The Many Faces of the Crowdby Rambling WriterChaptersHole-in-the-Wall, Part 1Catalina'sThe Red RoseCrosstownHole-in-the-Wall, Part 2Hole-in-the-Wall, Part 3Hole-in-the-Wall, Part 1She was near the end of the bar when I first saw her, perfectly placed in that strange space your eyes tend to skip over when surveying something. Not visible by being in the middle and the first thing you saw, not visible by being an outlier on the ends. In the play of my life, she was an extra. And yet, such a well-dressed extra, relatively speaking. Hole-in-the-Wall was a dive. I liked it, but it was a dive. The sort of place that was perpetually grungy and a few steps short of being rundown because the clientele didn’t care about how it looked. The sort of place with tacky knick-knacks all over the walls. The sort of place that kept oil lamps (indoor oil lamps! Here, in Canterlot!) instead of light gems for “atmosphere”, and yet never bothered investing in fans that turned fast enough to dispel the smoke the lamps created. I suspected I’d grow quite fond of it soon. I noticed her because of her dress. It was almost sparkly, a soft green. Maybe a little bit uptight for this sort of place, but nothing too eyebrow-raising. Coupled with her yellow coat, she resembled a corncob, half-stripped from its husk. The one thing breaking the illusion was her mane. Rather than the pale green of cornsilk, it was coppery that night. I kept watching her because I didn’t recognize her face. That was surprising; I knew everypony else here by sight, although few by name. Not only was she new, she was alone. If you hadn’t come to Hole-in-the-Wall before, you wouldn’t come at all unless a friend escorted you in. The place looked too suspicious from the outside. Yet here she was, sitting like she’d always been here. Nopony seemed interested in her; this wasn’t a chummy place. Part of the reason I’d chosen it. At first I thought her eyes were roving the menu, looking for something to drink or eat; she didn’t have anything in front of her. But her head was too low for that. I followed her gaze and met the mirror in the backbar. One way to inconspicuously watch everypony, I guessed. Watching because… I couldn’t guess. I was here alone. She didn’t look lonely, but what the hay. Might as well try. I resolutely got up and wound my way around the tables, mumbling excuse mes and pardons as I slipped gracelessly through the maze. I dropped onto the stool next to her and almost cringed as I looked at myself in the mirror. I hadn’t gotten all the grease off myself from my construction job, my mane was incredibly frizzy, and my clothes were the strange mishmash that comes from reaching into a drawer and putting on the first things that come to hoof. A habit my ex had said drove her up the wall. I should’ve listened harder to her. I expected her to reject me out of hoof. But you never know until you try. I cleared my throat and tried. “Hey.” She turned to look at me, not at all surprised. She’d’ve seen me coming in the mirror, after all. “Hey.” That night, her eyes were a soft brown. “I’m Cobblestone. Can I buy you a drink?” Might as well go direct. “If you want. I don’t care what you get, so surprise me.” Her voice had a perfect middle-class Canterlot accent, clipped with a hint of softened R’s, just like mine. It was smooth the same way a river was smooth: it wasn’t flat, it had its ups and downs, but it flowed easily between ups and downs. “Cool.” I can’t remember what I ordered, but it was cheap. When our drinks came, she took a quick swig, glanced at the clock, twitched exaggeratedly. “Sorry,” she said quickly, “but I gotta go. Lost track of time.” She quickly slid off her stool and began making her way to the door. “Thanks for the drink, anyway.” “That’s fine.” I was growing used to spending time alone, ever since those arguments with my friends over the past week. I looked at her glass. Still half-full. Four-fifths-full, even. Shame to waste it. I reached out to grab it- A crash, like a table getting overturned. Everypony turned; the mare had collided with a stallion, a big one, just as she was leaving. She was lying in the floor, half-drenched in drinks from a nearby table; he was hanging awkwardly over a chair. As the stallion got to his hooves, I expected him to be the shouty, angry, gravelly-voiced kind. He surprised me with a soft Trottingham accent and a stutter. “Oh, Celestia, I, I, I am so sorry, th-that’s my fault, I, I wasn’t l-looking where I was going-” The mare surprised me more with her own Trottingham accent and stutter. “N-no, I w-wasn’t paying attention either, i-it’s my fault, t-too.” I thought I was hearing things. I wiggled a hoof in my ear as the stallion began gathering up scattered shot glasses and the conversation continued. “No, r-really, I should’ve b-been-” “L-look, it’s b-both our faults, d-do you want s-some help?” Still the accent. Still the stutter. The conversation dissolved into a haze as I watched the mare. The shift in her speech had escaped everypony else unnoticed. Then again, they hadn’t heard her speak with a Canterlot accent in the first place. So: why? What was up with her? If my interest had been piqued before, it only climbed higher when the bouncer walked over to survey the damage. “ ’Ey. Somethin’ goin’ on? Take it outside.” She sounded like she ate gravel as an appetizer. I angled my ears toward the door before the mare could speak. When she did, I was both surprised and unsurprised. “Nah. Ain’t nothin’ wrong here. Wasn’t looking. Hit ’im. My fault.” Not as hard as the bouncer’s, but still solid and brusque. Not something that should’ve come from a mare wearing that dress. The bouncer, not around for the collision, didn’t notice the shift. The stallion, wrapped up in cleaning up, didn’t notice the shift. The bouncer left, the mess was gone, the stallion apologized profusely, the mare apologized profusely (back to the Trottingham accent), they both left. It’s probably nothing, I told myself. She has a good reason for doing that. Maybe she’s an actress, testing her accents. Even if she’s not, it’s none of your darn beeswax. And yet… I looked back at her glass. Four-fifths-full. I looked at mine. Three-quarters-empty. I looked at the door. The choice took only seconds; I pushed a few bits at the bartender, mumbled to her to keep the change, and left the bar. Catalina'sI knew it probably qualified as stalking. I didn’t care. The drizzle hadn’t stopped yet. I don’t really get the point of drizzles. Why can’t the weather teams dump all the rain in torrents and get it over with? It was probably mentioned in the weather bits when we were studying arcane science in school. I’d never paid attention in that. The drizzle hadn’t stopped yet, but I wasn’t bothered. Neither was she, by the look of it. She (and I) walked down the street with a purpose, striding through puddles without a second look. Her dress connived with the water to remain spotless, flashing cleanly in the pale streetlights. Even this late, the streets had enough traffic to obscure me slightly. Still, I wasn’t sure if fifty feet was far enough. All she had to do was look over her shoulder, and… But she never did. Why would she? I was quiet. And I was curious. A dangerous combination. I wasn’t sure what I was accomplishing, but I couldn’t turn away. Maybe I’d spent so many nights alone that just talking with her had caused me to grow an attachment to her. The recent bad spots in my life and complete lack of better attachments made me ignore how unhealthy it was. She walked. I followed. She walked. I followed. Minutes passed. She turned down Latigo Avenue, an empty street that connected two busy parallel thoroughfares because something had to. The street was deserted. I slowed my pace, hoping all the more that she wouldn’t look over her shoulder. Then she changed. It was quick, easy. One second, an earth pony was walking down the street, and suddenly her body was engulfed in green. At first I thought it was reflections from the puddles, but all the lamps were the cold white of light gems, and by the time I’d registered that, she was a pegasus. She never broke her stride. I broke mine on nothing and my breathing hitched up a notch. I followed her a little more, forcing myself to stay slow, the regular rhythm of my hooves making me calm down. And then it clicked: changeling. I didn’t know much about changelings, aside from a few facts. They were shapeshifters. Obviously. They’d fed on love. Finally, they weren’t supposed to be a threat anymore. Chrysalis or whatever their princess’s name was had been kicked out and the entire species had turned over a new leaf. Unlikely, in my opinion, but every one of our princesses had vouched for them. Either way, what was a changeling doing in a Canterlot dive? And where was she going now? She never looked back. I kept following. I noticed that more than just her body had changed; her dress (now red) was a smaller, more functional thing, less concerned with looking nice and more concerned with covering up. Her mane was spiky and had a bleached look. She took a left at the intersection and risked vanishing into the crowd. I managed to keep my eyes on her, following that red dress. She soon entered Catalina’s; the doorpony outside only nodded at her. I tried to enter Catalina’s; the doorpony stopped me and scrutinized my greasy coat and frizzy mane for an uncomfortable few moments before grudgingly letting me in. I’d never been in Catalina’s before. Inside was a roiling miasma of rhythmic colored lightning and redundant electronic thunder that hit me like a hammer to the face. Ponies twirled and whirled on the dance floor, lost in themselves and their partners and the molten crowd. I almost missed her, but the red dress screamed out to me. She was alone again, at the bar, watching ponies in a chrome-plated section of wall. No drink. As with Hole-in-the-Wall, she looked like she belonged here. I was uncomfortably aware of how much I didn’t, especially without a partner. I grabbed an empty seat at a table that had a good view of the bar and was hopefully close enough to hear her. All the while, I prayed she wouldn’t look over her shoulder… When she finally did, it was in the opposite direction. “Hey, foxy mama!” A stallion with a loose shirt and tight pants sidled up to her. From his smile, he looked buzzed. I immediately started cataloguing his voice; not unlike mine, from what little I’d heard, although I’d rather drill holes in my head through my eyes than use a term like that. I expected her voice to change again. It didn’t disappoint. “Hey! Lookin’ stylin’.” It sounded like it had when I met her, only now, I had to resist the urge to gnaw on the table. “You wanna stomp with?” Some slang I couldn’t comprehend. She could, though. “I’m down.” “Groovy.” Soon they were on the dance floor, ritualistically going through a series of ridiculous poses. He looked like he was having fun, but he wasn’t the most coordinated, especially not next to her. Her movements were crisp, precise, and that was when I spotted the chink. Her dancing was perfect. She always hit the floor on the beat, always landed her hooves in the right spot, always moved her tail in just the right way. Not a hair was out of line. Her dancing was technically flawless, which meant it was rote. All around her, the other dancers, the “real” dancers, kept slipping up, in a way. A syncopated stomp here, a twist in the wrong direction there. The more I watched, the more I saw. None of them was the same as any other. But they weren’t mistakes; nothing they ever did hurt the whole. They were the dancers’ own spin on things. Her dancing looked like it’d been learned from a book: graceful, yet artless. She was dancing because she had to. After a minute or so, I was considering ordering a drink in a vain attempt to look like I was meant to be there when she spoke again. “Hey, listen, you’ve been a great partner, but I gotta get going. It’s gonna be early tomorrow, you dig?” I only barely snatched her voice from the din. “I dig,” said the stallion. “Catch you tomorrow, maybe?” She laughed, but it somehow sounded hollow. It might’ve just been me. “Maybe.” She left the dance floor and the crowd absorbed her in. I tailed her; if she hadn’t been wearing that red dress, I would’ve lost her. I knew changelings weren’t supposed to feed on ponies’ love anymore, but I wasn’t about to discount renegades who didn’t listen. Still, she didn’t quite seem like she was taking love. In fact, it was like company repulsed her; I talked to her, she left the bar a minute later for another one, that stallion talked to her, she left that bar a minute later. And the way she watched ponies… I didn’t think she was scoping them out, just watching them. Why? My mind kept telling me to leave well enough alone. It was none of my beeswax and she wasn’t hurting anypony. This could only end in tears, especially after the way my last friendship had ended. It was still drizzling as I followed her out. The Red RoseI was dimly aware that, as a changeling, she might not actually be a “she”. But both her shapes had been mares; I guessed she was most comfortable as a “she”. I half-expected her next shape to be a stallion just to screw with me. I was so focused on her I didn’t even notice the slight rain slowly soaking me, the microscopic lakes I passed through. She was all that mattered, the changeling in front of me. I still didn’t know why; there was obviously a hole, there, but I hadn’t a clue as to the hole’s shape. Maybe I was lonelier than I wanted to admit. It probably shouldn’t’ve been, but hanging back and following her was growing easier for me. Mainly because I’d realized I didn’t need to keep her in view all the time, just often enough to make sure I didn’t lose her. She wouldn’t risk changing in a crowd, right? Right. She turned down an alley; as I trotted to the corner, green painted the walls for half a heartbeat. I turned after her, and the short-maned pegasus mare had been replaced with a long-maned unicorn mare, all curves and waves in body, tail, and mane. Blue dress, now; robin’s-egg blue and a shade more glamorous than her Hole-in-the-Wall one had been. A part of me I wasn’t aware existed noted her walk: almost-but-not-quite casual, just a little taut, like she was struggling against rubber bands, but certainly purposeful. That part also noted her walk hadn’t changed from shape to shape to shape. Finally, something constant. She and I went back into the crowd, thinned by lateness. She knew where she was going. I’d only been in this part of Canterlot once or twice, only on business. We passed unfamiliar stores on an unfamiliar street. As we walked, I wondered: what did “feeding on love” even entail? Was it true love, or did “I had a couple of drinks and think you’re hot” not-really-love count? Was that what she was after? Why did she leave whenever she attracted a companion? I still didn’t know what she wanted. Doubted I’d ever find out without asking her. I almost missed her turning into a club with an intricate neon sign: a flower stylized so that its petals spelled out the place’s name, the Red Rose. Once again, nopony looked twice as she climbed the steps. I tried to follow, but once I was under the awning, the unicorn at the door held up a hoof. “Wait.” My breath caught in my throat. I’d lose her. “Look, I-” The unicorn’s horn glowed; half a second later, every drop of water had slid out of my coat, leaving me dry as could be. The unicorn stepped aside and waved me in. I wished I had a hat to pull over my eyes. “Thanks. Sorry.” I was greeted by Art Deco mirrors and leafy ferns, hardwood floors and terracotta ceilings, abstract paintings and stained-glass chandeliers. The Red Rose was a place with class, lacking the glamorous facade of Catalina’s but more dressed-up than Hole-in-the-Wall. This place had music, real music, in the form of a soft jazz ensemble with loose ties and pinstripes. Everything had a thin veil of quiet draped over it, like nopony wanted to disturb anypony else. More than ever, I belonged as much as a plumber at the Grand Galloping Gala. I wondered if that was why I was following her: envy. She slipped in and out of everywhere with ease, always fitting in, the world’s greatest social chameleon. Yet every time somepony welcomed her, she acknowledged them politely and left shortly after. Perhaps the ultimate example of “alone in a crowd”. She took up her usual position in the bar’s blind spot and watched. I took up a table on the wall behind a bird’s nest fern and ordered nothing but water from the waiter. I wanted to be alert tonight. He looked miffed until I pushed my last dozen bits at him in apology for the lack of tip. Perhaps it was the deliberate atmosphere of the Red Rose, but it seemed to take longer for a pony to arrive and greet her. She didn’t mind. In fact, the longer she was alone, the more invested in the mirror she became. Her ears kept swiveling around, picking up snatches of conversation too muffled for me to hear. She was as still and focused as a birdwatcher. But she kept waving off the bartender, much to the latter’s displeasure. Eventually, they exchanged words quietly; I strained to hear them. This time, they spoke in Manehattan accents, probably from around the Broncs. I listened and listened and listened, but she never slipped up. Finally, the bartender put her hoof down and demanded the mare order something or make room for other patrons (in spite of there being six empty stools). The mare sighed and ordered something I gathered was cheap. It arrived quickly, but she didn’t sip much. She kept ponywatching and ponylistening. I stayed obscured behind my green bird’s nest, unnoticed. The drink was a quarter gone when she muttered something about washing up and headed for the bathroom. She came towards me; I shuffled aside in a panic, forcing myself painfully against the wall. She passed by without noticing and entered the bathroom. I quickly scooted around the table and pressed against the wall even harder, trying to stay out of sight of the bathroom door. Not easy. The mare who came out a few seconds later wasn’t her; this one was a pegasus, not a unicorn. I dropped into a more comfortable position, only for a moment. My movement caught the mare’s eye. She looked lazily at me, looked away, did a double-take. Her pupils turned to pinpricks and her breathing quickened. A frozen second later, she bolted for the door. She was almost there by the time it hit me: this mare was her. Nopony was looking at you in the bathroom; what better place to drop your shape and slip away? I was up in an instant, chasing her to the door. “Hey! Wait!” By the time I was out the door, she was gone. Vanished into the crowd, flown into the sky, simply wearing a different shape. Even if I could see her, I wasn’t finding her, not when she was just a face in a sea of faces. I swore under my breath. CrosstownIt was a simple question. “Hey, do you know any other good bars or clubs around here?” Yet everypony in the Hole-in-the-Wall gave me a different answer. “Check out Precipice Tavern. It’s on the edge of the platform and has some spectacular views.” “There’s this place at the corner of Fifth Street and Blue Jay Avenue, best drinks ever, super cheap… Oh, what was its name?…” “Gyroscope Lounge. The food isn’t the greatest, but everypony’s really friendly there and the DJ’s got great taste in music.” “Mojo’s Dueling Piano Bar and Restaurant has… Do I need to explain it? Dueling pianos.” I suspected that if I combined all my answers, I’d have every bar and club in Canterlot, including the illegal ones. I’d tried to let her go, to forget about it. It’s not my business, I repeated to myself, over and over and over and over and over. I tried to ignore the nagging Why? She was scared of me, maybe paranoid I’d turn her over to the Guard; that was why she ran. Even if I looked, she’d be hiding from me. But I couldn’t. I had to find her. She’d be at bars, I guessed. Places where ponies came and went all the time, even after midnight, and nopony asked questions. Places with crowds, yet somepony on their own wouldn’t look too suspicious. So that was where I went, over and over, never the same place twice. Three or four a night, no alcohol. Alcohol would drop a blanket over my senses. For the most part, I didn’t miss it, to my surprise. Maybe I’d just traded one “hobby” for another. At each place, I checked the bar to see anypony watching in the mirror, checked ponies’ gaits to see if they had her tension, checked everypony who had another pony walk up to them to see if they left early. If I saw her, I didn’t recognize her. It wasn’t because she noticed me when I stood out. As the small curiosity grew into an obsession, I began plotting out my route for each night, planning to fit in. Going to these nightclubs this night meant lapelled jackets and too much hair gel. Going to those pubs that night meant ratty flannel shirts and cowboy hats. Going to this lounge on that night meant you’d better bring some light, opinionless discussion. And always get yourself clean before going out at all. At every place, order something, like you’re not lurking around. Even if it was necessary to blend in and hide from her, I hated it. It required too much effort. I wondered how easy it really was for her. I searched and searched. I combed Canterlot for… I don’t know how long. Three or four bars a night might seem like I’d be covering a lot of ground, but Canterlot was a big city. I dove into establishments I wouldn’t’ve looked twice at otherwise. Some nights, I found myself walking more than half an hour to look at places at the other side of the city. At the very least, those nights, I got home tired and fell asleep the moment I hit the sheets. As the nights wore on, I began feeling stretched thin and listless. I had the energy of a light gem left running for a century. I didn’t could respond much to anypony outside of work. And that was why I did something I never thought I’d do: I let Lackaday speak to me again. Hole-in-the-Wall. It was where I’d first seen her, maybe she’d be back. Apropos of nothing, Lackaday dropped into the seat across from me. “Alright, Cobblestone, what’s up? Y’ain’t been ’round ’ere in, wha’, a moon? Y’look terr’ble.” “I’m fine,” I mumbled. It was automatic from near-burnout; any other time, I would’ve forced myself to ignore her. I scanned the bar. Everypony was at least paired up. “Y’sure?” “Yep.” I wasn’t sure why she was talking to me after the way I’d yelled at her all those weeks ago. At least talking with somepony helped disguise me a bit better. “ ’Cause it sure don’t seem like it.” “Lackaday, don’t bother. I told you how I felt.” I regretted it, been regretting it for moons, but I couldn’t take the words back. “Jus’ ’cause y’don’t care ’bout me don’t mean I don’t care ’bout you.” It took me too long to realize what she was saying; that was a lot of “don’t”s. For the first time in weeks, I stopped looking at the bar and looked at the pony in front of me. I opened my mouth- “And I don’t know if y’really meant it, anyways,” said Lackaday. “I saw you after. Y’been beatin’ yourself up ’bout it, right?” I slowly closed my mouth. I nodded. “I mean, you’re the ’motional type, an’ Risin’ Wind ’ad jus’ left you, an’ maybe I was a bit ’arsh. So: I’m sorry. Sayin’ y’just needed t’get over it like tha’-” She smacked her hoof on the tabletop. “-was way outta line.” I looked at Lackaday for a long moment. It’d been too long, I realized, since we’d exchanged this many words. “I’m sorry,” I said suddenly. I hung my head in my hooves as the words cascaded out. “I- Just- There was so much sunblasted crap going on, I-” “You’re forgiven.” “-wanted to yell- at some… Huh?” “You’re forgiven. I woulda said it earlier, but you… Y’know.” “…Just like that? Really?” It was almost too good to be true. But then, Lackaday had been like that. “I known y’for almost a decade, Stoney. Y’ain’t forward ’nough, y’keep too much inside an’ don’t talk when y’should. I know y’really mean it.” “I do not keep too much inside.” “Sure y’do. You’re doin’ it now, makin’ excuses to no’ tell me what’s up. An’ what’s up don’t seem ’ealthy.” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” “Try me.” Tipsy Trotter. So no-frills and drink-focused you couldn’t not fit in as long as you had a container of liquid in front of you. “So y’jus’… think you’ll rec’nize ’er?” asked Lackaday quietly. She’d insisted on coming with me for the night. I couldn’t bear turning her away. “From her walk, from somepony who’s at the bar alone examining other ponies. Maybe, I don’t know.” “Kinda… I dunno. Unlikely.” “It’s the only way I can follow her.” O’Reinigans. The kind of place where you could get your bill waived if your bar fight was entertaining enough. “I’m jus’ sayin’, y’don’t need t’spend every night followin’ ’er. Take a night off.” Lackaday ducked under a flying barstool. “Y’look like y’been run over by a carriage.” “That sounds nice, but I-” I paused so I wouldn’t be drowned out by the sound of shattering glass. “-but I don’t know what I’d do. I’ve been-” “We’re talkin’ again. Wanna jus’ ’ave a night out, you an’ me? Spend an hour conversin’?” I was more pleased by the idea than I thought I’d be, but- “It’s not much. You’d be okay with that?” Lackaday brushed some splinters from her mane. “It’s a start t’get us back on track, ain’t it?” “…Alright, sure. When, tomorrow?” “Sure. I got time. Hole-in-the-Wall?” And it was set. In hindsight, maybe the timing was fate, but I think it was just a wild stroke of luck. Hole-in-the-Wall, Part 2The meetup was entering its final minutes, and the last few frigid drops a gin and tonic dribbled down my throat. I’d had to branch out a bit in drink tastes during my search, since you couldn’t get away with ordering Buck Light everywhere. “So why do y’like alcohol?” asked Lackaday. She was a teetotaler, as she loathed the taste of beer in a way that made Nightmare Moon’s loathing of the day seem like the height of tolerance. “Dulls the pain, mostly.” I hadn’t needed its analgesic properties tonight, though; I just liked the taste of gin and tonic. I’d drunk it slowly. “So y’needed t’dull the pain while bein’ wi’ me? Thanks.” If I’d still been drinking, I would’ve choked. “N-no,” I spluttered in horror, “I- I didn’t mean-” “I’m kiddin’!” Lackaday said with a chuckle. “Sorry, jus’- I dunno.” “No, no, you’ve been great!” And she had been. Tonight, I was feeling something I hadn’t felt in moons: contentment. “Tonight was…” I swallowed. “Th-thanks for… for being here. Sorry about… how I’ve been.” “Ah, forget about it.” I didn’t think Lackaday could dismiss the way I’d wronged her so casually, but she did. “Jus’ lemme know if y’need ’elp wi’ somethin’. I wanna ’elp, now that you’re takin’ it.” Lackaday downed the last of her juice and pushed away from the table. “And, sorry, that time, gotta run.” “Yeah, no, that’s fine. See you, and thanks for coming out.” “Anytime.” Lackaday put a few bits on the table to pay for her drink and left me alone at the table. I twirled the lime dregs around the bottom of my cup. I’d forgotten how much she meant to me, and I hadn’t realized it until I’d driven her away. And once I went back to her, admitted I was wrong, she welcomed me with open hooves. She hadn’t even done anything besides talk, and I felt lighter than I had the past few weeks. Out of curiosity, I twisted around to see if Lackaday had gone yet- -and saw a mare enter with a walk that was almost-but-not-quite casual, just a little taut, like she was struggling against rubber bands. I’d never seen the mare before, but I knew that walk. I rapidly became incredibly interested in my empty cup. Figured. All that effort searching for her, and I found her again the same way I’d found her the first time: sheer dumb luck. I looked at the bar for a moment. She was looking in the mirror again; I couldn’t tell if she’d recognized me. Like all the other times, she was perched on the barstool, alone. But she didn’t look lonely. At least, I didn’t think she did. I fell back into waiting, the same way I had all those nights ago. I wallflowered and she sat. Somepony eventually approached her, words were exchanged in similar accents. I tensed. A few minutes later, she excused herself, just as I was expecting. For a second, I entertained the idea of finally dropping it, now that my life might be slowly reforming. But, no, I couldn’t do that, not now. I’d just go about it a bit differently: I’d go up to her, I resolved, and ask her what was up, and that would be that. Questions answered, no more problems. Drinks long since paid for, I exited the bar. The streets weren’t busy enough to hide in a crowd; she couldn’t’ve gone far. I looked ahead. Didn’t see her. Looked left. Didn’t see her. Looked right. Caught the last few hairs of her tail disappearing into a nearby alley. It wasn’t a long trot, and I soon rounded the corner. Nopony except a batpony lounging against the wall. I was glacial on the uptake. I was turning around to go back into Hole-in-the-Wall when something hit me on the side and pinned me against the brickwork. The batpony was in my face, fangs bared. “Stop following me,” she hissed. She tried to sound threatening, but some part of me heard her pleading. Maybe that was why I wasn’t as scared as I should’ve been. I managed to turn my head so we could see eye-to-eye. “Sorry?” “Leave me alone!” Maybe this was her real voice; it had more sibilance than her others, with too much emphasis on the esses and the effs and the vees. “Don’t play stupid! Half the nights I’m out, I see you somewhere, and I need to keep looking over my shoulder, and-” “I’m not gonna turn you in, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She blinked. Leaned away a bit. Her mouth slackened enough to cover her fangs. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. “Being a changeling’s not illegal. And I don’t think you’re hurting anypony. Anybody.” She wasn’t a pony; would she find “anypony” offensive? After a moment, she backed away, letting me go free. “L-look, I- j-just leave me alone, okay? I-I-” “Are you lonely?” She and I stared at each other. I wasn’t sure where the question had come from. My night with Lackaday, most likely. I hadn’t realized how lonely I was; maybe she didn’t, either. The staring match continued. When she spluttered words out, she was using my accent again. “N-no, i-it’s- I- I don’t-” She turned, ran a few paces, took off straight up. “You know where to find me!” I hollered into the night. Yeah, right, like she’d come back for my help. It was probably her demand that set things straight for me: she wasn’t my business. I should leave her alone. Well, for better or worse, I had a slew of free nights, now. I wondered if Lackaday was open the day after tomorrow. Hole-in-the-Wall, Part 3Gin and tonic might’ve been good, but other alcohols and soft drinks mixed were disgusting. It’d been just over a week since I stopped going after the changeling. Nothing really nagged at me. Speaking to her was enough, I guess. With that idea extracted from my life, new ones had taken its place. Just yesterday, Lackaday had suggested that, if gin and tonic tasted so good, I should try other alcoholic-drink-and-carbonated-drink combinations, too. I didn’t regret it, although I hadn’t yet found a combo that didn’t make me want to vomit. “Whiskey and raspberry soda?” the bartender asked flatly. “Really.” “Have you ever tried it?” “…No…” “I refuse to knock it until I’ve tried it.” With an eyeroll, the bartender served me. I should’ve knocked it. I nursed my tongue back to health with chocolate milk. No, I had to tell Lackaday that do-it-yourself soda cocktails were not good in the slightest. Out of nowhere, an unfamiliar mare sat down next to me and started using the bartop to drum out a slow, nervous beat. I tried to ignore her, but in hindsight, the green eyes and coppery mane should’ve been a giveaway. Finally, it got to be more than I could take. “Can I help you?” “Thank you for not following me,” she whispered in a certain sibilant voice, “but I need help.” I choked and started slamming my hoof against my throat. When my airways had cleared themselves, I whispered to her, “Alley, last place we met. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Her mouth tightened, but she nodded and was soon gone. I quickly finished, paid, and left. A cool wind was blowing through the alley, but I barely noticed. It don’t think she did, either; she kept walking back and forth, staring at the ground and crunching through the gravel. She wouldn’t’ve noticed if I hadn’t cleared my throat. “Hey.” Her ears went up and she raised her head. Her breathing hitched for a moment. She smoothed out her mane — not that it needed it — and muttered, “I need help.” “You said that already. Context, please?” “Well- It- I- Okay, look, you, you know how changelings aren’t supposed to feed on love anymore? We’re supposed to share it?” “Yeah.” Vaguely. “I wasn’t at the hive when Chrysalis left, so I- I… I don’t know how to share love.” She looked away. “I’ve been on my own for so long, and suddenly I’m supposed to share love instead of take it, and I don’t have anyone to share it with, and I- I’m starving.” Help a changeling make friends? There was no way I could do that, not with my history. “So go back to the hive and they’ll help you there.” She snapped back to me. I noticed an “I’m surrounded by idiots” expression attempting to crawl onto her face. “I. Am not up. For a long-distance trip,” she whispered quickly, angrily. “Did you miss that I’m starving? And it- I can’t pack food, not like you!” “You should’ve gone to the hive first thing, you know.” “I thought I knew what I was doing, and I made a mistake, and I might be literally dying because of it, okay? Don’t get snarky on me!” She snarled, and I suddenly noticed a pair of fangs that hadn’t been there a few seconds before. I twitched, but my hooves stayed as unmoving as a mountain. “Fine. So what do you need my help for?” She took a few long breaths. “Teach me how to fit in. It- It’s why I’ve been going to bars, because I wanted to- I was trying to see how ponies behaved so I could copy it, and-” She shuddered. “I’ve been doing it for weeks, and I still don’t know how to fit in, because you guys don’t make any sense. I mean, it- I- Frig, flailing like crazy gets me applause in one place but thrown out in another! What am I supposed to do?” She looked at me with a mixture of confusion and hopefulness, her eyes both hollow and sparkling. In spite of myself, part of me wanted to help her. She reminded me of myself — stuck in a dismal rut, jarred out of that rut by someone else, clinging to that someone else for fear of falling back in. Yet, part of me said there had to be an easier way to do this, like- “You could be a changeling, try to make friends that way. We’re supposed to be allies with you, now, and you don’t look nearly-” “You only become colorful like that when you learn how to share love, so I don’t- I haven’t- I still look like this!” She flashed into her true form. This time, I did take a step back; she was still black and holey, an overgrown monster horsefly with blank blue eyes and strange frills instead of a mane or tail. Yet, once I looked past that, she didn’t seem so scary; she was scrawny, underfed, almost pitiful. She’d been right; the chances of her making it to the changeling hive like that were those of a water drop surviving a furnace. She held up a perforated leg and buzzed her wings. Her voice was quiet. “Can-” She swallowed. “Can you imagine somepony trusting me now? You’re the only pony I know who won’t run away screaming.” I could think of several answers to that — turning into a changed changeling until she truly metamorphosed was just the first thing that came to mind — but I suspected she’d blow them off. She was panicked and I, as far as she could tell, was a definite solution. Hard to turn away from that. Besides, she was thin and bony. I couldn’t simply walk away from that in good conscience. She was still babbling, even as she went back to her pony shape. “B-besides, I’ve been thinking of you as prey for so long that my default reaction towards you is to just take your love but I’m not supposed to do that and I’m worried if I stay too long around a specific pony I’ll just start taking their love on instinct so I try to stay away but that’s really bad for sharing love…” A cold draft picked up and my fur stood on end. I tried to let her run her course, but when I realized I couldn’t see the end, I said, “Stop.” She did so. “Okay, I’m… not the greatest at this-” (Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth.) “-but I’ve got a friend who’d be glad to help you.” (She blinked, closed her mouth, and twitched her ears.) “We’ll meet her here tomorrow, and we can — she and I, not you and I — we’ll start helping you together. Okay?” I knew Lackaday wouldn’t mind. Heck, she’d probably be thrilled. The changeling slowly started nodding, quickly speeding up. “Yeah, yeah, that’d be great! Thank you, I don’t-” “On one condition.” I swore you could hear the screech when her head stopped. She looked at me with half-narrowed eyes. “Okay?…” “Right here, right now, we’re going to go back inside and spend the next… I don’t know, half-hour just talking. I want to know the real you a little before I introduce you to my friend.” Another frigid breeze. “Plus, it’s cold out here and warm in there.” Her giddiness bubble popped as she groaned. “I’m a changeling,” she spat. “I don’t have a ‘real me’.” The phrase was out before I knew I was thinking it. “Then how come you’re as shallowly cynical as a Philosophy 101 student? I doubt every changeling thinks like that.” “Well- That- It-” “And you stammer a lot. Way more than me. Just because you’re avoiding your identity doesn’t mean you don’t have one.” Yet another gust of wind made me shiver. “Look, those’re my terms. You don’t like them, you can leave.” I pointed at the street. “No,” the changeling mumbled, “it’s- I’ll- Let’s go in.” She swallowed. Soon, we were sitting back inside at a grungy corner table, a glass of water in front of each of us. The changeling fidgeted and kept switching between examining the wood grain of the table and looking at me like I was a judge ready to sentence her to death. I was the one who broke the silence. “So. What was up with the accents?” “It’s a-” She swallowed. “Social camouflage thing,” she mumbled. Her attention became wholly fixated on the table. “Ponies feel more comfortable around ponies who talk like they do. Bad habit. Keep slipping into it. Hard to break.” “Oh. Neat. Anyway. I’m Cobblestone. You?” The changeling looked up at me. “Look, friendship is a two-way street. If I’m going to help you, I need to know your name.” For a moment, silence. Then the changeling began to speak.
Hole-in-the-Wall, Part 1She was near the end of the bar when I first saw her, perfectly placed in that strange space your eyes tend to skip over when surveying something. Not visible by being in the middle and the first thing you saw, not visible by being an outlier on the ends. In the play of my life, she was an extra. And yet, such a well-dressed extra, relatively speaking. Hole-in-the-Wall was a dive. I liked it, but it was a dive. The sort of place that was perpetually grungy and a few steps short of being rundown because the clientele didn’t care about how it looked. The sort of place with tacky knick-knacks all over the walls. The sort of place that kept oil lamps (indoor oil lamps! Here, in Canterlot!) instead of light gems for “atmosphere”, and yet never bothered investing in fans that turned fast enough to dispel the smoke the lamps created. I suspected I’d grow quite fond of it soon. I noticed her because of her dress. It was almost sparkly, a soft green. Maybe a little bit uptight for this sort of place, but nothing too eyebrow-raising. Coupled with her yellow coat, she resembled a corncob, half-stripped from its husk. The one thing breaking the illusion was her mane. Rather than the pale green of cornsilk, it was coppery that night. I kept watching her because I didn’t recognize her face. That was surprising; I knew everypony else here by sight, although few by name. Not only was she new, she was alone. If you hadn’t come to Hole-in-the-Wall before, you wouldn’t come at all unless a friend escorted you in. The place looked too suspicious from the outside. Yet here she was, sitting like she’d always been here. Nopony seemed interested in her; this wasn’t a chummy place. Part of the reason I’d chosen it. At first I thought her eyes were roving the menu, looking for something to drink or eat; she didn’t have anything in front of her. But her head was too low for that. I followed her gaze and met the mirror in the backbar. One way to inconspicuously watch everypony, I guessed. Watching because… I couldn’t guess. I was here alone. She didn’t look lonely, but what the hay. Might as well try. I resolutely got up and wound my way around the tables, mumbling excuse mes and pardons as I slipped gracelessly through the maze. I dropped onto the stool next to her and almost cringed as I looked at myself in the mirror. I hadn’t gotten all the grease off myself from my construction job, my mane was incredibly frizzy, and my clothes were the strange mishmash that comes from reaching into a drawer and putting on the first things that come to hoof. A habit my ex had said drove her up the wall. I should’ve listened harder to her. I expected her to reject me out of hoof. But you never know until you try. I cleared my throat and tried. “Hey.” She turned to look at me, not at all surprised. She’d’ve seen me coming in the mirror, after all. “Hey.” That night, her eyes were a soft brown. “I’m Cobblestone. Can I buy you a drink?” Might as well go direct. “If you want. I don’t care what you get, so surprise me.” Her voice had a perfect middle-class Canterlot accent, clipped with a hint of softened R’s, just like mine. It was smooth the same way a river was smooth: it wasn’t flat, it had its ups and downs, but it flowed easily between ups and downs. “Cool.” I can’t remember what I ordered, but it was cheap. When our drinks came, she took a quick swig, glanced at the clock, twitched exaggeratedly. “Sorry,” she said quickly, “but I gotta go. Lost track of time.” She quickly slid off her stool and began making her way to the door. “Thanks for the drink, anyway.” “That’s fine.” I was growing used to spending time alone, ever since those arguments with my friends over the past week. I looked at her glass. Still half-full. Four-fifths-full, even. Shame to waste it. I reached out to grab it- A crash, like a table getting overturned. Everypony turned; the mare had collided with a stallion, a big one, just as she was leaving. She was lying in the floor, half-drenched in drinks from a nearby table; he was hanging awkwardly over a chair. As the stallion got to his hooves, I expected him to be the shouty, angry, gravelly-voiced kind. He surprised me with a soft Trottingham accent and a stutter. “Oh, Celestia, I, I, I am so sorry, th-that’s my fault, I, I wasn’t l-looking where I was going-” The mare surprised me more with her own Trottingham accent and stutter. “N-no, I w-wasn’t paying attention either, i-it’s my fault, t-too.” I thought I was hearing things. I wiggled a hoof in my ear as the stallion began gathering up scattered shot glasses and the conversation continued. “No, r-really, I should’ve b-been-” “L-look, it’s b-both our faults, d-do you want s-some help?” Still the accent. Still the stutter. The conversation dissolved into a haze as I watched the mare. The shift in her speech had escaped everypony else unnoticed. Then again, they hadn’t heard her speak with a Canterlot accent in the first place. So: why? What was up with her? If my interest had been piqued before, it only climbed higher when the bouncer walked over to survey the damage. “ ’Ey. Somethin’ goin’ on? Take it outside.” She sounded like she ate gravel as an appetizer. I angled my ears toward the door before the mare could speak. When she did, I was both surprised and unsurprised. “Nah. Ain’t nothin’ wrong here. Wasn’t looking. Hit ’im. My fault.” Not as hard as the bouncer’s, but still solid and brusque. Not something that should’ve come from a mare wearing that dress. The bouncer, not around for the collision, didn’t notice the shift. The stallion, wrapped up in cleaning up, didn’t notice the shift. The bouncer left, the mess was gone, the stallion apologized profusely, the mare apologized profusely (back to the Trottingham accent), they both left. It’s probably nothing, I told myself. She has a good reason for doing that. Maybe she’s an actress, testing her accents. Even if she’s not, it’s none of your darn beeswax. And yet… I looked back at her glass. Four-fifths-full. I looked at mine. Three-quarters-empty. I looked at the door. The choice took only seconds; I pushed a few bits at the bartender, mumbled to her to keep the change, and left the bar.
Catalina'sI knew it probably qualified as stalking. I didn’t care. The drizzle hadn’t stopped yet. I don’t really get the point of drizzles. Why can’t the weather teams dump all the rain in torrents and get it over with? It was probably mentioned in the weather bits when we were studying arcane science in school. I’d never paid attention in that. The drizzle hadn’t stopped yet, but I wasn’t bothered. Neither was she, by the look of it. She (and I) walked down the street with a purpose, striding through puddles without a second look. Her dress connived with the water to remain spotless, flashing cleanly in the pale streetlights. Even this late, the streets had enough traffic to obscure me slightly. Still, I wasn’t sure if fifty feet was far enough. All she had to do was look over her shoulder, and… But she never did. Why would she? I was quiet. And I was curious. A dangerous combination. I wasn’t sure what I was accomplishing, but I couldn’t turn away. Maybe I’d spent so many nights alone that just talking with her had caused me to grow an attachment to her. The recent bad spots in my life and complete lack of better attachments made me ignore how unhealthy it was. She walked. I followed. She walked. I followed. Minutes passed. She turned down Latigo Avenue, an empty street that connected two busy parallel thoroughfares because something had to. The street was deserted. I slowed my pace, hoping all the more that she wouldn’t look over her shoulder. Then she changed. It was quick, easy. One second, an earth pony was walking down the street, and suddenly her body was engulfed in green. At first I thought it was reflections from the puddles, but all the lamps were the cold white of light gems, and by the time I’d registered that, she was a pegasus. She never broke her stride. I broke mine on nothing and my breathing hitched up a notch. I followed her a little more, forcing myself to stay slow, the regular rhythm of my hooves making me calm down. And then it clicked: changeling. I didn’t know much about changelings, aside from a few facts. They were shapeshifters. Obviously. They’d fed on love. Finally, they weren’t supposed to be a threat anymore. Chrysalis or whatever their princess’s name was had been kicked out and the entire species had turned over a new leaf. Unlikely, in my opinion, but every one of our princesses had vouched for them. Either way, what was a changeling doing in a Canterlot dive? And where was she going now? She never looked back. I kept following. I noticed that more than just her body had changed; her dress (now red) was a smaller, more functional thing, less concerned with looking nice and more concerned with covering up. Her mane was spiky and had a bleached look. She took a left at the intersection and risked vanishing into the crowd. I managed to keep my eyes on her, following that red dress. She soon entered Catalina’s; the doorpony outside only nodded at her. I tried to enter Catalina’s; the doorpony stopped me and scrutinized my greasy coat and frizzy mane for an uncomfortable few moments before grudgingly letting me in. I’d never been in Catalina’s before. Inside was a roiling miasma of rhythmic colored lightning and redundant electronic thunder that hit me like a hammer to the face. Ponies twirled and whirled on the dance floor, lost in themselves and their partners and the molten crowd. I almost missed her, but the red dress screamed out to me. She was alone again, at the bar, watching ponies in a chrome-plated section of wall. No drink. As with Hole-in-the-Wall, she looked like she belonged here. I was uncomfortably aware of how much I didn’t, especially without a partner. I grabbed an empty seat at a table that had a good view of the bar and was hopefully close enough to hear her. All the while, I prayed she wouldn’t look over her shoulder… When she finally did, it was in the opposite direction. “Hey, foxy mama!” A stallion with a loose shirt and tight pants sidled up to her. From his smile, he looked buzzed. I immediately started cataloguing his voice; not unlike mine, from what little I’d heard, although I’d rather drill holes in my head through my eyes than use a term like that. I expected her voice to change again. It didn’t disappoint. “Hey! Lookin’ stylin’.” It sounded like it had when I met her, only now, I had to resist the urge to gnaw on the table. “You wanna stomp with?” Some slang I couldn’t comprehend. She could, though. “I’m down.” “Groovy.” Soon they were on the dance floor, ritualistically going through a series of ridiculous poses. He looked like he was having fun, but he wasn’t the most coordinated, especially not next to her. Her movements were crisp, precise, and that was when I spotted the chink. Her dancing was perfect. She always hit the floor on the beat, always landed her hooves in the right spot, always moved her tail in just the right way. Not a hair was out of line. Her dancing was technically flawless, which meant it was rote. All around her, the other dancers, the “real” dancers, kept slipping up, in a way. A syncopated stomp here, a twist in the wrong direction there. The more I watched, the more I saw. None of them was the same as any other. But they weren’t mistakes; nothing they ever did hurt the whole. They were the dancers’ own spin on things. Her dancing looked like it’d been learned from a book: graceful, yet artless. She was dancing because she had to. After a minute or so, I was considering ordering a drink in a vain attempt to look like I was meant to be there when she spoke again. “Hey, listen, you’ve been a great partner, but I gotta get going. It’s gonna be early tomorrow, you dig?” I only barely snatched her voice from the din. “I dig,” said the stallion. “Catch you tomorrow, maybe?” She laughed, but it somehow sounded hollow. It might’ve just been me. “Maybe.” She left the dance floor and the crowd absorbed her in. I tailed her; if she hadn’t been wearing that red dress, I would’ve lost her. I knew changelings weren’t supposed to feed on ponies’ love anymore, but I wasn’t about to discount renegades who didn’t listen. Still, she didn’t quite seem like she was taking love. In fact, it was like company repulsed her; I talked to her, she left the bar a minute later for another one, that stallion talked to her, she left that bar a minute later. And the way she watched ponies… I didn’t think she was scoping them out, just watching them. Why? My mind kept telling me to leave well enough alone. It was none of my beeswax and she wasn’t hurting anypony. This could only end in tears, especially after the way my last friendship had ended. It was still drizzling as I followed her out.
The Red RoseI was dimly aware that, as a changeling, she might not actually be a “she”. But both her shapes had been mares; I guessed she was most comfortable as a “she”. I half-expected her next shape to be a stallion just to screw with me. I was so focused on her I didn’t even notice the slight rain slowly soaking me, the microscopic lakes I passed through. She was all that mattered, the changeling in front of me. I still didn’t know why; there was obviously a hole, there, but I hadn’t a clue as to the hole’s shape. Maybe I was lonelier than I wanted to admit. It probably shouldn’t’ve been, but hanging back and following her was growing easier for me. Mainly because I’d realized I didn’t need to keep her in view all the time, just often enough to make sure I didn’t lose her. She wouldn’t risk changing in a crowd, right? Right. She turned down an alley; as I trotted to the corner, green painted the walls for half a heartbeat. I turned after her, and the short-maned pegasus mare had been replaced with a long-maned unicorn mare, all curves and waves in body, tail, and mane. Blue dress, now; robin’s-egg blue and a shade more glamorous than her Hole-in-the-Wall one had been. A part of me I wasn’t aware existed noted her walk: almost-but-not-quite casual, just a little taut, like she was struggling against rubber bands, but certainly purposeful. That part also noted her walk hadn’t changed from shape to shape to shape. Finally, something constant. She and I went back into the crowd, thinned by lateness. She knew where she was going. I’d only been in this part of Canterlot once or twice, only on business. We passed unfamiliar stores on an unfamiliar street. As we walked, I wondered: what did “feeding on love” even entail? Was it true love, or did “I had a couple of drinks and think you’re hot” not-really-love count? Was that what she was after? Why did she leave whenever she attracted a companion? I still didn’t know what she wanted. Doubted I’d ever find out without asking her. I almost missed her turning into a club with an intricate neon sign: a flower stylized so that its petals spelled out the place’s name, the Red Rose. Once again, nopony looked twice as she climbed the steps. I tried to follow, but once I was under the awning, the unicorn at the door held up a hoof. “Wait.” My breath caught in my throat. I’d lose her. “Look, I-” The unicorn’s horn glowed; half a second later, every drop of water had slid out of my coat, leaving me dry as could be. The unicorn stepped aside and waved me in. I wished I had a hat to pull over my eyes. “Thanks. Sorry.” I was greeted by Art Deco mirrors and leafy ferns, hardwood floors and terracotta ceilings, abstract paintings and stained-glass chandeliers. The Red Rose was a place with class, lacking the glamorous facade of Catalina’s but more dressed-up than Hole-in-the-Wall. This place had music, real music, in the form of a soft jazz ensemble with loose ties and pinstripes. Everything had a thin veil of quiet draped over it, like nopony wanted to disturb anypony else. More than ever, I belonged as much as a plumber at the Grand Galloping Gala. I wondered if that was why I was following her: envy. She slipped in and out of everywhere with ease, always fitting in, the world’s greatest social chameleon. Yet every time somepony welcomed her, she acknowledged them politely and left shortly after. Perhaps the ultimate example of “alone in a crowd”. She took up her usual position in the bar’s blind spot and watched. I took up a table on the wall behind a bird’s nest fern and ordered nothing but water from the waiter. I wanted to be alert tonight. He looked miffed until I pushed my last dozen bits at him in apology for the lack of tip. Perhaps it was the deliberate atmosphere of the Red Rose, but it seemed to take longer for a pony to arrive and greet her. She didn’t mind. In fact, the longer she was alone, the more invested in the mirror she became. Her ears kept swiveling around, picking up snatches of conversation too muffled for me to hear. She was as still and focused as a birdwatcher. But she kept waving off the bartender, much to the latter’s displeasure. Eventually, they exchanged words quietly; I strained to hear them. This time, they spoke in Manehattan accents, probably from around the Broncs. I listened and listened and listened, but she never slipped up. Finally, the bartender put her hoof down and demanded the mare order something or make room for other patrons (in spite of there being six empty stools). The mare sighed and ordered something I gathered was cheap. It arrived quickly, but she didn’t sip much. She kept ponywatching and ponylistening. I stayed obscured behind my green bird’s nest, unnoticed. The drink was a quarter gone when she muttered something about washing up and headed for the bathroom. She came towards me; I shuffled aside in a panic, forcing myself painfully against the wall. She passed by without noticing and entered the bathroom. I quickly scooted around the table and pressed against the wall even harder, trying to stay out of sight of the bathroom door. Not easy. The mare who came out a few seconds later wasn’t her; this one was a pegasus, not a unicorn. I dropped into a more comfortable position, only for a moment. My movement caught the mare’s eye. She looked lazily at me, looked away, did a double-take. Her pupils turned to pinpricks and her breathing quickened. A frozen second later, she bolted for the door. She was almost there by the time it hit me: this mare was her. Nopony was looking at you in the bathroom; what better place to drop your shape and slip away? I was up in an instant, chasing her to the door. “Hey! Wait!” By the time I was out the door, she was gone. Vanished into the crowd, flown into the sky, simply wearing a different shape. Even if I could see her, I wasn’t finding her, not when she was just a face in a sea of faces. I swore under my breath.
CrosstownIt was a simple question. “Hey, do you know any other good bars or clubs around here?” Yet everypony in the Hole-in-the-Wall gave me a different answer. “Check out Precipice Tavern. It’s on the edge of the platform and has some spectacular views.” “There’s this place at the corner of Fifth Street and Blue Jay Avenue, best drinks ever, super cheap… Oh, what was its name?…” “Gyroscope Lounge. The food isn’t the greatest, but everypony’s really friendly there and the DJ’s got great taste in music.” “Mojo’s Dueling Piano Bar and Restaurant has… Do I need to explain it? Dueling pianos.” I suspected that if I combined all my answers, I’d have every bar and club in Canterlot, including the illegal ones. I’d tried to let her go, to forget about it. It’s not my business, I repeated to myself, over and over and over and over and over. I tried to ignore the nagging Why? She was scared of me, maybe paranoid I’d turn her over to the Guard; that was why she ran. Even if I looked, she’d be hiding from me. But I couldn’t. I had to find her. She’d be at bars, I guessed. Places where ponies came and went all the time, even after midnight, and nopony asked questions. Places with crowds, yet somepony on their own wouldn’t look too suspicious. So that was where I went, over and over, never the same place twice. Three or four a night, no alcohol. Alcohol would drop a blanket over my senses. For the most part, I didn’t miss it, to my surprise. Maybe I’d just traded one “hobby” for another. At each place, I checked the bar to see anypony watching in the mirror, checked ponies’ gaits to see if they had her tension, checked everypony who had another pony walk up to them to see if they left early. If I saw her, I didn’t recognize her. It wasn’t because she noticed me when I stood out. As the small curiosity grew into an obsession, I began plotting out my route for each night, planning to fit in. Going to these nightclubs this night meant lapelled jackets and too much hair gel. Going to those pubs that night meant ratty flannel shirts and cowboy hats. Going to this lounge on that night meant you’d better bring some light, opinionless discussion. And always get yourself clean before going out at all. At every place, order something, like you’re not lurking around. Even if it was necessary to blend in and hide from her, I hated it. It required too much effort. I wondered how easy it really was for her. I searched and searched. I combed Canterlot for… I don’t know how long. Three or four bars a night might seem like I’d be covering a lot of ground, but Canterlot was a big city. I dove into establishments I wouldn’t’ve looked twice at otherwise. Some nights, I found myself walking more than half an hour to look at places at the other side of the city. At the very least, those nights, I got home tired and fell asleep the moment I hit the sheets. As the nights wore on, I began feeling stretched thin and listless. I had the energy of a light gem left running for a century. I didn’t could respond much to anypony outside of work. And that was why I did something I never thought I’d do: I let Lackaday speak to me again. Hole-in-the-Wall. It was where I’d first seen her, maybe she’d be back. Apropos of nothing, Lackaday dropped into the seat across from me. “Alright, Cobblestone, what’s up? Y’ain’t been ’round ’ere in, wha’, a moon? Y’look terr’ble.” “I’m fine,” I mumbled. It was automatic from near-burnout; any other time, I would’ve forced myself to ignore her. I scanned the bar. Everypony was at least paired up. “Y’sure?” “Yep.” I wasn’t sure why she was talking to me after the way I’d yelled at her all those weeks ago. At least talking with somepony helped disguise me a bit better. “ ’Cause it sure don’t seem like it.” “Lackaday, don’t bother. I told you how I felt.” I regretted it, been regretting it for moons, but I couldn’t take the words back. “Jus’ ’cause y’don’t care ’bout me don’t mean I don’t care ’bout you.” It took me too long to realize what she was saying; that was a lot of “don’t”s. For the first time in weeks, I stopped looking at the bar and looked at the pony in front of me. I opened my mouth- “And I don’t know if y’really meant it, anyways,” said Lackaday. “I saw you after. Y’been beatin’ yourself up ’bout it, right?” I slowly closed my mouth. I nodded. “I mean, you’re the ’motional type, an’ Risin’ Wind ’ad jus’ left you, an’ maybe I was a bit ’arsh. So: I’m sorry. Sayin’ y’just needed t’get over it like tha’-” She smacked her hoof on the tabletop. “-was way outta line.” I looked at Lackaday for a long moment. It’d been too long, I realized, since we’d exchanged this many words. “I’m sorry,” I said suddenly. I hung my head in my hooves as the words cascaded out. “I- Just- There was so much sunblasted crap going on, I-” “You’re forgiven.” “-wanted to yell- at some… Huh?” “You’re forgiven. I woulda said it earlier, but you… Y’know.” “…Just like that? Really?” It was almost too good to be true. But then, Lackaday had been like that. “I known y’for almost a decade, Stoney. Y’ain’t forward ’nough, y’keep too much inside an’ don’t talk when y’should. I know y’really mean it.” “I do not keep too much inside.” “Sure y’do. You’re doin’ it now, makin’ excuses to no’ tell me what’s up. An’ what’s up don’t seem ’ealthy.” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” “Try me.” Tipsy Trotter. So no-frills and drink-focused you couldn’t not fit in as long as you had a container of liquid in front of you. “So y’jus’… think you’ll rec’nize ’er?” asked Lackaday quietly. She’d insisted on coming with me for the night. I couldn’t bear turning her away. “From her walk, from somepony who’s at the bar alone examining other ponies. Maybe, I don’t know.” “Kinda… I dunno. Unlikely.” “It’s the only way I can follow her.” O’Reinigans. The kind of place where you could get your bill waived if your bar fight was entertaining enough. “I’m jus’ sayin’, y’don’t need t’spend every night followin’ ’er. Take a night off.” Lackaday ducked under a flying barstool. “Y’look like y’been run over by a carriage.” “That sounds nice, but I-” I paused so I wouldn’t be drowned out by the sound of shattering glass. “-but I don’t know what I’d do. I’ve been-” “We’re talkin’ again. Wanna jus’ ’ave a night out, you an’ me? Spend an hour conversin’?” I was more pleased by the idea than I thought I’d be, but- “It’s not much. You’d be okay with that?” Lackaday brushed some splinters from her mane. “It’s a start t’get us back on track, ain’t it?” “…Alright, sure. When, tomorrow?” “Sure. I got time. Hole-in-the-Wall?” And it was set. In hindsight, maybe the timing was fate, but I think it was just a wild stroke of luck.
Hole-in-the-Wall, Part 2The meetup was entering its final minutes, and the last few frigid drops a gin and tonic dribbled down my throat. I’d had to branch out a bit in drink tastes during my search, since you couldn’t get away with ordering Buck Light everywhere. “So why do y’like alcohol?” asked Lackaday. She was a teetotaler, as she loathed the taste of beer in a way that made Nightmare Moon’s loathing of the day seem like the height of tolerance. “Dulls the pain, mostly.” I hadn’t needed its analgesic properties tonight, though; I just liked the taste of gin and tonic. I’d drunk it slowly. “So y’needed t’dull the pain while bein’ wi’ me? Thanks.” If I’d still been drinking, I would’ve choked. “N-no,” I spluttered in horror, “I- I didn’t mean-” “I’m kiddin’!” Lackaday said with a chuckle. “Sorry, jus’- I dunno.” “No, no, you’ve been great!” And she had been. Tonight, I was feeling something I hadn’t felt in moons: contentment. “Tonight was…” I swallowed. “Th-thanks for… for being here. Sorry about… how I’ve been.” “Ah, forget about it.” I didn’t think Lackaday could dismiss the way I’d wronged her so casually, but she did. “Jus’ lemme know if y’need ’elp wi’ somethin’. I wanna ’elp, now that you’re takin’ it.” Lackaday downed the last of her juice and pushed away from the table. “And, sorry, that time, gotta run.” “Yeah, no, that’s fine. See you, and thanks for coming out.” “Anytime.” Lackaday put a few bits on the table to pay for her drink and left me alone at the table. I twirled the lime dregs around the bottom of my cup. I’d forgotten how much she meant to me, and I hadn’t realized it until I’d driven her away. And once I went back to her, admitted I was wrong, she welcomed me with open hooves. She hadn’t even done anything besides talk, and I felt lighter than I had the past few weeks. Out of curiosity, I twisted around to see if Lackaday had gone yet- -and saw a mare enter with a walk that was almost-but-not-quite casual, just a little taut, like she was struggling against rubber bands. I’d never seen the mare before, but I knew that walk. I rapidly became incredibly interested in my empty cup. Figured. All that effort searching for her, and I found her again the same way I’d found her the first time: sheer dumb luck. I looked at the bar for a moment. She was looking in the mirror again; I couldn’t tell if she’d recognized me. Like all the other times, she was perched on the barstool, alone. But she didn’t look lonely. At least, I didn’t think she did. I fell back into waiting, the same way I had all those nights ago. I wallflowered and she sat. Somepony eventually approached her, words were exchanged in similar accents. I tensed. A few minutes later, she excused herself, just as I was expecting. For a second, I entertained the idea of finally dropping it, now that my life might be slowly reforming. But, no, I couldn’t do that, not now. I’d just go about it a bit differently: I’d go up to her, I resolved, and ask her what was up, and that would be that. Questions answered, no more problems. Drinks long since paid for, I exited the bar. The streets weren’t busy enough to hide in a crowd; she couldn’t’ve gone far. I looked ahead. Didn’t see her. Looked left. Didn’t see her. Looked right. Caught the last few hairs of her tail disappearing into a nearby alley. It wasn’t a long trot, and I soon rounded the corner. Nopony except a batpony lounging against the wall. I was glacial on the uptake. I was turning around to go back into Hole-in-the-Wall when something hit me on the side and pinned me against the brickwork. The batpony was in my face, fangs bared. “Stop following me,” she hissed. She tried to sound threatening, but some part of me heard her pleading. Maybe that was why I wasn’t as scared as I should’ve been. I managed to turn my head so we could see eye-to-eye. “Sorry?” “Leave me alone!” Maybe this was her real voice; it had more sibilance than her others, with too much emphasis on the esses and the effs and the vees. “Don’t play stupid! Half the nights I’m out, I see you somewhere, and I need to keep looking over my shoulder, and-” “I’m not gonna turn you in, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She blinked. Leaned away a bit. Her mouth slackened enough to cover her fangs. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. “Being a changeling’s not illegal. And I don’t think you’re hurting anypony. Anybody.” She wasn’t a pony; would she find “anypony” offensive? After a moment, she backed away, letting me go free. “L-look, I- j-just leave me alone, okay? I-I-” “Are you lonely?” She and I stared at each other. I wasn’t sure where the question had come from. My night with Lackaday, most likely. I hadn’t realized how lonely I was; maybe she didn’t, either. The staring match continued. When she spluttered words out, she was using my accent again. “N-no, i-it’s- I- I don’t-” She turned, ran a few paces, took off straight up. “You know where to find me!” I hollered into the night. Yeah, right, like she’d come back for my help. It was probably her demand that set things straight for me: she wasn’t my business. I should leave her alone. Well, for better or worse, I had a slew of free nights, now. I wondered if Lackaday was open the day after tomorrow.
Hole-in-the-Wall, Part 3Gin and tonic might’ve been good, but other alcohols and soft drinks mixed were disgusting. It’d been just over a week since I stopped going after the changeling. Nothing really nagged at me. Speaking to her was enough, I guess. With that idea extracted from my life, new ones had taken its place. Just yesterday, Lackaday had suggested that, if gin and tonic tasted so good, I should try other alcoholic-drink-and-carbonated-drink combinations, too. I didn’t regret it, although I hadn’t yet found a combo that didn’t make me want to vomit. “Whiskey and raspberry soda?” the bartender asked flatly. “Really.” “Have you ever tried it?” “…No…” “I refuse to knock it until I’ve tried it.” With an eyeroll, the bartender served me. I should’ve knocked it. I nursed my tongue back to health with chocolate milk. No, I had to tell Lackaday that do-it-yourself soda cocktails were not good in the slightest. Out of nowhere, an unfamiliar mare sat down next to me and started using the bartop to drum out a slow, nervous beat. I tried to ignore her, but in hindsight, the green eyes and coppery mane should’ve been a giveaway. Finally, it got to be more than I could take. “Can I help you?” “Thank you for not following me,” she whispered in a certain sibilant voice, “but I need help.” I choked and started slamming my hoof against my throat. When my airways had cleared themselves, I whispered to her, “Alley, last place we met. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Her mouth tightened, but she nodded and was soon gone. I quickly finished, paid, and left. A cool wind was blowing through the alley, but I barely noticed. It don’t think she did, either; she kept walking back and forth, staring at the ground and crunching through the gravel. She wouldn’t’ve noticed if I hadn’t cleared my throat. “Hey.” Her ears went up and she raised her head. Her breathing hitched for a moment. She smoothed out her mane — not that it needed it — and muttered, “I need help.” “You said that already. Context, please?” “Well- It- I- Okay, look, you, you know how changelings aren’t supposed to feed on love anymore? We’re supposed to share it?” “Yeah.” Vaguely. “I wasn’t at the hive when Chrysalis left, so I- I… I don’t know how to share love.” She looked away. “I’ve been on my own for so long, and suddenly I’m supposed to share love instead of take it, and I don’t have anyone to share it with, and I- I’m starving.” Help a changeling make friends? There was no way I could do that, not with my history. “So go back to the hive and they’ll help you there.” She snapped back to me. I noticed an “I’m surrounded by idiots” expression attempting to crawl onto her face. “I. Am not up. For a long-distance trip,” she whispered quickly, angrily. “Did you miss that I’m starving? And it- I can’t pack food, not like you!” “You should’ve gone to the hive first thing, you know.” “I thought I knew what I was doing, and I made a mistake, and I might be literally dying because of it, okay? Don’t get snarky on me!” She snarled, and I suddenly noticed a pair of fangs that hadn’t been there a few seconds before. I twitched, but my hooves stayed as unmoving as a mountain. “Fine. So what do you need my help for?” She took a few long breaths. “Teach me how to fit in. It- It’s why I’ve been going to bars, because I wanted to- I was trying to see how ponies behaved so I could copy it, and-” She shuddered. “I’ve been doing it for weeks, and I still don’t know how to fit in, because you guys don’t make any sense. I mean, it- I- Frig, flailing like crazy gets me applause in one place but thrown out in another! What am I supposed to do?” She looked at me with a mixture of confusion and hopefulness, her eyes both hollow and sparkling. In spite of myself, part of me wanted to help her. She reminded me of myself — stuck in a dismal rut, jarred out of that rut by someone else, clinging to that someone else for fear of falling back in. Yet, part of me said there had to be an easier way to do this, like- “You could be a changeling, try to make friends that way. We’re supposed to be allies with you, now, and you don’t look nearly-” “You only become colorful like that when you learn how to share love, so I don’t- I haven’t- I still look like this!” She flashed into her true form. This time, I did take a step back; she was still black and holey, an overgrown monster horsefly with blank blue eyes and strange frills instead of a mane or tail. Yet, once I looked past that, she didn’t seem so scary; she was scrawny, underfed, almost pitiful. She’d been right; the chances of her making it to the changeling hive like that were those of a water drop surviving a furnace. She held up a perforated leg and buzzed her wings. Her voice was quiet. “Can-” She swallowed. “Can you imagine somepony trusting me now? You’re the only pony I know who won’t run away screaming.” I could think of several answers to that — turning into a changed changeling until she truly metamorphosed was just the first thing that came to mind — but I suspected she’d blow them off. She was panicked and I, as far as she could tell, was a definite solution. Hard to turn away from that. Besides, she was thin and bony. I couldn’t simply walk away from that in good conscience. She was still babbling, even as she went back to her pony shape. “B-besides, I’ve been thinking of you as prey for so long that my default reaction towards you is to just take your love but I’m not supposed to do that and I’m worried if I stay too long around a specific pony I’ll just start taking their love on instinct so I try to stay away but that’s really bad for sharing love…” A cold draft picked up and my fur stood on end. I tried to let her run her course, but when I realized I couldn’t see the end, I said, “Stop.” She did so. “Okay, I’m… not the greatest at this-” (Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth.) “-but I’ve got a friend who’d be glad to help you.” (She blinked, closed her mouth, and twitched her ears.) “We’ll meet her here tomorrow, and we can — she and I, not you and I — we’ll start helping you together. Okay?” I knew Lackaday wouldn’t mind. Heck, she’d probably be thrilled. The changeling slowly started nodding, quickly speeding up. “Yeah, yeah, that’d be great! Thank you, I don’t-” “On one condition.” I swore you could hear the screech when her head stopped. She looked at me with half-narrowed eyes. “Okay?…” “Right here, right now, we’re going to go back inside and spend the next… I don’t know, half-hour just talking. I want to know the real you a little before I introduce you to my friend.” Another frigid breeze. “Plus, it’s cold out here and warm in there.” Her giddiness bubble popped as she groaned. “I’m a changeling,” she spat. “I don’t have a ‘real me’.” The phrase was out before I knew I was thinking it. “Then how come you’re as shallowly cynical as a Philosophy 101 student? I doubt every changeling thinks like that.” “Well- That- It-” “And you stammer a lot. Way more than me. Just because you’re avoiding your identity doesn’t mean you don’t have one.” Yet another gust of wind made me shiver. “Look, those’re my terms. You don’t like them, you can leave.” I pointed at the street. “No,” the changeling mumbled, “it’s- I’ll- Let’s go in.” She swallowed. Soon, we were sitting back inside at a grungy corner table, a glass of water in front of each of us. The changeling fidgeted and kept switching between examining the wood grain of the table and looking at me like I was a judge ready to sentence her to death. I was the one who broke the silence. “So. What was up with the accents?” “It’s a-” She swallowed. “Social camouflage thing,” she mumbled. Her attention became wholly fixated on the table. “Ponies feel more comfortable around ponies who talk like they do. Bad habit. Keep slipping into it. Hard to break.” “Oh. Neat. Anyway. I’m Cobblestone. You?” The changeling looked up at me. “Look, friendship is a two-way street. If I’m going to help you, I need to know your name.” For a moment, silence. Then the changeling began to speak.
