Unlike Any Other

The blue eyes of the two adults glanced on occasion towards Monty and the others. They were opposite of both him, Karlene and Vargas, conveniently standing in between the exit. They chirped, hissed and clicked in hushed tones after the absolute shitshow that had happened just then. Somehow, what audible bits that he did catch made sense now, but he didn’t need to understand bugspeak to know that they were discussing what to do next.

Vargas, on the other hand, was busying himself, giving Karlene a full dressing-down. Monty was unhappy as well, but he had decided against joining in. She had suffered through enough already, and asides perhaps offering Monty a way to vent himself, it would have only been detrimental. He instead focused on how Vargas was not using English. Oh, Franklyn correctly understood the bugspeak (again, he wasn’t sure just how the hell he had suddenly learned a new language so quickly). Still, he wondered why it came so easily now. In the few words that he had spoken after the… well, the mindfuck, they were the same bugspeak that Karlene and the Queen had used.

Had he lost the ability to talk in English? It didn’t feel like he did, as he was definitely thinking in English. It was almost as if something were substituting his spoken words as he talked. Monty didn’t even want to begin figuring how that was possible.

“Shit,” Monty uttered in a bugspeak hiss. He scowled slightly at that, and he concentrated on what he was going to try to say. “Montgomery.” Right, that came out as it should have, apart from the odd reverberation to his voice that everyone carried—nothing too surprising. He got a curious sideways glean from Vargas, but Monty ignored him as he continued experimenting.

“Secret.” A set of clicks. Franklyn felt his face twitch as he tried again: “Secret.” This time the clicks came out haltingly. Focus, he told himself. Need to say it in English—in English. After drawing a breath, he tried once more. “Secret.”

The others reacted before Monty did. He said it in English that time! The adults’ frowns were telling, and their quiet words gained an air of wariness. Karlene blinked dumbly while Marciano looked on with surprise.

He approached Monty. “How did you do that?” he asked in bugspeak, pouting after speaking.

Monty opened his mouth to speak before closing it as he focused. “Thinking… hard,” he managed to say in an echoing voice after a false start. That earned him narrowed eyes from Vargas. “J-just think—” Chirp. “—think real—” Click. “—h-hard.”

“You’re joking,” Vargas said after giving Monty a once-over. A few seconds passed as both he and Monty didn’t break eye contact. Then Vargas’s eyes widened. “Wait, it’s really that simple?”

Franklyn grunted from the effort. “It isn’t—” Hiss. “—as easy a-as you —ack— think.”

Marciano maintained his disbelieving look for a while longer before a hissing sigh escaped his fanged lips. “What sort of Dantesque—” He paused as the latter word came out in an accented and reverberating English. His following words came out as bugspeak: “That’s, uh, really odd.”

Monty flashed him a smirk. “Understatement of the fucking millennia,” he said, not bothered enough to try English that time. The man decided to ignore the nasty glare from the male adult.

He watched Vargas shift his jaws momentarily, and his brow scrunched in concentration. “You—” He shook his head in a quick movement. “A-apestas,” he managed to say before letting out a snort. Interestingly, even Vargas’s Spanish echoed in the odd two-tone reverb. Though he hadn’t understood the word, Monty smiled at Marciano’s success and looked to Karlene. Curious, why was she snickering?

Regardless, Franklyn was genuinely glad to see her having recovered. “How’re you doing?”

Her good mood shifted immediately. Ear-tubes wilting, Karlene sighed. “I was happy that I could finally understand the others,” she said dejectedly, not attempting to switch over to English. She glanced towards the adults, who had finished their conversation and were looking at the trio with judging eyes. Another sigh: “I really screwed up.”

Yeah, you did, Monty immediately thought. He instead said, “Hey, whatever that Queen did to us, it messed with our minds.” He again ignored the male adult’s attempt to melt the man with a death-stare. “I don’t think I could’ve done much better were I in your place.”

She gave a small smile, but her emotions were far more mixed, at least as far as he could tell. “Still doesn’t change the fact that I’ve probably just handed down our solitary sentence.”

Monty was about to respond but was instead interrupted by a barely-audible ‘go’, from the male adult. Turning to face the adults, he saw the smaller female spare one last look at the humans before slowly walking away towards the threshold. Almost immediately, the male approached them, head held aloft, and wings splayed.

Franklyn wanted to gulp, but a low and timid purr emanated from his throat instead. He thought that he heard something similar from Karlene, and the spontaneous action made him wonder whether it was a natural reaction or another case of mind-fuckery.

Not that he had much time to think about it; the adult’s nostrils flared as he stood tall above the three. His eyes scanned them all, silently critiquing in the stead of his voice.

Then his eyes settled upon Karlene. “How could you have said such a thing?” he finally demanded, prompting her to shrink before him. “She is our mother!”

Upon seeing and feeling her grief and self-loathing, Monty sensed his old confrontational attitude rise along with his need to help. He took a step, a bit shaky perhaps but still determined, and placed himself between the big bug and a rapidly-blinking Karlene.

“Leave her alone,” he said defiantly. “We've‒ that queen was controlling us like fucking puppets! So back the hell up.”

In retrospect, antagonising the big insect with sharp fangs that could levitate him was not one of his better ideas. In the heat of the moment though, all he saw was a bully and a victim, and Monty loathed bullies.

Fortunately for him, the adult blinked as if he were trying to process Monty’s words. “Controlled?” His brows furrowed. “What are you‒ Mother would never do such a thing. Not to her children.”

“Well, she did,” Vargas finally piped up, coming to Monty’s side. “I was fighting her the whole time while she cast her spell! Where my colleagues” —he pointed to Karlene and Franklyn— “succumbed, I resisted her voice! Had I not, we would all be little pawns for her to command!”

While a bit disgruntled by Vargas’s willingness to make himself appear better than either Monty or Karlene, Monty could appreciate him growing a pair and standing with Monty against the bug.

The bug, in response, stared dumbfoundedly for a second longer before he sat on his rump and brought his two forelegs up to his muzzle. A slow, deep groan filled the chamber. “That was a Heartsong,” he said in a rumbling tone as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It is one of the most powerful and magical things in the world that can happen spontaneously.” He rested his forelegs back to the dirt. “The Queen was singing from her heart, and you‒ you brain-addled idiots didn’t realise it!”

That last phrase had come out as a menacing shout that was accompanied by an air of frustration that Monty had not felt before. It was powerful enough that both he and Vargas stumbled back by the ferocity of the shout.

“She poured her love out for you,” the bug continued, voice hitting a high note but sounding more subdued, almost remorseful. “You could have done nothing, and the winds would have left you untouched.” A foreleg sprang up to jab accusingly at the humans. “Do you have any idea how rare it is for such a song to bless a changeling?”

There was a… well, not a guilty silence, but something that approached it. Franklyn himself felt more at a loss for words than being remorseful. Remorse was, however, what he mainly sensed from Vargas and Karlene—especially Karlene.

So that’s what the Queen was. What they all were. The sound was nonsensical to a human’s ears, but it carried an inordinate amount of meaning. It took Monty a second to realise why, after a brief image of seeing a goddamn human head on the body of one of these things. If the female adult hadn’t thought it overly strange, that must’ve meant that probably any one of them could change body parts like that, right? Despite the lack of evidence, a voice in the back of his head vehemently agreed with his assessment.

Still, he had to make sure. “Changeling?”

Monty felt his ears tilt upwards automatically as he spoke. The word —the name, really— it had something that gave him several sensations: comfort, familiarity and something that came close to pride. There was context to the name that Monty didn’t recognise but could acknowledge. It made him feel, for lack of a better word, safe.

“That’s what you are, yes,” the adult replied. “That’s what we are.” His eyes looked over the trio, somewhat softened from before. When he next spoke, so too did his tone soften. “She loves you. Like she loves the rest of us.” There was a tug at one of the corners of his lips. “The Queen wouldn’t admit it, but you’re her favourites.” That smirk quickly turned sour. “Or at least you were.”

Monty spared a glance at his companions. Karlene’s ground-bound gaze hadn’t shifted, though Franklyn suspected that what he was sensing from her was a pang of even more profound guilt. Vargas, in contrast, stared back, steely-eyed, at the adult.

What do I feel, though?

In a sense, Monty was pissed, much like Vargas. Mindfucking was a helluva weird way for someone to show their affection. But if what the adult said was correct —and Monty couldn't spot the dishonesty in his words— then was their abrupt declaration of not being what she thought they were the right call?

Franklyn was not God's gift to the world, he knew that much. Acting on impulse, while useful at times, caused him headaches more often than not. One thing that he was good at, however, was responding appropriately to slights that he had given upon others, imagined or otherwise. It wasn't even that hard; once his head cleared of whatever dumb impulse he experienced through, all he did was place himself in the other party's shoes.

So, that is what he did. What if, once in the crib, his baby daughter Ruth suddenly began to speak in tongues and told both Monty and Charlotte that she wasn't her daughter, but something entirely different?

Well, it didn't take too much imagination to guess how this queen was feeling right then.

With one last look at the others, Monty drew a breath and, like a scorned child confronting a disappointed adult, turned to face the bug.

Petiole was a very unhappy nurse. He had had his fair share of testy nymphs and younglings, but never ones that drove their mother away. Oh, sure—Mother would never have admitted that, but he knew her too well. There was a strong hint of cynicism in both her tone and smell when she left. It didn't happen too often, but whenever Petiole sensed that bitter smell, Mother would always end up in her chambers to sulk.

The nurse was reasonably sure that never in changeling history had there been a case where nymphs had irritated their queen to such a level. No self-respecting queen would have let it get to that point, and the sources of this trouble sat before him, each one with a different self-evident emotional attitude and problem.

And he was supposed to handle them? If Mother couldn’t, how could he?

A conversation with Mother from weeks before resurfaced, and he found it almost prophetic. I've done as experience has taught me and followed my intuition, Petiole heard her voice say. Have I been wrong to do as I have done countless times before?

He logically recognised the dilemma, but he only truly understood the problem that lay beneath the surface when faced with the situation himself. It was no wonder how Mother had gotten distraught then, and Petiole was left to wonder how she could handle it. He certainly didn't see how one could do so without losing their patience.

The air thickened with unpleasant moisture. Petiole's nostrils twitched to this, and he made a note to let the tunnel workers know about this infiltration. It wouldn't do for his little siblings to catch a nasty infection after all of this trouble.

Okay, that was a decent return to form. If all else fails, just focus on their health, he told himself.

This line of thought slowed as the tiny warrior approached. Petiole carefully regarded Scape, watching for any bit of body language to decipher. All he saw was a sense of bravado masking his sibling's genuine emotions which Petiole couldn't immediately recognise.

Scape promptly spoke when coming to a stop. "I apologise."

The Alpha blinked slowly. That was unexpected.

"I apologise for myself and the others," Scape continued, sighing softly. "We've been through a lot these past, ah, days."

Petiole's glare softened as he allowed a subtle nod. "That you—" He grunted as he caught himself. "That we have. Do not think that excuses you from the consequences." Petiole said that last bit while shifting his focus over to Lancea. Her dejected aura and look were telling.

"Yeah," said Scape, his lips tugging downwards. "We're all adults —least I think we are— and we gotta own up to it."

The Alpha almost scoffed at the notion but decided against doing so. Instead, he chose to indulge his little sibling. If nothing else, it was a new angle for Petiole to approach the nymphs. And to properly discipline them, he added to himself.

He walked past Scape, prompting a questioning look from the nymph, and placed himself in between Scape, Farris and Lancea. A sly application of pheromones got them to close in, though Farris's wrinkled nose made it clear that at least he had noticed it. At least he hadn't made a fuss about it this time.

"Very well," Petiole began as he sat comfortably, looking over the trio. "Since we're all adults, then explain everything." When only an exchange of looks between the nymphs came as a reply, Petiole added, "What were you in your supposedly previous lives?"

At first, the nymphs looked at each other, prompting a smug smile from the Alpha. No cover story, eh? he thought sarcastically. However, Farris soon spoke up.

"I'm an actor," he said, looking rather smug himself.

Petiole looked him over. "You're a drone," he deadpanned. "A drone who can't act would be ashamed of himself."

"No, you a-bee-see-de-ree-un!" Farris blurted out. "I mean that I was an actor before I came to in this place!"

The Alpha wondered for a brief moment as to what in the Hatcher's name Farris called him, but he was more interested in the latter claim. "You can act?" he asked in a curious tone.

"Yes," Farris immediately replied, looking momentarily pensive before clearing his throat.

"Hence!" He spoke in a loud and booming voice, dramatically thrusting a hoof to the side. "Home, you idle creatures! Get you home!" Farris walked two steps, looking at nothing in particular. "Is this a holiday? What! Know you not, being mechanical, you ought not walk upon a labouring day without the sign of your profession?" He looked expectantly at his siblings.

They were just as baffled as Petiole was. Farris groaned dejectedly. "I expected better from you two," he muttered in a chitter.

"What was that supposed to be?" Petiole interjected. "Who were you trying to impersonate?"

Farris shot him an odd look. "I was playing the role of Fla-vee-uss from Shake-spear's Jew-lee-uss See-sar. He's an interpretation of a historical character."

Petiole blinked slowly, not understanding. This elicited another groan from Farris, who threw up his forehooves in frustration. “I might as well draw what I am, for a load of good that my words are for you!” His irate petulance melted immediately upon seeing Petiole’s bared fangs and bristling frill that were suddenly right on top of him.

“Do not speak ill of your elders in front of them, whelp." His voice was low and menacing, taking a cue from Mother's prior disciplinary actions. "You may be Mother's favourite, but you will respect your standing in the Hive, Farris."

Farris, to his credit, did not speak out; not even to insist that his name was something else.

Lancea, sitting to the left of Scape, hummed. When both Scape and Petiole took notice, she started slightly, but did not otherwise recoil.

"I, I think that Vargas has a good idea," she said, mumbling softly. Before the Alpha could loom over her like he did with Farris, she quickly added, "W-we could draw! We could draw what we looked like before."

Appeased for the moment, Petiole relaxed his stance and asked, "Draw?"

"Do you not know about drawing?" she asked, taking a step forward with a surprised look.

"Of course I know about drawing!" Petiole said with a roll of his eyes, indignant. "There's just no way you can draw or write. There is no ink or quill to be found in the Hive. Unless you want to simply draw upon the hardened gravel—" he stomped on the ground multiple times "—with your bare hooves, then you're not going to be drawing much of anything."

Lancea's thin ears wilted at the nurse's growing impatience. However, she immediately perked up as she asked, "Do you have graphite? Maybe charcoal?"

Graphite? Petiole wondered quietly as he felt Lancea's pinkish eyes on him. He didn't know anything about it aside from it being a type of rock. Maybe a tunneler would know more, but as of right then, he didn't see what good graphite would do. As for charcoal...

"We have some charcoal," the nurse said, trying to remember where it was stored. "What do you need it for?"

Lancea’s features lit up. It wasn’t quite a smile, but her interest was evident and, Petiole was sure, was the first time she was this enthused. “You can use it to draw on paper or parchments. There’s a whole style based on charcoal sketches.”

“Really?” Scape asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Of course,” Farris said, as if starting to understand where Lancea was coming from. “Why didn’t I think of that? We could do it easily, even without hands.”

Petiole, however, was nowhere nearly as excited as both Farris and Lancea over a drawing exercise. Never mind the useability of charcoal as a substitute for paint or ink, paper was already scarce as it was in the Hive. This idea baffled him, so much so that he barely paid any mind to the comments about hands. He wasn’t even sure if there were any sheets left asides from the few archiving what little of their written history still remained. What would allowing these three to use what precious paper the Hive still held do for them?

No nymph, be they a warrior or drone or worker —Or even queen!— had ever wanted to draw in their youth. What point was there in it? Only drones could eventually learn the craft of scribing and copying. Still, even then, it was only adults with the affinity towards the profession, and Petiole was sure that they never used charcoal. Didn’t it smudge more so than ink? This was a waste of time and of valuable parchment.

But…

His eyes met Lancea. No matter the absurdity of her request, she was more sure of herself than she had previously been; he could see it in her glowing, pink eyes. Over damn charcoal and paper, no less! The mere fact that she was this certain over what felt like a trifling matter spoke volumes, and the sceptic in Petiole, though still loud and determined, was at least curious to where this would lead.

If nothing else, this could prove as an outlet for his siblings. Perhaps to see if their imagination held up after all. Or maybe they really are alien, he thought to himself.

The scraping of dirt brought Petiole out from his thoughts, and he spied Sclerite hurriedly scurrying through the threshold.

“It’s done, Alpha,” she reported with a soft pant: she had run all the way. “The other nurses have been notified of the situation.”

Petiole nodded an affirmative, still pensive for a brief moment. Then, he addressed Sclerite: “Get some sheets of papers and some charcoal.”

Her quizzical expression was as immediate as it was expected. “What for?”

The Alpha did not reply immediately. He eyed the three nymphs. A worker, a drone, and a warrior all drawing with lumps of coal. That image was almost too comical to not leave it to the imagination. He even chuckled.

“For art, of course.”

Monty was never the artist. At least, not the visual arts kind. The occasional doodle that took up the corners of some papers at ‘the office’ was not enough to make him one. He never graduated from notebook sketches in junior high. All of this made him unsure of what Karlene was hoping to achieve. They didn’t have hands, how the hell could he even hold a lump of charcoal without them? He told Karlene as much.

“We’ll manage,” she said tersely. “We’ve got to prove to them what we used to be.”

Franklyn understood her end goal, but he wasn’t sure that drawing stick figures would do much to prove their point. At least the big bug wasn’t angry anymore. That was some good news at least.

Vargas, rather unsurprisingly, had a few choice words regarding Karlene and Monty’s ignorance of ‘a Shakespeare classic’. By this point, he’d learnt that Vargas would be one of those people that he’d tune out whenever he started talking about inane shit. Who the hell even thought of Julius Caesar when someone mentioned old Shakes? At least if Karlene recognised Vargas’s act, Monty could chalk it up to his own ignorance in ‘the arts’.

The second in command bug returned not long after, a small stack of sheets and chunks of charcoal following her in mid-air. Like the first time she performed her magic trick, it didn’t fail to impress and shock. Seeing the green aura emanating from the horn, Franklyn idly wondered if it was something that he and the others could do. That question returned in force once he had a sheet placed neatly in front of him with a bit of rough charcoal on the side.

Looking to the expert among them, Monty asked, "Aren't these a bit too big, Karlene?"

"This... this is just a piece of raw charcoal," she stated in a hushed tone, poking her rock-like charcoal. "I've only worked with charcoal sticks. This is way bigger."

"Miss Pender's right, Hackett." Vargas tried to grab his charcoal with his foreleg, only for it to slip his grasp. "How are we supposed to do this with rocks and no hands?"

Didn’t you just say that it’d be a cinch without hands? Franklyn wanted to say, but opted not to aggravate the situation. Instead, he looked to the big bug who was now wearing a smug smile. Hackett wondered what he was smiling for when it hit him: he was expecting them to fail and wanted to see them struggle.

The big 'changeling' craned his massive head closer. "The Epsilon and I are waiting." That stupid little smile never left his face. Oh, you’ve just made it personal now.

This realisation invigorated Monty. He wasn't in on the idea of trying to draw, but dammit, now he wanted to just wipe that shit-eating grin off of his damn face.

He grabbed his charcoal with both of his forelegs as if they were forceps. While awkward, his grasp was solid enough that Monty was sure that he could get work done now. A dirty canvas, probably the size of a page of a typical notebook, was waiting to be filled.

The question now was what would convince the smart-ass bug that he was once a human? The easy answer was himself, but the details weren't as obvious. A mugshot? Maybe him in his firefighter uniform? How well could he draw, especially with a rock instead of a pen and with stumps instead of hands?

First the face, Franklyn finally decided, carefully moving his charcoal to the paper, and drew it towards him. The sheet immediately crumpled with the movement.

He hissed out in frustration, flattening the paper, only to see the line become smudged. "Shit." Charcoal was nothing like a pencil and, if Karlene was any indication, raw charcoal wasn't typically used for drawing.

Further attempts to draw resulted in further crumples, and made a clean sketch now impossible. To prevent other crumples, Monty had to scoot himself closer and laid his two 'free' legs over the edges of the paper. Smudged as it was, drawing anything other than a stick figure or a —what's it called?— a silhouette wouldn't look right.

When he looked over at his companions, they both had figured out how to handle their charcoal and had gotten to work. A quick peek at Vargas's drawing gave Monty an idea for his. Vargas's movements were deliberate but brisk. His image looked like an elegant silhouette doing... what was that, a basketball dunk?

Focusing on Karlene's work immediately put every doodle that Monty had ever done to shame. Her lines were rough but stylised, and while it was still nowhere near done, Monty could easily recognise the beginnings of a face. Karlene's lines were slow and prudent, and she would not have finished quickly. It wouldn't win any awards, but damn if Monty wasn't interested in the end result. Basing his sketch off of hers wouldn't work at all.

As he wondered as to just how Karlene was managing this, he noticed that the charcoal in her grasp wasn’t a lump. It looked like it was a thin, slightly irregular chip. Looking to her side, Monty spotted her original chunk of charcoal. Damn, that was smart. A quick check over at Vargas, he too had done something similar, though his small chip of charcoal wasn’t as fine as Karlene’s.

Monty decided to try something similar. He placed his charcoal to the side and, remembering just how sharp his solitary ‘toe’ was, he began chipping at his piece, gingerly at first. Then, as there was a clear indentation, he went hard at it until a quick movement split the piece in two. Whoops.

His chip wasn’t so much a chip as it was just half a piece of charcoal, but at least he now had an edge with which he could work well enough.

Carefully moving his chip back and forth, Monty adopted a sort of cross-hatching style, slowly giving form to a firefighter wielding a fire axe. Well, at least a very rough approximation of one. More than once, he ripped parts of the paper, crumpling it further and smudging the drawing even more. By the end of it, the sheet looked like it had been a dog's chew toy that had been placed inside of a dirty chimney.

At least Franklyn had drawn himself. Okay, something that was meant to represent him. Eager and somewhat satisfied, he turned to see the others' work.

Vargas's sketch was the same in nature: a basic form of a man doing some sort of theatrical pose that had been smudged with some intent to help define some of the finer details like the hands and head. Had Monty wanted to, back when he was still human, he probably could have easily sketched something similar.

"What's he doing there?" he asked, curious.

Vargas bristled. "This is a chironomic posture as depicted by Gilbert Austin and François Delsartes," he explained in an irritated voice and side glance. "It's a classical form to display exaltation and expansion."

"Uh-huh." Monty nodded dumbly. This was way, way beyond his knowledge from his drama classes. There was no point in disputing or questioning Vargas, so he went along with it.

Vargas's green stink eye and emotional waves from him were apparent. At least he didn't reply with a snarky comment.

Turning to peer over at Karlene's own work, Franklyn was surprised to see both of the changelings looking on from above her. The two were watching with wide-eyed curiosity and, in the male's case, with no small amount of bewilderment. Approaching to get a look himself, Monty too was impressed.

It was still being worked on, but it was a stylised bust of a smiling woman with long and somewhat straight hair. The style reminded Monty of a high-school sketch that was on the higher end of quality with the amount of effort displaying the artistry. Oh sure, there was some unintentional smudging here and there, but it was far cleaner than either of Vargas or Monty's pieces. The paper, he noted, was also far more pristine with almost no crumples. Even Vargas had torn slightly into his sheet, but Karlene's lines were drawn with a soft and caring touch. Considering the less-than ideal working conditions, this was a hell of an achievement. She was still working on adding some details to the partial shirt; it was probably the nametag and patch.

Not that he'd see the finished product because the paper was suddenly engulfed in an all-too-familiar green aura. Karlene jumped slightly before eliciting an irritated 'hey!' as the sheet floated away from her. It rose to eye-level with the two adults, turned slightly towards the male who was holding it with his levitation trick.

After some time and an exchange of looks with the smaller adult, the male asked, "What is this?"

Karlene rose to her feet. "It's me," she said before deflating a bit. "Well, it's sort of how I look. I can't really draw faces from memory."

The adults' eyes focused back on the image. The female drew closer to the other changeling. "Doesn't look like anything that I've ever heard of," she said in a mutter, eliciting a soft chittering sound from the other.

Monty saw the big boss bug shifting his jaw as he came to the uncomfortable realisation that the humans were, in fact, not making shit up. It made him all sorts of giddy, and he couldn't help his own smug smirk. Sure, it wasn't his drawing that was earning this reaction, but that didn't diminish the sense of self-satisfied pride at the sight of the adult squirming at his own defeat.

Eventually, the male shifted his icy blue eyes over at Karlene. "What creature is th‒ what are you supposed to be?"

"A human woman," Karlene stated resolutely, not showing any uncertainty. "A bipedal mammal descendant from primates."

The bug turned to face his colleague. She tilted her head, and her shoulders slumped in a shrug. He let out a low hiss.

"A minotaur but without the bovine features?" It sounded like he was saying it more to himself, though Monty heard it clearly.

Minotaur? wondered Monty. He hadn't enough time to ponder on it when the adult walked over to Vargas's and Monty's drawings.

"And these are supposed to be—" He paused, working his jaw. "Hue-mans?" Funnily enough, he had said the latter word in English.

Karlene replied for Vargas and Franklyn: "They are." She took a look at Franklyn's work, and raised an eyebrow. "Though that one looks like an axe murderer."

"It's a firefighter," Monty muttered under his breath.

...although, now that he observed it again, it did look like an axe-wielding maniac with a wide-brimmed hat. He could have definitely done better.

Again the two adults shared a look. After a conversation based entirely on eye contact, the male's horn glowed brighter as both Vargas's drawing and Monty's rose up to accompany Karlene's sketch. He made for the exit.

"Hey!" Karlene called out. "Does this mean that you believe us?"

There was no response, nor did he pause, as he left. The remaining adult's gaze followed him until he disappeared from view and shifted back to the three former humans. She looked uncertain, opening her mouth once before closing it. After another false start, she said, "Would you..." She blinked and looked over to Monty. "Could you explain what you were, exactly?" A moment passed before she added, “Please.”

Monty's eyes widened momentarily before a ghost of a smile crept up his face. Progress.

Work.

Chrysalis listened halfheartedly to her alphas' report. It was more of the same: the food stores were still on the decline; the Hive required additional space for the growing population; there were encroaching tatzlwurm incursions, and the outposts at the Hills pointed to intrusive pony settlements to the North. The only bit of good news from this was that the new colonies brought another opportunity for sequestrations. Perhaps that would help somewhat the food situation.

Oversee.

Alpha Carapace's words were the last ones reaching Chrysalis's ear, though many of them weren't committed to memory. There was little point to it; the overall scents and meaning did not change. She was reporting the increasing strength of the warrior pods. That was good, at least. They were the crux of the Queen's answer to the Hive's many challenges.

Protect.

The old ways were no longer sufficient. Chrysalis's mother had started the path that Chrysalis herself had continued to tread upon. The time for indirect actions and subterfuge was coming to an end, and the Hive would have to adapt to the new conditions of the world. It was a war footing, one that was mostly anathema to a hive, but a necessary one. Chrysalis loathed the idea of having her hoof forced in such a manner, even if it was in the service for her own children. Even Scape, Lancea and—

Chrysalis narrowed her eyes and grimaced, frustrated. Were she any more so, her gaze could have pierced right through any of her changelings. Good thing that she was currently staring at an artificial stalactite.

Lead.

Yes, she would have to lead them through these troubling times. It would not be easy. A painful twang resonated within the Queen at the thought of the inevitable losses. She'd already lost many, and each loss had cut deeply. Every single one was a subject, friend, and child all rolled into one. Every single one: lost to the cruelties of the world.

Inspire.

It was a pain that she would have to bear for her brood. They needed Chrysalis as much as she needed them. What was a queen without her hive? And, to the same extent, what was a hive without a queen? However, she knew that she would have to bear this weight alone. All of her children, from the mightiest alpha to the lowliest zeta, would follow their mother into Tartarus if it came to it.

Not Farris, the damned disobedient little—

She shut her eyes. She couldn’t think about them, not now.

Prosp—

"My Queen?"

Chrysalis took a sharp breath and snapped open her eyes, focusing on the alpha that had spoken to her. The golden-eyed Trapjaw looked on, not showing any direct concern, though her questioning tone was evident.

The Queen shifted on her throne and rested her head upon a hoof. She sighed. "Speak, Trapjaw."

Trapjaw's shoulders slackened slightly. "It's about the new nymphs, my Queen," she said, betraying nothing.

The chamber grew empty. Or, at least that's how Chrysalis perceived it. It was cavernous enough to begin with, and though no less frugal than most other chambers in the Hive, the throne chamber was still moderately populated at all times. Despite this, it felt empty to Chrysalis. Only she and the alphas before her existed as of right then.

The warrior had clearly noticed the shift within her Queen. "I apologise if I speak out of turn, Your Highness," she said as she bowed her head and stared at the ground in deference.

"You do not, Trapjaw," Chrysalis replied with a wave of her hoof. She wanted to sigh, but she felt that doing so again so soon would reflect poorly in the warriors' eyes. Despite this, she regarded the Alpha with a furrowed brow. "What about them?"

At last, she looked somewhat hesitant. Trapjaw briefly glanced up from her bow and to her closest peer before slowly rising to her standing height. "It's just that—" She hummed thoughtfully. "It's that we have neither seen nor heard from the nymphs." A few nods and affirmative smells from the other four alphas followed her statement. "I think that I speak for all of us in saying that we do not presume much from you, but surely seeing our siblings would be a concession that you'd grant us, Mother."

Chrysalis's eyes narrowed further, quickly sweeping over the five alphas. "And you all believe this?"

There was another round of affirmatives. Alpha Carapace straightened up slightly. "We've been told that they're marked," she spoke with a firm yet respectful voice. "Shouldn't they be introduced to the whole Hive? If nothing else, they could be something that the drones and workers can aspire to." This too gained more decisive nods.

Chrysalis considered Carapace's suggestion. Her slow exhale was barely noticed, but her contemplative eyes were more evident. Not that she really cared that much. She just wanted to distract herself for a few hours, but none offered her that small mercy—not even Chrysalis herself.

The matter of her newest children —they were hers, no matter what they said, much to her chagrin— was bound to arise at some point, of course, but she had still hoped that it wouldn't have. Chrysalis hadn't had time to really consider how to tackle the issue that...

...that I dumped upon poor Petiole.

Her eyes focused again, lips tightening. "They are not ready," said the Queen. That was truthful enough.

The alphas did not break their stances, though Carapace shot her a questioning look. "Hasn't it been almost two days since their emergence?"

"Is something– is there something wrong with them?" Trapjaw asked, smelling worried.

Chrysalis raised her head and rested her hooves. She stared down the two alphas. "They, my dear alphas," she began with an overly saccharine tone, "are not ready. Until you are otherwise informed, they are not ready to be introduced to the Hive, and you will not question this."

An eerie silence followed. Carapace's expression did not harden, but Trapjaw's eyes widened slightly. The other three, Mandible, Squama, and Tornus, reacted in their own subtle ways. The Queen craned her neck to highlight her fanged grimace.

"Am I understood?" she said with a long, menacing hiss.

Carapace closed her eyes whereas Trapjaw momentarily averted eye contact. Neither of them responded.

Chrysalis scoffed and sat back, running her tongue along her teeth. "You are dismissed, alphas."

"Your Highness," Squama said quietly for the group. As one, they all bowed their heads and turned. None of them looked back except for Trapjaw who almost snuck a glance back towards the Queen, but didn't otherwise linger. Chrysalis recognised that look: We're here to help, Trapjaw seemed to say.

Chrysalis did not reply; it hurt to not accept their help, but what could they offer? They were not queens, but they came close. Admittance of weakness to her alpha warriors would be tantamount to surrendering her position as queen. No changeling would think to challenge their own queen, but the impact on her status would still be devastating.

She would resolve this, one way or the other.

A sigh escaped her as she slumped into her throne; there was no avoiding this. It had to be taken care of immediately. Much as I don't want to, she whined internally.

"My Queen!"

Chrysalis groaned—she couldn't help it. "What?" she asked tersely.

It was Petiole. His slow approach stopped at her irritated voice. "My apologies, Your Highness," he said with a respectful head bow. It was only then that Chrysalis saw that he had three sheets of paper in his magical grasp, each in various states of wear and tear.

The sight slightly abated her annoyance, and her curiosity was piqued. Reports were strictly oral. Why would the drone have precious paper? Chrysalis beckoned him over. "What do you have there?"

Petiole tried and failed to respond as he drew close. It was only when he was before her that he offered the sheets. Puzzled, she reached out with her magic to bring them over.

She couldn't tell what she was looking at. They were all some sort of sketch (though she couldn't tell what tool was used), but that was all that they really shared in common.

Only the first two, some sort of two-legged figures, were somewhat recognisable. The first was moderately cleaner than the second, and the thin body was better defined. Chrysalis could distinguish arms and hands, though she couldn't find other features that would go with the hands. Were this a minotaur, it lacked the distinct horns and tail, and the body was far too lanky. She couldn't tell what that pose was supposed to indicate.

The second came closer to something minotaur-like, but the artistry was left wanting as evidenced by the damage wrought on the paper and the smudges. It held something in its grasp and had some sort of headgear? Honestly, with the chicken-scratch quality, it was difficult to tell. This figure was also missing its horns and tail.

The third… the third was the most intriguing.

Unlike the first two, this drawing was a bust of something that she couldn't identify. She could make out the eyes, the mane, and the mouth—that was easy enough. Everything else, however, left the Queen perplexed: the mane fell down to the thin shoulders, and the head and face had an overall oval shape with a pointed chin. It had a relatively short neck and wore some sort of blouse with something underneath that. A round protrusion on either side of the front torso was evidenced through the clothing. Long, spindly limbs ran down the sides to Hatcher-knew-where. And—

Is that supposed to be a nose?

Chrysalis studied the last drawing for a long time; she didn't really know or care, the sketch was almost that mesmerising. Gleaning nothing new from it, she finally regarded Petiole. "Where did you get these?"

Petiole drew in a breath. "Your, hm, your newest children. They drew them, Mother."

She stared dumbly until it finally clicked: the hue-mans.

It really should have been obvious. Now that Chrysalis knew, these could only have been representations of what those nymphs had claimed to be. She had not paid it any mind since then because... well, she really did not want to, though now, as the descriptions were repeated in her mind, it all began to make sense.

They fit their description, but she still couldn't picture them as these 'hue-mans', and in a way, that was a bad sign. A changeling who couldn't form a mental image of a being for a disguise was one doomed to fail.

The Queen sniffed. She had to admit: were these the imaginations of egg-addled nymphs, they were rather creative.

Enough! a voice in her chastised. They are not mad, they are not addled, they are real and need your help. They are your responsibility. It sounded eerily like her mother’s voice. Chrysalis didn’t like that.

A scowl found its way on the changeling's snout. Responsibility. That word echoed in Chrysalis's mind. She had heard it plenty when she was but a nymph herself. Mother would always repeat and insist on it. Like it or not, 'hue-man' or not, they were hers to take care of. Chrysalis could not shirk this duty.

A thought came to her though: "How did they draw this?"

"With uh, with charcoal, Mother."

Charcoal? The Queen pouted pensively. This was the first she'd ever heard of a charcoal drawing. She chuckled ruefully. That was all she needed to hear.

"They're really not changelings," Chrysalis said in a whisper.

"My Queen?"

She scanned the drawings for a bit longer before rising up from her throne and descending from it with fluttering wings. She set them aside upon a rudimentary rock slab as she spoke to Petiole.

"Let's go, Petiole," Chrysalis said, putting on an authoritative aura. "I want to meet them. Properly this time."