, I focus all my attention on my body, willing myself back onto my hooves. It isn’t easy. Being in two places at once, not to mention facing in two different directions, is really hard on one’s coordination, it turns out. Like trying to direct a giraffe with inner-ear problems through an obstacle course by remote control. Finally, though, I manage to get my body’s legs back under itself and push it up into a standing position…

… only to stagger to one side and fall off the stage. Some combination of instincts works in my favor, though, as my body manages to catch the edge of the stage with its forelegs and hang on for dear life. As the audience bursts into a fit of laughter, I manage to get my body to climb back onto the stage and onto its hooves.

Slowly, carefully, I turn my body, inch by inch, until it’s facing towards my head. Then, I take a cautious step. And then another. It’s slow going, my body continuing to sway like a drunk pony, but soon enough I make it. I know I’ve done it because I end up kicking my own head a little, which only makes the audience laugh harder.

Again: bastard.

I guide my body down onto its haunches and grab my head in my hooves. Trying to ignore the bizarre feeling of holding my own severed head, I slowly turn myself so that I’m facing toward the smug magician.

“Okay,” I say. “Now fix me.”

“Just put your head back where it belongs, and the spell will cancel itself.”

I roll my eyes, but do as he says, raising my head toward the end of my neck. I nearly drop my head a couple of times, and I somehow end up smacking my chin against my shoulder, but finally I find my mark.

Just as Mirage said, as soon as the two ends of my neck meet, there’s a flash of light and I’m whole once more. That doesn’t stop me from inspecting myself, however, just to be sure.

“Well done,” he says, patting my shoulder. He turns to the crowd. “Let’s hear it for Miss Trixie. She’s been a good sport.”

The crowd starts stomping their hooves in applause. With one finally glare at the magician, I step off the stage and in the direction of my seat. I’m about half-way there when I notice that there, beside my empty seat, is another empty seat.

Trixie—the real Trixie—is gone.

Panic swelling within me, I pan my vision across the auditorium, searching for some sign of my client among the row after row of heads that have forgotten about me by now, their attention drawn to the stage behind me. Finally, my eyes settle on the exit.

“Aw crap…” I mutter.

I break into a gallop, barely noticed by the other ponies. Bursting out the doors and into the hallway outside, I search for Trixie as the doors close behind me. Then, I spot her. She sitting down the hall a ways, leaning against a wall and facing away from me.

I approach her slowly. “Trixie? Are you alright?”

She looks over her shoulder at me but doesn’t quite meet my eyes. Her expression more distant and lifeless than I’d have thought possible just an hour ago.

“Yeah…” she says. Call me crazy, but I don’t believe her. She stands up and begins walking away. “Let’s go.”

I watch her for a moment, tonguing the inside of my cheek, then jog to catch up with her. I fall in step beside her, and the two of us walk out of Hayrrah’s and into the cool desert night.

We’ve been walking for a while now. I don’t know where we’re going, but our wandering doesn’t seem altogether aimless. I don’t question it, though, simply sticking by Trixie’s side, the sound of our hoof-falls filling the quiet sidewalks and alleyways some blocks away from the hustle of the Las Pegasus Stirrup. My client, for her part, hasn’t spoken a word, but it’s a silence that suggests deep thought rather than discomfort, so I let it be.

I try to give her a little space, to respect her apparent desire to be left to her thoughts, but my efforts only serve to bring my own thoughts to the fore. What’s eating her? Is it something I did? And most importantly: What can I do to make her feel better?

I don’t have the answer to these questions. There is only one thing I can think to say.

“I’m sorry.”

Trixie flinches from the sound of my voice, her thoughts seemingly derailed. She looks at me inquisitively. “Hmm?”

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

She raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For tonight. I was supposed to show you a good time, and I blew it.”

“No, it’s not your fault,” she assures me. “If anything, Trixie drug you into her mess. Her… issues… are her problem, not yours.”

I study her face as we continue to trot down the sidewalk. Finally, I say, “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shrugs. “Trixie wouldn’t want to unload it all on you.”

“Hey, I’m you,” I say through a grin. “If you can’t talk to me, then who can you talk to?”

She scoffs bitterly. “You have no idea.”

I quirk an eyebrow in her direction, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

She sighs, then says, “Trixie told you she’s been to one of Mirage’s shows before? Well, that’s not all. He used to hold these magic seminars for foals—show them some tricks, inspire them, and so forth. Naturally, after seeing his show first-hoof, Trixie wanted to go more than anything. He was her hero.” Her ears fold back against her head. “Needless to say, it didn’t go as she’d hoped.”

“What happened?” I ask after some moments of silence.

“Trixie embarrassed herself,” she says with a snort. “Maybe it was just nerves, but she couldn’t do anything right. Can you imagine what it’s like? To be told by your idol that you’d never amount to anything, magically? That you’d be better off finding some other dream?”

I gape at her. “How old were you?”

“Just a foal. Trixie didn’t even have her cutie mark yet. Naturally, she was devastated.” Her gaze drifts upwards to those few stars intrepid enough to fight their way through the light pollution overhead. “But she just couldn’t stop thinking about magic. And one day, she did get her cutie mark. That’s when everything changed. She thought Mirage must have made some kind of mistake, and she decided that she was going to become a great magician. To prove Mirage wrong.”

Outwardly, I merely hum in understanding. But inwardly, I’m not sure what to think. Building one’s entire life off a vendetta doesn’t seem very healthy.

As if sensing my thoughts, Trixie continues, “She eventually outgrew her resentment towards Mirage. If anything, she came to be thankful to him, for being the catalyst that set her on her life’s purpose. And through it all, he remained her idol, the magician she virtually modeled herself after. But the energy she used being angry with him became something else. An obsession—a need to be the best magician in Equestria. She thought if she just believed in herself hard enough, she could do it. She told herself—over and over and over again—that she was a great magician. That she was powerful. Eventually, she started to believe it, and that belief became her rock.

“Trixie was so single-minded about it all that everything else in her life… just stopped being important to her. She dropped out of school. She left home, and broke her parents’ hearts. She lost touch with all her old friends. She started travelling from town to town—doing her shows, honing her craft, all on her lonesome. But she told myself it was okay, that as long as she was the best magician in Equestria, it was alright to be alone. She thought that was the price one has to pay for greatness.

“And she went about her life, content, until…” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. A few deep breaths, then: “Never mind. That’s not important. Suffice to say, she took a blow or two to her confidence. And what happened tonight… was just another straw on the camel’s back, as it were. Mirage’s beacon picked Trixie, and… she just froze. She finally had a chance to prove herself to him after all these years, and she couldn’t do it. She was almost relieved when you volunteered in her place, but then…”

I wince, remembering what I’d gone through on that stage. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“No. Like Trixie said, it wasn’t your fault. It’s just… It was like watching Trixie’s own nightmare. All those laughing ponies. That smug look on Mirage’s face. She just had to get away.”

“I can understand that,” I say with a nod.

Suddenly, Trixie comes to a stop, and I follow suit.

“Well, here we are,” she says, motioning with her head at a slightly run-down hotel to our left. My eyebrows furrow as I take the place in. I’ve been in far seedier places than this, to be sure, but I still find myself surprised that Trixie would settle for a place like this.

“Thanks for walking Trixie here,” she says, her ears laying back. “And thanks for a mostly enjoyable evening. Sorry Trixie ruined it.” With one final glance in my direction, she steps toward the hotel.

For a second, I merely watch her, chewing the inside of my cheek.

Then: “Trixie, wait.”

She stops, turning to look at me over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. Our eyes meet, and I come to a decision.

I step toward her and throw my forelegs around her neck, hugging her with all the warmth and acceptance that I can muster. I feel her tense against me, but I hold tight.

I move my mouth to her ear and whisper, “Please don’t be so hard on yourself, Trixie. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be great. It’s something we should all aspire to. Don’t let past failures convince you to stop trying. We all deserve to have dreams.”

I feel her own forelegs wrap around me, returning the embrace, her body trembling slightly.

“Trixie’s made so many mistakes…” she whispers back to me.

“So have I. Believe me.” I give a mirthless chuckle. “We all make mistakes, but…” I stop, remembering a sun-kissed Mexicoltan restaurant and a smiling friend. “W-we… we all deserve… a chance to be happy.” Moisture obscures my vision. “We just have to b-believe it.”

Her grip around me tightens, her voice barely audible now. “I’m so tired of being alone.”

Her use of the first person nearly startles me. Smiling, I raise a hoof and stroke her mane. “You just have to let other ponies in. You have to let them see who you really are—the good and the bad. But before you can do that, you have to be honest with yourself.”

Gently, she pulls away from me, our eyes meeting again. I see something pass across her eyes, like clouds across the surface of a lake. Then, in an instant, she leans forward and presses her lips against my own. The motion catches me off guard, but I close my eyes and return the kiss all the same, pushing away the nagging thought of what others might think if they saw too identical mares kissing. The slow, cautious dance of our tongues helps drown out the thoughts, and by the time we pull apart, I’m nearly breathless.

As she looks at me again, I can just make out a blush in the dim light.

“Would… would you like to come to my room?” she asks, avoiding my eyes.

I simply nod, still reeling from the kiss.

With a smile, she grabs my hoof with her own and leads me toward the hotel.

I collapse on the hotel bed, biting my lip as Trixie crawls on top of me. She lays down atop me, her blue belly pressing against my own, and kisses me again with gusto.

It would be easy to lose myself in the passion, but I’m a professional. And in this sort of situation, it pays to keep your wits about you. What, exactly, was Trixie hoping to get from all this? I doubt it’s just about animal sex. It rarely is. And who is she making love to, exactly? Herself? The stranger who had offered her words of kindness? Both?

Hoping to find answers, I take a pull of her emotions, feeling the same conflicted, ambiguous mess as before—notes of bitterness and self-loathing moving to the fore. But these feelings do little to calm the storm of her lips and tongue and roving hooves. They might even be driven by the feelings, for all I know. Ponies are complicated creatures.

She finally breaks away from the kiss, moving up to my ear to nibble on it. Needless to say, it doesn’t exactly aid my concentration. After a delightful moment, she removes her teeth and whispers, “Take me.”

“Hmm?” I grunt, fighting off a daze.

“Please, take me.”

I move so that I can see her eyes. There’s hunger in them. Yearning.

I know what I have to do.

I grab her with my hooves and, in one fluid motion, roll her onto her back, with me on top now. It’s my turn to kiss, pouring all my practice and experience into it. She moans in delight, a tone that only rises as my hoof finds her lower lips and begins stroking in circular, teasing motions. A few more seconds, and I end the kiss, occupying my mouth instead with little licks and kisses to her neck, relishing in the feeling of Trixie squirming underneath me. Inch by inch, my mouth moves down her body and between her legs, until finally I’m rewarded with the inviting sight of her dripping, winking vagina.

Just as I’m about to tuck in and go to town, I stop. Glancing up along her torso, I meet her eyes, noting the sheer desperation in them. I can sense, even through the fog of our shared list, that Trixie needs more than a good tongue lashing. What she needs is a good fucking.

Pardon my Prench.

She lets out a whimper as I extract myself from between her legs, but I silence her with another kiss, gentler this time. She reluctantly melts into it, her impatience practically tangible.

And as we kiss, I get to work.

What I’m about to do is a little risky. If nothing else, it could very well break the illusion. But in this line of work, I’ve learned that risks sometimes pay off. And in this particular situation, I think it might be worth it.

So, I concentrate my changeling magic between my legs, continuing to kiss as a new appendage suddenly appears there, growing inch by inch. I’ve assumed the role of a stallion enough times that I don’t have to give it much thought, and soon enough it prods against Trixie’s thigh.

With a gasp, she pulls away from my lips, casting a glance down at my new endowment. Some nebulous mix of excitement and confusion passes over her face.

“H-how…?”

“Shhh,” I say, placing a hoof against her lips. “We’re magicians, aren’t we?”

I feel a smile against my hoof, and she nods.

“And you’re alright with this?” I ask.

Another nod.

“Alright.” I glance down, lining everything up. “Here we go…”

“Wait!” Trixie says, causing me to jump a little. “Hold on a sec.”

Pushing me away gently, she stands up and turns around, looking over her shoulder as she flicks her tail to the side, presenting herself to me.

Ah. So she wants a good, old fashioned rutting? Well, I can certainly oblige.

I mount her carefully, leaning against her back and wrapping my forelegs around her barrel. I position myself so that I feel her opening against the tip of my member, and then, I slide in.

I feel her body quiver beneath me, shot through with pleasure as I sink myself into her slowly. I stop when I’m about halfway in, and then slam myself in to the hilt, drawing a gasp from her lungs. Holding myself inside her, I lean forward and lick her ear.

“Ready?” I ask.

“G-goddess, yes.”

With a grin, I pull out and slam back inside, then repeat the process, building a rhythm and enjoying the sound of the contact of flesh. I nuzzle my face into her silvery mane as I continue to thrust, fighting to keep in control of the pleasure as her insides ripple and squeeze around me. It’s always interesting experiencing sex from a male’s point of view. It’s not necessarily better or worse than the pleasure a female experiences, but just different enough to make these occasional forays into gender-bending something to look forward to.

But I’m not doing this for me. Not directly, as least.

And so, I redouble my efforts, my muscles starting to burn under the unfamiliar mechanics of thrusting my hips like I am. It’s worth it, though. Trixie’s moans form a carnal crescendo, and I can feel her legs trembling under the effort to keep her upright.

As is often the case when I don male genitalia, I feel myself drawing to the edge far too quickly for my liking. But I can tell Trixie isn’t far off herself, so I go for it.

Gritting my teeth, I press my face into her shoulder and hold on tight as an orgasm erupts through me. A flood of cum—or cum-like substance, rather; even changeling magic can’t produce functioning sperm—gushes into Trixie. I continue rutting her even as I cum, and the combination of the movement and the warmth filling her promptly sends Trixie over the edge. Her legs finally give out on her, and she collapses beneath me. Without her body to support me, I fall right down with her, the two of us reduced to a pile of spent mare.

Sliding my penis out of her, I roll off of her. Trixie, for her part, still in the throes of her orgasm, covers her face with a foreleg, little whimpers cutting through her panting. I take the opportunity to get rid of my member in a flash of green.

I shimmy over to Trixie’s side and cuddle up against her. Instantly, she wraps her arms around me and rests her head on my chest.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

I kiss her forehead and say, “Hey, we deserve it.”

She gives a faint chuckle, but otherwise remains silent. Within minutes, I hear the faint sound of her snoring. With her hugging me like this, I’m effectively stuck. I don’t have the heart to wake her, so I decide to make myself comfortable.

Curious, I open myself to her emotions.

I smile at what I find.

The complicated feelings aren’t entirely gone, but they’re covered by a warm blanket of contentment. There’s love there, too. Not romantic or sexual love, but something else. Something like acceptance.

I wake up to a faceful of sunlight. Blinking, I shield my eyes with a hoof and take in my surroundings. The hotel room doesn’t look any better in the morning. I don’t have any time to dwell on it, though, as I spot Trixie sitting by the window. She turns and looks at me with a smile.

“Good morning,” she says.

“Morning,” I grunt in reply.

She turns and looks back out the window.

I sit up in the bed and rub the sleep from my eyes. “You been up long?” I ask.

“Not too long. I’ve just been thinking.”

“About what?”

The visibly tongues the inside of her cheek. “My life,” she says finally. “Last night you said I needed to be honest with myself. I think… I think you hit the nail on the head with that one.”

“Oh?”

“Mm-hmm. You and I are a lot alike, you know.” She turns and smiles at me again, this time a little sadly. “We’re both illusionists. And… I think I’ve used a lot of my smoke and mirrors on myself for a long… long time. Even last night, in a way, was an extension of the lies I tell myself.”

I feel my ears folding back against my head. “I’m sorry…”

She gets up and walks close enough to place a hoof on my shoulder. “Don’t be. Last night was… really nice. I think I needed it. So thank you.” She turns away, using her magic to levitate some of her belongings into a suitcase. “ But… but I think I’m ready for something else. I think I’m ready to face the cold, hard light of reality.”

I watch her as she continues to pack, then climb out of bed, taking my turn to touch her shoulder. When she turns to face me, I pull her into one last hug.

“Reality isn’t always cold and hard, Trixie. It can be really, really warm, so long as we have someone to share it with.”

As we pull apart, Trixie avoids my eyes. “Yeah. I just have to learn how, is all. All I know is the illusion.”

Something icy crawls through my veins.

“I understand,” I say with complete and cutting honesty.

I step into my apartment, still wearing Trixie’s form, and walk lethargically across the living room.

The whole bus ride back, my mind had been a tempest of activity. Everything I’d said to her—all my advice, all my ‘wisdom’, half of it remembered in Tanssi’s voice—had bounced around in my brain like a spiked pinball.

Did I really, actually believe any of what I’d said?

Maybe I didn’t. I am an actress, after all. I’d just been trying to help. To do my job.

I approach my trusty mirror and look into it, Trixie’s visage looking right back.

A ghostly voice echoes through my memory:

We all deserve a chance to be happy.

With a flash of green, my reflection changes. A wretched creature with a black, chitinous shell and blue eyes looks back at me like a scolded dog. Ever so slowly, I raise a porous hoof and touch it to the mirror.

I guess, when I get down to it, I don’t even know what I believe anymore.

With a sigh, I turn away from the mirror and put up my usual disguise.

To be continued...