Changing Ways

Chapters

Jackboots and Terror
Winging the Plan
Storm
Fly by Necessity
Community Card
Even Money
Normalcy
Out of Turn
Snap Call
Disinformative Attack
Fates in Canterlot
Dragon Away
Dry Pot
Casually Covert
Foreboding
Bankrolling?
A Rock and a Rounder
Explosion Bunker Shot
Friendly Fire
Breadsticks
Give Way
An Error, Not a Trial
The Cost of Klugetown
Postharvest
In a Row Back
Fortitude
Painted into a Corner
Peasant Food
Bed and No Breakfast
Don't Let Your Guard Down
Hook, Line, Sinker
Forest Dynamics
Low Tide
Hippogriffs
Under Fire
In Defense
Take-Off, Run Away
Sphere
Thorax
Return
Victory for the Victors
Incalzando
Postmortem in the Ocean

Jackboots and Terror

Morning. A drizzly morning.

Rain pittered and pattered on the remains of timber, stone, and glass scattered about. The streets washed out into marshes, their cracked surface softening into sticky muck slushed by hooves rattled in chains.

Changelings marched through the streets of Ponyville with not a single one to watch their dull parade against the inclement weather, their peers busy with other work such as transporting belongings in crates and training recruits with hisses and weapons on the side. Escorted by these terrifying convoys were ponies linked together in metal chains, heads low against the stymied sunlight, manes frizzled by the rain, hooves slushed with muck.

Two mares among them, one with puffy pink hair, the other with flowing pink hair, both of them beaten on the neck with a stick.

The first one growled at him. “Hey! Don’t do that! That hurts, ya’ know!”

The other shushed her. “Quiet, Pinkie! They’re only going to hurt us more.”

Pinkie looked at her changeling guard straight in the eye. “Don’t you know how to treat your prisoners right?”

Pharynx smiled, hovering above the ground and patting the beating end of the stick pervaded with splinters. “Does it look like I care? Besides, you’re going to face the queen herself and my behavior will be the least of your worries in the trial.”

“Trial?” Pinkie blurted out, raising her voice while giving him a mean look. “Every one of you should be in trial, not us? What did we ever do to you?”

“Oppose us every step of the way?” he suggested. “Spread lies and false propaganda about our competent and venerated queen?”

Pinkie rubbed her chin. “Good points.”

Fluttershy glared at her.

Pinkie gulped, holding a hoof up in the air despite her chains. “Uh, I mean, bad points, bad points! You get zero points for capturing us, because it’s wrong! Not moral! A big no-no!”

“We’re the ones making up the rules here,” Pharynx said, pointing at himself. “You follow us, OK?”

“Even if you’re going to kill us anyway?” Pinkie asked, attempting to sound suave.

“You’re an annoying pony.”

Pinkie smiled. “Why, thank you!”

Fluttershy let out a quiet “Why?”

Pharynx groaned. “The sooner we mete out your sentence, the better. I hope she gives you a quick death—if only I could turn off my ears when we feed off of you for breakfast!”

As they marched on, trudged on through the muddy road.

In the distance, thunder roared and a speck of lightning flashed over the mountains.

Past the murky river and the fractured bridges stood a sad structure: town hall. Fenced by the rickety, meager leftovers of what could be called ‘homes’, the town hall reposed in its sodden state plundered and humbled. Colorful flags lay on the ground, some tattered and some burned. Its last floor had toppled to the ground, leaving the town hall with a missing roof, cut off stairs visible from the outside—the last floor itself was much worse, a shredded heap of refined architecture undone.

Before town hall were posted a horde of changelings stationed beside cages of ponies. Some of their prisoners screamed, others still tried to get out of their predicament by banging on the bars of their cages.

None got out, their sentries joking in front of their desperate figures sulking in the rain, in their solitary jails out in the open.

As the march of new captives arrived with their changeling escorts, many in their cages gasped, pointed and gestured at those within.

“No! They got them, too?!”

“Mayor Mare?! We placed our trust in you!”

“And there...it’s all hopeless now!”

With the new prisoners keeping their heads down under the rain, their hair drenched and soggy—more than a few wilting in the mud.

Town hall’s double doors swung open, revealing a line of changelings hauling empty cages. They plopped them on to the ground with resounding thuds and splashing mud, taking out locks from behind their ears.

Pinkie shivered. “Oh, no. This isn’t good! Why are there cages?” Hugged Fluttershy who stood resolute against the weather and the embrace. “Please don’t tell me they’re going to—“

A surging laugh from inside town hall.

The changelings turned their heads to the still open doors gaping into deep darkness.

Someone stepped forward from within.

She stood tall, twice as tall as the average changeling. Her figure was shattered by her holey legs, her broken mane, and her cracked wings. On her head prevailed a small black crown over her jagged horn.

Chrysalis stood tall, at the foot of the doors.

The changelings bowed down to her, kneeling their heads close to the mud.

Chrysalis chuckled, facing the pony hostages. “I’ve heard that you’re the last of this little town.”

She flew high up, then landed down with a rumble.

The prisoners, caged or chained, shielded themselves from the splashing mud with their hooves.

Chrysalis walked forward, glaring at each of the caged ones who responded with a scared cry or a mean glower. “All that’s left alive. Be grateful that I know mercy.”

Right before the new batch of prisoners, she stopped.

Looked at Pinkie Pie and Fluttershy, at everyone else there.

“You know how it will go for ‘heroic’ ponies like you meddlers. You may seek the sweet release of death to end your misery. Well,” licking her lips, “I’m a rather good person who sees the value of life.”

Pinkie clung on to Fluttershy. “Why didn’t we have a Plan B?! They’re going to do the thing! Th-The—“

Pharynx slapped Pinkie on the head, confronted Chrysalis with a cold gawk. “With all due respect, your Majesty, can we get to the point?”

Chrysalis grunted, then snorted. “We’ve waited a long time for this. At least relish the moment.”

Pharynx groaned again. “If you say so.”

Chrysalis laughed, turning back to the two mares. “Now that you’re all complete, you’ll be ready. The hive is overcrowded with full-course meals like you, so I guess we’ll have to set up another, shall I say...granary.”

Pinkie shrieked, pulling Fluttershy’s hair back and forth. “No, Chrysalis! Anything but that! I don’t want to be taken—they’re going to take all of me away!”

Chrysalis unlocked her chains, lifted her up, and threw her into an open cage which closed shut.

A changeling inserted a lock into it.

Snapped shut.

Pinkie punched the bars of her cage to no avail. She stared at the queen, mouth jittering and eyes wide open. “Don’t you have anything else?! I’m a really bad offender against your hive, Chrysalis! You could, uh—”

Chrysalis rocked the cage with her hoof.

Silencing Pinkie, backing her to the corner, leaving her moaning and weeping.

“Like I’ll be tricked into doing the same mistake over and over again?” Chrysalis chucked once more. “A good ruler never repeats her mistakes, and I’ll ensure that right here.”

Twirled her head towards the rest of the prisoners and their escorts.

“Guards, take them to the cages.”

They unlocked their prisoners’ chains and dragged them to the cages. Fluttershy kicked and punched with her hooves, but she struck only the open air, her guards deftly dodging her flails.

Chrysalis turned her back on them, smiling.

In the rising rain.

Inside the husk of town hall, a grand round hallway opening up to the gray sky above. The rain kept pouring down into it, washing the floor and wetting the fallen banners in fresh, cool water.

Makeshift shelves hung upon the walls, housing dozens of cages and their captives. Few slept, for most of them were trembling in their cells, their hooves shaky as they watched the ground and put their ears out of the cages for a sound, to detect anything out of the ordinary.

Then, hoofsteps, puddle splashes.

Those asleep opened their eyes, got up.

Down below, on ground floor, was Chrysalis and her minions bringing more caged prisoners into the hall.

Gasps, screams, cries from above.

Weeping. A pony weeping and sobbing at the cold, unfeeling floor of her cage.

Chrysalis let out a sigh of relief. “Guards, place them at the center where they belong.”

So they did, the changelings carrying the new cages to the center of the hall.

Their cages pounded by the raindrops.

Chrysalis rubbed her forehooves, took a step back, and lifted her head.

“Ponies of Ponyville! Behold the ruins of your town! Behold the corpses of your stubborn friends! Behold the fate of those who dare refuse our reign! Impenetrable and unassailable, hm? That is only a ruse you tell yourselves, and if you keep telling yourself that, you are a fool! Everyone you know is either dead or within our clutches, suffering for the wrongs they’ve done to us! You ponies ought to know better than to fight against us—you are outnumbered five to one, ten to one, twenty to one, even fifty to one!”

“We’ll never give up our beloved Equestria!” a pony yelled.

Then, silence past the pitter-patter of the rain.

Whispers exchanged between the changelings.

Chrysalis grumbled. “Who dares defy me at the verge of utter, inescapable defeat?!”

“I do!”

Chrysalis turned her head, looked up at her.

A unicorn walked up to the front of her cell, marred with scars on her face. “We may be defeated. You can kill us, lock us up here, drain the love from us until we’re dry and empty! However, there’ll always be somepony else to rise up against you! If not us, then somepony! If not somepony, then anyone!”

Chrysalis laughed, opening one side of her mouth to unveil a vicious fang. “Because you, hm, love Equestria?”

The pony flinched. “What d-did I get myself in—“

Chrysalis glowed her horn, opened her mouth.

Hollow, sputtering vibrations.

A pink stream pulling out from the pony’s body. “No, no! I-I c-could f-f-feel...like I-I’m...”

The changelings cheered their queen on as Chrysalis sucked the stream of love out of the unicorn.

The pony wavering, falling to the cold cage floor, lifting up a green hoof only to let it fall limp. “Y-You can’t...y-you can n-never...”

“Oh, yes, I can always!” Chrysalis shouted, intangible love seeping into her mouth.

Everyone in the cages muttering across their confined spaces. Some closed their eyes at the sight of it, at the sight of this pony depleted, squeezed out of such an emotion.

Then, Chrysalis closed her mouth.

The stream disintegrated.

That unicorn collapsed, eyes shut.

The changeling crowd broke out into applause, jeering at the ponies in their cages.

Above the ovation’s din, one could, with strained ears, hear the cry of, “Lyra, no!”

Chrysalis laughed, shaking her head at the survivors. “You see, ponies, it is futile to run away from us. I’ve promised that we will come to Ponyville, and we have. For that, you’ll be used up for every ounce of love we could squeeze from you—and, if we run out...I’ve found ways to reuse and recycle.”

Pinkie gasped in her cage, hooves on her head. “What did you say?!”

Chrysalis smiled. “It’s a shame we only discovered it after well over a thousand years of existence, but, as they say...better late than never.”

The whole caged audience slowly stood up, rising to their hooves at that.

“Yes, ponies! Haven’t I told you that not even death could help you? For, I’ve found a way to generate love out of you endlessly until your death—and maybe beyond, too!”

Pinkie bit her hooves.

Fluttershy kept standing in spite of her rickety legs knuckling, buckling down.

The murmurs grew into exclamations, shouts, hooves stretched out of their cages, kicks, riots, changelings sent to calm them down, lightning cracking the sky with its thunder, scuffles by the cages, more cages falling, several changelings charging and sucking the love out of their various prisoners—

All the while, Chrysalis looked up to the darkening sky.

The rain becoming a storm as leafless trees bent under the gale.

It was night again.

A lone changeling sat all by himself at a dilapidated train station. Much of the hay on the roofs had fallen apart, leaving behind a wooden skeleton of straightened logs. Windows had been broken; the little safes and shelves had been robbed, filled with nothing but dust, dirt, and air. Barren was the waiting area, its seats unoccupied but with more dust.

Thorax rested his head on the wall, lying half of his body on the boarding platform. The railway was infested with wild flowers, the metal rusted into red and brown oblivion.

As a sole tumbleweed rolled by the plain field.

He sighed, hunching up his hindlegs closer to his face. “What am I gonna do?”

Looked up to the clear sky, seeing the stars twinkle and the moon shining upon him.

“Is there a compromise? What compromise is there?”

Rustling.

Thorax closed his mouth, spun his head left and right. “Wh-Who’s there? Y-You’re not getting out of my sight, pony tr-trash!”

Another changeling flew round the corner of the station. “Thorax, it’s me, Ocellus!”

Thorax placed a hoof to his chest. “Ocellus! Y-Yeah, th-that’s definitely you, but...why are out here? Aren’t you supposed to be at the big feast they’re throwing at the town hall?”

Ocellus nodded. “I was ‘supposed’ to be there. Doesn’t mean I could skip a few minutes.”

Thorax stood up, moaning a bit as he did. “But, why?”

Ocellus smiled. “I noticed you were absent. I came here to fetch you.”

Thorax gulped. “To f-fetch me?”

Ocellus nodded. “Yes, to fetch you.”

Sweat poured down his face. “Uh, what exactly do you mean by fetching me?”

She tilted her head to the side. “Get you to town hall. Accompany you to the feast. Eat with you.”

Thorax recoiled, stepping back. “Uh, thanks, but, no thanks.”

Ocellus scratched her head. “That’s strange. You already got your fair share earlier, huh?”

He gulped. “Yeah. A little from a married couple.”

Ocellus gasped, beaming with excitement. “Do they have kids?”

He balked at the question. “N-No!”

“Aww! They’re the best kind! Just five or ten minutes of their love alone would be enough to get me energized for half a day’s work! If only I could get my hooves on more solid spouses.”

Thorax proceeded to rub his teeth. “Uh-huh?”

Ocellus looked back at him. “Sorry about that. I’m famished from organizing the whole town, securing our grip on this important location. Did you know we are transferring more of our elites here? Turns out Ponyville has an abundance of resources and equipment—more abundant than we thought! You know where Sugarcube Corner is, right?”

Thorax nodded. “Yeah, how c-could I forget?”

“It’s a bakery and it’s complete with lots of kitchen equipment. Stoves, ovens, rolling pins...all we need to do is to teach some how to cook, and we’ll keep the ponies well fed.”

“A healthy pony is a lovely pony,” Thorax droned, looking away from her.

Ocellus raised her head, eyeing him with worry. “What’s wrong, Thorax? Do you feel sick? I-I could send for Pharynx and—“

“N-No!”

She blinked. “What?”

Thorax retracted his outstretched hoof. “Sorry for that, but...my brother must be very busy with d-dinner right now. I w-wouldn’t want to bother—he has quite the short temper...i-if you didn’t know that already.”

Ocellus giggled, trotting to his side. “I’ve been on the receiving end of his rants more than I want to.”

Thorax laughed, cooling down.

And the both of them sat on the boarding platform, resting their heads on the wall, looking at the picturesque sky above with its twinkling stars.

It was a peaceful night, smelling of the rain just past.

“I’ve heard of you before,” Thorax said, placing his front hooves on the back of his head and resting on them like a hard pillow.

“You already said that.”

Thorax covered his mouth. “Oops! Uh...y-yeah, I’ve heard of you. But, to tell you the truth—“ chuckled a bit “—I…didn’t hear any stories about you at all.”

Ocellus leaned her head the other way. “So, are you asking me to tell those stories to you?”

“Maybe? Maybe not?”

She giggled. “You’re quite the oddball, Thorax. No wonder Pharynx likes to rib on you.”

Thorax forced out laughter, canning his chortles in his mouth. “Y-Yeah! That’s tr-true, very true.”

She rested her head on a hoof. “Well, where should we start?" Paused, made an upbeat play of the lips. "I didn’t do much before the war. I was one of ‘those changelings’.”

“The researchers?” Thorax asked.

Ocellus shrugged her shoulders. “Not exactly. We research, but we are not scientists—not in the pony sense of the word. I didn’t take any lead roles there; I was just a lackey.”

Thorax sighed, letting a foreleg swing. “That’s tough. Lackey to a researcher? That’s double the trouble.”

Ocellus looked down on the wooden boards which made up the platform. “No respect for changeling researchers, innovators, pioneers—no respect for changelings who do things other than sneak, replace, and fight. ‘Weakling’, they called me.”

Thorax looked away, closing his eyes.

“At least they’re kind enough to give us their stored love, but you know the rest.”

He turned his head back to her, putting on a smile.

“Then, when she called for Canterlot preparations...I didn’t want to be bogged down by insults, so I volunteered. I was assigned the role of taking out a certain Fleur de Lis, a celebrity. Replacing her was easy—she was sitting by the garden of a fancy mansion while her fiancé was away. Took her out, tied her up inside a large bag, hid her inside a tree, signaled my assistant to get the body, and sat on the same place. After that, it was easy; didn’t take long for me to get into her ticks and mannerisms because I already studied her a full two weeks beforehoof. Fancy Pants didn’t suspect a thing.”

“Fancy Pants?” Thorax asked.

“That was the name of her fiancé,” Ocellus explained. “I was only supposed to keep him company while the rest of us tried to figure out how to get to him. The long moles tried their best to get him into a vulnerable spot, but he never fell for our plans—never suspected us, but he never fell for them because he always had a full schedule for the day.

“Fleur de Lis was invited to the wedding. She was not a bridesmaid, but she was a guest of honor, so I had a significant say on how the wedding would be run. I was able to convince Commander Spearhead to lower the number of guards for the actual ceremony in order to ‘not ruin the mood and not make the attendants uncomfortable’. He fell for it and he did not even attend his own captain’s marriage! How funny some ponies are.”

Thorax gulped. “Y-Yeah. How f-funny.”

“After the Canterlot attack, I got recognized by the queen herself and got promoted. Not higher, but...sideways.”

“Sideways promotion?” Thorax repeated.

Ocellus scratched her head again. “This is very concerning. You’re a very forgetful changeling.”

Thorax sighed.

“I got shifted further in the covert corps, away from the actual fighting. Impersonated a few notable ponies myself, and even a griffon.”

“Was his name Gary?” Thorax asked.

Ocellus blinked, staring at him blankly. “Uh, no. Never heard of him. Why’d you ask?”

“Um, n-no reason. Just thought ‘Gary the Griffon’ sounds well in my head, and the griffons with their...letter ‘G’ and their names that are...strange a-and all...eh...heh….”

Ocellus kept staring at him blankly. “Are you OK, Thorax?”

Thorax stood up. “Me, not OK? O-Of course, I’m OK! I’m very, very OK! Why wouldn’t I be OK? We defeated Zecora and her annoying group of ponies! Why, if I were more than OK, I would be dancing my way into town hall and eat as much love as I could from those loser ponies! It’s a d-dream come true!”

“Then, why aren’t you celebrating?”

Thorax gulped. “Because I-I’m very tired from the trip here! Had to make a couple stop-overs all the way from the Badlands, b-but, that’s alright—another night of sleeping and—“

“It’s been a full twenty-four since you’ve arrived,” Ocellus said, dead-pan, standing up.

Thorax twirled a hoof around. “That’s r-right?”

Ocellus shook her head, about to burst into another bout of giggling. “You are an oddball, aren’t you?”

Thorax nodded. “Yes, please, I’m an oddball!”

Ocellus flicked her wings. “Well, OK. If you feel hungry, just come by town hall. Chrysalis is already using the placards and flags! We’re going to have a long night tonight!”

And she flew round the corner and disappeared.

Leaving Thorax alone, standing by the platform and beside the lonely train tracks.

He slumped down by the wall and looked up at the sky again.

Cold, smelling the aftermath of rain.

Winging the Plan

Thorax looked at himself in the mirror, seeing his reflection.

Standing on top of a raised platform, he mulled over his appearance. The face was the first part of himself he thought about: his complex, gradient eyes; his sharp and vicious teeth, the fangs its prominent members; his horn, which he glowed green once in a while, tilted upwards, possessing a slight curve; his ears and the fin-like membranes running down the back of his head and neck made him resemble a black fish. After that, he looked down to his legs, his incomplete legs; he lifted a holey leg up to his eyes, and saw his reflection through it. He spread open his wings, seeing their fragile yet graceful composure in their cyan glory.

“So, Thorax,” Pharynx said, flying up to the platform from the ground, “what’re you going to wear?”

The room was quite pink. In fact, there was too much pink. The walls were pink, the ripped curtains hanging over the walls were pink, the floor was between violet and pink, the platform was pink, the ceiling with more ripped curtains were pink, and the wilting flowers by the staircase were pink. Coupled with the stink of a smorgasbord of perfumes and colognes stashed inside a broken cardboard box lying by the doorside, the barren boutique reeked of pink.

Past the wrecked windows, a gray day. Light drizzle continued, gently lavishing Ponyville with its tender strokes.

Pharynx flew out of sight, pulled in one of the clothesracks which had fallen, and examined the clothes therein. It was a neat collection of suits and ties of standard styles, some with the soft touch of silk woven into them.

“Nah.”

He discarded them, throwing it back by the wayside.

Pharynx flew back to his brother who was still inspecting himself in front of the mirror.

Placed his mouth close to his ear.

“Now, you listen to me, Thorax,” he said, loud and clear, “I don’t care if you’ve done this a million times. I still don’t trust you a hundred percent when it comes to jobs like these. You’ve blown our cover one too many times, and I want to make our training clear to you again. Got it?”

Thorax nodded, whining through his teeth; he gave his elder sibling a loud, drawn out moan which was enough to elicit a groan of a reply from Pharynx.

“OK," Pharynx went on, "let's get it over with: where are we going?”

“To Appleloosa,” Thorax said, then coughed. “Get any escapees on the way there, take my mark out, blend in, and stay there until it’s taken over. If I could find a way to manipulate one of their messengers into our hooves, so much the better.”

Pharynx grinned. He poked him on the chin. “That’s the brother I should know! What else?”

“Be memorable, but not too memorable,” Thorax said as if repeating from memory. “You are a rounded personality, not a flat one. You may be distinguished by certain traits, but you are not just those traits. Get involved in a few outlying hobbies, even learn some new ones. Don’t reveal too much of your changeling knowledge.”

Pharynx patted him on the back, viewing his brother's reflection on the mirror and noticing the glass’s lack of cracks. “Good, good! I wish you were this dedicated from the very start!”

“Don’t be too quiet, but don’t be too talkative,” Thorax continued, ignoring the comment. “No matter the pressure, stay calm—an innocent pony should not be afraid if he’s not hiding anything, so mimic that.”

Pharynx’s smile grew. “OK, I think that’s enough. Just recite it to yourself on the way. We’ll be en route by nighttime.” He paused, taking in a huge breath. “You’ve got the selection of three different refugee groups coming in from Manehattan, Choctown, and some random village up from Dodge or whatever.”

“Choctown is the best choice,” Thorax said, still looking at himself, scrutinizing his eyes. “Manehattan already has lots of suspicion from being beyond our borders. The area from Dodge, due to its sparse population, has a notorious reputation against us. However, Choctown provides a balanced demographic which could prove difficult but provides the best hiding conditions in plain sight.”

Pharynx covered his mouth. “Woah, woah, woah there! I know you want to best me, but this isn’t a competition. That kind of thinking is what makes younglings fall so hard.”

“I know that,” Thorax said in a gravelly tone.

Pharynx spat on the mirror, disfiguring that clear impression on the glass. “Nevermind. Just show me what you got.”

Thorax looked away from his brother, then back to himself, to his reflection on the mirror.

He closed his eyes.

With his own hoof, wiped the mirror clean from the spit.

A whorf sound, a blue glow coming all over his body from top to bottom.

The glow disappeared.

He opened his eyes.

Saw his reflection.

But not his own reflection

He saw a short, lanky pony. His gray blue coat complemented his dark blue mane which was adorned by a headband raised over his forehead. His eyes were still blue, but they had pupils and a polygonal sparkle on them. His cutie mark was a vase.

Pharynx furrowed his brow. “A Crystal pony? Not my first pick. Are you sure?”

Thorax, in his pony form, turned to him. “I mean, I’ve never tried a Crystal disguise before. I could call myself, uh...”

He looked at himself on the mirror.

Then, at his hooves.

“...Crystal Hoof.”

Pharynx snickered, trying to muzzle it. “You’re still bad at names, eh? Good thing I wasn’t with you the past nine days, else I would’ve done nothing but endure your lack of creativity.”

“Hey, I was creative enough to think of being a Crystal pony!” Thorax complained, waving his hooves about in the air.

Pharynx laughed, smacking him on the back of his head hard enough to make him teeter. “Well, how many Crystal ponies are still alive today? A hundred? Fifty? Ten?”

Thorax sighed, rubbing that back in pain. “It’s worth a shot, right?”

Pharynx shook his head. “Too risky.”

Thorax’s ears drooped as he covered himself in that glow, the whorf coming in again.

The glow disappeared, and he was back to his changeling self.

A white glow flashed from outside.

Kryow!

Thorax jumped, flew to the ceiling and stuck himself there. “No more thunder, please!”

Pharynx sighed, flew up as well, and towed him back to the platform and the mirror.

His brother made a sheepish grin. “Uh, sorry?

“Let’s pretend that never happened,” Pharynx said as he turned Thorax’s head towards the mirror, forcing him to see himself. “Remember: be memorable but not too memorable. A Crystal pony is too memorable. They’ll be curious since they think you’re one of the last Crystal ponies in existence and—“

“—they’ll ask me questions about how life was back in the Crystal Empire a thousand years ago, how Sombra took over, blah blah blah.”

Pharynx growled, taking a step in front of him. “You’re getting too smart for your own good. What’s the use of memorization if you don’t remember it? Goes through both ears, Thorax? Is that how it’s done inside your convoluted brain?”

Thorax opened and closed his mouth fast, his first words fizzling out. “Uh, n-not really?”

Pharynx shook his head again. “OK. Think of somepony else. Not too average. Remember the list of candidates we’ve received from those three places. Try to think hard.”

“I know!”

“Then, why aren’t you doing it?”

It was Thorax’s turn to roll his eyes.

He covered himself in that blue glow.

Then, out of the glow, a yellow pegasus with cloud-like hair—not just in color, but also in fluffy shape; he sported a mountaintop covered in clouds as his cutie mark. His stature was that of a young fledgling pony—no sags on his limbs, his wings and legs well-rounded, even his white hair burning a peculiar sheen that distinguished it from that of those more senior than him. Overall, Thorax's form might not be spectacular in appearance, but it was not ugly.

“Ah, Swift River,” Pharynx said, scratching his chin. “An ambitious pony hailing from Stratusburg who was trying to apply for a spot in the Wonderbolts before we came along. All went downhill from there, and he’s now down in the dumps—some poor old border guard.”

Thorax spread open his wings, now filled with feathers. “Anything else about him?”

Pharynx looked up, seeing the glittering jewels hanging from ropes of fabric. “Had to resort to being a newspony for various camps, too, scrounging around for money if for some reason they win. Had a wife—had, before she perished in a fire way back. Foalless, so he’s just a solitary survivor. Still feels remorse over her, which is why he gets big packages sympathy from the friends he still has.”

Thorax sprung up a smile. “He’s not half-bad. Does he receive lots of pity?”

“Of course, he does! Those dumb Equestrians let that get in the way of staying afloat! It’s a weakness, makes them more perceptible to our powers...but, what does that matter to us?”

Pharynx kicked the mirror, cracking it and distorting Thorax’s pony reflection.

His smile disappearing.

“Let them be!" Pharynx shouted direct to his face. "I’d fake the dead in a funeral if I have to!”

Thorax shivered, his yellow hooves in a shaking fit.

“And, you’re gonna do it, too, sooner or later!” Pharynx spoke, sticking a hoof between his eyes. “It’s more than a coincidence that we have these disgusting bottles of colorful water...” and looked off to the box by the doorside. “Are they scents? Perfumes?!”

Thorax coughed again, eyeing the fragrant box. “I think they’re called ‘perfumes’.”

“Right, right…‘perfumes’….”

Thorax snickered, closing his blue, pupiled eyes.

“What’re you laughing at?”

Pharynx seized him by the ear.

"Ow! Pharynx, stop!"

“I have more important things to think about than smelling fancy and caring about your ears!”

Thorax wiped the sweat off of his yellow forehead which lacked his horn. “Well, the only thing that’s holding me back is him wanting to rise in the ranks.”

Pharynx rubbed his hooves, loosing a hearty, sinister laugh. “Correct! You remembered all the essentials about him. However, you could change that.”

He set his hoof on Thorax’s white mane, ruffling it about.

“Give him a change of heart! Make him better than the old pony he always was. Soon, they’re going to like you so much, they’ll hate it when the original Swift River comes back with his cranky personality, and they’ll think he’s the changeling! A cruel twist, and they won’t see it coming—they’ll never realize they’ve just rejected him and accepted the very changeling who’ll wipe them out!”

Thorax smiled, sweat emerging on his disguised cheeks. “Yeah...I think that’ll do.”

The both of them looked at Thorax’s reflection on the mirror, staring at it for a while—rain’s pitter and patter coming back to them.

“Ready to go?” Pharynx said, glancing out the window and seeing the shriveled grass by the muddy street assaulted by the drizzle.

“I th-think so.”

Pharynx patted him again. “Don’t you worry. You got your older brother behind you!”

Thorax grinned. “Why, thank you! I honestly didn’t expect those words coming out of your mouth—“

Grabbed by the tail and smacked on to the floor, cracking it.

Thorax laid down there, prostrate and rubbing his throbbing head—vision blurry. “Wh-Why did you do that?”

Pharynx smiled, looking down on him and raising an eyebrow that was not there. “You forgot to change your voice. Better pay attention to the finer details. Now, get up.”

Storm

The rain cascaded hard on Sugarcube Corner and permeated its rooms with the clings and clangs of the downpour. Through a few holes in the rooftops, the water seeped into the bakery, farther down through more holes in the floors, and finally landing onto the bottom where two changelings were trying to plug the holes in the ceiling with wood, nails, tape, and cloth, hissing whenever the water splashed on to their eyes and blaming each other for the job not well done.

The dining area of the bakery had seen some improvements. The bright colors having dulled and died out, they were replaced with crudely drawn flags of black and green and cylindrical translucent pods of a sickly green—these thick pods hanging from the stony overgrowth multiplying from the rafters.

Ocellus was hovering up there, holding a pod closer to her eyes. “Two and a half days to go for you, little ones! It’ll be a good time for you chubby-wubbies to be alive!”

She heard a snicker, looked that way.

One of the two water-plugging changelings holding up a bundled ball of cloth against a leaking hole, the ball itself partially submerged in and trickling out water—one of them had a mischievous smile upon him. “I still can’t get over that, ‘Cell! You’re like some kind of stage mom or something!”

“Cut it out, Cornicle,” Ocellus said with a slightly cheery tone. “Chrysalis’s hooves are full for today—she’s got to be happy that I’m volunteering for grubsitting the seven hundred and fifty-first time!”

“Isn’t ‘grubsitting’ supposed to take place after they’re born?” said Cornicle’s companion, Atennae, as he put on a pair of broken glasses on the floor with his free leg.

“Doesn’t hurt to try,” Ocellus said before returning to her motherly duties.

A white flash.

Crack!

“Ugh!” and Cornicle was hiding behind the counter.

Antennae looked at him, struggling to carry the cloth ball. “Hey! This isn’t the lightest stuff in the—“

It fell on him, along with a few streams of water running down on his head, burying the unfortunate Antennae in clothes.

Ocellus chuckled. “I think you need a more permanent solution for that one!”

The door swung open, intensifying the rain’s peals.

Standing there, beside a soaked Pharynx, was Swift River who spread open his wings dripping with rainwater, his own mane drowned and disheveled by the weather.

Ocellus hovered down to the entrance, greeting: “Pharynx! Thorax!” and looked at Thorax from head to hoof, beholding his coat and his mane—his figure. “Swift River, huh?”

Thorax nodded. “Having a go at the name!”

Pharynx tugged him by the ear. “Yeah, but he forgot the most important part: the voice.”

Thorax, not giving his brother a look of acknowledgment, cleared his throat, massaged his neck, smacked his lips with his hooves, cleared his throat a second time, and garnered the attention of several other changelings working in the background who were disturbed and disrupted by the noise he was making. He opened his mouth, and, in a nasal voice:

“Uh, h-hi! H-How are you a-all d-doing?”

Pharynx groaned. “I asked Empis since he’s overheard the real article talk. Yes, that’s his actual voice...sadly.”

Ocellus smiled, putting a hoof on Thorax’s yellow shoulder. “Stay calm, and keep a level mind. Be safe out there.”

Thorax rolled his eyes again. “I know that! Why do you always have to treat me like a younger brother?”

“Because you are, Thorax,” Pharynx replied. “Stop treating me like some random stranger.”

Ocellus flew in between them, stretching a hoof out against each of them and their scowls. “Um, what about you two don’t get into sibling rivalry? We already have enough of that as it is.” She emphasized that by silently motioning towards Cornicle and Atennae now in the middle of a bitter argument about who ruined the bundle of clothes which lay wet and scattered on the wooden floor, the drips from above only continuing despite their passionate words.

Thorax shivered. “Well, we’re certainly not in big trouble like them.”

Pharynx slapped him on the head. “What about you try helping out if you think they’re in big trouble?”

Thorax laughed nervously, rubbing his harmless, unfanged white teeth. “Eh-heh?”

Ocellus sighed. “Since I’m sure you two didn’t come here to bicker and quarrel just for fun, let’s drop the subject.” She faced Thorax. “Ignoring the past few minutes: How do you feel?”

Thorax gulped, scratching his throat. “Fine. Nervous, but fine.”

“Wait ‘till he chickens out,” Pharynx muttered, followed by “Buh-kaw!”

Ocellus rolled her eyes, still looking at Thorax. “Don’t listen to him. I’m certain you’ll do well in your mission. You won’t be alone...but the others won’t be coming together for a while—pretty busy scouring the whole area for family pictures and other mementos for the feast later tonight.”

Pharynx licked his lips and rubbed his hooves, narrowing his eyes into sinister shapes, finally letting loose his two-tailed tongue in an abrupt hiss.

Thorax, on the other hoof, stepped away from him and towards Ocellus. “OK, uh, are we going after or before dinner? Because, I want to have my portion of dinner early so I won’t bother everyone else.”

“Or,” Pharynx said, raising a hoof and trotting to him, “you want to get the lion’s share of the harvest when you weren’t even present in the attack? That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s not ridiculous if he behaves,” Ocellus said, placing a hoof on Pharynx’s shoulder, trying to calm him down. “If you want, I’ll accompany him before he regroups with everyone else. Deal?”

Pharynx shook his head. “I’ll be the one accompanying my flesh and blood!”

“But, we’re all the same flesh and blood—“

“I didn’t ask for the technical definition of ‘flesh and blood’, did I?!” Pharynx lashed out, stepping on her hoof.

“Ow!” and raised her hoof to her head.

Everyone else looked at her.

Thorax gently tapped Ocellus on the head, doing her best to comfort and relieve her.

Raising both of his forehooves in the air as if in defeat, Pharynx whined, “It’s like the changelings around me get more incompetent with every passing day!” He spread his wings and headed out the bakery, but not before pointing at him and shouting, “I’ll be seeing you, brother, before you take off, so don’t think you’re out of this yet!”

And he was outside, drenching himself in the storm which dimmed the day into part-night with its ominous army of gray clouds and its volley of ruthless raindrops.

Thorax, stroking his mane, sighed, held on to Ocellus’s pained hoof and kneaded it smooth. “There, there. It’s gonna be alright. It’s just a bad hoof, that’s all.”

Ocellus nodded, steeling her lips together not into a smile but into a neutral kind of expression, void of any emotion.

As Cornicle and Antennae argued farther behind in Sugarcube Corner, never noticing the drops of water landing on their heads.

In town hall, the rain flooded the floor and banners wet, carrying away unused clothes and heavy papers into the grim gale outside. The cages sat there in their places, most of them on their shelves with the remaining few on the floor in that grand hall. Those who were not asleep and snoring—they were subjected to perennial shivers and shakes, watching this and that dark space, whispering to one another if this or that shadow housed a changeling in waiting—waiting to scare them.

Two cages lay beside each other, detaining Pinkie and Fluttershy in an iron clamp. The former’s hair had now shriveled into a long, flowing disarray of strands framing a sorrowful frown and a sober pair of blue eyes ever looking upwards at the dreary sky of gray becoming black. The latter was reduced to a bawling wreck, resting her head on the cold cage bars and muttering to herself syllables, eyes surveying the cracked floor filled with the remnants of windows and ceremonial cloth and fine fabric as her tears joined the rain and masked themselves inside the waves.

Then, a step, a puddle splash.

Several slowly rose up within their cages, a few whispering to others in their adjacent cells.

Some closed their eyes and hid their faces from the open doors. Others held their ears up, seeking to understand the conversation above the storm’s endless crashes.

“...stay quiet, and you’ll cause no trouble at all,” a female voice said from the hallway, growing nearer.

“Y-Yeah, I kn-know, Ocellus,” another voice, a male one, responded. “But, what if—“

“Shh! Don’t you worry. You got me, and you should trust me.”

Whispers abounded in the cages. “What does it mean?” “Are they already fighting against each other?” “I wish they are. I really wish they are.”

Then, into the hall, Thorax and Ocellus in their changeling forms.

Many in their cages trembled, backing away from them.

“You’ve done more than enough!” an Earth pony shouted, scared, from her cage. “Please, spare us! I-I d-don’t want anymore!”

Ocellus nudged him on his skinny ear. “Don’t hold back, Thorax. You need to have the energy to make the trip.”

Thorax looked at him, not saying a word but, rather, half-closing his eyes as if to peep out a tear.

Ocellus held him firm on the shoulder. “Thorax, you have to.”

He looked at her.

Slumped his shoulders, sighed, raised his head.

Thorax looked at the Earth pony who had shouted.

All eyes were on her.

The mare shook her head, closed and opened her eyes. “No!”

Thorax walked up to her, taking it slow with each stride, with each splash of a puddle, with each trample of banners and papers.

The mare turned away from him and bumped the cage walls, tried to dent the prison bars with whacks!

They did not bend a single inch.

She whirled around.

Saw Thorax standing in front of her.

That ghastly, dark creature before her—those bizarre eyes, those fatal fangs, those holey legs—

“Agh!” Held up her hooves on to her face. “No, you can’t take me the same way she did to Lyra and my friends! I know...I know what you’re all trying to do, and it’s horrible to even think of them! Please consider, please think, please think—I don’t want to stay here! Let me farm your fields, let me work at building your boats—anything but being turned into some unfeeling—“

A hiss.

His mouth open, his eyes wide open. A pink stream coming out of the mare.

Out of the whimpering mare.

Thorax absorbing the stream into his mouth, down his throat—a river of love into his stomach.

“No!” she cried out, reaching out to him with her failing hooves—her own voice fading. “You...you’re going to let us live like this, you might as well just kill us...to forget—“

She wavered.

Thorax’s mouth still open.

The river pouring into him.

Silence filling the air, the whole town hall, against the storm.

Ocellus looked at Thorax. “Uh, I think that’s enough love for—“

He pushed her aside.

She shook her head, cracking a little smile of her own. “Well….”

“He’s not stopping!” a pony cried out.

Murmurs turning into loud words.

The victim falling limp on the floor, able to move only her eyes, her mouth, and one hoof—that one hoof raised in defiance against Thorax. “Y-You...please….”

She shut her eyes.

Collapsed.

The river disappeared.

Thorax snapped his mouth shut, staring blankly at the space before him.

He looked at the pony before him, lying unconscious on the cage floor.

Storm coming back to him—the gray strands flying in and out of sight past the breaks in the wall and the broken windows, the booming commotion racing to full volume, the distinct scent of the rain itself—

Thorax slowly raised a hoof above the ground.

Ocellus caught it, planted it back down. “Don’t, Thorax. Don’t. It’s better this way.”

Thorax was silent. He saw that mare and could describe her: a blonde mare in coat, her lustrous two-tone mane of blue and fuchsia frazzled and disorderly; her cutie mark was three striped candies in wrappers—here she was, limp and cold, almost as good as dead from a quick glance.

“You’re evil!” Pinkie shouted from her cage.

Ocellus turned to her, her smile coming back. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘You’re evil!’” Pinkie repeated.

Fluttershy turned her head to Pinkie. “Pinkie, this isn’t the best time for—“

Ocellus flew to her, struck her cage and sent Pinkie rattling.

Pinkie rubbed her head, standing up. “You think that’s all you—“

A hiss.

Pinkie's own stream of love coming out of her body.

She opened her mouth, her jaw dropped low—shocked.

Ocellus feeding on Pinkie’s love, her fangs in display as the hiss rose in volume.

Not a sound came from her mouth. Only a silent struggle, trying to wrest away from the feeding.

As ponies above screamed, cried at the sight.

Pharynx stood at the counter of the bakery, checking a list of ingredients on the surface.

The door opened, letting in the sound of a rolling thunderstorm and the view of a night shrouded in the darkness with barely a light upon it save for a green lamppost made out of stone.

Ocellus dripping wet, beaming. “You wouldn’t believe what Thorax did before he left!”

Pharynx raised a brow. “You didn’t tell me he was leaving! How dare—“

“He treated his snack for all that their worth,” Ocellus said, helping herself to a sinister chuckle of her own.

Pharynx smiled. “Did you mean he picked them dry?”

“And not just two or three of them,” Ocellus reported. “Almost everyone on the ground.”

Pharynx hovered over the floor and rested his head on his two raised forehooves. “He’s finally learning his place. He’s in the winning side, and he has to act like it!”

Ocellus nodded, smiling. She snatched two muffins from a cardboard box, hoofed one to Pharynx.

They ended up eating those sweets together, taking in their delicious blueberry flavor and their crumbly texture.

While Pharynx turned his head round, Ocellus, for a quick moment, dropped her smile and glanced outside through the window pelted and smudged with rain.

The storm ploughed its way through Ponyville, pummeling the poor village in its anger—over there, a few wooden beams plucked out of their hay-covered roofs and sent flying into the fog, never to be seen again.

Fly by Necessity

Hoofsteps rushing and echoing in the dark with splatters of dirt; some faint lights from above illuminating the humid tunnel of rock and stone, mingled their rays with the whir of machines in the cramped underground.

He turned a left, entered a narrower tunnel.

Leaped on to the chair and sat himself there, panting for air.

Inside that pitch-black room.

“You have arrived within the expected time,” said another pony.

Beep.

The lights turned on, revealing a murky enclosed space made up of dirt and excavated cavities. The walls were of hard stone; lights hung from the ceiling, connected by flimsy wires. At the center was a little table with a few unopened letters resting there.

Sandbar took a good look of that pony standing by the wall—lanky, taller than him, tail cut short, pretty drab over all.

“I was standing here to relieve myself of the tedium of sitting down,” Mudbriar said in a bored, monotonous voice. “You have kept me waiting for the right amount of time—neither too early to disrupt my experience of standing up, but neither too late to risk our headquarters which is within relatively close proximity.”

Sandbar groaned, leaning his head back in frustration. “Can you speak in plain Ponish?”

Mudbriar shook his head, taking a seat at the other side of the table. “Forgive me for, ironically, speaking in plain Ponish, but, as the wise saying goes, ‘Miscommunication kills’. This is only your third time here in McIntosh Hills, implying—although true according to our experiences with each other—that you’ve only met me two times before; however, I will not apologize for not only speaking with precision but also for demanding that we communicate in clear, unambiguous statements for the good of ponykind.”

Sandbar rolled his eyes and took out a letter. “Anyway, let’s, uh, get that out of the way and talk about what we have in mind. This one’s straight from Coloratura.”

Mudbriar took the letter and read it, his eyes darting left to right.

“It’s about establishing a secret...thing. It’s half-newspaper, half-report. We want to distribute it to those behind changeling lines, and, as far as I know, you’re the only one with a working inker. After that, we can establish some kind of, uh, system or line of supply—I think—where we can send weapons and resources to ponies hiding there. That way, we can knock them out from the inside.”

Mudbriar closed the scroll, tied it up with a ribbon, and looked at Sandbar.

And kept looking at Sandbar.

Still looking at him.

Mudbriar blinked.

Still looking.

Sandbar avoided his look, baring his teeth open in anxiety. “What’s the hold-up? Unless...this is a test, right?”

“It is an ambitious idea,” Mudbriar said, not minding Sandbar’s questions to continue with his monotonous voice. “It is, in my opinion, admirable in its concept and would surely be upheld by many well-meaning members of our group and other such groups throughout Equestria.”

Sandbar frowned. “But, there’s a catch, right?”

Mudbriar nodded. “How would you know, with absolute certainty, if the ponies you will meet up with are not changelings themselves? Even if you do manage to distinguish true ponies from their changeling counterparts and even if you were able to stave off enemy forces in your first try, how would you maintain this half-newspaper, half-report project since, by being at least partially a newspaper, there would have to be a new issue on a regular basis? Would it be daily, weekly, monthly, or only when truly necessary? The ideal answer ought to be ‘daily’ in order to keep our imprisoned members informed of the situation and, by so doing, allow them to make the best choices possible under the circumstances, but how would you conduct monthly, let alone daily, routes into hostile territory undetected? I am, of course, assuming that you are sensible enough to arm yourself with the proper equipment in order to survive such journeys, but, as I have said before, this is an ambitious project—“

“I think I get the gist of what you’re trying to say,” Sandbar broke in, holding up a hoof. He took the scroll and put it back in his mane, tucking it away there. “You think it’s risky and dangerous. I understand that, but she’s proposing another way to go about it.”

Mudbriar raised a brow, interested. “Why haven’t you said so earlier? I would not have wasted so much of my breath and so much of your time with my thoughts on a matter that turned out to contain incomplete information.”

Sandbar gulped. “Well, it’s because you’re the...you know, boss around here and—“

“Technically, I’m the overseer and I am not ‘around here’, for that would mean me somehow being present around this room which would require me to perform the impossible feat of being in multiple places at once—“

“OK, I think I get the gist of that one, too.”

Sandbar stood up, pushing his chair back.

He glanced back at the tunnel, hearing the whirs and seeing the lights flicker for a bit—the ground rumbling somewhat. “It’s been, uh, nice knowing you, but I’m, uh, running out of time and I have to get to A-Appleloosa right away for errands and...other mail….”

Mudbriar kept looking at him, still seated on his chair.

Sandbar let out a nervous laugh. “Uh...could you stop doing that? You’re freaking me out.”

“Technically, to ‘freak you out’ would be to move you into a condition of extreme disorder or, otherwise, distress—so, to ‘freak you out’ would mean me annoying you in a way that would—“

But Sandbar was already galloping out.

McIntosh Hills was a sight to behold. The first thing to take in was its snow-capped peaks—way up there, high above and wallowing in the harsh chilly climate, showing themselves as intimidating challenges for ponies who would want to live there since zero houses had been built on those peaks yet. Going down from their tops, the mountains’ rugged slants had no room for much life other than the odd grass patch and the occasional bear; in their isolation, they made for breathtaking scenery out of the sheer size of these landforms, out of how massive they were. Finally, at the foot of a valley, was a little building.

A train station occupied some space there, bustling with life. A makeshift train, complete with one engine and three carriages, was made meager and small, but it could hold dozens of pony passengers—there it stayed on the railroad, idle. On top of the engine, sitting near the chimney sat workers wearing empty jars on their vests and their hats, eyeing the chimney and then the line of ponies silent and waiting on the boarding platform.

The line had seven guards looking after them, each one tending to their job. A pony who wanted to board a train here had to go through seven steps: He would have to give up whatever bags and luggage he was carrying to the first guard, relinquish any clothes for inspection by the second guard, go through light verification by having a spell cast on him by the third guard, have that particular green salve put on his face and the rest of his body by the fourth guard—if he was wearing such already, it would be rubbed off to give way to a new coat of salve—next, he would be interviewed for half a minute by the fifth to check if his story held up to pressure, shown instructions on a piece of paper by the sixth for a safe and orderly train ride, and finally escorted to his designated seat by the seventh to safeguard against any trickery inside the vehicle. Even then, such a pony would not be at complete peace—guards were arranged throughout the carriages from one end to the other, furnished with lances, arrows, and mean faces.

Sandbar, standing in line before the first guard, took a look around while wiping his face, throwing away a towel into a bucket of sweaty towels by the side.

He saw a couple of ponies back inside the station building itself, watched them dine over canned soup and beans plus a few days-old apples on the side. There was no drink but water as they breakfasted in that dark, shaded station where quick remarks exchanged themselves. Orders were barked; an entitled pony would argue, then be thrown out of the establishment, told to get in line and get out.

On the dry desert ground, he saw several ponies sewing various clothestogether beside unicorns reading a few books and casting disguise spells at each other, shifting into this or that pony form—a short mare got informal applause for making her friend look like a changeling, complete with functional wings.

“We’re gonna have to protect you now!” somepony said to her. “Once word gets around, you’ll be on their list. Could you start teaching some of the younger ones first thing in the morning?”

The mare shrugged her shoulders, sweltering under the burning sun. “I’m not really sure if I could pull it off, Needle Leaf, but I’ll try.”

Her friend, still looking at her changeling hooves, turned to the accomplished unicorn. “Uh, could you change me back now? I don’t want the visitors to kill me on accident.”

Some laughed at that, but they were quickly silenced by a guard’s swift glare.

Sandbar noticed the pony ahead of him moving. He gulped and moved on to the first guard.

He looked over Sandbar who exhibited the letter from his mane. Pointing to the next guard, eyes still on that traveler: “Got nothing else? Go on.”

Sandbar trotted onward, seeing the line move slowly.

After about two minutes, he got to the second guard who could be distinguished from the others by the shirt he was wearing under his armor.

“No clothes for you?” he blathered. “Go on.”

Sandbar stepped forward and resumed waiting.

Another two minutes passed and he reached the third guard who was a unicorn. The guard charged up his horn, letting it glow blue, and shot a magical beam at Sandbar, making him glow blue as well.

The glow subsided and the guard smiled. “You’re real. Go on.”

Another two minutes went by and he reached the fourth guard who did not question why Sandbar had no salve on his face, grabbed a hoofful from a pot full of that substance, and carefully dabbed it on him—above and below his eyes, on the tip of his snout and on his cheeks, on his hooves and the rest of his legs.

Sandbar glowed again, this time glowing white.

The guard peered at him. He observed the patterns he had painted on this pony. Then, content with the glow dying down, he smiled like his predecessor and said, “Go on.”

Instead of two minutes, only a minute went by and Sandbar approached the fifth guard. Unlike the previous two, he had a face of contempt—sharp eyebrows, sharp mouth, sharp snout, sharp jaw, and sharp stare.

“What’s your name?” the guard inquired in baritone.

“Sandbar.”

“Where are you from?”

“Ponyville.”

“Your background?”

“Grew up there most of my life until three weeks and two days ago.”

“Explain your cutie mark.”

“The three turtles show my love for the open water—it’s good that Ponyville had a lake when I was a foal and, sometimes, a pony would give me turtles to play with.”

“What’s not your name?”

“Three Turtles.”

“Melody?”

“Indigo.”

“You will be from…?”

“Appleloosa.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sandbar.”

“Go on.”

Half a minute later, he met the sixth guard. This officer pointed at the diagram on the paper displaying the train's seats. “See, mister, you’ll have to stay here—“ indicating a windowside seat near the end of the first carriage “—and don’t get up until we say so. Have you developed motion sickness since last time?”

Sandbar shook his head.

“Go with Wheel Tapper over there—“ pointing at his successor in the squad of seven.

Sandbar nodded and went to the seventh and final guard on the line.

The landscape proved disappointing. While one could open the windows and feel the cool air rushing past his mane, that was the most exciting part of the landscape. When the air is the most exciting part of one’s surroundings in a trip, then that meant everything else was boring to the average pony—not to say that deserts and other arid locations do not have their own attractions not found anywhere else in the world, but when one stares outside for a good five minutes and sees nothing but that brown ground and some cacti, the typical passenger would most likely turn his attention to other things.

Which might be why Sandbar could be called an atypical passenger because, despite looking out the window and seeing relatively the same things roll in and roll out, he did not take his eyes away from them.

The sky was blue, dotted with a few clouds, but, otherwise, it was very clear.

A nudge on his shoulder.

Sandbar swung his head round, holding out a hoof in greeting. “Good morning—agh! When did you get here?!”

The blue griffon shook Sandbar’s hoof with his claw, seeing past the pony’s astonished expression. “Name’s Gallus. Pretty sure you haven’t seen a real live griffon, have ya’?”

Sandbar shuddered. “Uh, n-no…?”

Gallus combed his tall head feathers with his other claw. “I came here all the way from Griffonstone. Managed to escape with some others before they took over. Lost them on the way, and now...I'm here.”

Sandbar coughed. “Yeah.” Studied him, noticing the green on his otherwise blue cheeks and amber chest. “Guess Zecora’s works on non-ponies, too.”

“Hey, we’re in this together, whether you like it or not, four legs!” Gallus shouted, pointing at him.

“But, don’t you have four legs as well?” Sandbar asked, looking at the griffon's aforementioned four legs.

“They’re not, they just act like legs. These are my claws—“ held up his claws “—and these are my two paws—“ and kicked the air with his two paws on his hindlegs. “See the difference?”

Sandbar flicked his mane and returned to the window.

Gallus sighed, bending closer to him and breathing on his neck. “OK, maybe that’s not my best first impression, but just because the Equestria you love is the major fighter here doesn’t mean you get to give us the short end of the stick!”

Sandbar sighed back. Without looking: “Yeah, be glad I’m not tempted to eat you.”

The griffon balled his claw into a fist. “Are you insulting my diet?!”

Then, a tap on his shoulder.

Gallus turned round to see a guard standing in the aisle.

“This isn’t the best time to do that,” the guard said, stoic face on him. “You two be nice to each other...unless you want to be jailed in Appleloosa for disturbing the peace.”

Gallus groaned. “He started it!”

Sandbar sighed once more and kept looking out the window, seeing the landscape again to drink it in.

“This isn’t funny at all,” the guard went on. “It's not a matter of pride and self-esteem, especially for you, Mr. Griffon.”

“I have a name, you know!” Gallus roared, opening his wings and approaching the guard.

The guard opened his yellow wings in return, bracing himself by angling his legs and moving a hoof towards his holstered lance. “Calm down, sir. I don’t want to resort to force, but you’re making this hard for me.”

Gallus crossed his claws. “Fine. I’ll behave and follow the rules, but if I snap, it’s not my fault!”

The guard sighed and trotted back to his post.

Gallus closed his wings and sat back down on his seat. “Thanks a lot, stranger. You’re the first pony I’ve really talked to for a month now, and you manage to get the both of us into trouble.”

“The both of us?” Sandbar repeated in surprise, turning away from the window. “Sorry, but you’re the one who’s in trouble. We could’ve resolved our differences peacefully if you just asked nicely.”

“Well, sorry for acting rude and selfish,” Gallus said, slightly mocking Sandbar’s accent, “but I’ve been living on the edge ever since the changelings ransacked my home, so I hope you don’t mind when I ask for some respect.”

Sandbar fumbled around in his mane, took out a letter. He scanned it, and put it back inside his mane.

“And what are you? The delivery guy? You think you can just forget I exist ‘cause you have mail?”

A growl came out of Sandbar's mouth. “Will you stop it, Gallus? I’m in the middle of an important trip.”

“Then, why didn’t you say so?”

The stallion resorted to the window and kept his face planted there for the remainder of the ride, hiding that uptight look on his face.

A couple of short cliffs hung over the settlement of Appleloosa, rising upright and ready as formidable natural barriers sheltering that rustic community from one side. Flourishing on them were a few fields of apple trees in spite of the scorching hot climate—the sun’s stuffy fever bombarding those robust plants; the dry and shallow soil either with sparse grass or without, exposing the dusty regolith underneath; the lack of water made evident by the troupe of ponies digging more wells with their shovels, toiling in the heat.

This frontier town lived up to its nature in more ways than one. First, it sported the appearance of a regular frontier town—the shortage of buildings present, the budding infrastructure used even with its dry and dirty roads, the absence of offices and the abundance of agricultural work to do, the produce in the market mostly being fresh produce from the farms. However, it did live on another kind of frontier even up to this very day since, a short distance past the local train station, some ponies were cutting off the tracks by dragging out pieces of railroad and then burning them in a bonfire. A pony, chipping in with additional help, hammered a sign to the ground which proclaimed in painted letters: “NO PONY’S LAND! DO NOT CROSS!”

The main street was as short as five dainty houses and it housed most of the main establishments, packed with ponies packing and unpacking boxes and crates, consulting with one another over maps and plans and blueprints, and circulating the daily rations of food to all who drew near. The tallest structure in town, Appleloosa’s town hall, had a clock tower which now said eleven-twenty in the morning. Three or four dozen steps away was the hat shop, distinguished by a wooden cutout of a hat; inside, however, were more than hats, for the owner had filled the shelves with survival gear: a spear, a bow and a stocked quiver, some cans of food, a big water jug, and a little container of that green salve. Finally, at the end of the street, was the train station itself, a bit bigger than the one at McIntosh Hills.

Sandbar followed the sheriff who proudly wore a silver star on his denim vest, the both of them passing by groups of ponies pulling wagons of apples. They suffered the hot weather, sweat going down their foreheads.

“I sure do appreciate what yer’ aimin’ for,” the sheriff said, conveying his country cadence, “but this is beyon’ what we cou’d do right now. All of our paper’s almost gone, an’ we can’t ask for ink from anyone because it’s gettin’ rarer and harder to get.”

Sandbar tried to put on an acceptable smile. “At least it was worth a shot.”

The sheriff stopped, standing right before front door of town hall. “Now, hold up a second. Don’t be feelin’ so bad. You’re a good an' honest pony, Sandbar, and I know you wanna help out whatever way you can.”

Sandbar nodded. “What else could I do if I can’t help out with Coloratura’s project?”

“Well, I got a suspicious arrival from the North-'ast. Went ahead the rest o’ his bunch, and now he wants to stay here for quite a while.”

“He’s inside, right?”

The sheriff looked at the closed door over there. “Behind bars until we get to the bottom of it.”

Sandbar looked surprised. “Who is it?”

“Some pegasus named Swift River, if I remem'er rightly.”

Community Card

“We’re gonna be fine, now,” said the wagon’s driver, pulling his fares along by his hooked harness.

It was a windy night over vast stretches of nothing but sand and dust, hardly any clear speck of green in the violet sky. Towering cliffs and rocky spires conquered the setting, casting shadows over cold areas where tents lay abandoned and unchecked by fire pits stamped out long ago.

“Look over there!” he yelled, stopping a bit to hold on to his hat against the gale, to then direct his passengers’ attention with his gaze.

True enough, over there stretched out Appleloosa bright against the night. A train stood idle by the station, its stately figure clearly visible by the lights cast on it. They could see the other lights, too, emanating from town.

A filly trotted to the front of the halted wagon. “Braeburn, how long will we stay there?”

The driver hung his head low, averting her look. “I don’t know, little one. Hopefully not too long moving up. Just keep hoping and we’ll be fine.”

The filly became misty-eyed, trotted to the back and sat alone in that overloaded wagon.

Braeburn galloped on, approaching town.

“It’s good you’re back here safe an’ sound,” the sheriff said as he pulled Braeburn up onto the station’s platform, after which he shook hooves with him.

The both of them turned their heads to watch the train in maintenance, blocking a good chunk of the Appleloosan view. Tarnished with black soot, laborers wiped the train clean with more heaving bags of coal and wood.

“How’s it?” asked the sheriff. “Other than one over-excited stallion, that is—“ to which he added a knowing smile.

Braeburn laughed a little, looking towards the few homesteads there. “Well, Silverstar, I’m takin’ him on his word. I bet he’s a pony who just leaps without lookin’—not one of them, but cer’ainly could do better.” He paused, letting the whistle of the train explode to the sky with swirling steam and smoke. They saw the ponies on the engine grabbing as much steam as they could into their jars—and, Braeburn asked, “Is he?”

The sheriff fixed up his badge on his vest. “Well, much o’ this town’s unlike you today. We’re keepin’ him on probation.” Silent for a while. “I’ve assigned somepony to watch over him until he gets called back farther South. You think we could…?”

“Could what?”

Silverstar looked at those houses, looked back at Braeburn. “Do somethin’ more about him? From the looks of it, he’s itchin’ to get up an’ get goin’ up the ladder, and that ain’t no good.”

Braeburn nodded, slightly flinched. Another whistle blew by, though they did not cover their ears. “I’ve talked with ‘is partners there, and they say he’s always been like that—wanting somethin’ more than what he’s got. Gives him the drive to go, but what if he doesn’t stop? That’s what they’re sayin’...but, I'm givin' him benefit of the doubt.”

The ponies on train’s engine inspected their jars of smoke, trading this and that jar with each other and commenting on their ever-changing shapes, discussing smokescreens and air-based weaponry with phrases like “hot air guns”.

“In other news,” the sheriff began anew “how’s the rest? Any late word from Choctown?”

Braeburn took a step forward, closer to the platform’s edge like a thoughtful pony. “They’re still holdin’ on last I heard ‘bout five or six hours ago. They’re gettin’ reinforcements from our Dragon Lands site, but we’re not gettin’ any help from the dragons themselves.”

The sheriff took his hat off, dismayed. “There’s that. Poor them. We better hope they burn down everythin’ before they capture all.”

Braeburn took his hat off as well, putting it to his vested chest. He heaved a weighty groan. “Yeah, sheriff. I hope they do.”

Braeburn trotted to a house by the wayside, its lights still on. He could hear the noise happening inside—hollers and guffaws, smacks and slams, chinks of coins gushing over to the table.

“You’re bluffin’ me, mate!”

“Nah, nah! You got a real good hoof up in yer’ sleeves!”

“I say five bits and discounts on the cider for the next two days!”

Braeburn reached the door, pried it open just enough so he could see what was going on.

In that seedy living room of idle pianos and crisp apple cider, a group of ponies huddled about one big table; on it, under the glow of several lanterns hanging on several ropes, lay dozens of poker cards with hearts and diamonds and spades and clovers souped up together in this hurly-burly of a game. At the center of the table was gathered a paltry sum of bits, surely not enough to break fifty.

Now, tension. Everyone hushed as the last two players standing put down their cards.

“Straight flush. I keep everythin’!”

Howls, squabbles; mugs thrown to the ground, tainting the floor with spoiled cider.

Braeburn gulped, slowly reeled his head back out the door.

Amid the chaos—amid the shuffling of cards on the table and the shuffling of ponies within the room—someone looked at him. Her face lit up and she went to the door, not fazed by the game's rowdy crowd stomping and crazing.

“It’s you!” the mare whispered, trotting outside and quietly closing the door, now standing in that cool outside night.

Braeburn bowed a little to her. “Yeah, it’s—“

“Ah! Not yet!”

She raised a hoof, holding it between his eyes.

“Trust me?” the mare challenged, gazing upon him with wary eyes.

“Certainly do, Cornflower,” he replied, smiling.

She put on a hat of her own. “I got the keys.” Pointed at her fluffy desert-colored mane. “Let’s get moving.”

Rounding the house, Braeburn and Cornflower entered a sizable fenced backyard which held nothing but some dry weeds, some barrels marked with the word “cider”, and a wooden shed. It also served as the backyard for about three stores on the main road, justifying the backyard’s rather huge size.

Trotting past the clear sounds of hoofsteps and creaky wagon wheels from the street beyond the fence, they went to the shed, shifting their eyes here and there.

She opened the door.

Dust shot out of it, smothering them into a coughing fit. Then, when that settled, they beheld what remained—a dingy, hemmed in space where various tools and equipment hung from the racks and hooks: saws, hammers, paint cans and rollers, screwdrivers, wrenches, rulers, plumb bobs, visors, crowbars, pliers, among other things.

Cornflower looked down at the floor. Much dust covered it.

She rubbed it with her hoof, kicking up more dust into the air. She coughed with him, Braeburn sneezing once or twice, eyes becoming irritatingly red. Then, she tapped on it.

A metal clink!

She grabbed a match from a cup on the shelf, struck it against the wall, and, with a little flame, lit up the shed.

On the floor, a wooden cellar door with two keyholes on it.

Cornflower grabbed the keys from her mane, hoofed one to Braeburn. “Ready?”

He gave her another calm smile. “Ready when you are.”

The two held the keys with their mouths, bent down to the door, and placed the keys inside.

Turned the keys.

Snap!

Cornflower took the door handle and swung the hatch open, revealing a long and dark stairway down. Facing Braeburn: “I’ll be here again in thirty minutes. You better be there when I come back! Don’t wanna be sleepin’ in some dusty ol’ hay bale, right?”

“We’re all sleepin’ on hay bales anyway!” retorted Braeburn with a sneer before he trotted down the stairs.

Braeburn went down that lengthy flight of stairs. After that, he was comforted with a plethora of lights—not the best lights for they were mere candles and kerosene lanterns, but they were a sight for sore eyes after a perilous jog in the dark where one misstep could spell a minor injury.

He came upon a spacious hay-floored area host to a variety of activities and functions. Decorated with bales of hay, it was a nice gathering hub for the ponies in Appleloosa. At the end of the room was the open kitchen where a few impromptu cooks whipped up a variety of apple dishes—apple pies, apple fritters, apple cakes, apple muffins, apple turnovers, apple leftovers. Such a limited menu might seem alienating to some, but that was the menu, and no one would want to air a contrarian opinion—even if they did want to protest, they would be incentivized not to by the big sign nailed to the wall: “Don’t like our apples? Don’t eat!”

Under this looming threat of slow and steady starvation, the ponies at the mess hall ate their apples and liked them whether they liked it or not. On the plus side, the cooks also served apple cider which was a great boon to the tired worker wearing a straw hat on his oily head.

There was more to this room than dining, though. On the side was a mini-concert held and maintained by a lone performer—a “busker” in other times. Set up with not a single speaker nor microphone, he captivated his meager audience with the sole and hollow strums of his old and battered guitar, with his guttural howls stringing their minds along a blue path of lyrical twists and poetical turns lamenting their fate. None showed a smile; few looked up to him; many turned to another part of the room, never saying anything and keeping their thoughts to themselves.

Over there, some traded assorted goods with each other, muttering something about giving it back next week and nods of assent in reply—or, if it was not viewed as fair, there would be negotiations and re-negotiations until both had reached a suitable compromise or one of them stormed off in a furious stamp.

Braeburn trotted forward to the mess hall, seeing Sandbar there with a mug of cider and an untouched slice of pie, that pony the only one at his table.

“Hi,” greeted Sandbar, having a lively air about him. “Anything?” Pushed the plate forward, beckoned Braeburn to it with a hoof. “You want some?”

Braeburn placed a hoof on his chest, gave a quick glance at his stomach. “I’m OK. Don’t wanna hog everythin' for myself, after all.” A pause; he tried to tune out the music by making sure the concert was out of his vision. “How’s Swift River? Nothing suspicious or anythin’ like that?”

Sandbar shook his head. “Not that I know of. He’s normal. Nothing much stands out to me other than telling me about trying poker.”

Braeburn’s eyes went wide. Then, they became downcast, revealing a smidge of worry inside. “Should’ve expected 'at. With fewer than few left to 'im, no wonder he’s gone down that way.”

“He’s low on cash?” Sandbar asked, puzzled.

“Doesn’t matter if he’s low or high,” Braeburn said. “I believe it’s the thrill an’ excitement.”

Sandbar slumped a foreleg on the table.

The performer had stopped, and the crowd gave him light applause. His response was not a bow, not a smile, but a looking around him as if he were lost.

Braeburn noticed the mug. He arched a brow. “Aren’t you a little young to be drinkin’ that?”

Sandbar laughed, and he picked it up just to show it off. “I’m over legal age.”

Another pause as Braeburn mulled over those words. “I’ll take it.”

The both of them were quiet as they allowed the ringing and clanging and sizzling of food in the kitchen go on in the background.

“You sure you don’t have anything else ‘bout our ‘pal’ Swifty?” Braeburn asked, sitting down at the table and resting his forehooves on the surface. “It’d be a shame if he turned out to be a turncoat...a changelin’.”

Sandbar’s eyes flitted at that. He shuddered. “I’ll keep my eye on him, but, rest assured, Braeburn, he’s himself even if I don’t know him that much.”

Braeburn shrank away, wincing at the crash of spilled forks behind the kitchen's fence. “About that...” and his eyes narrowed, “that...griffon.”

Sandbar looked up, confused. “What about him?”

“Just wonderin', that’s all there is,” he said. “Never seen a blue griffon at all. Whenever I’ve seen one, it’s always brown o' black o' white.”

Sandbar smiled. “A sign that he could be useful?”

“Or an outcast, if ya’ ask me.” A pause, a shrug. “A horrible play by a changelin’—can’t rule that out. Would be great to catch one for o'rselves.”

Sandbar stared at his food, pondering upon it.

“I don’t wanna be puttin’ any shame or shade on that feller’,” Braeburn went on. “We have lots of ponies left, but griffons...different story, different tale for them.”

“Last of their kind?” Sandbar asked, pushing his plate a little to the side.

“Let’s not go that far, but...we’re gettin’ there. That Gallus might as well be the last blue griffon in the entire world, an’ all it takes is a poison’d dart and...extinct!”

His listener wavered, half-falling from his bench.

Braeburn sighed, taking in a deep breath. “But, I think Gallus will turn out fine. He has fingers; pretty useful in a pinch. Could do well with manual labor. Massive wonder in the field as a farmhoof.”

Sandbar took a bite of his pie, keeping his eye on Braeburn.

“I’ll be checkin’ on everyone else,” he said, standing up. “Stay down here and don’t cause any trouble, alright?”

Sandbar gulped his bite. “Mm-hmm.”

Braeburn waved him goodbye and left the room via one of the illuminated tunnels there.

And Sandbar was back alone at his table, hearing the next blues song mixed with the babble bouncing around inside that spacious, gloomy room. He continued munching on his dinner and sloshing down his cider. When that was over, he brought the plate and the mug to the cooks for wash-up and disappeared from that informal hub into one of those illuminated tunnels.

Leaving the thunderous voice of that musician and his singular strums behind.

Even Money

A half dozen hours later, morning arrived but it did not feel like it did. Hidden from the warmth of the sun and from the refreshing expanse of the sky, it was as dark as before, with the lanterns and the lamps refilled by ponies carrying vials of oil and kerosene. Along with them were backup matches and emergency lighters, telling everyone how prepared they were for lighting problems.

The apple-promoting poster still hung on the wall, imposing itself over those dining ponies who, in the end, did not care much about the choice of food so much as the availability of it. Was it edible and not poisonous? Then, it was destined to be eaten, no matter what it was.

Still, the chefs did their best in making the best out of their limited ingredients and their inadequate appliances. The dish of the day which turned out to be a Sunday—and, if anyone did not know about that yet, they would definitely know it by the time they hear a cook rambling, “We got yer’ fried Sunday apple cobbler! Sunday apple cobbler on Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!—well, it was apple cobbler, wasn’t it?

Sandbar, possessing sturdy ears, did not feel the need to plug his ears with a pillow or, since there were no pillows nearby, a hay bale. Instead, he endured the outburst about cobbler and Sundays, went in line like all the rest, got his apple cobbler and apple cider while avoiding the careless swings of utensils and bowls flung onto somepony else’s head, rather, and quietly retreated to his own table.

There he was, alone at the table once again surrounded by troops of hungry eaters scarfing their special dishes of the day. Save for the rattle of metal forks and knives banging against each other, it was a rather peaceful place at this hour—a rather peaceful lobby of sorts if a barn-like foyer could be called a "lobby". He could hear hooves mixing up the floor hay under low conversations now and then. Over there, near the hallway leading to the staircase, sat a little crew gesturing about, and Sandbar could grab “airships”, “sand”, and “reports”.

He looked at the side of the room where the musician had been. His guitar leaned on the wall, staying alone and collecting a little dust. A passer-by or two would admire it from afar, giving it a long glance, before turning back to their own food, to their own conversations.

“So, how’s it?” he heard someone say to him.

He looked to his left.

Gallus landing on the bench, carrying his own cobbler and cider with both his claws. He placed them on the table. “Your food isn’t that bad. I can’t stand having to eat so much sugar all the time, but...it’s sugar. Energy. Good for these wings!” and proceeded to spread his wings open.

Sandbar sighed, downplaying the winged display. “You again?”

“What are you gonna do about it?” Gallus asked, sounding aggressive. “My friends are either lost or dead, I’ve got nowhere else to go to, and I have to be stuck with ponies like you. I might as well contribute to the cause, if nothing else.”

Sandbar turned away. He took a bite of the cobbler.

It was a crispy, crunchy sensation, jammed with that sweet taste only known to an apple coupled with butter’s creaminess. The end result was a sumptuous flow of flavor richly running down his throat.

Gallus took a bite of it, too. A smile, a pair of startled eyes. “Mm! I, uh...wow. I didn’t expect that! Who knew you could make it like a fry?”

“That’s why I said it was fried. It’s a deep fried apple cobbler.”

“Huh.” He tapped his chin and looked up, recognizing the ceiling above with some hooked lamps in place. “Is there shallow fry?”

Sandbar chuckled a bit. “Yeah, but we don’t call it a ‘shallow fry’. We just fry it.”

Gallus bent back and leaned on an imaginary recliner, supporting himself by his wingpower. “Could you fry other things like...oranges? Pears?”

“I don’t know,” with a confessing shrug. “I’m not a chef myself. I rarely make my own food.”

The griffon snickered. “Funny. You’re an Earth pony and you don’t make your own food?”

Sandbar raised a hoof in slight frustration. “Really, dude? I may be an Earth pony, but we’re more than just farmers. Back then, we Earth ponies handled businesses, nursed patients, held concerts, set fashion trends...that sort of thing.”

“But, that’s back then. Now, you’re farmers through and through, aren’t you?”

Struggling to keep up a calm facade: “Not me. I could help out with planting and harvesting, and I could withstand the heat all day long to bring in food, but that’s not what I’m really good at.”

Gallus smacked himself on the head. “Ah! It’s because of your cutie mark, huh?” He looked at it. “You’re good at...swimming?”

He nodded, a faint smile on his lips. “But, that’s not the point of my cutie mark.”

“So, what’s your number one talent? Teaching others how to swim? Taking care of turtles?”

Sandbar shrugged again. “I gotta admit...I don’t really have a number one talent. It’s more like a group of things I’m good at. When you bunch them up, that’s my...super-talent, or something like that.” A pause, then a frown. “You get what I mean?”

Gallus looked about him, browsing the room and checking its ponies strolling and talking about. “Don’t you have anyone who has a sword cutie mark? That’d be pretty helpful in this little war we’re all in.”

The pony raised a hoof to groan with, but restrained himself.

Gallus closed his eyes, and, in a brusque tone: “Don’t wanna be hurting feelings around here!”

Sandbar sighed. “OK, before you cause any trouble...why don’t you talk about yourself?”

Gallus met that question with a hearty laugh and an unexpected clawbump with his hoof. “That’s kinda’ more like it!”

“’Cause you’re proud and arro—“ and covered his mouth, eyeing Gallus to make sure he did not guess the rest of the sentence.

Gallus took a gulp of the cider, pounded the mug down to the table. Some drops splashed onto his sweet crumbly cobbler. “You already know my name.” He gestured to himself, presenting his person as an elevated subject of study. “As you can see, I’m a griffon. Half-eagle, half-lion.”

“I already learned that in class—“

“Like every griffon, I was born in Griffonstone. The moment I saw how it went everywhere else, I wanted to escape first chance I got. Sure, I had my school of rough knocks there, but everything I did felt like it meant nothing; it was just about making sure you had enough food to last you for next week. Princesses were kind to us, and I liked the food they sent us sometimes, but, of course, where’s the fun in that? I wanted griffon food cultivated by griffons, tested by griffons, cooked by griffons—all made for griffons.” He finished this with a smack of a fist onto his other claw.

Sandbar had been silent through the exposition. “What did you do when Chrysalis came over?”

He made a nonchalant curl of the beak. “Eh...it could’ve been worse. I finally found an excuse to fly away from home." Looked off into the distance, back to seeing the ponies around him, not minding the sole griffon himself nearby. "Poor Gruff, though—that slowpoke thought he could hold them off after they got Gestal, but he’s so stubborn, they had to kill him.”

Sandbar opened his mouth in shock—catching the air mid-breath, so to speak. “That’s not normal!”

Gallus gestured about with his claw, turning it round dismissively. “What else could they do? He insists on being called ‘Grampa Gruff’ even though his only grandfledgling left talks him down and insults him everyday." Sandbar could hear him fuming under those words. "Good for her; that old fossil bragged about his time in the army when we had no war in his time...kept saying everyone’s getting ahead and shouldn’t be going ahead of him. Serves him right Chrysalis didn’t spare him.”

“But,” Sandbar spoke in protest, “didn’t you pity him? I’m sure someone pitied him!”

“Pity someone who doesn’t know what he’s talking about and doesn’t admit it? Pretty self-centered to me.”

“Just like you,” he whispered to the side.

Gallus glared at the pony. “What was that?”

A forced grin on Sandbar’s face. “Uh, I said, ‘What happened to your friends who were...just like you?’”

Then, a pause as the griffon gave himself time to think over his next words. “I only had about three friends: Greta, Gabby, and Gilda. Gilda—she’s the grandfledgling. Don’t need to know much about them. What we did was get out together, stop to get food in the forests below, cross the strait to the dragons. From there, we got a ship sailing to Clyde Point. Barely avoided the changeling patrols on their boats.”

Sandbar leaned in, becoming interested and paying attention to his short narrative.

“We got to Clyde, but they told us we had to get deeper in if we wanted to stay long. We went out and traveled through the swamps, making sure we had to stay close to the river but not too close. We reached Dodge, and they told us to get to the next major base which was...here.”

Sandbar's mug, untouched before, was picked up for a sip. He let out a burp, covered his mouth as custom dictated, then put it down. Giving his full attention to Gallus now: “So, what happened to the other three?”

“Oh, you mean Greta and the other two?" He scratched his feathery cheek, rubbed his claws. "Lost Greta at sea. She fought the changelings, but got a bad knee, a sprained wing—went to the ocean and couldn’t keep herself afloat.”

“You didn’t help her?”

“We were...busy with our own fights. Didn’t even notice—she wasn’t crying for help, anyway, so it’s not all our fault.”

Sandbar showed off his disgust by backing away from him an inch. “What?”

Gallus brushed it off with a wave of a claw. “Gilda...she wanted to stay behind in Clyde. Said something about...what was it?” Tapped his chin, thinking more. “Something about...wanting to prove herself. Something along those lines.”

Sandbar turned his head to the side, wistful in his train of thought.

“Gabby...on the other claw, Gabby didn’t make it. Changelings got to her probably because she was all smiles and laughter the whole way and they got irritated after a while.” She snorted, laughed a bit at the idea. Then, he pointed to himself with both his claws. Proud this far: “Now, it’s me and only me—the survivor.”

The listening pony raised his shoulders, disturbed. A quick while later, calming down, “But, you’re not...you know, the last griffon in the world, right?”

“I don’t think so. I overheard plans back home about a move to unknown lands up Guto River—unmapped lands never seen before." Brought his lionesque tail to the table, lifted a part of it up. "Whatever’s out there, they’re certainly farther away from Chrysalis than I am.”

Sandbar raised a brow. “Then, why did you come here?”

Gallus gave him a hard, serious look. “Distance doesn’t mean safety. You know what’s past the maps?”

“Uhh—“

“Exactly. Mysterious monsters lurking about in the shadows, more evil than the changelings.” He spat on the table, taunting those adventurous explorers that way. “They’re dumb to go there. Me? I took the better route because I like life and being alive to tell you this story and to show my awesomeness.”

At the end of this wayward storytelling with its comments, Sandbar raised himself from his slump on the table.

He looked at the cafeteria and the kitchen behind it.

“Sorry, sorry,” one of the chefs shouted, “but we got a super-duper special on these Sunday apple cobblers! Better late than never and better late than eight, because we got these Sunday apple cobblers with syrup! Yes, sir, on this fine ‘ere Sunday, these Sunday apple cobblers are itchin’ to get you up and workin’ out there and runnin’ for freedom startin’ this Sunday! All free just as it’s always been on other days an’ Sundays!”

Covering an ear, Gallus shoved his head that way. “Really?! We’re going to get sick of these guys before they retire!”

Sandbar continued looking at that enthusiastic chef who had taken up the role as a salespony. “I don’t think they’ll retire anytime soon. They’re probably going to be out there fighting some changelings when the time comes.” He stopped to take a breath. “But, you can never be too sure.”

“Because they might be changelings?”

Sandbar coughed, then coughed some more, covering his mouth as his coughs became chokes and hacks. “Yeah, that’s—“ cough “—really great, a really good observation there, mister Gallus!”

Gallus stared at him odd. “This is a new kind of sarcasm to me.”

Sandbar lifted himself up to his ears. “You’re going to get us into big trouble if you let them hear that. It’s no joke!”

Gallus smiled. “I know it’s no joke. That’s the rules and regulations you have here, but I want to add some light into this place. I don’t want you guys sulking around all the time—not on my watch.”

“That’s the idea,” Sandbar said, concerned, looking out for any would-be hearers within earshot. “We don’t know who’s who—well, not fully, but I trust you, Braeburn, the sheriff...others….”

He smiled again. “A game, huh?”

The pony glared back at him. “Are you crazy?”

“I mean, not like a game game, but...it’s a kind of realistic game except it’s not really a game because it’s real and if you lose you could die—but, a game.”

Sandbar wiped his eyes, breathed in and out, looked upon his cobbler sitting nicely on its plastic plate, complete with warts and all—the bitemarks being the warts.

“Are you gonna eat that?” Gallus asked, touching the pony’s food.

“Please don’t steal my food,” Sandbar replied, a bit rough now in his voice. “It’s not for sale.”

“Well then, too bad, ‘cause I’ll order more.”

“You can’t order more.”

“Why not?”

A sigh. “Because you’ll be going past your rations. If you want more, wait until lunchtime.”

The griffon leaned back again and looked up at the ceiling once more. “I’ve seen those apple fields. They’re a lot. Could see them go on for miles. Pretty bad giveaway if you ask me.”

“Look, nopony’s perfect and—“

“And, look what we got here this Sunday!” yelled a chef, pointing a hoof towards those arguing creatures. “It’s so delicious, so scrumptious, that this pony and this griffon here want to abstain from the experience, to save it all for later either noon this Sunday or tonight—this Sunday night!”

Even from the hallway, ponies took notice of the shouted advertisement and, desiring to satisfy their curiosity, gathered around the table with its fiery occupants.

Sandbar looked at them, scared and still bothered at Gallus. Turning to him: “You’re making this really hard for us!”

Gallus half-closed his eyes, gawking at him with those grimacing eyes. “When have I heard that before?”

Sandbar stretched his hooves out to him. “Look, we’re in the middle of a life-and-death situation here. Think! This is no time to be snarky and sarcastic!”

The loud cook jumped over the fence and trotted to the table, faced the griffon with a mean hoof on the table. “I agree with the young stallion right here on Sunday. This isn’t like five years ago when you could just run around and do whatever you want. You obey, or we throw you away!"

Gallus crossed his forelegs and hovered over the table, level with him. “Really, huh?”

“Don’t you do it!” Sandbar whispered, his teeth clattering.

Gallus grinned, and he grabbed the cook’s hoof and shook it up and down with his claws. “Well, in that case, we’re going to have a good Sunday—“ leaned towards his face “—but, please, stop it. It’s getting on my nerves, and I don’t want to be reminded it’s Monday tomorrow.”

The cook hopped up to the table. “Well, not only is today a Sunday, but, tomorrow, you will encounter a great thing, a phenomenon only experienced and given and taken and received once a seven-day week, and that phenomenon as we know it is that great and grand Monday!”

And everypony cheered on that cook's performance while he bowed down profusely, doubling over and almost falling off the table.

Good thing he did not step on the apple cobbler and the apple cider, although that was not enough to calm the griffon down.

Inside the hat shop, the griffon and the pony found themselves sandwiched between a smorgasbord of items galore. Weapons, food, blankets, pillows, furniture, tools, books, board games, cameras, paper, stationery, grenades, potions...and yet, there was more to list down. This diverse collection—topped with a unique fragrance since all the testing colognes had their lids open for all to try—was a melting pot of objects from odds and ends, and at the counter was the happy owner of the shop himself: a cashier with a pair of thin, round glasses perched on his stately snout, counting the bits in his cash resgister.

Gallus pushed the shopping cart at a crawl, groaning at each stop as the pony grabbed a few items from the shelves and tossed them in.

“Can we go faster?” Gallus asked, holding up an open claw in despair. “You can’t possibly need that many arrows...and,” picked up a blue, freezing arrow, “why do we need ice arrows?”

“Because it’s better to stop them completely,” Sandbar said matter-of-factly. “Better to freeze them then let them keep moving. Pretty dangerous, pretty expensive, but it’s worth it.”

Gallus felt squeezed in that tight and tiny shop.

“There’s not much we could do,” Sandbar said further, scanning the matchboxes section. “It’s stockpiling season.”

“Which is every season for you guys,” Gallus shot back.

“Better than getting caught off guard. Remember when Cloudsdale fell over Neighagra Falls?”

Gallus shook his head. “I don’t read pony news.”

“You should.” He went back to the cart and pulled it forward with a casual hoof. He had gotten three boxes of matches all lying in the cart. “You can learn a thing or two about the world outside when you change your perspective.”

Gallus twirled a claw around the side of his head, making Sandbar look dumb.

Sandbar screeched to a halt, stopped the cart.

Gallus bumped into it, staggered to a shelf, wobbled the canned strawberries and mini-swords and nearly made them fall.

“Shush!” Sandbar raised a hoof. In a lowered whisper: “Do you hear that?”

Gallus cupped his ear. “You mean the pony at the other—“

Sandbar covered his mouth, Gallus grabbed that covering hoof.

“Stay quiet and listen, griffon!”

That griffon watched him like a hawk after that.

Nevertheless, the both of them lowered their heads and leaned close to the shelf, close to the inkwells on that lower shelf.

“I used to visit there on vacation!” a cheerful mare said in her no-nonsense manner. “But, I know being a tourist there is different from being an actual resident. What was it like, being raised there?”

A stallion’s diminishing cackle. Carrying a breathy speech in him: “Well n-now, it was certainly different. Living beside other pegasi and almost never an Earth pony or a unicorn is very, very different from what you m-might think.”

Gallus raised a brow at Sandbar. “Who’s that?”

“Swift River," was his reply. "A pony from one of those cloud cities—I think it's...I think it's Stratusburg.”

“Want me to meet him?” He flapped it.

Sandbar grabbed it, almost snagged it. “Not now!” he whispered as loud as he could. “You’re going to get us discovered!”

“You want to prank him?” Gallus asked, then was surprised at his own idea. “I’m OK with pranking him. Better than staying around and standing guard.”

“Look, just listen.”

The two of them lowered their backs to that shelf of inkwells.

“...didn’t feel anything for them?” the mare was asking.

“I did feel some common love for them,” Swift River said. “After all, we’re ponies, and for me to dislike a pony just because he doesn’t have wings...it’s not good. You could say I was indifferent. I’m not going to get all n-nosy into somepony’s business—I had my own matters to take care of.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear your side,” the mare said. “I could...tell you how mine went.”

“And...sorry, I didn’t get your location. Wh-Where?”

“I’m from Canterlot.”

A long harrowing pause. “Oh. What’s it like before the invasion—I mean, I know what Canterlot is and what the lifestyle is, but I’ve only visited it, too. How was living there?”

She chuckled a bit, too. “I did not really live there. I’m not even sure if I was a Canterlot pony in blood myself...I never did ask where we moved from—too young to remember.” A pause. “Since I was a foal, I always wanted to get out of the royal confines of the capital. I couldn't stand the stuffy ponies there, always looking down on everypony else just because they’re low-class, low-runged. The concept of seeing what it's like elsewhere in Equestria fascinated me because I wanted to connect with others, see how their plight was in places not so rich and wealthy. It brought me to many places, all the way from Vanhoover to Manehattan, from Yakyakistan to Basalt Beach.”

“And that’s how you became a journalist?” Swift River asked.

Another pause. “Yes, that’s how I became a journalist. The landscapes were gorgeous and I could travel around—even if I don’t have wings like yours. But, like I said, it’s the connections I'd made with others that counted...made the job all the worthwhile no matter how stressful it was, no matter how drained I felt when all was said and done.”

“Mm-hmm! That's good, very good. I wish I could travel around today just like you did back then, but I think you’re wishing the same.”

A sigh. “Yeah, I do wish. Can’t go two miles outside without risking your whole life being stuffed into a cocoon, to get the love sapped out of you—now, I heard they’re trying cages so they could figure out more ways to squeeze love out of us until they can't get anymore.”

“It’s very horrifying. Truly horrifying, it is." A pause, a stumbling and fidgeting of hooves. "I should know.”

A gasp. “Really, now? How do you know?”

Gallus investigated a random sample from the line of inkwells on the shelf. He rocked the plastic jar lightly, sensing the thick liquid slushing inside the small container.

“Had a friend escape—a rare friend. He got caught again, though He’s no longer with us, but...what he's seen, I can't tell. Wait...I can tell, but it’s not something worth telling.” A quick breath. “No one dies there, and that’s what makes it all the worse: no ending to the pain and the suffering, no ending to becoming a loveless...pony? What's a pony without love?" Another sigh. "Will they remember? He thought there's something in their water—normal to changelings, bad to us. It made them forget...made them forget how they got there in the first place.”

“Just like they’ve always been there,” she murmured, trailing off.

“It’s a shame that they’re...th-that. They don’t fight fair, they don’t treat us fair...I don’t wanna e-even say I could blame them for their love h-hunger. If they only found a way to digest hay r-right, then there wouldn’t be any need for d-devouring our emotions and I would’ve been back in the Academy!”

Yet another pause. “We all do have those times, those wasted days….”

“Except you can’t blame yourself,” he said, becoming angrier. “Had it gone some o-other, we would be laughing over teacups, talking about the weather.”

They trailed off together. Then, the sounds of fumbling through the shelves.

Swift River grabbed a can, rotated it about and quietly read the words on the label. “Isn’t this a treat? They managed to do this kind of thing!”

Hurried hoofsteps. “Haven’t you seen this before?”

“No. Must’ve been ‘cause it was cider—fresh, hoof-picked apples for this here brewery prize or something.”

Another pause, then a fzz! They could still hear the crackle of that carbonated drink.

Swift River took a gulp of it.

“What’s wrong? Got stuck in your throat?”

He gulped it down, forced it down. “A-Actually, I wasn’t expecting that kick...but, it was good. Not bad, really." Another audible gulp. "Ah-choo!"

"Hey!" the cashier shouted, ceasing his bit-counting. "Keep it clean, will you?!"

"I’d rather have fresh cider, sir!” was Swift River's answer.

“Then you better wait it out, whiner!” the cashier yelled at him before turning back to his register and his mountain of bits.

Swift River sighed.

An “Ow!” rang out from behind the shelf.

A pause. “Who’s that?” asked Swift River

A claw raised into the air, then gripping it as if the claw was trying to catch the wind.

“Well, it must be that griffon they’ve talked about earlier this morning!”

Another hoof yanked the claw down.

Sandbar looked at him dead on. “You’re going to make us look bad!”

“I wanted to say hi!” Gallus yelled. “What’s wrong with a little greeting? If we avoid him too much, then that pony will start getting suspicious of us and we better hope he’s a good guy!”

“Since when did you start getting smart about it?” Sandbar said, now faster. “Where was that genius back in the train ride? Where was it?”

“I just reached the station! I was famished and got my first meal in ages! Did you think my mind was straight the whole time?!”

“What seems to be the problem?” asked Swift River himself.

Sandbar and Gallus looked at each other with frightened expressions and turned round.

At the end of the aisle, Swift River beside a hatted unicorn mare. “Like I said, what seems to be the problem?”

Normalcy

Those two faced Swift River head on, Sandbar by dusting his shoulders off and Gallus by putting on a smile as fancy as he could muster.

The mare beside him gasped. “You were spying on us, weren’t you?”

“Very observant there,” Gallus said, smirking at her.

Sandbar smacked himself on the face. “This isn’t good, is it?”

Swift shook his head, walked up to them with a steady step. “Actually, you’ve done well, even if how you did it was…questionable." Made a light chuckle, bobbing his head up and down. "I guess you already know who I am.”

Gallus nodded. “Swift River, eh?”

Swift River nodded back. “And, you must be the new griffon in town." Leaned in to check out the details of his bird-like face. "If I'm correct, you're Gallus...right?”

Brushed the pony's snout away from his beak. "Yeah, I think that's enough."

Swift River smiled, maintaining that innocuous smile. “That’s good. I must’ve guessed your name right—overheard it, actually, by Bitter Citrus. You do know he’s not that bitter, right?” He laughed, tried to make his mare laugh, too, but failed in that regard. “You could call him ‘Sweet Citrus’—but, hey, when he asks, you didn’t get that idea from me.”

The mare looked at him in askance then left him content with himself.

“Anyway, it’s good to meet you for the first time!” and shook Gallus’s claw or, rather, had his hoof grabbed by Gallus’s claw in an attempt at a hoof-clawshake. Then, turning to Sandbar: “And, it’s good to meet you for the...hmm, more than the first time, th-that’s for sure.”

Sandbar smiled.

“Bet you haven’t met her, though,” he said, pointing to the mare with an air of confidence. “She’s Press Release, former journalist and present newsgetter. A really dangerous job for a precious mare like her, but she’s making the sacrifice.”

“Have you ever thought of making a sacrifice sometimes?” Gallus quipped, standing on his four legs prouder than before.

Sandbar stomped him on the paw.

“Ow!”

Swift River smiled, almost gave way to another chuckle. “I don’t mind, really. We all want to sacrifice ourselves for the greater good, for Equestria. Sounds noble and heroic, but I have to get past my own petty fears." He stopped, letting the point stand. "What if I have to die? I don’t like dying, but the best heroes die anyway and they don't care.”

Press Release gave him a skeptical look. “Are you saying I’m not willing to die for this?”

“Ah, yes!” the cashier remarked from his counter, holding up a golden coin as if to lecture upon it. “She’s becoming aware of your tricks, Swifty!”

He gulped, turned round to the cashier. “What tricks? It’s only a misunderstanding!” Turned to a maddened Press Release. “I know everyone here will do their part, up to being killed for the cause.”

“OK, I’m beginning to feel the romance in here,” Gallus said in snark, allowing a sly smile to creep up his beak.

Sandbar coughed, stealing the attention of those not-romantic ponies. “What Gallus meant to say was: it was nice to meet you here. How are you, uh, enjoying your stay here in Appleloosa?”

Swift River nodded. He rubbed his mane, trying to not laugh nervously. “I’m very sure you’ve got something special here. To be frank with you, I was expecting something more...tightly-knit as a community, but it’s the end.” Looked out the windows, seeing that dusty road and those ponies pulling carriages filled with passengers reacting to the dust with more coughs. “Brings out the worst of us.”

Sandbar took a step back, looking out there also.

“But, you don’t need to be spying on us anymore,” he said. “If you’re thinking about it, we’re not in a relationship at all. In fact, I just met her y-yesterday. Don’t know much about her, but, I’d like to know much about all of you, too, so we could work together—or, at least, so I could lend a helping hoof or two around.” Then, he let a laugh break in, having almost smashed one of the eight remaining plates in store with a reckless hoof swing.

“Right,” Gallus drawled out as the stallion laughed.

Press Release smiled. “Yes, it’s true.”

Sandbar ruffled his mane, sweat reappearing on his face. “I think we’re all ignoring the elephant in the room here…no offense to elephants.”

Swift River nodded, wearing an uneasy smile. “That any one of us could be a changeling.”

Gallus leaned on the shelf, resting much of his weight on it. “Exactly.”

Swift River kept up a good face. “I’m not a changeling.”

Chuckled some more.

“Well, you’re going to doubt me, but what can I do? I can’t say, ‘Yes’, right?”

Sandbar shifted his hooves, keeping an eye on Swift with both suspicion and scrutiny. “For starters, what about Zecora’s gel?”

“You mean the salve?” Swift River said. He gestured to his clean face. “You’re wondering why I don’t have it on my body, aren’t you?" He smiled a bit bigger. "Isn’t it for security purposes? I’m rather allergic to it, so I only wear it when I have to, then I wash off.”

“Me, too,” Press Release added.

The cashier brought down a spear from the wall and put it on the counter.

Everyone else looked at him.

The cashier raised his hooves, looking like a stallion in surrender. “Alright, I’m paranoid, so what?! I admit it! Can’t blame me for self-defense!”

Gallus turned to Sandbar. “Do you ponies have, uh, changeling senses?”

Sandbar shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves here,” Swift River said, spinning his hoof to bring in the rest of the attention. “We’re clearly not getting off on the right hoof. Maybe if we talk later at some place more public, we could settle any doubts we have on each other.” He picked a can of chips from the shelf. “I hope that sounds reasonable to the both of you.”

Sandbar and Gallus nodded, grinning. “Yeah. It sounds very reasonable!” Sandbar said in a sprightly tone.

Swift River grinned back, his teeth reflecting the sunlight that could get in. “Then, you go and do your shopping, and we’ll do our shopping. Leave each other in peace; we’ll be friends in no time!”

And the pairs trotted off in separate ways, Sandbar and Gallus deeper into the aisles, Swift River and Press Release to the counter.

The cashier heard their approach, straightened up, took the spear back on his weapon racks over his head, serviced the ponies before him with a smile. “We never had any enmity before, OK? I apologize for my anxiety fit, but...changelings!” He held on to his forehead, feeling an ache coming on. “You’re making me nervous for my coat! You better stop scaring me like that—I have a weak heart!”

Swift River chuckled. “Me, too, but I can stomach some fears now and then.”

Swift River locked the door and entered.

On the second floor of the cabin, this bedroom was decent . The dusty bed lay there, its pillows and blanket folded up and collecting more dust. Pictures and photos of the country landscape littered the tables and the walls, depicting rural backdrops in an awfully pristine light with bright hues and cheery colors. There, at the other end, was the one and only window which gave him a great view of the desert; surely, why settle for pictures and paintings when you could get the real thing? The burning heat of the day, the frigid cold of the night, the risk of getting dust in your eyes on a regular basis—all these were simply the cost of having that beautiful land at the dawn, at the waking moment.

Swift River looked at the broom and dustpan beside him. He groaned. “Better than nothing. What was I expecting, a hotel? Hotel service out here, way out here...wouldn’t that be the headline of the day?”

He stopped, looked at the door behind him.

“Oh. That’s right. No headlines.”

The pegasus swept the room clean, ridding it of that horrible dust and that terrible dirt—well, most of it, anyhow. He got a bottle of perfume from one of the cabinets, uncorked it open, and showered the whole room with it, snuffing his sleeping quarters with a tantalizing, overwhelming smell of flowers. It did not give off a normal kind of stench, but it was a stench nevertheless.

Swift River looked at a little pincer hanging from the cabinet where he had gotten the perfume from. He placed it on his nose.

Felt the swelling pain on it, suffocating a bit.

He coughed, bent down.

“I’m not trying that again!” he shouted. “That’s bad! That’s really bad! Those Daring Do novels are getting to my head—it doesn’t work!”

After that awful experience, Swift River recovered and went on with the rest of his renovating work. He straightened the window curtains, arranged the chairs and the tables there, fixed the bed and made it well, even noticed the triangle hanging from a hook.

He grabbed the triangle and its accompanying beater. Swift hit the triangle.

A ding! came from it.

Swift shrugged. “What’s the use of it? For dinner time or something?”

He put it back on the hook.

Swift River trotted to the desk and sat on it, trying to relax there.

By the look on his happy face, it turned out that he succeeded.

Then, he noticed the drawers on the desk.

“Hmm….they better be empty.”

He took the leftmost drawer and drew it open.

Several pencils and ballpens lying about with some rulers and erasers. Blank pads of paper lay there, too. He grabbed the paper and flipped through the pages, but there was nothing written on them. Swift returned them inside and closed the drawer.

The next one was the center drawer. Inside sprawled a few more interesting items: some fake tulips and roses, a dozen marbles, and a comb. He picked up the flowers, toyed with them, and, with his hoof, felt the fabric that made them up. He tore off a fake petal and let it fall to the floor.

That poor, sweet red petal.

He put the flowers back and closed the drawer.

The final one was the drawer to the right. He opened it and was instantly confronted by several more photographs inside. He inspected each one of them—this one displayed several ponies smiling for the camera for the unveiling of the then-brand new town hall, that one showed Braeburn and a burly buffalo shaking hooves in agreement over some treaty, this other one showing yaks and ponies standing together wearing green shirts of wildly different sizes.

He placed the photos on the table.

Let out a muffled yelp, stood up, went to the door, and locked it. He walked back to the table—there, he gave a long glance at the locked door. Was the handle in the right position? Was that little button on the handle pressed? Did he turn that tiny lever thing on the other side?

Breathing fast, breathing fast—then, he caught himself, placed his hoof on his head.

“What was I thinking?” Swift said to himself. “M-Maybe...maybe I’m getting infected by Banknote. Gotta remember...stay calm, stay focused, stay OK, stay OK...you’re gonna be fine, Swifty, you’re gonna b-be fine.”

He closed his eyes, slowed his breath, and opened his eyes.

Relaxed again. Another success for this stallion.

“Now, where was I…?”

He looked to the open drawer on his right.

A crumpled piece of paper.

“Huh?”

He picked it up, put it down on the table, and flattened it. He glanced at the window, saw the rays of light, and brought the paper as close to the light as he could without letting it away from the table.

There was hoofwriting. Scrawled in bad shape and form, barely legible.

Thus, reading out loud:

Wildwood, I hope this reaches you. We just discovered another changeling spy for the seventh time this week. They’re learning fast. They’re understanding our codes, and we’re running out of ways to use them. Passwords and secret phrases aren’t going to cut it. I’m sure the deliverypony told you this, but don’t give the secret away! Whenever you go out, bring it with you in your hair. A changeling might as well move into your house without knowing the secret! Beware, keep your guard up. I’ll find a way to meet up with you Wednesday or Thursday, and I’ll get Braeburn and Silverstar into it. See you.

Swifty smiled, indulged in a fanciful giggle. “Now this is really bad, isn’t it? What happens if I tell them?”

Glanced at the locked door.

Silent for a while, breathing in the perfume-poisoned air.

“What happens if I don’t, though?”

Out of Turn

“There, that’s it!” yelled Braeburn.

The hatted stallion kept yelling at crews of ponies putting on the finishing touches to their train by the station. A rub here, a squirt there—now, the job was finished. The train was sparkly squeaky clean under the reddening sunset sky raining its last hour of heat upon them before the night's arrival. Already, athletic stallions hooked themselves up to the front of the train, readying their muscles for the trip back with quick warm-ups—right now, they were jogging in place, raising dust into the air.

Braeburn gave them a rough yet tender smile. “Make sure you give ‘em a good time, y’all!” he shouted, walking past them.

“Will do!” was the reply of the leading stallion, singled out by a brown coat and a striped hat. “You can always count on us!”

Braeburn nodded, bowing his head a little. “An' I always will, but get movin’! We’re on a tight s’hedule!”

He looked at the various guards posted at the train station, saw them preparing for the day by checking their spears and putting on their daily dose of salve. There, a novice was catching up on when his shift started and ended on that scrap of paper. “And now, 'bout ten minutes ‘till pie—“

“Braeburn!”

His ears perked up. He mumbled under his breath. “Swift Riv—“

“Braeburn!”

He could hear Swift’s panting, saw some guards and engineers turn their heads that way.

“Braeburn!”

“I can hear ya’!” Braeburn shouted, turning round to see a dusty, sweaty, fatigued pegasus running down the main street and come up to the tracks. “What’s goin’ on? An emergency?”

“Not sure, but I found this note—“ grabbed the note from his mane “—and it’s addressed to a...a Wildflower of some sort!”

“Wildflower?” Braeburn asked. “As in ‘Wildflower Heartease’?” His agitated pout disappeared as he looked at him with mellow eyes. “You don’t have to worry 'bout her! She’s on our side...well, I hope she still is, ‘cause if they get to her, then she won’t be on o'r side....”

Swift breathed up and down, throwing up dust with uneasy hooves. “But, the note! Maybe it’s bad, maybe it’s bad she left it behind in the drawer—“

“Let me have a look at it,” Braeburn said, grabbing it from his hooves. He skimmed through the note, then hoofed it back to him, satisfied. “Not too bad, really. Jus' a semi-important exchange. Nothin’ to get yourself molehill'd about.”

“But, it’s about secrets and passwords and phrases—“

Braeburn shushed him with a hoof. “You don’t need to cause a ruckus ‘bout it. As long as nothin’ bad happens to 'er, you don’t need to worry about Wildflower. OK?”

Swift River nodded, slowing down his breathing and regaining his composure. “I’m awfully sorry if I annoyed you. It’s just...I don’t want to bear the blame if somethin’ bad goes on here because I'm staying in her room and found it in her drawer!”

Braeburn looked at him odd, let a few seconds tick by with that suspicious stare. “Now, you’re just doin’ that too much. You’re a full-grown pony! You gotta learn how to stay grounded when you gotta stay grounded!”

Swift nodded. He scratched his mane in embarrassment. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just...very concerned, that’s all.”

“Well, good." He flicked his head away, though kept looking at Swift. "Don’t surprise me like that again, though.”

Swift nodded again. “Alright, sir. Guess I’ll go now.”

Away he went, back to the main road.

Appleloosa preparing for the sunset as many put out their lanterns and candles for the incoming night. A few turned on their lightbulbs, bringing in more light to the town although it was too much since the sun was still out.

Flam, a lanky unicorn dressed in pinstripes and bowties—yes, bowties, for he had two black bowties strapped close to his neck—trotted down main street in the night, pulling a hefty wagon segregated into various kinds of food and muddying his hooves with common dust and dirt. What all those different foods had in common was one fruit: apples. In one compartment were pure, raw, fresh apples picked straight from the trees and dropped straight to the wagon. In another was apple pies, fresh and steaming from the oven, crusty and plump for the taking. In yet another was apple cider cookies, smacking of that sweet and bitter cider kick, all stashed in boxes. In still another were slogs of apple crisp wrapped up in aluminum foil, waiting to be unveiled to a ravenous audience of gamblers. Also, of course, what would be a poker’s night without barrels upon barrels of pure apple cider?

It would be a poker’s night without barrels upon barrels of pure apple cider.

But, Flam did not want to see that happen. In fact, he desired to see the opposite happen, which is why he had another wagon attached to the first one containing all the apple food, this second wagon carrying barrels upon barrels of pure apple cider.

As could be expected from such a heavy toll on a unicorn’s constitution, Flam sweated a lot, strained and stretched his muscles to produce only a moderate output. The wagons creaked not under the weight but under the sheer slowness of his trot. However, in the span of seven minutes, he was able to travel all the way from the lodges in the apple fields to that fenced house with the large backyard.

As Flam neared the shining house, he could hear the rowdy crowd erupt in both laughter and roars—and, there it was again, the sound of money heaped on the table for another round of poker.

“So, what’s it gonna be this time?” he heard a stallion yell.

“How ‘bout five-card draw for the new guy?!” another one cried out—Flam scratched his chin, drooped his ear a bit at recognizing the sheriff inside.

“Oh, this is gonna be so much fun!” yelled a mare from above the crowd’s tumult.

Flam trotted to the door and knocked on the house.

The door immediately opened, revealing Braeburn with an empty mug and a frothy mouth. “Oh, hey! Ya’ made it jus’ in time! We’re havin’ a break, teachin’ Swift River ‘ere how to deal a good hoof! You better watch this!”

Flam stroked his bushy red mustache. “Why, I do like games of chance! Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“Because you just came here an hour ago, I guess,” Braeburn said matter-of-factly.

Flam was ushered into the poker house.

Here, he got a deeper look of the inside while endangering himself with vehemently talkative chatterers sitting on their sofas and at their tables, wondering out loud if Made Hoof would return from his eighth "retirement" from dicey sports. Aside from the pianos, the lanterns, and the big table, Flam could also see several benches and dining tables where those resting from the game before made small talk by maps of Equestria and of the area around Appleloosa. Spears, bows, and quivers hung from the walls, ready to be grabbed and used at a moment’s notice. Posted to the wall was a list of ponies’ names labeled “Captured”, and it was a very long list, requiring three columns to fill them all—some of them had depictions of their cutie marks drawn beside them, some had none of it.

At the big table, smothered by a crowd of ponies, sat the players themselves. The table itself was not that crowded; more than half of the ponies inside were milling about on the couches and everywhere else in the living quarters, talking as they sipped and drank apple cider. As for the players: There was Swift River himself, ruffling his yellow feathers in nervous excitement and eyeing the stack of cards from the distance. That stack of cards was held by Perfume Hearts, a long-haired Earth pony mare notorious for her overwhelming scent which was bordering on the unbearable if one would not discount the few ponies putting hankerchiefs and towels to their noses to kill the smell before it reached their noses. On her right was Banknote, the glasses-wearing cashier, counting his bits from his diversity of wallets hiding underneath his hat, putting on green gel on himself to decorate his body in green patterns; at times, he would laugh to himself at the amount of money he has carrying with him, and at other times, he would recite his accounting ledgers from memory—of course, in a whisper, so as to not bother the other players. On Banknote’s right was Press Release, keeping her fedora to herself while she looked around, observing the ponies there; she glanced at Swift once in a while, making sure she would not miss anything out of the ordinary.

“Just place it on the side,” Braeburn said to Flam, gesturing towards the wagon of food and cider. “I’ll take care of it. You go get a spot there.”

Flam nodded and trotted to the table, moving past Braeburn who then pushed the wagon to the walls.

“Let’s deal already!” Banknote yelled, scrounging the bits up into his wallets and placing them under his hat. “I’m feeling lucky today!”

Perfume Hearts giggled. “Like you’ll ever be, Mister Misery.”

“You take that back!” Banknote hollered, pointing at her and flourishing his shiny teeth. “This is the easiest one they got, and I started from this, so I’m going to take first place, gettin’ all your money before it gets too hot!”

“We’re drawing, then?” Swift spoke up.

Perfume Hearts nodded, bringing up the stack of cards with her hoof. “Alright." A pause; she took a step back, garnering the attention of the other two players and their table-side audience. "Everypony, let’s give Swift here a bit of mercy. Ante a bit!”

Everyone, including Swift and Perfume, brought a bit to the center of the table. Those four bits gleamed under the lanterns’ glare.

Perfume hoofed five cards, face down, to each player, keeping five cards for herself, and placed the rest of the stack on the side. The non-participants looked on, keeping silent.

“OK, Swift,” Perfume said, placing a firm hoof on his shoulder. “You got your five cards, right?”

Swift looked at his cards, holding them precious as he unfolded them in his unsteady hooves. “Uh, yeah. Not supposed to show them anything, right?”

“Obviously,” Perfume said with a disgusted groan. “The objective of five-card draw is to win lots of bits, not to lose them. You memorized the poker hooves, from one pairs to straight flushes?”

Swift nodded.

“Good. So, let’s start the betting round with you. How much do you wanna bet?”

Swift gulped. “I don’t know...I could add...three bits?”

Banknote groaned. “Really, big guy? Seven bits for the pot?”

“We don’t wanna bankrupt this poor pony,” Perfume shot at him. “Baby steps.”

Banknote leaned on his chair, rocking it in distress, and gave Swift River a menacing grimace.

Perfume turned back to Swift. “So, you’ll bet seven bits?”

“Yes.”

“OK. Seven bits.”

Swift took out three bits from his one and only wallet and piled them on the game's sparse pot.

Perfume leaned to peak at Swift’s cards, kept a straight face.

Press Release smiled. “I’ll call!”

Banknote smiled, too. “I’ll call!”

“I’ll call,” Perfume said. Looked at Swift. “You know what that means?”

Swift scratched his head. “You’re going to stay with the bet, right?”

“Good.” Perfume fixed up her bedraggled mane. “Now, the first betting round’s done. You know what’s next?”

“The part where you could switch your cards?”

“Yes.”

“So, do you want to deal some cards?”

Swift looked at his cards again. “I don’t think so.”

“I’ll get three!” Press Release called out.

She hoofed the three cards face down to Press who gave her three new cards from the top of the deck, putting them there.

Banknote raised his hoof high. “I’ll deal my whole hoof!”

Swift whistled. “Really?”

Banknote nodded, staring at him with envious eyes. “Yeah, really! You got to get somewhere, and you can’t get somewhere without taking a lot of risks! That's how they set it up!”

Perfume got his old set of cards and hoofed him another set.

“I’ll not deal,” Perfume herself said. “So, that’s over, and the second betting round can commence. You go first, Swift.”

Swift gulped. “I raise ten.” He took out three more bits from his wallet, placed them on the pot.

Press put her cards on the table face-down. “Fold.”

“I’ll raise twelve!” Banknote said, watching Swift with misgiving as he threw two bits to the pile.

Several gasps and murmurs from the crowd. Several rose from their chairs and couches, trying to see the heated contestants from afar.

Perfume smiled. “I’ll fold for this one. Do you know how to handle this?”

Swift nodded. “Somewhat. I don’t know about this one, though.”

“Come on, mister!” Banknote shouted, tapping the table loud. “You wanna stay in?”

Swift grinned. “I raise fourteen," and added two more bits to the pot.

“Then, I’ll raise fifteen!” and brought in one more bit.

“Twenty!”

Swift slammed five bits on to the table.

“Thirty!”

Banknote struck the pot with five more bits, causing it to crash a little.

“Thirty-five!”

Swift flung yet five more, almost falling off his chair with his clumsy move.

“Forty!”

Banknote took out still five more coins from his hat, putting on a smug face for the other pony standing.

Perfume smacked her hoof on the table, smashing them to silence. Looked at Swift. “What’s gotten into you?! This was supposed to be a simple game!”

Swift eyed her and smiled.

He stared at Banknote who was getting several bits from his wallets, calculating as could be seen with him looking up and whispering to himself.

Swift knocked on the table.

Banknote shook his head, stared at him. "What?"

“I’ll raise to fifty.”

Swift took out his wallet and almost emptied it out, coins falling and rolling around.

The hatted stallion raised his brow, seeing those coins with glitter in his eyes. “Well, well, well...call!”

Showed his hoof of cards.

A king, a queen, an ace, a seven, a five. All clubs. A king-high flush.

Swift smiled. Showed his cards.

A three, a four, a five, a six, a seven. All hearts. A seven-high straight flush.

Banknote yanked a spear dangling from its rope. “Alright, that’s it! That’s beginner’s luck right there, see!”

Gasps, howls; ponies standing up, grabbing their own weapons hanging from above; huddling to the walls and the halls, keeping safe in numbers and in distance.

Silverstar galloped to him.

Blocked off by the tip of a spear.

“Back away!” Banknote thundered.

Everyone did back away, forming a hushed circle around him.

Then, faced Swift with the spear. “When you got here, I wasn’t expecting some gambling hotshot to sap away my life savings! Well, tonight, I think I got more than just a gambling hotshot! He’s been bluffing the whole time!”

“I wasn’t bluff—“

“Not poker bluffing! Identity bluffing!”

Everyone gasped. A pony spoke, “Did you mean to say he’s a change—“

“I don’t care if I’m allergic to leaves,” Banknote shouted, holding them off with the spear, “I put salve on myself all day! But he doesn’t, and you excuse him because he has allergies—unless there are more changelings here than we thought!”

Braeburn stood up from his rocking chair. “That’s a mighty big accusation you have—“

“I’m going to end this, and I’m going to show you—“ dabbed the salve from his cheeks on to the tip “—once and for all how you’re—“

“No!”

Press jumped over the table, lunged at him.

The spear hit him.

He fell down to the floor, gasping for air.

Then, a glow fell upon him.

After the glow, a changeling instead of Banknote.

Everyone gasped, looking at that monster sprawled on the floor.

Snap Call

“Seize him!” Silverstar shouted.

All grabbed the struggling changeling, his legs bound and curbed by the many around him, stretching his hooves so he would not bend. He hissed, lashed his two-tailed tongue out at them, but did not achieve any escape.

Then—mouth gagged, eyes blindfolded, horn covered.

“Close all doors an’ windows!” Braeburn shouted, pointing at severl of them, and, already, ponies were heading out to do exactly that. “Nopony goes in, nopony goes out! You—Sandbar an’ that Gallus bird b’side you!—get with the rest of ‘em upstairs! I an’ Silverstar will warn the others!”

Fleeing the crowd, those two hurried up the stairs with a few others, Sandbar galloping and Gallus flying.

As the crowd panicked, brisked and ran around, breaking vases and pots as they advanced to anywhere they deemed safe for the moment.

“If there’s one changeling, there could be an army of them on the way!”

“No, what if there’s more than just one? What if half of us are changelings?!”

“That’s why we have Zecora’s mixture—“

“What if they replaced it with a fake?!”

Braeburn stepped in between the two arguing ponies. “It did reveal the chang’ling as an imposter; what we have is the real thing.” He looked at Swift, still shocked and now sweating on his chair. “You OK there?”

Swift shivered. He held up his hooves, looked at Braeburn with startled eyes. “I-I don’t know! I...I’ve never seen th-that happen before in all my life! I o-only heard it ‘round!”

Braeburn looked about, seeing the ponies gallop and jump around to find a good hiding spot—here, several mustached ponies not unlike the sheriff himself crouched behind a piano, hoping the instrument would save them from certain doom.

“Everypony, stop!”

All stopped at the sheriff’s call. Even the changeling ceased with his vain wrestling.

“We’re not going to do any overreactin’ with no nerves!” He cast a severe gaze upon the whole mass of ponies, his facial hair adding to his authority. “At the ver' least, we got this one in a bad mood an’ in bad time!”

“But, what if it’s a distraction?” a pony pointed out, biting her nails afterwards.

Murmurs rose, ponies nodding their heads and agreeing with her sentiment, the more timid ones slipping away back to their hiding places under tables and behind pianos.

“A distraction from the actual threat, ya’ say?” the sheriff said, rubbing his mustache rough. “In that case—round everypony up here ‘cause we’re gonna be sniffin’ out the traitors from the true ones!”

Eyed Braeburn standing by the wall, comforting a crying mare sitting on the chair by a window without moonlight.

“Go with Suri, and fetch the salve vat,” Silverstar ordered. “We’ll be seein’ who’s innocent an’ who isn’t tonight!”

Sandbar and Gallus waited at the intersection of the two hallways, listening to the sounds of ponies locking windows, closing cabinets and drawers, and finally locking doors as they saw their hysterical figures waver before the rooms.

“What’s the cue if there's a changeling up here?” Gallus asked, holding up a claw as the shouts and screams of the crowd below continued.

“They have a weird sound when they change,” Sandbar said, rolling his eyes up to think about how to word that sound. Then, looked at Gallus strange. “You’re telling me you’ve never seen a changeling...uh, change before?”

Gallus shrugged his shoulders. “Anyway, I wanted to stay alive, not ride at the edge of danger.”

Sandbar gave him a self-satisfied look. “Says the braggy griffon.”

That braggy griffon jabbed a pointed claw on Sandbar’s head. “There’s a difference between being proud and not being alive to be proud!”

Despite the peril he was facing with those sharp claws, Sandbar casually replied, “If you say so.”

Then, a pony slammed the door shut, brought his key into his mane, and trotted down the hallway—almost tripped into the chaos down there.

“Go down, quick!” Sandbar encouraged, raising his head a bit to see the last of him; maybe get a word or two out of the stranger.

But that stallion said nothing to him, galloping away with short breath.

Sandbar heard the commotion below. He gulped. “This isn’t good. Not good at all.”

Swift stayed there in his chair, in front of the table and in front of his pot worth fifty easy-earned bits. The cards had been scattered on the table except for his winning straight flush which stuck out conspicuous as they lay before that hill of golden coins.

He could hear the swirl of sounds besieging him—the flurry, the blurry flurry of ponies shifting around and crying and shouting and crying more—others falling on to couches, fainting there and even to the floor—cries for a doctor or a medic about, ponies with not a single piece of medical uniform on their bodies pulling out first aid kits, applying bandages to the prematurely wounded—alarmed stallions and mares holding out their weapons and over-excited ones aiming their spears or bows at whoever was closest—overturned plants with their fallen soil, overturned cabinets with their crumpled clothes and their shattered plates—lanterns flickering as pegasi’s flapping wings swayed them to and fro—Braeburn and Silverstar and a few others shouting, giving out verbal instructions to this and that pony.

A nudge on his shoulder. A poke on his face.

Swift blinked, looked at Press who was stretching out a hoof to poke him another time.

“You look like you’re lost!” Press said, a little surprised. “You need something? Bottle of water? Some crackers?” She levitated her measly paper bag, fumbling her hoof around for something. “I got some bread, too.”

Swift kept looking out there. “I-I d-don’t...know….”

Press groaned. “Swifty, you got to know. Do you feel hungry? Famished? Anything not normal? Come on—“ scooted with her chair to him “—I don’t want anyone here to die of hunger.”

As the noise of the crowd continued to rise with their shrieks and crashes—another vase fallen down and destroyed.

Knocks on the door.

They looked that way.

Braeburn dodged several running ponies to reach the door.

He opened it.

Feeling the night’s cold, he saw two guards with a few more ponies there who noticed his haggard face, the bags under his eyes.

“We’d like to tell you we have a few ponies who want to stay here for the night before moving on to Dodge,” the yellow guard said, holding out a list of their names with his wing.

Braeburn nodded, seeing the green salve patterns on their faces. He took the list, browsed it. “We sure do appreciate what yer’ doin, but...no good, though. We have an emergency in our hooves—discovered a changelin' in—“

“A changeling?!” the guard shouted.

His escortees shivered in place, trying to get a good glimpse of the anarchy thriving in the poker house.

Yet another vase broken with a heavy crack!

“Flash Sentry,” Braeburn said, going closer to his ear and shielding the open door from their view, “you got to get ‘em somewhere safer. You know where.”

Flash nodded. Then, turning to face his escortees, he stomped a hoof on the ground, opened his wings wide, and yelled: “You heard him! Follow us!”

They left, beating a path down to the backyard.

Braeburn saw them off, waving a hat to them.

Then, he took note of a young, nervous-eyed and freckled stallion muttering something to himself before getting out of his sight.

That nervous-eyed, freckled stallion lay on his bed of hay, eyes wide open in the darkness.

In this spacious underground room lay small heaps of hay—dozens of these heaps. Some had makeshift pillows, good for cushioning a head for five minutes before a bout of itchiness took place.

He spread his exhausted body there awake and quite alone. Three other ponies lay in their hay beds, all sleeping and snoring soundly.

His frazzled blonde hair shone in the lonely ray of light which peeped from the almost closed door.

Then, it creaked half-open.

He closed his eyes at the sudden brightness.

“Psst!”

He opened his eyes a bit, seeing the silhouette over there by the door.

“Psst!”

Rubbed his eyes, cleared up his vision. “Huh? Who’s th-that?”

“Hey, you gotta stay up!”

Rubbed his eyes again. “H-Huh?”

“I’ll show you around.” The mare cocked her head to the side. “Looks like the others are sleeping. Good for me—only got one to teach.”

Star Tracker scratched his freckled cheeks, moaning a bit from his broken rest as he trotted to the little room there, seeing its minimal furnishings: a table of snacks and powdered coffee, more maps tacked on to the stony underground walls, lists of ponies on maintenance and watchtower duty for each day of the week, and several lanterns lighting all these up. Over there was a notice in big words proclaiming, “Never go anywhere without a buddy! All single ponies will be interviewed on sight!”

Flash Sentry was there, too, keeping watch over Tracker and the unknown mare as the guard sipped on his own cup of hot black coffee, standing by the tunnel's ramp passageway to the higher levels. He knocked on his metal armor, hearing that clink!

The mare smiled as he hoofed Tracker a warm cup of coffee, then, with her horn, adjusted her hat to properly align with her head. “This is the part where we hang out sometimes. The big hang-out room—“ she giggled “—you already saw that upstairs; first big place you saw. But, if you want something quieter and more relaxed, you could just stay here and be in the company of more familiar friends—when you do make friends with them.”

Star Tracker groaned, rubbed his head pounding with something like a fever. “I don’t feel that good...why’d you have to get me out?”

She dragged out the pause in the conversation a little. “You know...to get you some fresh air for your lungs! Can’t let that thorax rot with underground filth for long!”

Tracker bared his teeth, quivering right there and letting drops of his coffee spill onto the ground.

“Uh, but I need to rest my eyes, y-you know...uh, what’s your name?”

She nodded. “The name’s Press Release. What’s yours?”

He gulped. “Uh, Star Tracker!”

Flash Sentry sighed and trotted to the still open door.

He closed it.

Flash turned to the ponies by the snack table. “It’s not like anyone’s gonna hear you.”

A blue glow came upon him and revealed the changeling there in his place.

Press looked at Tracker, smiling. “I didn’t expect the change of plans, but you sure do know how to do last-minute changes well. Your brother would be so proud once he gets over how you didn't stick with the original program.”

A glow enveloped her, revealing Ocellus when it went away.

Tracker sighed, and, with that same glow, changed back to his old Thorax self.

Now, three changelings in the room, with Cornicle sipping coffee. “To be honest, I prefer soda ‘cause its sweet and has that fizz. All those bubbles, too—you could watch them rise and pop when you’re bored, but whatever works for me.” He returned to sipping his coffee.

Ocellus smiled at Thorax, even let out a little giggle again. “So, you told Ortho to go in first and swap the salve vats with decoys and let himself get caught? I don’t know what to say about that.” She tapped her chin, concerned. “Do you have an escape plan?”

Thorax’s ears drooped at that. “I was thinking of, uh, bailing him out when Chrysalis comes this way.”

Ocellus arched her non-existent eyebrows. “Did you bring in any jailbreak-friendly equipment? Like, ropes or...even blankets would do!”

“Isn’t their prison underground, too?” Cornicle asked before noisily slurping his cup of coffee.

Ocellus sighed, pressed her head. Paced the room, passed the maps and lists. “OK...we managed to get the four of us inside, and one of them’s a seventh guard. That’s better than failing the mission outright.”

Thorax sighed. “What else do we have? I’m assuming you just got here.”

She shook her head, stopped pacing. “We got a slight change to the mission from Queen Chrysalis herself.”

Cornicle stopped drinking his coffee. “I don’t like the sound of that ‘slight’.”

Ocellus nodded. “Chrysalis told me before I flew that we’re going to try a new strategy: assimilate at least ninety percent of Appleloosa. That means bringing in at least about a hundred changelings into the base undetected and unnoticed.”

“It’ll be easier the more we have here, right?” Thorax asked, sounding somewhat optimistic.

She frowned, her eyes shining under the lanterns. “It’ll be harder. We need to prepare for any contingency. What if the bases farther South try to build up an inspection team? Our strength is only that of the weakest link—one trip, and they’ll start getting suspicious of us.”

“If it’s harder than just taking over like what we did with Ponyville,” Thorax said, trotting to her, “why are we doing this?”

“Because, Thorax—" she scrubbed the fins on the back of head "—if we pull this off, they’ll never know we’re right here.” Ocellus pointed to a map of Appleloosa, displaying all its overground and underground structures. “In fact, we could have Appleloosa giving us all the resources we need and nopony would know if we conceal them well. After we take enough ponies, we can launch a surprise attack on every remaining major Equestrian base simultaenously. They wouldn’t have the time to react or call in back-up.” With that, she smiled at the sound of that strategy.

“Does my job change?” Cornicle asked, putting down his cup of coffee. “Will I have to stop being Flash Sentry?”

She shook her head again. “No. It’ll stay the same. Just gather as much information as you can from the stations and relay them to me.”

“Preferably with a changeling who could actually get to Swift,” Cornicle said, motioning to Thorax with a hostile glare.

Thorax grumbled, stretching his ears in rage. “What?! I wasn’t chickening out!”

“Shush!” and Ocellus grabbed him by the mouth. “Do you know how loud tunnels can be?”

Thorax nodded with his covered mouth.

Ocellus shoved him away. “Let’s hope nopony heard that.”

A voice echoing from the top of the tunnel: “Did you guys hear that?”

Then, hoofsteps coming down.

Thorax shuddered. “Oh, no.” He turned to his irritated comrades. “I’m sorry!”

Cornicle and Ocellus glowed and brought themselves back into their disguises, ignoring Thorax’s apology; Flash straightened up and put down his coffee while Press sipped from hers.

Throax shivered, watching the ponies’ shadows grow larger at the end of the tunnel’s first turn.

“What are you doing?!” Press whispered straight at him, yanking him by the shoulder this time.

“Agh!”

Thorax glowed and went back to being Star Tracker. He got his cup of coffee, drank from it.

Two ponies appeared at the end of the tunnel: Swift River and Perfume Hearts. The former had his mane worn out but, otherwise, he was not badly affected. Perfume Hearts stayed mostly the same, which was unfortunate for Tracker and Sentry who hastened to defend their nostrils from her fragrances—the latter was close to vomiting.

“Good, Press Release!” Swift yelled, galloping up to her and shaking her hoof. “You’re here! And, ah, that must’ve come from...” and looked at Star Tracker, his smile fading. “Who are you? Sorry, but we haven’t met.”

Star Tracker laughed nervously. “Uh, yeah. We haven’t.”

Perfume Hearts trotted to the table and prepared her coffee cup, leaving Swift River by the foot of the tunnel.

“So, what’s your name?” Swift asked.

“Star Tracker, sir!” he replied fast. “It’s Star Tracker! Manehattanite...uh, used-to-be one.”

Swift sighed. Closed his eyes and let it stay closed for some time. “It’s sad, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter if it’s the greatest city in Equestria, in the world—they ruined it like it was some small-time village!” He stomped on the floor, then punched himself on the face.

Press made an awkward expression. “Is that normal for you?”

“No, it’s not, but it is!” roared Swift.

Everyone else turned to him, astonished at his outburst.

Swift then checked himself. “S-Sorry for that. E-Excuse me, but...Press, I guess you know about it.”

She nodded.

He turned to Tracker, also bringing Flash and Perfume into his vision. “I’m sorry that happened right in front of you, but...Manehattan...” shook his head, as if chastising himself for a crime, “that place...that Manehattan...” sniffed, “was where the fire began. She perished there—“

“Who?” Tracker asked.

Press nudged him with a hoof. “Don’t be so rude!”

“My dear Lady Gaval!” Swift cried out. Then, bringing down some tissue—“She was a beautiful mare, possessing a beautiful brain that can withstand the test of time. I could remember like it was yesterday—“

“And, here we go with a long romance story,” Flash Sentry blurted, taking up another cup of coffee to busy himself with.

But Swift went on. “I could even remember the exact number of days before the changelings came to us: Four hundred and sixty-one days before she died!” He sniffed again. “We met by chance at a law firm because I wanted to sue somepony for spreading libel about me. She became my prosecutor, I got my thousands of bits in damages, and...we just...clicked or snapped or whatever!”

Tracker looked at his wrist to check the time. Except he did not have a watch.

Perfume gave all her thought to Swift's unfolding tale of lost love, enamored by it so far.

Press sat down on the ground and watched him speak more.

“I didn’t know why she liked me, why she adored me—what did I ever do to deserve her love?” He spread open his wings. “Was it because I was a pegasus and she was a ‘mere’ Earth pony? So, it went on—me, suffering in agony about questions rolling in my head, and then, one day, she went to my apartment and confessed her love to me and I confessed my love to her and...and...we became engaged, we sat together in fancy restaurants, we treated each other to long walks in the big Manehattan parks,...”

“…and then, that’s when it came upon me like a ton of bricks! They were coming, and so we had to go! To get out of there!”

Star Tracker and Swift River lay in the dark on adjacent hay beds, the both of them quite alone in their wakefulness. The few other ponies there were still sleeping. Star just laid there inside the sleeping quarters, back turned against an energetic Swift moving his hooves about and adding another magnified gesture to every word.

“We had to get to the ships—excuse me, the non-pegasi ponies had to get to the ships. I saw all my pegasi brothers and sisters fly out of Manehattan minutes before the changelings entered the city grounds, some of them with their pegasus spouses. But, me? I wasn’t strong enough to carry a mare on my back while flying, and I didn’t think we could last long inside a changeling-run Manehattan! So, I had to get to the ship with her—but, they were coming, and they were coming fast!”

He paused, took a long breath.

“Everything came by instantly! Changelings shooting their shots at us, the ship becoming damaged, they were already throwing off the lifeboats—what more could I not ask for?! My instincts told me, ‘Go!’ but I can’t! Then, the captain of the ship told all of us pegasi to leave for our own safety—he was going to stay with his sip and die there, try to see if he could bring in resistance ships to his aid. I tried carrying Gaval out to the sky, but I just couldn’t!”

He stopped, breathing long. Tracker could hear the sniffling from the wet nose the storyteller had.

“Do you know how hard that is to somepony?! You are young, a youthful stallion—here I am, outside of my prime, never to return. I was a romantic kind of pony—that guard said something about me—but, I never, never got a mare to love me! I knew the tricks and the tropes for it all, and still it didn’t work except for this Gaval—and it’s with her that she would be my first and my last love!”

Another pause. He looked away from Tracker, looked around the dark room and saw those sleeping ponies still sleeping. He turned back to his only audience.

“I guess you know what happens next. If I tried to fly with her, I would not have enough stamina to get the both of us to safety.” A choke. “I tried calling out to the other pegasi, but they were too far away and they were blasting our ship. There were lifeboats, but the changelings didn’t care about that—they were blasting the lifeboats as well, carrying their prey into the air and back into the city for food! Before I knew it, I was the only pegasus there, and the captain told me to get out or he will make me get out...and, that’s...that’s when I knew that dear Lady Gaval was lost.”

Star Tracker felt a tear trickle down his cheek.

“I told her my last words of love, my undying love for her, and she did so for me, too! Finally, I flew, and...before it was all gone, I saw the ship sinking, and the changelings boarding the ship, and the changelings capturing many, including—no, especially—my would-be wife!” He placed a heavy hoof to his chest. “We were planning to get married away from Manehattan because of the warnings, but we’re too late. I knew I couldn’t save her—the captain told me that I’d be better off being useful to the other bases. They carried her off, disappeared behind a skyscraper, and...that’s the last of it.”

All was quiet inside the dark room.

“All over...all over...that’s how it was for me, for her!” Cut short by a quiff of breath. “I dread our reunion...it’d better off if we’re both dead, or if we were both captured! But, the captain’s words...” a groan. “What are they doing to her right now? Stealing the love from her? The love she has for her parents, her siblings, her friends, and, worst of all, for me?” Eyes wide open, bewildered in their appearance—reddening and wet. “We were so romantic, so caught up in the moment—too late I realized...my love for her and her love for me was helping the changelings!”

A sigh. Then, another sigh. He finally rested his head fully on his wool pillow.

“I’m trying to move on. I’m just trying to have friendships now, close ones but not romantic ones that lead to marriage, and a family of our own...oh, a family!”

He broke out into weeping.

Star Tracker kept lying down on his uneven hay bed, though his mouth was wavering and his eyes were about to spill with tears of his own.

Flash Sentry and Press Release got out of the shed, trotted out of the backyard, and walked up to the poker house which was now protected by several guards. It was quieter, too, though several ponies were speaking loudly from within.

“OK, that isn’t good,” Flash said, giving her a nudge. “Press, what do you have in mind?”

“They’re about to announce something for Banknote,” Press observed, peering into the windows. Then, her eyes lit up—“Look, over there!”

Through the windows, a deal of movement about. Then, out the front door, shackled in chains, was dragged a changeling, still snapping and hissing at his restraining guards, Braeburn and the sheriff following him from behind.

“We’ll have the executionin’ right away!” the sheriff shouted. “Can’t let this go at dawn! Too much schemin’ time for an escape plan!”

Behind him, a horde of indignant ponies hurling insults at the changeling, calling for his death while raising pitchforks and torches along with their traditional weapons—all these coming out of the house brandishing these things and shouting their vitriol against him, their voices drowning out the peace of Appleloosa.

Flash and Press looked at each other, both concerned as their faces reflected a bit of the torches' fires.

“I wish I wasn’t so mad at my brother back then,” Flash confessed.

Disinformative Attack

Star Tracker still laid there on his hay bed, now drenched in silent tears. Beside him, Swift River was sleeping, though not snoring yet.

There he lay in that dark and hollow room, hearing the snores and feeling his wet face.

The door opened, giving way to a ray of light which blinded him.

Tracker looked up, his teary eyes glittering in the glow, raised his hoof to cover his pupils from being burned. “What’s g-going on?”

Press beckoned with a flick of her head. In a quick whisper: “Remember what you said about bailing Ortho out?”

Tracker gulped. He stood up from his bed. “We gotta do it now?”

Press nodded. “We don’t have much time to lose!”

He tip-hoofed as fast as he could out of the room, joining her outside.

It was a bleak night outside. The moon did shine and the stars did twinkle although obscured by clumps of remote clouds.

Before the train station, by the tracks and the train still idle there, a crowd had gathered around the changeling lassoed and restrained by Braeburn’s rope—there, that gallant stallion held him down to the ground by the strength of his teeth and the grip of his jaw. About everyone was raising their pitchforks and torches in the air, shouting at him—crying, too, their soaked faces radiant under their own flames.

A mare threw a tomato at him, splattered red on his torso. “That’s for my family!”

Another stallion stole a loaf of bread from her grocery bag and threw it at the changeling. “And that’s for destroying my hometown, you villain!”

“Let me have at ‘im!” yet another stallion yelled; he stole a cabbage from the mare and threw the worthy vegetable at the changeling.

“Hey, I grew all of that myself!” the mare complained and proceeded to throw her produce at the thieves beside her in the crowd, though they did not mind being assaulted by such weak ammunition as long as that changeling was assaulted by the same.

Then everyone was pelting him with whatever they could find in their bags and pouches: fruits, vegetables, bread, water, coins, even knives; yet, the changeling dodged them all as best as he could while tied to the rope.

Standing at the back of the circle were Tracker, Flash, and Press, the three of them monitoring everypony’s behavior and watching the changeling’s suffering.

“I say we torture him with our home-grown pesticides!” one more stallion yelled, and he held up a spray can with a mosquito symbol painted on it. “Squash him for the traitorous bug he is!”

“No!” a mare argued from across the circle, raising her torch against his pesticide. “Let’s burn him! We burn him with our torches!”

“Yeah, torches!” a third pony cried out.

Everyone was raising their torches to the air, shrinking the circle and closing in on the hissing changeling looking everywhere, eyes hurtling wherever, sharp tongue rasping out hisses.

“Do we have an escape plan?” Flash asked in a whisper, nudging both of his companions as they followed the crowd. “’Cause if we don’t, we’re going to be toast when we come back and she asks why he’s not with us.”

“We’ll find a way somehow,” Press said, her voice nigh inaudible against the riot going on. Got her hat and flipped it over, examined the inside. "But, if we have to let him die—“

Tracker trotted to her front, took up her view. “Are you saying we should let Ortho get killed out there?!”

Press sighed, put the fedora back on her head. “It’s your fault you convinced Ortho to do this."

She stopped, the crowd roaring ever louder. They were lobbing less food and more dangerous objects at him, with knives and blades becoming more prominent, yet Ortho dodged them all.

"Anyway," Press resumed, "it’s going to be difficult to save him without causing further suspicion, not to mention they’re really angry right now, and ponies and their emotions…” and left it at that with a sad shake of her head.

As the crowd shouted, closing farther in on the lassoed changeling. Braeburn was struggling with the creature’s wings struggling against the rope.

“OK, I didn’t think this through,” Tracker admitted, sounding sorry, “but, we can’t just leave him there without something!”

“Would it matter anyway?” Press asked back seriously.

Tracker gulped, his eyes dilating. “What do you mean?”

“He has a hundred broodmates, Star,” Press said with a stomp on the ground, "and if that fails, there’s always a brood about to mature. Feel sorry for him for five minutes, then move on with what we have right now.”

He sighed, letting his shoulders and his head slouch. “You’re still thinking of a plan?”

“I’m still thinking of a plan,” answered Press, trying to find her way to the front of the circle.

She scurried through the disorganized crowd, rushing past ponies in flux—jumping, sprinting, flying—and budged a few out of their place—“You almost made me burn my hair!”—but she stumbled on, enduring the deafening babble of everyone surrounding her.

She reached the front and saw Ortho himself, lassoed with that rope and unable to move. Braeburn kept him in place, though he was making dirt tracks in the ground by trying to pull the changeling closer to him. Already, some ponies were throwing lit matches at him, though the flames failed to dent his black chitin.

Press scurried back, caught up with Tracker and Flash lifting their heads to get a better look of Ortho.

“I was able to formulate something,” Press said, out of breath. “What we need is another distraction.” Then, looked at Tracker.

Tracker despaired, holding his cheeks as a pony in fear. “Oh, no. No, no, no, n-no!”

“Flash Sentry is already here,” Press replied, motioning a hoof towards him—he gave a sheepish smile at that, “so what you need to do is to get somewhere safe without being seen, disguise yourself as another passenger from that train, and then act suspiciously—so suspiciously, they’ll know you’re a changeling. Flash here will apprehend you, and he will lead the crowd to you; they'll want to burn you by then. After that, I’ll drop my disguise somewhere safe and free Ortho, lead him out. That way, Ortho will be home free and we still get to stay here.”

Tracker swallowed a huge lump in his throat. “Uh, but that sounds...dangerous.”

“Of course, it’s dangerous!” Flash spoke, laughing to himself after that. “But, if she’s right, then it’s how we’re gonna do it.”

Tracker wiped his sweaty neck and chin. “Alright. Let me see what I can do.”

He trotted away, going into the deserted hat shop nearby; he could notice the shouts lowering down—winced at the loudest hiss he could hear from Ortho.

“Now, hold up!” the sheriff yelled.

And all the crowd stopped shouting.

The sheriff took a short look on everyone present. “I understand that we must kill this chang’ling right now, but let’s do it orderly! We don’t wanna have any one o’ us gettin’ accidental burns, do we?”

Nods, murmurs of agreement. Some were so kind as to lower their torches in expected compliance.

“OK,” Silverstar continued, “we need to settle on an agreed way of killin’. You keep on forgettin’ we’ve got a ton of pesticides by the shop,” trying to get a look of the stallion who had suggested that way of killing, “and let’s not forget jus’ beatin’ him up to death. As much as I’d like to see ‘im burn, it’d not be good for our poor torches—just wasted precious lamp oil an’ Fire Streak’s delivery won’t be comin’ for another five days or so!”

Then, with more nods and murmurs, the rest lowered their torches.

The changeling hissed, tried to bite the rope, but was pulled and constrained further.

“Can ya’ do this faster, sheriff?” Braeburn asked, rolling more of the rope around his foreleg. “This ain’t a good time to be thinkin’ much!”

The sheriff shook his head, muttering, “OK, Braeburn….” Then, raising his voice: “Who here goes for the pesticide?!”

All raised their hooves and shouted their approval, rumbling the very ground with their words and snuffing the torch of the mare who had suggested burning in the first place.

“I won’t be needin’ a say on the other choices,” he stated. Turning to some ponies behind him in the crowd: “Follow me!”

The sheriff with a few others galloped out of the crowd and into the hat shop, passing by Press and Flash at the end of the crowd.

Press rubbed her head. “Tracker, you better have something up!”

As the crowd resumed shouting and clamoring for the changeling’s death; the storm of produce and weapons returned to punish Ortho.

Tracker hid behind the counter, crouching so his head would not be seen.

He could hear the shouts from outside, though a bit dull. He saw the checkered floor and some spilled spears and lancets on the floor. Of the wall, he did not see much—the lights were out, and the distant torches did not give him much to work with.

“OK, OK,” he said, looking at his blue hooves, unable to control his fast breathing. “What do we have here? I got...” eyes lit up, beaming—“Star Bright.”

He glowed, changed into a gray unicorn.

Grabbed a fallen mirror on the floor and looked at himself with it.

“Eh...didn’t he say he likes donuts a bit too much?” He combed his wavy mane with a hoof. “How could I copy a donut obsession? Uh, ‘Why don’t you have any donuts here?’”

Hoofsteps coming up the stairs.

He covered a scream of his own, muffled it in time. “OK, you’re still fine...you’re still fine. N-Nothing to worry about—you’re supposed to get caught! But, what if he’s there...oh, no! Ocellus didn’t tell me!” Breathed in, breathed out. “She thought I was supposed to remember and...oh, no...please, please, please don’t hear—“

“What was that?” he heard Silverstar ask, watchful and alert.

“Must be coming from the counter,” another said.

Star Bright breathed in, breathed out. “Alright, there’s Cosmic. Here goes nothing….”

He glowed.

“Hey! There’s some light over there!” a mare yelled. “Blue! It must be a changeling!”

In his place, a brown pegasus still crouching under the counter.

A clink. “Alright, stinky bug!” the sheriff shouted. “You’re cornered, now! The backdoor’s locked from the inside. You can’t get out! Show yourself!”

Then, two brown hooves out into the air from behind the counter.

“You’re not gonna fool us tonight!” screamed the sheriff and, after yanking the lasso attached to his vest, snatched those two hooves and pulled out the pegasus down to the ground.

The other ponies prepared their ropes and their pesticide cans, aiming them all at the strange pony.

“What do you have to say for yer’self?” he said as he brought a hoofful of salve and smashed some on his face.

The pegasus flinched, glowed, turned back into a changeling. Under the rope's lock, with a hiss: “You’ll never defeat us! We’re too many, and for every one of us you get, a hundred shall rise in his place!”

“Not if we can help it!” cried Silverstar, then smacked Thorax on the head with his bottle.

Rushed hoofsteps from outside.

A huffing, puffing Flash Sentry leaning on the door. “I...I heard the commotion! Is it true there’s a—“

“Yes, Flash!” the sheriff shouted. “There’s two changelings in our midst, and that means there must be more of ‘em roamin’ about an’ tryin’ to get us!”

Flash opened his eyes wide. He gasped. “There’s two changelings here?! And, wait, the other one’s right here?!”

“What, don’t you see ‘im?” the sheriff said, pointing at the lassoed changeling trying to get out of his predicament, wriggling on the checkered floor between the blow torch section and the potato masher department.

“I do see him,” Flash said, “but this is an emergency!”

Silverstar’s ears perked up, trotted to the front door, and pushed Flash aside.

Most of the crowd was moving its way from Ortho to the hat shop, frightened by the guard’s announcement.

The sheriff sighed, about to brace them all. “Next time, cadet, if you wanna shout, ya’ better shout when we’re outside!”

Flash blushed. “Sorry! Just...I’m just surprised and shocked and—“

“Don't speak!” the sheriff said. “We’ll just do the preliminary check on you!”

Flash made another sheepish smile, held up his hooves in self-defense. “It was a mistake, but—“

Smashed a hoofful of salve on the guard’s face.

Flash remained the same, standing there. Blinked.

“Now we’re on the same page,” the sheriff said with a groan. “Don’t do that ‘gain next time.”

Flash saluted Silverstar, then saw him rally the crowd just outside with demands to be silent and orderly.

That Flash let out a sigh of relief.

Back to the station and its tracks, Braeburn held on to the lasso, keeping Ortho down with all his might. He had some help, too, for several muscular stallions were also holding on to the rope, hindering the changeling with their combined power.

Ortho hissed, then chewed on his rope.

“Somepony get ‘im to close his mouth!” Braeburn told.

A pony went out to the changeling, punched him on the face, and grabbed hold of his jaw and his nose.

“Alright! That’s how you—“

A figure swooped in and carried Orthos high into the sky, lobbing that pony to the dusty ground.

“What?!” Braeburn let out before being pulled by the rope.

All of them fell, losing control of the rope.

Now, Orthos held on to the rope tighter and tighter in the air as it swung about in the sky, both changeling and rope pulled higher.

Braeburn looked up.

A changeling carrying Orthos away.

“How?!” Braeburn screamed; cast his hat down. “Three changelings in Appleloosa?” He felt his mouth and hooves quiver—goosebumps. “No...no, it can’t be!”

Other pegasi were flying up to the fleeing changelings, but they were disappearing fast.

“There’s something going on,” Braeburn muttered to himself, his hearing fading for a moment. “No...it can’t just be three. It can’t just be three. There has to be at least five of them in the works, if not ten…no….”

“I’m not dead!” he could finally hear the roped changeling screech from the sky.

“You gotta help him!” a pony yelled at Flash, hanging on to his neck. “Get them back down here and see them die!”

Flash shook his head, the crowd bustling and budging around him. “I’m sorry, but they’ve already sent enough pegasi guards as is. I gotta stay here, in case he ends up flyin’, too.”

As Thorax hissed and bit at his rope, chewed on it and tried to tear it open with his fangs.

“He’s making a break for it!” a mare yelled, pointing at him.

Then, Thorax spun around on the floor, flinging the sheriff out of the loop; freed himself from the rope.

He stood up.

A fierce stance on his four legs, a face displaying his hunger and starvation—that vicious tongue lashing out, as a gurgling hiss charged out of his mouth.

“Let me handle this!” Flash yelled as he flew over the crowd and stood before Thorax.

Everyone backed away, raising their pitchforks and their torches back into the air, though now threatening to burn the ceiling with those flames without knowing it.

Flash brought out his spear and aimed it at Thorax. “If you want to get these folks, you gotta get past me!”

Thorax kicked him on the face, threw him an uppercut, held his face and smashed him on the floor, grabbed his tail, spun him around, and let him go flinging and flying to a couple of lances hanging on the wall racks.

Which then fell on him, scarring Flash further.

Thorax looked upon the battered guard, the dust settling around that fallen Flash.

He smiled.

A few ponies screamed and dropped their pitchforks and torches on the ground, scrambling to any shelter outside.

The rest of the crowd stood resolute. A mare came forward, holding a pitchfork and keeping him at bay with it.

“You can’t win!” she cried out. “I’m from Canterlot myself, but I’m not mistaken when I say that, speaking for all of Appleloosa—and all of Equestria!—you’re going down!”

Thorax chuckled. “And what do you have?”

“Our friends!” she yelled.

All raised their cries and lunged at him.

Thorax lifted himself up from the crowd, touching the ceiling and disguising himself as a pegasus. He flew back into the fray and threw punches and kicks at this and that as everyone else was punching and kicking their friends in the confusion.

Thorax changing to another pony every few seconds while inside that fighting crowd did not help.

Meanwhile, passing by the distracted ponies busy hurting themselves, Flash threw the lancets away from his body, slapped some bandages and dressings on his wounds, and limped away from the shop.

Flying higher and higher, then hiding behind a cloud.

Ocellus and Ortho crouching on it.

“What was that all about?!” Ortho shouted in a deep voice, flailing his hooves in a half panic. “I don’t know what that was, but you almost got me killed! By pesticides, no less! Are you trying to embarrass me in front of these weaklings?!”

“You wouldn’t think about it if you’re dead,” Ocellus snarked. “Look, I saved you. Thank me for that.”

“If this is part of your plan, ‘mastermind’, then you better notify me about it first!” Ortho looked up to the sky. “I didn’t even know who you were before you got me out!”

Ocellus shushed him, forced him to look at her.

Then, several pegasi landed on the cloud.

“Ah, here’s the bug!” a mare yelled, folding her wings and taking out a bow and ice arrow.

Ocellus flew and pounded her, grabbed her ice arrow, and struck her with it, encasing the mare in ice.

Several more pegasi flew at Ocellus, trying to restrain her by holding down her wings and her legs.

Then, a pegasus pulled out a rope.

Ocellus looked and saw Ortho stealing the lasso from him.

“A cowchangeling!” Ortho yelled before grabbing another pegasus and throwing him out of the clouds. “Now, that’s something different!”

“You know they can fly back!” Ocellus shouted.

And, as if on cue, those thrown pegasi did fly back to the cloud.

Ortho threw a rope at one of those ponies.

But, the pegasus caught it in mid-air, pulled it, and swung Ortho to him.

Ortho flapped his wings, increased his momentum, and pummeled the stallion to the ground. Fighting off the punches of the other pegasus, he wrapped the first pegasus’s wings and hurled him off of the cloud.

The other pegasus kept fighting him, blocking almost every punch either with his hooves or with his wings.

Then, Ortho jumped out of the cloud and fell.

“Huh?” blurted out his surprised fighter.

He ran to the edge of the cloud and looked down.

Nothing but Appleloosa and its lights below.

Felt a grip on his leg, was pulled down through the cloud and saw the changeling hanging him now by the tail.

“You know this, don’t you?!” Ortho yelled before delivering a kick to one of his wings.

Grabbed his other wing, bent it—crack!

“Ow!”

“Of course, it’s gonna hurt!” Ortho shouted right at his face.

He dropped the injured pony, seeing that pegasus fall through the sky.

Ortho flew back up to the cloud, saw three more pegasi suppressing Ocellus with the rope. “I’ll show you!”

He grabbed a tail and swung its owner out of the cloud, but not before smacking another mare and knocking her out cold.

Leaving one pony restraining Ocellus.

The pegasus dropped hold of the rope and charged at him.

Only to be grabbed by the tail by Ocellus.

Held down by her, the pegasus felt the fury of Ortho’s rapid punches and a final kick to the face.

And the both of them took his wings and cracked them.

Then, threw him down.

Ocellus and Ortho smiled at each other.

“You see her?” she said, pointing at the knocked out mare. “Stow her away. I’ll take her place.”

He nodded, threw the mare’s unconscious body on to a nearby cloud.

Ocellus smiled, disguised herself as that mare complete with her scars and wounds. She faked a groan, too, and a flimsy gait with it.

And punched Ortho on the neck.

He coughed, massaged his bruised throat. “Really? Do you want me mute or what?!”

Ortho laughed.

The two of them threw themselves into fighting on the cloud.

The last pegasus went on top of the cloud. He noticed the mare duking it out with her changeling enemy. “Rainbowshine, you gotta get out of here! They’re letting the other changeling get away—“

Pulled by the wing, had it cracked, and was left hurtling through the sky, spiraling down to the ground.

Flash and another pegasus, a violet pegasus, hid at the back of the shop, breathing in and out.

“I can’t believe we were able to get away with that, Silver Script,” Flash said, patting him on the head. A gust of wind breezed by, freezing them with shivers in the night. “We...we half-way did it. Not fully did it, but half-way. That’s...that’s gotta count for something...like, uh...some kind of...pick-me-up….”

Silver Script sighed, taking a moment to catch his breath. He turned his gaze towards the scenery before him, seeing only the dry and barren ground with a winding railroad running all the way to the horizon.

“So, we already got Press Release and Flash Sentry,” Flash himself said. “Also got Star Tracker and Banknote.”

“But he hasn’t gotten back to the hive, right?” Silver asked.

“You’re forgetting the ‘stash ‘em’ ploy,” Flash said, wiping more sweat off of his forehead. “Ortho told me about a cave he found not too far away from here. That’s where he’s keeping them under a sleeping spell ‘till it’s over.”

Silver sighed. “Alright, alright. That does explain why he extended his lunch break to an hour and a half.”

"Yet they let them have their breaks,” Flash said. Almost chuckled at the thought of it. “These pathetic ponies. If you’re friendly with them long enough, then they wouldn’t see reason if it looked at them in the eye! They’re suspicious against ponies they barely know, but they’ll defend their loved ones to the very end—opposite, opposite!” He let out a laugh which died off quickly. “Well, I’m getting hungry. I wish I could go, but...gotta rely on that passive love, huh?”

“All passive,” Silver said. “Walking around? Yeah, we’ll be walking around....”

They slumped down on to the brisk soil and rested their heads on the wall.

“Look, I found the changelings!” they heard from inside.

“What?! Guys, it’s me!”

“Oh, really?”

Sounds of that poor pony being pummeled down inside; it would not be complete without that pony yelping for help before another of his kind accused him of being a hypocritical liar.

Then, Rainbowshine trotted her way into view from the alley.

Flash and Silver stood up, Silver giving her an odd look.

“Oh, it’s you, Rainbowshine!” Flash said, extending a hoof. “You look hurt! We could get the medical supplies, but they’ve blocked the doors with everyone there—“

Rainbowshine glowed, revealing a smiling Ocellus.

“—oh.”

She switched back to her Rainbowshine identity.

Silver made a smile. “You scared me a little!”

Rainbowshine nodded, glanced past the alley. “Now, the plan is to get to the crowd and get back to fighting. They won’t notice us—that’s how busy they are! When everything’s done, we’ll just be like them and then we’ll have to face whatever process they’ll think of.”

Flash nodded, powerless to hide a growing grin. “If you say so!”

Silver shuddered. “What’s next, though?”

“We’ll play it by ear,” Rainbowshine answered, dusting off her hooves and her spread out wings. “For now, let’s just get into one last bit of trouble.”

The three of them trotted back into the alley, back to that brawling crowd in the hat shop.

Fates in Canterlot

Buzzes, buzzes.

Opened his eyes.

Up there, brilliant blue sky with many clouds and many changelings swarming about, moving in all directions—some in armor, some in none. Some stopped in mid-air to give a friendly greeting, and then moved on.

And the buzzes. The incessant buzzes with the rapid flaps of their feeble hole-riddled wings.

Star Tracker got up, felt the rocking of something—pain in some of his joints, but he fought through that and stood on his four legs.

Looked around, saw the bars of the cage he was in and the little walls of the wagon he was on. He drew in breath when he saw the pair of changelings pulling the wagon.

Tracker shuddered, shivered, sweated, felt the temptation to bite his hoofnails endlessly. He grabbed his mane, trying to make no sound but failed: “Wh-What’s going on? What’s happening?! Why am I not in the train?!”

“Keep quiet!” one of the changeling drivers yelled without looking at him. “Isn’t it obvious? You’re captured!”

He let out a squeal. “I’m captured?!”

“Haven’t you noticed the cage?” he asked. “What else could you possibly be? A wedding’s groom?”

“But I’m single—“

“I was being rhetorical!”

Tracker closed his loud mouth.

“One of us found you alone on a train and got you while nopony was looking,” continued the changeling driver while he gave the imprisoned pony a steady view of the grassy and mountainous landscape overrun with more changelings going about—here, a group of changelings took notice of the pony and heckled Tracker from a distance by taunting him and wagging his tongue at him. “I say you deserved it.”

His pulling partner tapped him with a wing’s prod. “How about you ask him about his relationships, Brachy?”

The first let out an excited howl. “Whatever we’ll do to pass the time!” Turning to Tracker while not losing his balance: “What about you tell us who you like and love? Shouldn’t be that hard.”

Tracker gulped. He considered his options, which were not many since the cage was barred on all sides and the top side was a glass ceiling. Then, with tremendous energy, he gathered up, “I l-love no...one?”

Brachy stopped to kick the wagon, causing Tracker to fall down before the changeling resumed the journey. “I could sense that lie if I were blindfolded and deaf! It’s impossible for a pony to not love somepony else. You have a mother and a father, yes?”

“Uh….”

“You have a mother and a father, no doubt about it,” Brachy said, momentarily distracted by another squad of changelings in formation flying away. “Do you love them?”

Tracker was busy trying to stand up despite the road’s rockiness. “N-No?”

“It’s useless to lie to us,” Brachy went on, becoming flustered, “but let’s assume you don’t love them. Any siblings you have that you love?”

“No?”

“Kinda’ easy. Must be a single child, but...you must’ve had friends. Foalhood friends, teenage friends, adulthood friends...come on, now!”

Tracker gulped. He coughed, banged his head on the bars—making the wagon drivers wince at each bang. The pony then declared, “I have no f-friends!”

“Do you have a leader?” Brachy asked, unfazed. “Undying loyalty to your leader is a good substitute for love.”

Tracker shook his head. “N-No?”

“Then why are you here?!” he yelled, fully stopping on the road.

His partner did not pay attention to that and, therefore, got himself snagged by the harness attached to him.

“You’re either doing a bad job at lying or you are a dangerous pony that must be stopped!” Brachy concluded, giving Tracker a mean and unsettling stare judging by those strange eyes. “Either way, it won’t end well for you.”

“But, I’m not! I’m not lying!” Tracker held up his hooves like a criminal guilty as charged. “I really do, uh, not love anyone!”

“And what do you want us to do about it?” he said directly to his face, adopting an unsympathetic mood. “What’s the use of slavery if we don’t take more from you, eh?”

“Eh-heh...” was Tracker’s anxious moaning laugh.

“Face it, whoever you are." A pause as he fired a glower at him. "You’re a pony. It’s only natural you must’ve loved at least one pony, and if you’re not going to confess—“ chuckled “—we’ll just wait and see when we get everyone else....”

“Don’t they say that the deniers hide a lot?” his buddy asked, jolly.

“Oh, yes, they do!” he yelled back, loosening up and dropping his haughty facade. “If he denies loving his own family and having a friend...we might've just stumbled upon some treasure of a pony right here! A soft heart inside him, loving everyone! Wouldn’t that be a great find?”

His buddy nodded. “I’m sure that would be! But, what if it’s true he doesn’t love anypony?”

“What’s the use of it?” he asked back. “Ponies need to love in order to live. I’ve seen a pony without love and he almost went insane. We had to give somepony for him to love, and then he was back on his hooves and got his marbles back in his head—then, boom! A lunch out of the blue!”

The two of them laughed, their guttural snorts coarse, grating to the ears.

Tracker’s hooves buckled, then he looked up. With his mouth as wide open as it could possibly get: “Uh, wh-what’s that?”

“What’s what?” the first changeling asked. “Oh, you mean the sky? That’s the sky.” He then pointed at the mentioned object. “It’s part of the atmosphere—hey, didn’t you guys teach this in the first place?!”

“N-No, I meant—“

“Hah, we’re the ones who discovered what the sky was first?” He laughed, got some relief by seeing his fellow changelings fly around in the air with their buzzes. “I wish we were the ones who studied the sky, but this pony—he’s both delicious and a comedian!”

“I didn’t mean the sky!” Tracker said in futile defense of his own character. Then, he pointed ahead of the changelings. “I meant that!”

Brachy looked forward. “What? You mean that dusty old city over there?” He let out one last bit of laughter. “That’s Canterlot!”

Tracker staggered to the ground, fell on to the cold metal floor and, with his own eyes, beheld the miserable corpse of the city. “I-I didn’t recognize it! What did you do to the place?!”

Brachy and his buddy burst into a long fit of shouts and laughing roars. “Pretty great, right?!”

The wagon creaked on, letting the splash of a rushing waterfall reveal itself to them.

Canterlot was a dismal city, a ravaged capital by the mountainside resting in the languishing cadavers of its fallen buildings. Here lay its grandiose spires and towers, smashed on to the burned grass their splendid collections of books, artifacts, and relics. Broken and despaired retired the once admirable structures of ponykind’s pinnacle—now crushed, now toppled. The classy stone streets, devastated by overflowing weeds and other plants, vines climbing up the streetlights still standing, and eggs guarded by several armored changelings waiting on their “civilian” counterparts who hauled ponies in their cages along with more food and other supplies in their crates and boxes; also, it smelled horrible here. Stores in tatters, mansions’ aristocracies having long been driven out—there, by one front yard, changelings were burning books they had been able to steal from the bookshelves of that particular manor, with one rather pompous-sounding changeling banishing the literature as “a waste of time when they could be doing more and more work!”

“There are love stories in these books, though,” said his comrade who was carrying out a bunch of books to the burning pile, feeling its warmth and hearing the soft cackling there—in fact, he was fascinated by the sight of paper turning red then black in seconds. “Wouldn’t it be helpful once in a while to give love stories to them?”

“We’ve been through this a dozen times, Dorso!” the pompous changeling took out on him. “Someone’s going to get inspired by these adventures, and then they’ll start another rebellion!”

Dorso held up a hoof and a smile. “I have an idea!”

The pompous changeling was about to head his way back to the manor, but groaned and stayed put for him. “What is it now?!”

Dorso tapped a hoof on the trampled grass, nervous to tell it. “What if we lend them these love stories, make them inspired and have adventures, let them rebel, and before they become too strong, we crush them? It’ll surely break their hearts!”

“Nah,” he said with a hoofwave and a head shake. “We should keep them rebelling for as long as they can without actually beating them. As long as they love Equestria enough to want it back, then that’s a free source of love for us.”

“Good idea!” he said, joyful at this new and better idea.

The changeling groaned and went back to the burning pile. “It ends like this just like the dozen times before….”

Let’s leave these book burning changelings at the front yard and move on.

Winding through the decaying roads, one would find himself at Restaurant Row. Despite the numerous changelings having changed it up into a wasteland that happened to be populated with tens of changelings, one could, with a keen enough sense of smell, detect the scents of a distant age—the age when Restaurant Row truly lived up to its name and had, in name and in deed, a row of restaurants from which wafted out a plethora of aromas which told without a lie that there was good food to be had. Nowadays, however, this street was the location of sunken and depressed soup kitchens with changelings berating the very ponies they served with bowls of liquid that somehow passed for soup.

Inside one of those meal centers, a mare whined on a swivel chair, “It tastes even worse than yesterday!” She held her bowl up to the changeling cook/waiter/manager/owner/plumber/semi-electrician/recipe inventor/soup eater. “I can’t smell it, and it just looks like water!”

The more submissive pony customers beside her gave the mare a bad look before they scooted away from her.

The cook slammed the wooden counter with his hoof, shook it right in front of her face. “If you think you can do better, then show me!”

Morning Roast, this unusual mare, hopped over the counter, and, after levitating a cabbage and then chopping it up into fine pieces, she dumped it upon her soup and garnished the dish with some pepper. “Now I showed you!”

The changeling smiled. “Wow! That’s...that’s not bad.”

Morning Roast kept up that smile.

The changeling grabbed her, threw her to the other side of the kitchen. “Now, you teach me so I could do it without your help!”

Needless to say, she ascended to the somewhat respectable job of co-cook which did not bring with it the other occupations it entailed other than that of soup eater.

Beyond Restaurant Row, though, one would find the very former apex of Canterlot itself: Canterlot Castle. Except, of course, it was scarred with destruction—see the heaps of bricks and fabrics together, the remains of a high-standing tower painted in royal white, purple, and yellow; see the debris lumped upon each other in fine pebbles and rough chunks, the husk of a social hall which had borne witness to a great number of social affairs and events, perhaps including the prestigious Grand Galloping Gala itself. But, that did not matter now—now, replacing the pony guards in their stately armor were the changelings in their vile coverings, baring their fangs and inducing fear in the ponies who passed under their shadows, trembling at the mere sight of these nasty creatures.

Past the big double doors, through the great hallways marred with cracked columns in ruins and windows broken, one would find Chrysalis talking with Pharynx by the bottom of a tower’s staircase shrouded from the others patrolling the destruction that used to spice up the corridors.

“...and, how is it going in Mobland?”

“I’ve seen each candidate for them,” Pharynx answered, spacing out his words a little to effect some respectful gravity. “They are as fit for patrol as they could ever be. They will defend our border well.”

Chrysalis nodded, looking pleased. “Good. And, do you have any word from our agents in Appleloosa?”

Pharynx nodded back. “Ortho’s returned. He was almost killed by the ponies there, but Thorax and the others managed to save him and keep their identities safe. It will take a day or two to make Appleloosa ready for gradual takeover, but, hopefully, it will not alter our schedule too drastically.”

“I’ve learned how to accommodate for any circumstance,” Chrysalis said, brushing the dirt off of her cerulean mane which felt like paper-thin glass. “Admonish your brother to act faster, however. We do know that he is quite...lacking,” and snarled at the thought of that.

Pharynx flinched for a moment, preserving a courteous expression for her. “Yes, your Majesty.”

Chrysalis nodded, smiling more.“That is all I need to hear. Report to me again when you hear of important news.”

“As I always will,” Pharynx said with a doubled down bow.

As the sun’s light shone upon them through the open, shattered windows, twinkling on the shards unswept, the shards uncleaned.

Chrysalis then glanced at the sky freckled with her changelings. “Speaking of important news….”

Chrysalis opened the door.

It had been a bedroom. Vestiges of that were strewn about, though hidden by the slime on the walls—there a bed was trapped and fastened to the wall, here a horizontal cabinet was attached to the ceiling, and, by the floor, several spare pillows were stuck to it.

At the far end of the room, the wall looked pretty different, hastily made up of plaster and whatever wet concrete was left behind. Then, at the side of the better-looking part of this rather round wall was an open window.

Trapped and fastened to the floor by the slime, held in check by numerous changelings buzzing and swarming around her—some even jeering her and pointing at her like a pony with no hope—was a regal white alicorn, her ethereal mane and her tail still flowing though ebbing away. She was visibly tired, groaned—defeated, probably—but she said no word.

She noticed Chrysalis.

“What else do you want to say about me, hm?” Chrysalis said, smiling and closing the door behind her. Tilted her ears, broke out into a warm smile: “Don’t you worry about your sister! She’s fine! We just added to her quarters stronger slime than before. Your rooms are so comfy, why would she ever want to leave?”

“Are you forcing her to sleep upright?” Celestia asked, quiet though growling, her teeth showing reserved rage. Then, relenting but with a guttural voice: “What do you want from me?”

“Is it not a pleasure of mine to see you suffer?” she asked.

Whacked her on the head.

Celestia winced, legs crumpling in shots of pain.

The queen snickered. “Maybe you’re just waiting for the right moment—for that moment when I’ll slip up and say something rash or do something without thinking like...well, gloating about my plans right before you?”

Celestia glared at Chrysalis, her snout downwards.

“Has it ever occurred to you, ‘Princess’—“ added a cheerful giggle to that, and most of her changelings there laughed along “—that I know what I’m doing, that I am not only aware but do my best to be aware of my own self? Of my own flaws and weaknesses?”

She spotted a cocoon hanging from the ceiling. She hovered to it and looked down on Celestia with that egg.

“It was a day I’d always looked forward to...a perfect day.” A pause. “Let me tell you, ‘Princess’, that I have planned everything out. I know what to do if this world is not enough for our hive, I know what to do if one of us joins your cause and rebels from the inside, I know—“ shot a glower at her, flew to her and stared Celestia down on the snout and pushed her jaw up just a tiny bit “—I know what to do for everything you or everyone else can and will throw at us. I’ve mapped out every contingency, every possible path that this can take—as far as I could—and I’ve made sure that my case is air-tight, that our empire is undefeatable!”

Celestia struggled to move her hooves in vain. With spite at Chrysalis: “Then your prideful assurance will be your fall.”

The queen raised her head up. She bobbed her head for a while, keeping her focus on the alicorn. “I know that, too, which is why I am humble once in a while. I do not rest, I do not sleep easy, until I know I have gained good ground on our goals.”

Celestia let out a bead of sweat, trickling down on the bridge of her snout.

“And let me give you your daily reminder of what will happen to you if you refuse to raise or lower the sun for us….”

All the other changelings growled at her, aiming their jagged horns at her.

Celestia sighed, hung her head low.

Chrysalis let out a long sigh of relief. “Isn’t it nice to be here, hm? At least you’re doing your job for your subjects. They can’t live without day or night—but I guess you knew that already.”

Chrysalis trotted out of the room, letting out a maniacal bout of laughter echoing through the halls.

A knock on the door.

Chrysalis stood before a grand set of double doors, adorned with various jewels and gems, sided by columns adorned, too, at the top and the bottom with those precious stones sparkling under the sun’s shining light.

“It is I!” Chrysalis announced in a loud voice. “Open the doors or you’ll face the severest punishment I could think of!”

The doors opened, revealing two changelings who truly did not want to face any punishment of the severest degree.

She entered the grand square room, mostly unfurnished as it felt rather spacious with the lack of furniture or, well, anything to take up space in it. Feeling the polished floor underneath her, the fireplace caught her attention first, well tended to by another changeling who was stroking the fires with a metal stick.

She turned to the other side of the room and made a grimacing grin.

For there, chained on opposite sides of the room, were two ponies, one unicorn and one alicorn. The alicorn, a pink one, was sleeping upright and not lying down, chains bound to her legs and her neck; on her body were scars and wounds, both fresh and old, and, near her but not near enough for her to reach, was a table full of medical supplies and what not. The unicorn, a white one, was bound so, his leg and neck chained, and tainted with scars and wounds of his own as well, not to mention his own medical table.

This unicorn, however, was awake and cast a glance upon Chrysalis.

“You changeling!” he roared, then jumped at her, then yanked back by his fixed chains, falling to the floor with a moan.

Chrysalis laughed. “Of course, I am a changeling, Shining Armor. Do you expect less of me?”

Shining then glowed his horn.

He faltered and moaned, the light dimming

“I’ve got four entertainment schedules to take care of,” Chrysalis began, “eight changelings to promote, fifteen more ponies to feed off from the last hour, sixteen stacks of bread and other foods to keep you and your friends safe, twenty-three changelings to patrol a small park, and forty-two...I don’t know, those funny little silly books they’ve just stocked in the library.” She tilted her head, seeing the wry and anguished looks on Shining’s dwindled face. “What do you make of that?”

Shining drew in breath, no matter how frail he felt. “We’re...we’re...we—“

Chrysalis shook her head. “Don’t bother. It’ll all be gone by tomorrow, and it’ll be something else.”

Shining shook his head in return.

Chrysalis turned to Cadance, unconscious in her doze. “And, what is this we have here? Is she feigning her sleep? I don’t quite like the look of it, but...if she’s quite dead, I’ll take that over—“

“She’s not dead!” Shining shouted.

Chrysalis smiled. “Perfect.”

Opened her mouth, consumed the love from him, those pink intangible streams floating into her mouth as Shining struggled to keep his composure.

Then he fell, slumping to the floor prostrate.

She laughed as the love kept pouring into her. “See how love blinds you! You know that our main source of energy and nutrition is love, and you don’t even have the mind to hate her—and she doesn’t have the mind to hate you!” She scowled. “I can never understand how you work! But, what does that matter to me? If it works, it works—let everyone else understand it for themselves!”

She closed her mouth and the stream disappeared.

Shining puckered his lips, coughed, close to collapsing on to the floor. Shot a mad look at the queen. “I’ll never think a single thought of hatred against my beloved wife!”

“Look!” Chrysalis said, flying up into the air. “Look at how pathetic you are! You could be killing us slowly by just not loving her! It’s strange to think that you can use love to defeat us.” She scoffed. “That’s like saying you’ll use fire to fight fire! It only makes the problem worse! And, well, there’s freedom, too, but...” she smiled. “Do you know what comes before that?”

Shining gulped. Gasped. “No...no!”

Chrysalis grinned, her fangs showing. “Crime.”

Inside a decaying opera house where the curtains shone pretty under the glaring spotlight, the seats were filled with happy changelings and their caged pony companions. There was not much else to say about it; a few aproned changelings flew around, carrying trays of popcorn and sacks of water.

Everyone became silent as the curtains opened.

There, two changelings on stage, facing the spotlight.

“So, uh, hi!” the first changeling said, waving a hoof at them. “I’m Humerus! And this here—“ he motioned to his companion beside him, standing stiff and looking stiff “—is Nastic! We’re here to, uh, tell you a joke and, uh, m-more jokes that will surely make you laugh so hard, you’re going to regret coming here and you might as well, uh, refund your tickets!”

“But, I didn’t come here with a ticket!” a changeling cried out.

“That’s great!” Humerus said. “Because that’s the joke!”

All were silent.

“Hah. A-hah. Hah-hah. Hah!” Humerus then coughed.

“You’re making us look bad in front of our food,” Nastic whispered to his ear.

“That’s also part of the plan!” Humerus shouted in great confidence, gesturing wildly with both of his forehooves. “Yes, we are bad for your own laughingstocks!”

“But, I don’t have stocks that laugh!” that same changeling cried out. “Wasn’t that an invisible thing you can sell?”

“Then, why don’t we exchange them?”

“Wait, what do you—" That changeling rose from his chair. A smile came over him. “OK, I get it!”

All the changelings laughed at that.

As Tracker shrank back in his cage, listening to the laughter cloud out his thoughts—that pony, sitting alone in that cage and closing his eyes, freeing himself from the sight of those unqualified, inept comedians.

Dragon Away

“Psst!”

Snoring.

“Psst!”

More snoring.

“Psst!”

Still snoring.

“Why don’t you wake up?”

“Ugh….”

Tracker rolled about, then, with another “Ugh…”, got up on his rugged hay bed and opened his eyes, blinking them free from drowsiness.

In front of him a changeling in the darkness.

Tracker coughed, pinched his nose. “What is that?!”

The changeling lifted a hoof. “Oh. That’s me. Sorry!”

He coughed some more, keeping a hoof tight on his nose. “D-Do you always smell like th-that?”

She shook her head; he could see her glossy white teeth. In a pepper voice: “No!”

Tracker rubbed his head, feeling the pulse on his side. “I...c-can you help me? I d-don’t remember what h-happened. Last night, we were going to eat dinner and...I fainted...I think. I just fell and went out….”

She nodded, grinning wide open with an adorable nod. “Yeah! That was me!”

Tracker recoiled, shuffled to the back of the bed. Tried to discern her dark figure. “Wait, what?!”

“Yeah!” The changeling jumped for joy, flapping her wings for a second. “I was the one who got your love! I could taste the love you have for your parents—ah, you must’ve had fond memories with them when you were a tiny little foal!”

Tracker slapped his two forehooves on his head, trying to hold on to reason and sanity. “That’s what being...that’s what b-being….”

She nodded, oblivious to that heroic attempt of staying sane. “Yes! That’s what being changeling food is like!” Then, she gasped, inhaling a huge gulp. “Oh, excuse me! I almost forgot!” Extended a holey leg at him. “My name’s Urtica! I’m the newly-appointed Hive Librarian!”

Tracker tilted his head a bit. “You guys have...books?”

She retracted her hoof; ears languished. “Mostly yours, but they’re really good!”

“Right…I still don’t feel right about...having love taken away from...you….” He shuddered, burring.

Urtica looked up. “Whoops! Forgot to turn on the lights.”

She hovered away.

Tracker could barely see her, making out only her shape in the bleak darkness. “What time is it?”

“It’s four in the morning!”

Cling!

Tracker was assaulted with the sudden light.

After his eyes recovered, he could see his bedroom more clearly. By the peeling walls which presented the gray concrete beneath the shiny paint, a few shelves burst with books and papers and quills and inkwells and candles and torches and matches and lots of other flammable stuff; even on the floor, scroll and sheets of paper were strewn about.

“If you’re wondering,” Urtica said, hovering over the mess, “this is my special room! I just roll some dice and, well, you got the number and you’re here!”

Tracker rubbed his eyes, looking at her dumbfounded with unbelief. “Is this a...dream? It must be a dream, right?”

Urtica shook her head again. “It isn’t a dream! But, if you want to really know—“ and pulled out a bucket of water from under the other bed.

“No, wait, that's enough!”

She splashed the bucket on to him, dousing the pony and his hay bed.

Tracker shivered, feeling the intense chill on him, along with his soggy mane covering an eye.

“Well, you did ask if you were dreaming!” Urtica said, still cheery. “Now, get up! It’s time for breakfast!”

Tracker shook his head. “It’s not the breakfast I’m thinking of, is it?”

Urtica rubbed her chin, pondering upon the question. “It depends. Breakfast is the first meal of the day for the both of us...unless you count midnight snacks, which may or may not be the first meal of the day if they come before the sun rises—but, it is four o’ clock right now and—“

Tracker let out a loud sigh.

Urtica took the signal and stopped. “We’re both hungry, aren’t we? Can’t think well on empty stomachs!” Tapped her own and licked her lips. “Today’s a Wednesday, so you’ll be getting chili stew with lettuces and potatoes.”

Tracker pulled out a slight smile. “Better than n-nothing….” Drifted off, looking somewhere else. “What will you be having?”

“Ponies, silly!”

Tracker groaned and plopped back lying down on his bed.

Tracker looked at his blue hooves as he sat by the long wooden table and heard the many words echoing out of changelings’ mouths.

He sat in a grand hall chiefly made of marble and limestone. It had gained the distinction of not being in total ruins, though that was a bit much to say—the holes in the walls were numerous, more than half the stained glass windows were partially missing, and nobody had bothered to remove any of the fallen ceiling debris which blocked up a third of the hall and, therefore, a third of the table, meaning that on one end of the table, two changelings were drinking their water beside fallen concrete.

Buzzes went about as the changelings at the table went on with their feast, and now would be a good time to describe what a changeling breakfast might be like in conquered towns: Changelings had two parts to their meal, the first part being the food on the table, which was a combination of whatever the cook would think up which, this Wednesday, meant a basket of grapes and carrots plus a spicy stew topped with lettuces and potatoes, with a huge chocolate cake as the dessert—it was so tall that a changeling waiter had to fly around and slice the individual cake slices for each of the changelings, and they were so many that some had to stand up while eating.

Well, what was the second part? The second part was the ponies tied to their chairs, tied supremely down to the floor with up to five ropes so as to not be able to move from their spot at all. Oftentimes, a changeling would turn away from the physical food on the table to open his mouth and feed on the emotional food he could get from his assigned pony—and “assigned” was sort of a strict term, since changelings could change seats and, therefore, change the ponies they would have their servings of love from.

Though, in Urtica’s defense, she staunchly remained in her seat, with a tied Tracker watching helplessly as all the changelings around him fed on that scrumptious table food. He looked to his left and to his right and saw rows of ponies with their faces down, distraught and never a smile on them.

Urtica held out a plate of lettuces and potatoes dripping wet from the spicy stew. She hoofed it to him. “You want some? Be careful! It’s hot.”

“How hot?” Tracker asked, his voice sickly. “Like chili sauce hot?”

“Chili sauce hot.”

Tracker nodded and took the plate. With his bare and dirty hooves, he hobbled together a hoofful and ate some, the stew dripping from his hoof.

Urtica smiled. “A healthy pony is a lovely pony!”

Tracker gulped. Then, faltering a bit and eyeing the food on the table, he asked, “I-If you f-feed on l-love, then why do you eat normal food?”

“You mean this stuff?” Urtica asked, holding up her bowl of soup. “It helps...a little. Like candy. Our taste buds still haven’t adjusted to it so it’s not as tasty as love, but most of us are just fine with it. It’s something different, and, anyway, you ponies can’t have too much food!”

Tracker groaned again, this time with a ting of bitterness.

“Oh, uh, also...” Urtica kept looking at him with that blank expression, “I got to eat.”

“What do you mean—“

She opened her mouth and consumed the love out of him in that pink stream coming out of his torso.

Tracker struggled, trying to stand up but failing as a leg bent and he almost fell over.

She stopped and smiled. "Mm-mm!" Urtica looked up, seeing the parts of the ceiling that had not fallen. “You know that, uh, sour taste we get?”

Tracker said nothing, breathing slower.

“I feel that you miss your friends,” Urtica said. She inched closer to him while still being seated on the long bench. “I don’t really know their names, but...I could really sense it.”

Tracker looked at her, eyes fluttering. “Y-You do?”

Urtica nodded, still smiling. She looked here and there, nervous and fidgeted around with her hooves. “So, uh, how’s the stew?”

Near the withered Canterlot Castle lay a new building which differed much from the broken ones around it. For one, it was not broken at all; in fact, it was nearing completion as changelings hauled wagons of ever-shifting rocks and placed them on the walls, about to complete it. Second, its style was vastly different; instead of being made up of uniform lines and curves, this one had an unstable and haphazard style to it, the holes on its structure closing and opening at random intervals.

Inside, Star Tracker and Urtica stood in that mysterious place, seeing the bookshelves by the walls with meager scrolls and books coupled with other bookshelves stuffed with the same. It was dark although not too dark to see anything at all, and, sitting by the walls, were changeling eggs nursed and protected by armored guards. They could hear the street chatter from the outside—Tracker could overhear a conversation between two changelings about an impersonation show coming up later tonight and how one of them was to be a judge in the competition.

“This is the first ever changeling library in the history of the world!” Urtica proclaimed, nudging Tracker on the shoulder. “I don’t know if we need much culture, honestly, but...just think of it! When we have enough of you and your kind—and others, too!—we’re going to have a lot of free time. Yeah, her Majesty wants us to do more work all the time and I understand her point, but what happens when they’re all done for the day?” She raised her hooves in delight. “We can do other things!”

“Like reading books?” Tracker asked.

“Well, for me and my broodmates, yes!” Urtica said, nodding rapidly. “We can write about whatever we want!”

Slowly, Tracker asked, “What do they want to write?”

“About how great Queen Chrysalis is!” Urtica answered, not letting go of that perennial smile though the fangs intimidated the pony.

“And how does that work?”

A guard flew to him and struck Tracker with a punch, shouting, “Do not disrespect her Majesty!”

Reeling from the blow, Tracker staggered and almost, again, fell over.

“You’ve got to have a higher opinion of her,” Urtica said with a tint of panic, helping him up as he held on to the rock wall for balance. “You’re ours; she might as well be your queen now.”

Tracker pointed to himself, bewildered. “But, I’m a pony! What am I gonna do, wear a mask or a costume? I’m no actor!”

“You don’t have to be!” Urtica replied. “You could be my assistant or my secretary! Do some things like take my letters or something...whatever a secretary does in a library!”

Tracker let out a sigh and sat down on the rough floor.

The guards watched him from both near and far.

Urtica helped him up again. “Don’t you worry, Star Tracker! Be glad you didn’t go down fighting!”

Tracker raised a brow, groaning as he got up with unsteady legs. “Why?”

“Because if they found you fighting, we’d have to give you something harsher than what you have now!” Urtica answered. “You’d be working in a dungeon or something like that, but I know they don’t have dungeons in Canterlot. More like dungeons in a cave….”

“What’s the difference?” Tracker said in a bout of sorrow, throwing his hooves up in the air. “That’s like saying it’s better to be drowned than to be burned.”

Urtica made a naive smile. “Well, it is true.”

Tracker let out a big, long moan, his mouth wide open and the guards collectively groaning in return—over there, a changeling sharpened his spear and eyed the invasive visitor.

“Don’t be so sad!” Urtica said, rubbing his chin. “It’s better to serve us!”

“What’s so good about that?” Tracker asked, voice heavy, eyes welling up with tears. “We’re going to be doing the same thing forever, all while we’re tortured for breakfast, lunch, and dinner! What’s good about that?”

“Well, you were part of the resistance...or, one resistance. So many resistances these days!” She got out a dry hankerchief, dabbed her face with it, glanced at the wall and expected a map to be there. “Do you have something similar to central command? It’d be really hard to get them to all work together!”

Tracker sighed at that.

“What could they do there but worry about hiding? We’re the winning side! We’re the ones with more soldiers, more food, more water, more land and territory, more weapons, more wealth...more everything! If you just obey and submit to us, you’d be up in the ranks!”

“Up in the ranks of slavery?” Tracker asked back. “What would that be like?”

“Ordering your fellow ponies to obey us or face the consequences!”

Tracker groaned and covered his face, deep in thought.

“Our queen knows that good slaves must be rewarded,” Urtica said. “A slave would not have any positive feelings towards their masters if all they get is smacks and shame. Just as we drones are rewarded, you slaves also get rewarded! Think about it! You’d get more minimal morsels a day! Won’t you get excited you won’t go stark hungry every seven hours?”

Tracker dropped to the floor again, looking downcast as he stared at the shelves before him.

“Are you thinking about your friends?” Urtica asked, changing up her voice and sounding concerned, tilting her head a bit. “That’s OK! After about six months of infraction-free servitude—though we’re still deliberating on that so it may be subject to change—you can get in close contact with the friends you have here anytime you want!” Then, looked up at the ceiling once more. “As long as it’s not past ten P.M., that is.”

Tracker only pouted. “Are you trying to make me happy, Urtica? Because you’re not.”

A guard stepped out of his post and faced Urtica. “Miss Librarian, give me the permission to strike this foul beast! He should be content with the many mercies we’ve already given this pony chow!”

Urtica held up a hoof. “Please desist, Vespul.”

The guard muttered a few inaudible words and returned to his guarding stance.

Urtica smiled and brought Tracker back up on his hooves.

Then, the holes on the front wall changed, some closing and some opening, giving another lighting landscape to read books in.

“It’s only been twenty minutes since breakfast,” Urtica said. “If you want, you could go read some books. I don’t mind if you read the pony stuff, but please do read our works! We’ve worked very hard on them!”

Tracker sighed and got up.

He looked down the short corridor.

Scrawled on the sign hanging above was, “Changeling Books”.

The bookshelves were nearly empty, with only one shelf a fourth full. There were no labels to call it fiction or non-fiction, nor was there anything to tell what genre they held. Only books were there.

Tracker trotted to the shelves and pulled down a book.

It was a smelly new book, devoid of any fresh scent. The cover looked half-baked as if it had been hastily prepared. On it was printed the title: On Love.

“I know what that is!” Urtica exclaimed, gliding to his side and patting on the cover. “This is our first romance novel! Granted, we’ve never done any books before, but I’m so glad Blue Alarm volunteered to be the first one to write it! It just fits our theme well, doesn’t it?”

Tracker let out a sly giggle, his smile only a rude smirk. “’Blue Alarm’? That sounds like a pony name.”

“When you have hundreds of grubs being born every week, you start to run out of names pretty fast,” Urtica replied. “Chrysalis allowed him to keep his name a decade and a half ago, but she’s now thinking about easing up our naming conventions. There’s only so many changeling names to go around before it’s all...well, gone and we have to borrow.”

“What about Ga—“

“And we also have to think about how smart Chrysalis is!” Urtica went on. “She has the names recorded, but she only looks at it thrice a year!”

Tracker nodded. He held the book to her, gesturing towards the book with his eyes. “So, what’s it about?”

Urtica smiled. “It’s about a changeling who meets a mare and they fall in love but Chrysalis doesn’t like it so she kills him and makes the mare mad but she kills her, too.”

Tracker blinked dumbly. “Uh, thanks for spoiling the whole story.”

“Whoops!” Urtica covered her mouth, blushed with embarrassment. “But almost every changeling here knows that, so I thought you’d know it, too!”

“But I’m not a—“

Bells ringing.

Changelings outside spreading their wings and taking off.

Cries, shouts. Rumblings, the ground shaking a little—a guard was thrown off balance and fell to the floor.

Smash!

Bells flooding Canterlot with their ringing.

“We’re being attacked!” Vespula yelled and flew out of the library.

Urtica gasped and tied Tracker to the bookshelf with an emergency rope which was lying on one of the bottom shelves.

“What’s going on?!” Tracker yelled, struggling to get out of custody again. “Who’s attac—“

And Urtica drained a quick breath of love from him, the pink stream appearing and disappearing in moments. “Sorry, but gotta stay sharp!”

Tracker, feeling weaker, buckled down again.

Then, a stream of fire blasted the street, scorching it.

Urtica stopped right there, her eyes glowing in the reflection. She saw the creatures that landed outside. “Dragons?!”

“Dragons?!” Tracker repeated, a smile coming back to his face.

“But, how?!” Urtica shouted, trembling but resisting to take a step back. “The walls are doubly fortified and we got fire resistant armor!”

Swooping down to the library came a young orange dragon riding on a pink hippogriff and they landed inside.

“Watch out, Silverstream!” the dragon cried out. “Here comes the fire!”

Urtica growled and flew at the duo, screaming a battle cry at them.

And she was sent away burning, her fins and her wings on fire, flying out of the library.

The dragon hopped off her hippogriff.

Silverstream flew and cut the rope with her claws, freeing Tracker who had the tip of his mane singed.

“You better come with us!” the dragon said, pulling him up “We’re your rescuers!”

Tracker gulped. “Wh-What?”

“You don’t want to be rescued?” the dragon asked, crossing her arms.

Tracker immediately went on the hippogriff with the dragon.

Silverstream turned around. “Smolder, what’s our exit plan?”

“Get out!” Smolder yelled.

The hippogriff opened her wings.

A troupe of guards gralloped to block the entrance.

With Silverstream charging forwards, Smolder burned the guards with her fire breath and they blasted out of there, flying to the sky.

“We’re not out yet!” Smolder said, then, looking behind her—“Look out! More at your back!”

Silverstream flew faster, flapping her wings harder and at breakneck speed.

All the while, Tracker was holding very dearly to the hippogriff’s neck which was the only thing that kept him from falling. Feeling the rush, the wind, and looked down—the city below with the streets in furious fighting as changelings and dragons engaged in combat with fire and beams.

“Is this your first time flying?” Smolder asked coolly as they sailed through the sky.

His polite and courteous reply was “Aaaggghhh!”

"Ugh."

Smolder turned around and shot out fireballs from her mouth at the pursuing changelings. Some got hit and fell, some dodged and kept up the chase.

“Hold on to your seats!” Silverstream warned. “I’m gonna try a trick!”

Smolder laughed and slapped Tracker on the back who almost responded with another polite and courteous scream. The dragon then faced Silverstream, trying to get her attention. “You’re gonna loop-de-loop around?”

Silverstream turned her head round and nodded.

Tracker gulped and squeezed her neck.

She choked, her wings failed; all were sent falling through the sky.

“Aaaggghhh!”

“Could you let go of her throat?!” Smolder shouted, hanging on to her tail.

“I don’t wanna die!”

“Let me help you!”

And Smolder picked him up with one arm.

Silverstream inhaled deeply, and, after fixing her wings mid-fall, she barely escaped crashing on the sidewalk and flew through Canterlot’s closing moat gate and shot out, letting the final pursuers get smashed by a then fully closed gate.

“Yeah!” Smolder shouted, dropping Tracker on to the hippogriff’s back. “We’re out! We’re out!”

Silverstream turned back to her again. “High five?”

“High five!”

The two of them high fived each other in the sky.

Tracker tightened her grip on Silverstream’s head and looked back.

There, vanquished Canterlot stood, with changelings and dragons battling at a distance, growing smaller by the second in his view. Changelings could be seen running and flying around in flames, dragons could be seen falling and fainting by the green beams the changelings shot out from their horns.

Tracker was close to jumping out of the hippogriff out of fear. “I don’t know what to say! I was expecting pegasi to come here or something like that, but...dragons and hippogriffs?!”

“Don’t think much about it,” Smolder said, raising both her shoulders. “We’re the raiding party!”

Tracker dropped his jaw.

“Yeah, we do it once a month,” Smolder replied, ignoring the pony’s surprise as they flew, Silverstream's wings flapping with the wind. “Good thing this one was a success! Now, on to the Dragon Lands!”

“What?!”

Dry Pot

They could hear the calm roll of the ocean, swishing by with their humongous waves down the craggy cliffs, frothy at the tips and crashing against the eroded walls to subside back into that greater body of water. At the horizon, there was nothing but the sky and the sea—two endless things in this space, alone together, the seas sparkling with their froths and the sky twinkling with their stars. The moon’s reflection flashed on the surface of the sea, and, from certain angles, it looked like there were two moons—one in the sky, one in the ocean.

It was peaceful here. The only other sound that penetrated the air was the hooting of an owl and the cackle of a fire.

At the edge of the cliff, those three creatures—besides the owl—sat around a little campfire made up of only wood. The dragon scratched her orange scales and twirled her purple spine. The hippogriff fiddled with her necklace’s pearl fragment, then warmed her claws before the fire. The pony stood near the edge of the cliff, feeling the breeze in his flapping mane.

Smolder took out a bag, brought out some marshmallows. “Hey, Silverstream, want some?”

Silverstream nodded and held out an open claw at it. “Totally!”

The dragon threw the marshmallows into the fire, letting them burn.

The two of them sat on the grass and waited for their snacks to be toasted.

Around them were the trees, though it was not enough to warrant a forest. Beyond, it was plains all around, the grass swaying with the wind. The smell of fresh air could not be more exhilarating, especially in the night.

Smolder watched the fire as it swayed a bit, too, and watched the marshmallows gradually turning brown. “I can’t believe he just slept. I wonder what they must’ve done to him.”

“Love?” Silverstream suggested in her usual perky voice.

“It’s got to be more than that,” Smolder replied. She rested an elbow on her knee. “What labor did he do?" Eyes to the marshmallows. "Oh—it’s done.”

She bent forwards and grabbed all the marshmallows from the fire. She held them up, smoke rising out of them.

Silverstream took some and popped them into her mouth.

Smolder let out a sly chuckle and ate some, too.

Star Tracker turned around, seeing his rescuers eat. “Uh, could I have some, too?”

“Why not?” Smolder asked with raised shoulders, and extended her open hand out with marshmallows.

Tracker trotted to them and grabbed some.

Silverstream chewed on them loud, nobbing them.

Tracker looked at her, then looked at the marshmallows on his hoof.

He got one and ate it.

They were silent as they munched on their late marshmallow dinner. After a few minutes, all of them were sitting on the grass before the fire, feeling the warmth against the cold night.

“So...yeah….” Tracker noted the creatures before him. “I honestly never saw dragons and hippogriffs like you...until now.”

“I like being mysterious!” Silverstream said, flapping her wings in excitement. “But that’s before we had to open up and actually reveal ourselves to the whole world and convince everyone we weren’t half-myth—I’m a half-bird!”

Smolder laughed, though kept it mild. “If there was a good cop-bad cop pair around here, then it’d be us.”

Tracker smiled, looked at Smolder sitting on a log. “And you’re the bad cop?”

“I breathe fire, she doesn’t breathe water,” Smolder said, motioning to her. “Well, she doesn’t breathe water half the time.”

“Oh. You mean the...hippogriff and seapony thing….” Tracker slowly turned back to the sky and the ocean over there.

Silverstream nodded and held up her pearl fragment which shone orange against the fire. “We had to break our pearl into a million pieces, but we also had to prepare for the worst, which is why Queen Novo issued our finest magicians to make a new pearl...which we’ll break to accommodate for whoever wants to seek shelter with us. If there’s one thing that changelings can’t do, it’s that they can’t breathe underwater!”

“Unless they turn into a seapony,” Smolder pointed out.

“Which is why we should thank Zecora for the weird green stuff she invented!”

“It dissolves in water.”

“Then we’ll throw flaming arrows at them when they attack!”

“That won’t work if they jump into the water.”

“Stop ruining the moment!” Silverstream whined from her place on the grass.

Tracker slumped his shoulders. “I don’t know...I don’t know what to do if I become a seapony and live underwater for a long time...maybe forever if it gets there.” He sustained a stare at the moon above. “I’ll miss the sunshine, the sky—“

“You could get out of Seaquestria,” Silverstream said, trying to encourage him. “There’s lots to do on the beach and on Mount Aris!”

Tracker half-turned away from the hippogriff. “But it won’t be the same.”

Smolder shrugged. “Just remember you won’t be going there until it gets really bad. In the meantime, you get to hang out with us dragons and we’re always cooking up something for the shapeshifters!”

Tracker merely sighed.

A minute passed in silence, each of them looking at the fire, then at the sea, then at each other, then back at the fire.

“What’s your story?” Tracker asked the two of them. “How come you’re together? Was it some kind of weird friendship that somehow stuck?”

“It’s a long story,” Smolder said. “Let’s just say that, if it weren’t for me and Ember, Silverstream wouldn’t be alive today.”

Tracker looked at them astonished. “Wow...what happened?”

Smolder felt annoyed. “I said it’s a long story. I don’t have time to tell you everything.”

“But it’s early night.”

“Ooh, ooh! Could I try?!” Silverstream yelled, raising her claw in the air.

Smolder sighed, now feeling pestered. “Fine. Might as well give us a breather while we rest here.”

Silverstream giggled, and turned to Tracker, raising her arms in order to gesture about, then: “We had to go and save a couple of coast towns from changelings, and I was part of this team and we were fighting and—pow! Wham! Choo! Then, a flying airship came by and these mean parrot pirates came over and started stealing everything and I went there and tried to defeat them, but they had swords and other sharp objects and they hurt me a lot—they kept jabbing me with those pointy edges! They were on their way to Griffonstone across the sea, when Ember and Smolder here caught sight of the ship and they wanted to steal the gems inside because they’re greedy dragons—“

“You’re not helping,” Smolder snarked, crossing her arms.

“—and they got in and they didn’t get all the gems they wanted, but they managed to carry me to safety and into their home and that’s where I got nursed back to health and then they told me that some dragons saved me and I was like ‘Wow! Really?! That’s awesome!’ And I wanted one of them to come along with me since I was the one who said, ‘Would it be cool if I had a dragon with me?’ Ember’s too old for that, but Smolder’s around my age, and, after asking her family, we went away and we went on all sorts of adventures—“

“We only went on three,” Smolder corrected, holding up three fingers to remind her of it.

“You could count our time together as one big adventure!” She ate some more marshmallowed and gulped them all in one go. “And that’s the end! Happy!”

Tracker smiled at that. He faced her dragon friend with a small sneer. “Is she always like this?”

Smolder groaned, moving her head a bit. “I do my best. Sometimes, she’s too happy for my taste.”

Tracker became silent for a short while. Then, he spoke up: “How’s it going in your home? Any news? What do you do there because...you’re the first dragon I’ve ever met and what else can I do but...uh, talk?”

Smolder rolled her eyes. “Nothing much happens there. We hoard gems, find food for the ponies hiding there, and we talk with each other and see what’s the next thing to do. It’s not much, and I’m still not used to working with ponies like you, but I’d rather have peaceful ponies around than to have a big army of changelings across the sea.”

Tracker then turned to Silverstream. “What about you?”

“You know, we swim and fly!”

Smolder poked her on the neck. “I think he means what do you do to help all of us fight Chrysalis?”

Silverstream nodded. “I knew that!” Facing Tracker: “We do our raiding thing!”

Tracker, somewhat nervous, put up a smile. “OK, I think that’s enough. I...I know what you do….”

Silverstream grinned, swiped the marshmallows from Smolder’s claw, and devoured them.

“What are we gonna do now?” Tracker asked.

“We take shifts,” Smolder said. “Two of us sleep, one of us stays awake in case a changeling comes by. After three hours, someone else wakes up and the other sleeps, and the same thing happens after another three hours. Then, we head to Choctown and take you off to the Dragon Lands.”

“Or you could stay in Choctown,” Silverstream put forward. “I heard it’s a good place. It’s still a city, and the ponies there are quite friendly—well, what pony isn’t? Plus, dragons and hippogriffs live there, too!”

Tracker looked down, deep in thought.

“Let him be,” Smolder said. “What we all want now is a bit of sleep.”

“I’ll go first!” Silverstream shouted, raising her claw to the air. “I want to be the guard, I want to be the guard!”

Smolder sighed, though she could not help but smile at that innocence. “Fine. You’ll be the guard.” The dragon threw the whole bag of marshmallows at her. “Take it, but save some for us. We need the carbo.”

Silverstream gave her a thumbs up. “You don’t have to worry about it! I’ll protect these marshmallows to the very last, even when I’m hungry and I really, really want to eat those marshmallows—those sweet cute little bites of sweetness!” Her mouth then salivated.

“You can’t have too much sugar,” Smolder reminded. “Remember what happens?”

“You get all jittery,” Tracker answered for the drooling hippogriff.

The dragon and the pony laughed with each other.

“Yeah!” Silverstream yelled, punching the sky after wiping her saliva away. “Now, the two of you go to sleep or else I’ll throw marshmallows at you!”

Smolder laughed at that. Tracker, too.

The two of them said their good night’s to each other and to Silverstream, then lied down on the grass.

The hippogriff was left awake with a bag of marshmallows at claw.

Casually Covert

Star Tracker swallowed a juicy bite of soft apple pie inside the main hall.

As dozens of ponies sat at the same table, munching on apple pies and apple fritters fresh from the fenced kitchen behind him. To his right was Press Release, to his left was Flash Sentry, both busy with their apple food.

“You don’t think we haven’t gotten it yet?” Tracker asked Press, taking a sip of his water.

Press shook her head, then downed half of her cider in one chug. “No, not yet. They still haven’t made a pie other than apple.”

“Are you complaining?” Flash asked, making some ponies turn their heads there.

“I hope not,” Press said, shaking her head and picking up a slice of pie. “Maybe when it’s over, I’ll be fine. It’s...” flinched a bit, “better when it’s over, when we’re all done with the changelings and we can make more delicious food.”

Braeburn raised his eyes at them, sitting miffed across the table. “I’m an Apple pony, so you better watch your words ‘round here!”

Tracker gulped, his throat clear of any food. “I-I’m sorry!”

“Not you, her!” Braeburn pointed at Press.

Tracker gulped again. “I’m sorry for her, too!”

A few laughed at that.

Flash patted him on the back. “Come on! You let her apologize!”

Tracker looked at him with an awkward grin. “O-OK…?”

Then, ignoring the apology Press was making to Braeburn, Tracker continued eating his pie.

Star Tracker sat on the bed, beside a window overlooking the overreaching desert.

Braeburn, rough green patterns now painted all over his face, locked the door.

Inside Wildflower’s bedroom, salve-wearing guards were posted on each corner, and there was an additional guard sitting on the bed with him. The shelves had been opened and emptied, all of them scrunched up in a pile of garbage under the table.

Braeburn sighed. He took the jar of salve from the table, rubbed some on one hoof. “Come ‘ere. We best make sure no one’s got to you earlier.”

Tracker rose from his bed and had the salve slathered on his face and on his hooves.

Braeburn arched his brow at the finished work of art—and work of security—he had done on this pony. “Nothing’s fishy ‘bout you. Guess you’re still nervous.”

Tracker nodded, visibly shaking as he stood. “Y-Yes, sir, I’m nervous, I think, but...who wouldn’t be? I could’ve died!”

Braeburn brought attention to the green markings on his own face. “Don’t you worry. I have it, so you don’t have to be afraid anymore. As long as I have this—" pointed to his face "—you know it’s the real me. Got it?”

Tracker nodded, moaning a bit and rubbing his cheek.

Braeburn took up a chair and sat down on it. “Sit straight on the bed. Make yourself comfy.”

Tracker did so, sitting beside another unfamiliar guard. The guard eyed him with a neutral expression, scrutinizing the features of this pony’s head.

“We’ve put off asking you and Press Release because you’ve arrived quite recently,” Braeburn said. “In fact, we’ll do this with her later this evenin’. Now, I don’t know what you had in Manehattan or in Panhandle, but, here,” motioned to the wooden floor beneath with a serious face, “we do surprise interrogations designed to catch changelins’ off guard. Only the best o’ the best could get past us, and we’re tryin’ to make it hard even for them.”

Tracker nodded, understanding everything so far.

“But, you’re a pony—surely, you are.”

“Then why am I here?” Tracker asked, a little miffed.

“’Cause we need you to tell us all the details 'bout what happened back on Sunday.”

Tracker nodded again, slightly hesitating. “You mean when I got here and there was a changeling running around?”

“That one.”

Tracker scratched his chin, pensive.

Braeburn leaned farther towards him. “I'll jog yer’ memory: What were you doing when you arrived here?”

Tracker coughed, covered it with a raised hoof. “I just followed the guards all the way to the house where you found the changeling. When we arrived, they were already shouting and panicking and...things like that.”

Braeburn raised his head, rested it on a lifted hoof. “Why were you lookin’ at the house while you’re leaving?”

“I was, uh, trying to get a look of the changeling inside,” Tracker said. Hesitated. “Curiosity.”

“I see. What did you do downstairs?”

“I-I went to sleep.”

Braeburn looked surprised. “Weren’t you worried about gettin’ caught if we lost?”

“It was one changeling,” Tracker replied.

Braeburn frowned, adjusted his wide-brimmed hat. “You must’ve come from a very lenient place. It’s good we discovered four changelins’ there, but...for a moment, I thought I was the only pony left when they started revealin’ themselves!”

Tracker sweated, shifted his eyes at those words.

“But, we’re more than ninety-percent sure they’re gone,” Braeburn went on, sounding more confident and slowly rising out of his chair. “At least, normally speakin’....”

“Nomrally speaking?”

Braeburn angled his lips, somewhat frustrated. “What if they’re switchin’ positions? What if they brainwashed those ponies to do their biddin’? They’ve already brainwashed the deep-seated ones out there—it’s only a matter o’ time before she teaches those methods to her minions an’ then…”

Caught himself. Checked himself.

“Sorry for botherin’ ya’,” Braeburn said, holding out a hoof to him. “It’s just...it ain’t what it used to be, an’ you know what I mean.”

Tracker nodded. “Yeah.”

“I don’t really know much about what you city folk used to do,” Braeburn said, “but I was livin’ the frontier life, the life of a true cowpony out there. Bracin’ the harsh climate, havin’ to live by whatever’s there—if you think it’s tough to live here now, then you’ve seen nothin’. I do remem’er the buffalos we used to have...Chief Thunderhooves was ‘specially kind after we made peace.”

Tracker nodded with him. “Yeah, me, too….”

The guard beside him stifled his own laughter. “Hey, Braeburn, looks like somepony’s sleepy!”

Braeburn laughed a bit as well. “It’s siesta so I can’t do anythin’ ‘bout it, but we still gotta do this.” Turning to Tracker: “Sorry for distractin’ you.”

Tracker smiled, brushing the offense off with a hoofwave. “It’s OK!”

Braeburn sighed, straightened himself up on his chair. “So, you woke up after. When did ya’ wake up?”

“Maybe an hour later,” Tracker said. “I didn’t keep track of the time. It was...Press Release who woke me up, treated me and one of the guards who went with us to some coffee. I went back to bed—“

“After drinking coffee?” Braeburn asked, incredulous.

“Why not?” Tracker said. “It’s a thing I do, but I couldn’t sleep even without the coffee, because Swift River was talking about his failed love life beside me.”

Braeburn chuckled. So did the guards though, keeping with their occupation, they kept it to themselves.

“Press woke me up again and we watched everything happen with the big circle of ponies there and the changeling. I lost sight of Press real quick, and then…a changeling took my place!”

Braeburn nodded, slower and sadder this time. “Silverstar could tell. One of the witnesses there saw you runnin’ to the hat shop, an’ when the sheriff went there...you know the rest.”

“Like the back of my hoof,” Tracker said, and blinked a few times at that.

“Where were you durin’ that time?” Braeburn asked. “Do you remember anything?”

Tracker gulped. “I...I don’t remember that much. He gave me a whack to the head, and it was blurry and weird….but, I remember coming to when they carried me back to bed to rest and Press told me it’s OK and...I slept. That was it for me.”

Braeburn narrowed his eyes at him. “Did you notice anythin’ suspicious since last time we asked you?”

Tracker shook his head. “I did my best to stay alert, but...I was scared. I didn’t want to think about it. I just wanted to survive and help out here, and if there was a changeling….”

Braeburn smiled. “That’s alright, there. As long as you’re here and we’re here, we’re gonna be fine.”

Tracker smiled back.

“So, nothing else?”

“Nothing else, sir.”

The both of them stood up from their chair and bed, shook hooves and patted each other on the back.

“You can go back now,” Braeburn said. “Tell Press Release an’ Swift River we’ll be interviewin' them last at seven.”

Tracker nodded, unlocked the door, and trotted out into the hallway.

Braeburn sighed and slumped down on the bed.

The guard beside him caught his head which was about to hit the bed's own head. “What’s wrong?”

Braeburn gave him a good glare. “That Star Tracker pony...he’s a bit off. Maybe he’s jus’ the anxious type.” Took off his hat. “Maybe he really is so scared an’ shocked that he doesn’t know what to say...like an amateur spy.” Paused, collecting his thoughts. “Didn’t they train him to have tough nerves an’ wits? Those Manehattan stallions are too soft with all their holdin’ on to whatever they could grab from their fancy high-rises!…and, I’m sure he’s a pony, not a changelin’. We got the salve and everythin’! The recipe, too!”

The guard arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t Bulk Shipment say something about fake salves?”

Braeburn looked at him square in the eye. “That’s still unbelievable. Even if they mem’rized the recipe, what’s that gonna do?”

“Disguise yourself so efficiently that you get past it?” the guard answered. “Make something that would go against it? Learn what it does and see what weaknesses it has?”

“But nopony except us took care of it, right?” Braeburn said, pointing to himself.

“Yeah, but what about the other copies of the recipe?”

Braeburn was quiet.

Then, he looked up.

Mouth trembling.

Grabbed the guard by the throat. “Did you catch the smell o’ it?!”

The rest of the guards aimed their spears at him, suspicious though not going forward a single inch.

With unbelievable calm and composure despite his constricted throat, the guard said, “It smelled the same! It’s horrible—“

“Did it look a little different?!” Braeburn asked, raising his voice even louder.

The guard shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

Braeburn shouted, and slammed the head of the bed with a strong hoof, causing some wooden splinters to fly off. “We need those sciency ponies to get the composition or whatever o’ it now! It can’t possibly work without the correct steps! And you!” Pointed at one of the corner guards. “Order ‘em to make a new batch o’ it now! Make sure the ingred’ents ar’ genuine, an’ if they’re not sure, send ‘em to the science ponies!”

The guard nodded. “Yes, sir.” He was off, opening the door and then leaving the room.

Braeburn stood up from his bed, breathing heavily and clutching his chest. He trotted to the window and saw the scorching desert there under the noonday sun. “They’re...they’re getting on to us, but I’ll not let Appleloosa be taken from us!”

Foreboding

Surrounded by fields of grass, Easy Keeper was a modest enough town. Well, it used to be a modest enough town until the changelings took over and infected it with their own standards of living which included shapeshifting rocks, changeling eggs, and changeling guards at every corner and intersection, but it was still a town. A town mostly populated by changelings at this point, but still a town.

By a ramshackle café, several guards stood their ground at the entrance, holding spears with their hooves and carrying lancets holstered around their torsos. Their helmets were spiky and pointy, and they snarled at every pony that passed by them in chains, dragged along by fellow changeling buddies who could not wait to have their next meal.

The café itself presented a little history. The checkered floor and the swivel chairs by the sleek counter portrayed a window to the past, to a time when diners were everywhere and nobody got tired of them. Though the kitchens were now staffed by changelings bumbling and stumbling around trying to find cookbooks on how to cook something as easy as a pancake or a waffle, by the side hung dusty old red aprons, complete with name tags of ponies like “Silver Spanner”, “Charity Kindheart,” and “Snapshot”.

Pharynx, sitting on one of the swivel chairs, slammed a cider mug hard on the counter, letting good drops of it fall onto the shiny surface.

“Take it easy, there, sir!” a changeling cook said, holding an unused frying pan up in the air, ready to strike his esteemed customer. “I know you’re stressed about your brother, but I got nothing to do with him!”

Pharynx growled and carried the full mug over the cook's head. “Tell that to my couple!” and pointed at the married unicorn couple sitting beside him in fear and in chains, tied to the counter and hugging each other in a dithering embrace.

The cook wagged a hoof and wiped the surface clean. “What about you go ‘chillax’, like what ponies used to say? With their ‘slang’.”

Gave Pharynx a weird, confused look.

Pharynx bent his own neck, cracked it, bent it to the other side, cracked it.

Glared at the shuddering couple beside him and opened his mouth, sapping the love from them—two airy pink streams of love flowing into his mouth.

The cook continued to wipe the counter free from stains and smudges, not heeding the shouts and screams from the other enslaved ponies watching Pharynx feed with his open mouth consuming those love rivers; instead, he was rather focused on scrubbing off a stubborn coffee stain that was probably a few years' old, though nobody was paying attention to this monumental undertaking in this counter's sanitation. One of the other changelings yelled “Quiet!” to one of those screaming ponies—that pegasus was chained to one of the table’s legs.

Pharynx closed his mouth, licked and smacked his lips. The couple looked drained with flayed manes and bedraggled tails, their coats having lost that shine.

Pharynx clasped his forehooves, gave those lovers a sinister face with his visible fangs and those scarred legs. “You know what? I like you pony folk. When we marry, it’s just about getting it done and over with. With you lovey-dovey ponies, you have this whole ritual dedicated to it—weddings, bachelor parties, engagements, rings, brides and bridegrooms, throwing flowers...." He chuckled, turning a bit to the side. "You really treat it that way, huh?”

The mare nodded slow and sluggish.

“Your tales of love at first sight, knights going around doing adventures for their lovely mares, hugging and kissing near the end, and Hearts and Hooves Day...I’d understand if you just stopped with them altogether, but you still do that against all common sense.”

He smirked, rubbed his forehooves together.

“You two? Don’t know your names, but I thank you for marrying each other." He stopped, looked at the mare first. "Miss, I don’t know what you see in him, and Mister—" turned towards the stallion "—I don’t know what you see in her, but the both of you look gorgeous today and it’s been a pleasure making your lives miserable.”

The mare raised her head, whimpering. “Y-You don’t even hide it!”

Pharynx shrugged his shoulders, gave himself a whirl on the swivel chair. “Why should I? We’re here, you’re there. We’re kings, you’re servants. Should I be sympathetic for you? Why would I?” Let out a laugh. “That love...if I were you, I’d love nopony from now on, since, sooner or later, love will blind you.”

The couple clung to each other, tightening their grip on the other's shoulders. “Not if we can help it!” the stallion yelled, about to weep yet resounding with a hint of grit. “I love my dear Quad High and she loves me, and I’m not gonna let some love-eating monster stop us from being true to ourselves!”

Pharynx laughed, cracked his own hooves. “Is that so?”

Opened his mouth with a fierce roar, drawing off yet more love from the couple.

The cook wiped Pharynx’s half-full mug of cider, cleaning it from any of the dried up trickles it had sustained. He did not mind the second round of screams and shouts.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” another changeling asked Pharynx.

“I’m sure."

They stood on a diverging railroad in the middle of the desert. The hot sun was bearing on those changelings with its considerable heat, baking the sand and soil into a fixed burning mass. Behind them, some paces away, blossomed greener fields and greener pastures. At the junction was an old, decaying wooden sign with two arrows, one pointing left with the words “To Dodge” written on it and the other pointing right with “To Appleloosa”.

Pharynx and his companion stood side-by-side. More changelings were catching up to them, their buzzes swelling into a foreboding hum.

“I’m not completely sold on it,” said Ganglia, enduring the sun in the sky and the dust on the ground. “Disguising yourself as a weaker changeling to fool them into trapping you in a cage while counting on them to not kill you outright? I mean...it’s better than dying, but—“

“I don’t have a good feeling about my brother at all,” Pharynx cut in, shooting a worrisome flash at him. “I trust Ocellus’s word, but Thorax is notorious for ruining a good mission. I have to keep watch on him, even if he doesn’t like it.”

The other changeling held up a clump of dust with a hoof, seeing some of the grains fall back to the desert. “But, what about—“

“I have no time for ‘what about’s’,” Pharynx interrupted, his head restless. “I didn’t go to Chrysalis for nothing. It’s better that we invade as early as possible. There may be hundreds of camps hiding in the Southern Jungles, and if we don’t move fast enough, they’ll gain strongholds in the lands farther down.”

The other changeling let all of the dust fall from his hoof. “If you say so, but I-I don’t like being your replacement—“

“You’ll do more than well,” Pharynx said, opening his wings and hovering over the ground, "and if I have second thoughts, you’ll still do enough.”

He floated straight to Ganglia's face, almost touching his eyes.

“If you move from this spot before the hour’s up, you’re dead.”

Pharynx flew away, following the tracks leading to Appleloosa.

Ganglia was left alone, the patrolling swarm of changelings about to pass him by as their buzzes increased.

“I didn’t expect country folk to be this smart,” Star Tracker whispered to Press’s ear as they and several others stood in a line inside a big empty hay-floored room. He could hear the crunch of the hay as the ponies in line shifted their hooves about, waiting.

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” Press said beside him, eyeing the guards occupying the rest of the room. She noticed Flash Sentry there, watching them with a firm face.

The door swung open. Out came Braeburn and Silverstar.

Silverstar kicked the door closed.

Braeburn brought out a clipboard. “I’m sorry for interruptin’ your time, but we’ve got another emergency in our hooves.”

Most of the ponies in line chattered to each other, worried—including Tracker and Press, who whispered words to each other's ears like some of the other suspects in that line.

“I’m afraid there’s been some deep infiltration within our town,” he said, pacing the length of the room, not taking his eyes off of that line. “We’ve been to the storage room, and it’s been filled with somethin’ else. Looks like Zecora’s but it isn’t. I’m afraid we've still got changelins'.”

Everyone gasped. Some continued their whispers to one another, others kept silent and avoided Braeburn's piercing stare.

“Which is why I have to do this,” he went on, quaking in the slightest. “Underground so they can’t fly away, in groups so they can’t disguise themselves in the crowds. Understand?”

Everyone in line became quiet and nodded. Some still shivered in place, looking at the cowpony as if he were on to them as a detective sure of his convictions.

“Now,” Braeburn said, gesturing to Silverstar, “do the honors of rootin’ out the spies.”

Silverstar took out a jar labeled "Fresh" in lousy hoofwriting.

The door swung open. All eyes turned towards the pony gasping and panting, her hair a mess. “Sheriff! We found a changeling just outside town!”

The sheriff dropped the jar and broke it, letting the salve spill over to the hay floor.

Everyone gasped at both the news and the shattered jar.

Braeburn rubbed his head, his lips trembling and his eyes moist. “Alright. Long Shot, accompany the sheriff upstairs. Bring the changelin' down here; he may prove useful.”

Long Shot saluted him from the door. “A-Alright, s-sir!”

With the sheriff beside her, she galloped away.

Tracker scratched his ears. “Did you think they have him bound with ropes?” he blurted out loud.

Braeburn gave him a dirty look. “No idea, an' keep quiet. We don’t want any changelins’ to get wise.”

So they waited, the ponies in line standing under the scrutiny of the guards’ eagle eyes, spears shiny under the slightly yellow glow of the lanterns, feeling and fumbling the dry crumbly hay under their hooves. There was not much of a smell in here other than the abstract trace of hay.

Silence. Everyone looked at each other, exchanged glances with one another. Braeburn keeping a close watch on them, walking up to each of them then scanning their faces and hooves, trying to spot out any anomalies.

Muffled hoofsteps came down. A door swung open.

“We found a bad one!” Silverstar cried out, carrying the upper body of the struggling changeling bound with rope and tape.

Long Shot held on to his tied up hind legs as they shuffled and moved about, trying to go free as the rope bulged and contracted.

Tracker and Press acted surprised, making gasps and more murmurs with their pony friends as they backed to the wall, wanting to be away from that bawling monster.

More silence as they watched the changeling writhe about in his trussed state. Then, grunts and suppressed squalls through the thick tape covering his mouth.

Several guards galloped to him, Flash Sentry eyeing his spear.

“Sir!” Braeburn yelled, spitting on the changeling's face. “State your name!” He ripped off the tape.

“Ow!" His restless head rocked about as he took in his surroundings again. "Could you have it easy?! That thing hurts!”

“You and your kind have been hurting us since day one!” shouted Braeburn. He kicked the changeling on the head. “Tell us if you sense any of your friends here!”

The changeling gulped. He looked at the line of ponies by the wall. “Uh...uh….”

Glanced at Tracker.

Tracker gulped, let down a bit of sweat.

The changeling then turned to the pony next to him.

“I-I say it’s her!” he said, pointing at the mare beside Tracker.

The mare looked flustered. “What? Me?! He’s lying!”

“We’ll see for ourselves, ma’am,” Braeburn said in a low undertone, picking up several gobs of salve from the hay floor. “All we need is this.”

The mare made a small smile. “I’m confident, sir.”

Braeburn looked at him. “Thanks for the tip. We need to save on this, really." He turned to the guards who replied with eyes locked on him. "Now send him to the huge torch outside. Burn him there.”

The changeling erupted into a dozen snivels and whines, scared while flooding his cheeks with quick tears. “No! You can’t send me to the big fire!”

“There’s no mercy for scum like you,” answered Braeburn, turning cold and deep. “How could I ever trus' you to keep quiet? Chrysalis would torture you back into serving her like a min'less drone!”

The changeling moved his legs about, jumbling the rope but without the promised freedom. “No, no!”

“Kill him!”

The guards and Flash took up the body, supporting the changeling’s head. They disappeared through the door and Long Shot locked it shut.

Braeburn sighed, then looked straight at Tracker.

Tracker looked back at him square.

“I don’t know about you,” Braeburn said, nearing the line of ponies and then standing face to face with the stallion himself. “You were the first pony he saw long.”

Tracker gulped. "Ah-heh-heh...."

“A sign of anxiety!” Braeburn rubbed his chin, taking an ever closer look on poor Tracker. “That'd do a lot, but let’s make sure.”

Braeburn slathered the salve over his face.

Tracker shivered, his lips quivering.

And Tracker was still there, closing his eyes.

Braeburn took a step back. “Huh? You really were nervous this whole time. Sorry for scarin’ ya’.”

Tracker smiled, already buried in sweat.

Tracker laid on his hay bed again, engulfed in the darkness of those sleeping quarters. Did not see so clearly with his eyes, only seeing vague lines.

Press lay on the bed beside him.

Both of them awake.

“What did you say?” Tracker whispered, placing a pillow over his head. “I still have chills over that drone...who was he?”

Press frowned, looking about with contemplating eyes. “Don’t recognize him...and how would you recognize them, anyway? They’re all the same to me except Chrysalis.”

Tracker let out a little laugh. “Yeah. I must’ve forgot.” A pause. “So...I’m surprised no one’s a changeling. It can’t be that they just left.”

Press smiled. “I have a feeling—just a feeling—“ and leaned closer to his ear “—that someone’s managed to swap out the new batch with fakes just in time. The changelings could still be here!”

Tracker opened his eyes wide. “That’s...not good.”

Press kept on smiling.

Tracker let out a sigh.

A pause. They heard the snores of ponies, dreaming on their scraggy beds.

“I wonder what I’d do if I weren’t here,” Tracker said.

Press arched a brow. In a very low hush: “You mean the real you?”

Tracker nodded. “I would’ve been trapped in one of their hives, and...how long would I stay there? Forever?”

Press tried her best to not chuckle. “Hopefully not.”

They rested on their hay beds in a sea of noisy snores and other hay beds.

Bankrolling?

Swift, with ruffled feathers, groaned a long sigh. He looked up, saw the beautiful, serene blue sky. Those fluffy clouds, those happy clouds enjoying their time with the sun—

“Move!”

Swift struggled, pulling the cart of apples as hard as he could, straining and gritting his teeth under the pain and weight. His muscles were under high stress; one could see the veins sticking out of his neck.

“You should be ashamed of yourself!”

The changeling kicked him on the leg, bending it into collapse. He mocked him as he spectated Swift crashing to the ground with a thud.

It was a Sunday and ponies like him were milling about on the street, dragged along with their carts, their boxes, their barrels. Several changelings sapped the love of anyone they chose, then laughed at themselves at how easy the town's conquest was and how gullible their enemies were.

Hearing those laughs, churning them inside his head, Swift continued on, pulling the cart against a renewed tirade from his tyrant of an overseer who was indeed occupied with formulating phrases designed to demean him more.

“You see this grand pony invention?!” Pharnyx proclaimed in the room right before the sleeping quarters, pointing at a table of filled cups with steam rising out of them. “Coffee! You must give them credit for their ingenuity, although I wish that coffee was ours!" He took a sip of the publicized beverage from his cup. "Chrysalis wants us to get all the caffeine possible to keep up the work longer, to reduce our sleeping hours so we can bring the whole world under changeling control ASAP! So, toast to every changeling!”

“Toast!” shouted back all the changelings in the room, raising their cups of coffee to the air and clinking them against each other's.

Of course, some were clumsy, for a changeling then screamed at the pain of steaming coffee on his face. His friends scrambled to the poor and unfortunate victim to coffee boiled at a dangerous temperature, with one more changeling deciding to chuck the brew to Swift.

It was now the pony's turn to scream at the pain. He covered his face, felt the burning sensation everywhere.

Thorax, standing beside him, wrapped a hoof around his neck. “D-Don’t worry! I’ll get you a cold towel and—“

“No!” Swift shouted, and punched Thorax.

Thorax rubbed his cheek. Growling, he punched Swift back, shoving the pony down and forcing Swift to scream louder with twice the burning pain.

Swift River was back down on his hay bed, a cold and damp towel lying beside him.

Thorax sat down beside him.

Everyone else was quiet, both changelings and ponies asleep in the room, though shifting shadows from outside revealed several guards at the doors of the makeshift bedroom. Only walls, only floors, only ceilings and lanterns off; no embellishments.

“Wh...”

Thorax read Swift's face. “You’re saying something?”

Swift looked at him with fatigued eyes. “What’s...y-your name?”

Thorax made a little smile although the fangs still creeped Swift out. “I’m Thorax. Why’d you ask?”

Swift was silent for a while, considering what to say. “I don’t expect to get rescued anytime soon. The pace you’re going, this might as well be your Equestria.”

Thorax said nothing. He gave Swift a pensive look.

“So—" he faked a cough, "I want to...find a way to make you happy, if I cold do nothing else.”

Thorax recoiled. “Wh-Why is that? I’m h-happy you’re my personal food. I don’t have to starve and go hungry all the time." Then, the changeling swayed his foreleg about. "Well, not yet. We still need more ponies.”

Swift let out a sigh, letting himself sink a bit into his hay bed. “If I’m going to be a slave to you for the rest of my life, I might as well make the best out of it and be the number one pony slave in the hive.”

Thorax arched his brow. “You’re kidding me, right?”

For a brief moment, Swift grinned though it was clear that he was only pretending. “I’m serious. I would really like to get out of here, but while I’m still here, I...I don’t want to be down here, b-but—”

“You’ll stay down here whether you like it or not,” Throax said, patting him on the head.

Swift snarled, elbowing the patting hoof away. “You and your fake kindness! You treat me like you’re my best friend, but I know you’ll eat up my love for breakfast tomorrow!”

Thorax nodded. “I know.”

“Why do you bother?!” Swift cried out, sitting up on his bed and facing the changeling down.

Thorax stomped him on the head.

Knocked him unconscious.

The next day, Thorax watched him scrub the road clean of dirt. It was an impossible task, for the road was made of dirt, but Swift worked on with his bag of rags and his bottle of cleaning solution, throwing the dirty rags into another bag on his torso.

The two of them were almost alone since they were near the far end of Appleloosa where a path to the apple farms lay though instead of happy pony farmers pruning and thinning and de-pesting those growing apple trees, they were sad pony farmers driven into overproduction and overtime as too many branches were cut off, all supervised by changelings with crossed forelegs.

“What’s it gonna be?” Swift blurted out in a guttural voice. “Am I going to do you a personal mission or what?" Another grin, this one imitating the obnoxious, overcame his face. "I could work for revenge—you have a rival?”

“Not really," replied Thorax. "My ‘rivals’ are ponies, remember?”

Swift edged his lower lip out. “What motivates you to work this hard for love, huh?”

“Hunger,” Thorax said. “We don’t do this for fun.”

Swift rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Not for fun, I know—or, that's what I think I know. I see your buddies hurting my friends. You don’t hurt carrots, so why are you hurting us?”

“Carrots don’t speak,” Thorax said, feeling more disturbed at the pony's words, “nor do they try to run away from us.”

“Oh, so I’m a person, therefore you have to hit me in the head to keep me in line! You know you’re feeding from a person, right? Love, right?”

“Everyone knows that."

Swift looked at his dirty rag and threw it at his other bag.

Thorax blinked, watching him scrub more dirt off the dirty road, uncovering more soil underneath.

“What plans do you have for tomorrow?” Swift asked. “Are you going to be off for some adventure? What’s next? You’ll raid the next base?”

“McIntosh Hills, to be exact,” Thorax said. “We know some things about the leadership there, how it’s ruled by a Mudbriar. They say he’s smart and that he won’t go down easily.”

Swift nodded, swinging his head up and down like crazy. “Why? Because I hope he will stop you! You’ll have to cross those mountains first to get to the rest of us, and I’ll—“

Thorax hissed and drained a small rivulet of love from him, the pink swishing into this mouth.

Swift buckled down, feeling weakened. He gripped his broom, losing strength to stand.

“Please be quiet,” Thorax said. “You’re going to make lots of trouble.”

“Says the changeling who’s indirectly responsible for the loss of my wife!”

“I thought she was your would-be—“

“I don’t have time to think straight! You just took the emotions from me!”

“Sorry!”

Swift groaned, went back to cleaning the dirt road after pushing past the pain in his joints.

Thorax sat inside the moving train, seeing the landscape whiz by. It was desolate blue under the moonlight. He could feel the wind rush through the open window, cold—cold enough to remind him of shivering out in the open on another night before. Beside him was Swift, downcast and facing the floor.

Thorax noticed his sad demeanor. “What’s going on? Are you depressed?”

Swift glared at him. “Is this the time to ask?”

Thorax looked nervous. “N-No.”

Swift gave him a curious glance, scooting his way across the tacky seat. “Are you...not happy about this?”

Thorax shrugged his shoulders. “I face the risk of being captured like you. I don’t know how long I have to keep up my disguise. I might stay there for days.”

Swift looked the other way, seeing more changelings and their prisoner ponies sitting across the aisle. “Anything...else?”

Thorax looked out the window. “We’re always hungry. No matter how much territory we get, no matter how many ponies and other creatures we take for ourselves, no matter how strong or potent their love is...it’s not enough. There’s some who boast about not being hungry, but that’s because they only hear their stomachs rumble once a month. It’s...it’s like that feeling that you’re hungry but not too hungry.”

Swift kept looking at him. His ears were open.

“It stays in your mind. It bothers you. It’s like the itch you could never scratch but worse.”

The pony let his eyes pass on to the speeding scenery outside the window. “What happens if you’re the only one standing and you’re still hungry?”

Throax touched his own lips with a hoof. “I don’t think that’ll happen. There’d be too much love to pass around and there'd be no one around.”

Swift sighed, eyes still focused outside. “What will you do when you’re done dominating the world? When you’re the big guys?”

“Enjoy it? Relish the victory? It’d be sweet. I’d...I’d finally have the time to get a partner and have a family of my own. A family of...fifty cute grubs.”

Swift huffed, bothered. “I wish I had a family of even just one pony.”

Thorax frowned. “That’s...too bad.”

Both of them looked outside. They caught sight of a deserted warehouse and it was gone.

“Do you...do you have any idea what will I do if you win?”

“You’ll remain my go-to meal,” Thorax said as if reciting a rule from memory. “Someone might try to get you to have a friend so you’ll generate more love—I think it’s hard to resist having a friend when the other choice is being alone, isolated from everyone else.”

“Well, what will I do if I become...I don’t know, a better slave? An obedient servant? A carrot that doesn’t fight back?”

“Didn’t I say you’d end up driving your fellow ponies to obey us more?”

Swift nodded.

“Or, if you don’t like that," Thorax continued, moving his hooves about, "you could try helping us soldier drones. You’re a pony, so they can’t reveal that you’re a changeling. You could be a nice decoy; just follow our instructions and you’ll be fine." He paused. "I don’t know what we’ll give you for a good job, but...we got beetle sushi. My specialty, really.”

Swift flinched. “I don’t like beetles!”

“If you’re lost in a forest or stuck on an island, you should learn how to eat insects. Lots of protein.”

“They’re disgusting.”

“No. They’re delicious.”

“You and your weird tastes!” Swift shouted.

“We’re different species! What do you expect?!”

“I expect you to treat me right!”

“We’re evil changelings! Why do you expect me to treat you right?!”

A voice cried out, “Enough!”

They both turned to the changeling on the aisle.

It was Pharynx, holding a club. “Thorax, who told you you could sympathize with the enemy and call yourself ‘evil’?”

“Isn’t it true?" Thorax asked back, holding his hoof out. "If we’re not evil, we aren’t good either!”

“You’re a changeling, Thorax!” Pharynx said, flying to him and poking him on the chest. “Changelings feed off love! It’s not a decision the queen made. It's how you survive! That’s like saying you don’t want to eat because you want to save up on food!" Pharynx spat on him. "How ridiculous you are so many times!”

Thorax shuddered in his place. He wiped the spit off.

Pharynx turned to Swift. “And you better stay well-behaved! You think you’re so tough? You think you’re going to convince my brother to give you a better chance at life? Well, don’t think because I’m going to be watching you and you’ll be so afraid, you’d stay here for your own good!”

Then, he whacked Swift on the head with the club.

He fell unconscious.

Thorax looked at Pharynx, bewildered. “What was that for?!”

Pharynx pointed the club at him. “To teach him a lesson.”

A Rock and a Rounder

Sandbar shivered alone, hugged himself in the cold. His teeth clacked and clattered, his hooves were quarter-of-the-way numb, and his mind was in all sorts of places as he mumbled and muttered a dozen unrelated things to himself.

The little shed was cramped, filled with books and tools. He could still smell the new paint on it. His tireless eyes saw bobbleheads of the Princesses, patches of lawns, plans for new windows, and toolboxes hanging from the ceiling. There were no windows and only one wooden door.

He bent down to look through the gap at the bottom.

It was dark outside. The snow was still mostly white.

Sandbar quietly opened a shelf, took out a can of beans in tomato sauce. He smashed it open and chugged it down. Wiped his dirty red lips, his tongue tasting the rather dry liquid and the mushy, lifeless beans.

“Hope they find me, hope they find me…” he repeated to himself in a hurried whisper, looking up at the ceiling and also hoping those toolboxes don't fall on him. “Hope I'm not mistaken for a changeling, please….”

Then, he creaked the door open a little.

In the bleak darkness, he could see flashlights waving around, bright like spotlights.

He closed the door quietly. “That better be them! Did they...did they protect it? I didn’t hear any fighting....”

Sandbar lay down on the rough floor made of cement, slumped and sleepy.

Morning arrived. Sandbar could see everything clearer by the little light that did come in through the door’s gap; he even saw the dust particles strolling around. He looked down through the gap and saw the snow still mostly white, though now shining under the sun.

Sandbar pressed his teeth together and opened the cabinet again. He let his hoof search about, grabbed the first thing he felt, and found some freeze-dried apple slices sealed in their package.

“It's fine,” Sandbar said and popped those cold apples down his mouth. He drank some water from his bottle lying beside him.

“This is going to take a long time….”

Sandbar had his flashlight out in the night and was reading a book. Whispering to himself:

“’Sonore could never find the hidden treasure, but, as time went on, he found himself asking, “Was there really a treasure to begin with?” Slowly, he became mad, as the treasure eluded not only his hooves but his mind, for more questions plagued him: Was it real? Was it trying to hide? Was it meant to be wanted but never to be gotten, a perfect example in the tantalizing? Finally, after a dozen more years of such living, his friends found him dead, killed at the hooves of a guard pony who had to protect the museum he was guarding.’”

A knock on the door.

Sandbar closed the book, threw the flashlight under the table, and dashed his way under the table and hid himself under the cloth.

The door scratched open, revealing a pair of hoofsteps. Sandbar slowly lifted the cloth, saw two ponies walking about.

“That’s going to complicate things,” one pony said in a thick accent, “but we’ve got what we’ve got. We’ll know who’s the prisoners and who’s the changelings—you’re sure of that?”

“I am sure of that,” came the deliberate voice of Mudbriar.

Some clinks, and something dropped with a clang!

“If we’re gonna get out of this alive,” the first pony said, “we might have to try something drastic. We could try flooding the tunnels with this one right here—‘Special Pesticide! Guaranteed to Kill!’”

“An air spray pesticide would also harm our constituents and decrease their health, making them unprepared for future attacks.”

“Then what else do we have?” he asked pointedly. “Throw snow in their eyes, see if that works?”

“Throwing snow to their eyes would not help in distinguishing the ponies from the changelings when they are disguised.”

A pause. “Concussions, then?”

“We have discussed this before, but we are not ready to have regular concussion sessions for the sole purpose of weeding out disguised changelings since that will impair, both in the short- and the long-term, the mental faculties of our constituents.”

“Agh!” Slams. “Our most reliable weapon rendered useless!”

“The changelings have not, if my knowledge does not fail me, reached the deeper recesses," Mudbriar assured, "so it is highly unlikely that they have replaced our supplies of Zecora’s salve.”

“What else do we—“

Clink!

Bits rolling down to the floor, one right through the table’s cloth and landed in front of Sandbar’s face.

The pony-in-hiding shivered.

“Hey! Could you help me pick them up?”

A pause. “Yes.”

The two ponies bent and picked up the fallen coins, with the first pony counting each of them under his breath.

“That’s one...three...five, six, seven, eight...where’s the ninth?”

Mudbriar was silent for a while. “It appears that it has gone missing.”

“I know it’s missing! Come on, move around and look for it!”

Sandbar felt the sweat coming down his face, heard his heartbeart pumping.

A gray hoof lifted the cloth, revealing Mudbriar’s lanky face and nondescript mane.

The pony-no-longer-in-hiding bit his lip.

“This marks the fourth time that we have met, Sandbar.”

Sandbar, face splotched with the salve, sat before a little table where a lantern served as the cramped room’s sole source of pale light. There was nothing else in the room but three chairs on the brown and darkened ground. It smelled heavy like smoke. On the table was a measly portion of food: fresh hay, daisy sandwiches, and more canned beans.

Mudbriar sat there, his forehooves clasped over the table. “If I understand you correctly, you want to continue down South back to your post in Hard Keeper on your own during a time when changelings have begun infiltrating this base and may or may not be, as we speak, guarding the border.”

Sandbar nodded, keeping up a serious face for a serious leader. “They need me back there. Besides, I wasn’t planning to stay in Appleloosa long anyway. It’s just, things got loose, I got caught....”

Mudbriar blinked. “You do know that it is highly dangerous and extremely risky to venture such a move under the current circumstances?”

Sandbar nodded, more resolute this time. “I mean, I can try staying here, but then they’ll be worried about me. I’m their messenger pony, after all. Deliver messages, bring the news...without me, they’ll have to send someone else, and that’s another pony out.”

Mudbriar took a sip of his glass of water and continued to stare at his listener. “It is allowable. However, the risks are still great and we do not want to lose another pony to the changeling threat. I have to accompany you myself along with several others of my choosing until you reach the forest.”

“Anything, sir.”

The tracks continued on, going through the valley and vanishing into the darkened horizon of trees and thick vegetation. The chirps of crickets filled the night; a few fireflies flitted about, twinkling in and out.

Sandbar stood there. Behind him, four ponies, Mudbriar among them, all but Mudbriar himself fitted with makeshift wooden armor and helmet. Beyond, he could see the tall mountains reaching high up to the sky; he could see some dots moving about, probably ponies running up and down.

It was colder than before. Another breeze flew past them.

Sandbar turned around to face those four ponies, none of them smiling. “Thanks for the rest, everypony. This might be the last you’ll see me, and it might be the last time I’ll see you, but—“

“You must start your journey immediately,” Mudbriar interrupted, raising a hoof as if to ask him to talk no further. “A changeling attack is imminent and we do not wish you to be taken down with this base when they commence.”

Sandbar began trotting forward, still looking at them. “Y-Yeah. I’ll just—“

Bumped into the trunk of a jackfruit tree.

A bunch of those heavy fruits snapped off their branch and fell on a stallion’s head.

He fell down, unconscious, complete with tongue sticking out.

A glow came upon him. Then: an unconscious changeling.

Mudbriar looked at the remaining ponies to his sides.

Sandbar recovered, rubbed his head, looked back.

There, Mudbriar’s aides glowed, revealed their changeling selves, and grabbed Mudbriar’s legs, restraining him with swift hooves.

“Go!” he cried out before a stack of hay was forced into his mouth.

Sandbar turned and galloped, feeling the cool of the jungle as he advanced. His heartbeat was back up to frightening levels, his eyes analyzed and re-analyzed every single thing that could slow him down and make him easy prey—only gasps and pants from this fleeing stallion.

Farther into the jungle, he could no longer be seen.

Sandbar panted, finally resting down at the trunk of some other big tree.

He looked up.

There, more jackfruits hanging by the trunk.

He sighed, barely able to see the night through the thick canopy of leaves. He could hear crickets chirping, crocodiles hissing and grunting.

Sandbar looked around him. He could not see much of the grass and the bushes that were there. No dirt paths were visible. Actually, it was packed, more trees and other tall plants blocking out a lot.

He sighed, noticed the twigs and branches about on the ground, and kicked the tree behind him.

More jackfruits fell, splashing on to the ground.

After a while, he found himself inside a hole covered by branches and twigs. He could see almost nothing, almost everywhere he turned registering pitch black for his vision. Beside him were the jackfruits he could still get from the tree.

Cramped, cold, dirty.

“OK, let’s assess the situation I got myself into,” Sandbar whispered to himself. “One, the changelings have basically taken over all of Equestria. Two, they’re clearing out the bases here as fast as they can. Three, if I don’t move, I’ll find myself in changeling territory, but if I do move under the night, I’m going to run the risk of getting caught by a changeling scout.”

He sighed.

“This is going to be another long night—“

Light flooding in.

Sandbar covered his eyes.

“Found ya’!” a voice shouted.

Sandbar looked up. “Gallus?!”

“Told you I was gonna make it out of there,” he said, pointing a cocky claw to himself, popping more of his head into view. He was holding an old flashlight. “And you had your doubts!”

“But they got hold of you!” Sandbar shouted, though did his best to keep it as quiet as he could. “How did you get out?”

“Fight, duh." Gallus rolled his eyes. "You think I was going to be free staying quiet?”

Sandbar smiled. “Yeah, at least you’re with—“

Then, he hesitated.

“How do I know it's really you, Gallus?”

Gallus arched a brow up. “What do you mean?”

“Well, how were you able to get to this spot and hear me speaking?”

Gallus tapped his chin. “Lucky guess?”

Sandbar narrowed his eyes, gave him a mean look.

“Alright, alright—I got to the forest hours ago, but it took me a while to find you. I guessed you were headed this way; all those changelings aren’t giving you a chance to move up.”

“Still, this is a big jungle,” Sandbar said, raising his suspicion. “What are the odds of finding me?”

“Don’t ask me,” Gallus said. “I’m not the maths guy.”

“Me, either.”

Gallus looked smug. “You didn’t suggest putting the green stuff on me.”

Sandbar’s eyes glowed a bit before returning to their dreary state. “I don’t have any and the stuff I do have is already on my body.”

“Does it work twice?” Gallus said, now poking his head into the hole.

“No, it doesn’t.”

Gallus moaned, sounding like a whiny fledgling. “I want to stay down here, too! Can’t let those flies get on me!”

Sandbar chuckled. “Has it been some time since I’ve heard changelings called 'flies'….”

“Anyway," Gallus spoke up, "that means you have to trust me, and that I’m speaking the honest truth.”

Sandbar stared, slowed his breathing. “It is dangerous. You did sound a bit less like...you this time, but….”

“You gotta trust me!”

Sandbar looked straight at him. “OK. But, if you lift me from the ground while I’m asleep, I’ll wake up and give you a beating you’ll never forget.”

Gallus smiled. “That’s more like it!”

The griffon jumped into the hole, sliding Sandbar closer to the round soil wall.

“OK, I can see why this is a problem,” Gallus said, his inhibited wings and tail grappling with the tight walls. “I’ll have a hard time resting up.”

“And a harder time delivering me to your changeling friends,” Sandbar replied.

A pause. Gallus gave him a strange look.

“If you’re a changeling,” Sandbar said, his mood somewhat lighter now.

Gallus wet his beak and looked at the jackfruit on the floor. “Is it snacktime?”

“That’s my dinner,” Sandbar said. “Well, it used to be.”

Gallus tore it open, revealing its juicy and seedy yellow flesh.

“Save some for me,” Sandbar said before he yawned.

The griffon ate, overjoyed at the slightly sweet taste of jackfruit.

Morning came once again, and this day saw Sandbar and Gallus galloping about in the humid jungle, jumping over twigs and branches, staying in cover and concealing themselves behind big bushes. It was hot, it was humid; they were sweating. They looked down, making sure they did not hurt any potentially venomous insects or other dangerous animals along the way.

“How far is your place exactly?” Gallus asked between quick breaths, speeding by another row of thick trees.

“About two days at worst,” Sandbar said, breathing fast and quick.

“Two days?!” Gallus looked incredulous.

They turned left, avoiding a smack with a tree.

“I’m not going to lie to you!” Sandbar shouted back. “It has to be this far off!”

“Can we stop at some other place?” Gallus asked.

Sandbar remained quiet, thoughtful as he galloped over more branches. Then: “No!”

“No?!”

“We’d be wasting precious time! It doesn’t look like they’re stopping!”

“Can we go any faster?! I could fly and pick you up!”

“And risk being detected by changeling scouts over the trees?”

Gallus became quiet for a second. “Changed my mind! I’ll stick to the ground!”

Hours went by and it was night again. Under the moonlit sky, Sandbar and Gallus sat by a rushing river decorated with pebbles and rocks. They saw the little lights reflected on the river, transient and fading.

Sandbar took out a plastic bag from his mane, scooped up some water, and hoofed it to Gallus. “You first.”

Gallus smiled. “Just what I needed!” He guzzled the water, ran the bag dry.

Sandbar yanked it back, got more water from the river, and drank his own fill. He folded it and put it back inside his mane.

“Now what?” Gallus asked, looking at the moon above. “Are we going to sleep here?”

“No.” Sandbar stood up. “They could easily see us from above.”

Gallus frowned. “OK, so now what?”

Sandbar joined him in admiring the moon. “You said you got through the Hayseed Swamps. I thought you’d know more about this stuff if you survived all of that.”

“I wasn’t the best nestling,” Gallus said. “I barely got out of trouble. Maybe it’s because the changelings weren’t swarming over there when I had to travel, but I’m here. I’ll tell you, my first impulse right now is to fly until we get there—if we’re fast enough, we could make it before the sun rises, right?”

“What happened to conserving your energy?"

“Which is why it’s great to have you here,” Gallus said in a teasing tone, gesturing to him.

“Ugh. Do I have to do everything?”

“What about you teach me so you won’t have to do everything?”

“It takes time and we don’t have time—“

“Then why are you complaining about doing everything?”

Sandbar lifted a hoof, seething mad. “Quiet!”

Gallus was quiet, keeping his beak closed.

Sandbar looked back up to the moon.

“What is it?”

“Just checking,” Sandbar said. Then, with a flick of his head, beckoning Gallus to follow him, the both of them traversed the shallow river, Sandbar by jumping and Gallus by flying. The two of them reached the other side and went deeper in the forest.

Explosion Bunker Shot

Sandbar and Gallus trotted away from the dirt path and encountered thick bushes and thick grass thriving. They could feel the dense air settling in like invisible fog.

“Follow me,” whispered Sandbar, motioning to Gallus with a swing of his head. “Don’t act suspicious at all.”

“Got it,” was Gallus's brash reply.

Sandbar tip-hoofed his way to a certain spot on the ground.

He stopped, raised his right hoof like before.

That pony surrounded by the shrubs and bushes, still facing the sweltering heat of the new day.

He looked up at the same tree. “I want a number.”

The leaves rustled with more urgency. Some branches fell to the ground. “Huh? New guy?”

"Yeah." Sandbar pulled the griffon closer and brought him into view. "Found him on my way to Appleloosa.”

Silence. “Does he know?”

“I don’t think he knows."

Whispers from the tree, talking with someone else. Then: “Nevermind. You first." He cleared his throat. "My number is one. Pick two or three.”

“Three.”

“What are my winning odds if I go to two?”

“Sixty-six percent.”

“I see a red apple. What do you conclude?”

“Ravens are black.”

“A lightning trophy is…?”

“Resolute with stars.”

“Your next number.”

“Sixty-eight.”

Gallus took a step back, seeing this strange conversation play out. His face displayed confusion with his downwards beak.

“A griffon named Jerry," the tree pony continued.

“I should ask who’s on his right.”

“Hold on to solid ground. Who are you?”

“A proud knight.”

“Who sent you...uh, more than a week ago?”

“A Princess of Melody.”

“Who will send you tomorrow?”

“Curly, simple, with stripes.”

“After crime is…?”

“Freedom and fire.”

Gallus resorted to scratching his beige eyebrows. He muttered a simple "What?"

The leaves rustled again. “I’m sorry to say, Sandbar, but you’re not the real thing.”

Gallus gulped, looked at Sandbar dead on with furious eyes.

Pounced on him, struck him with clenched claws. “When did you take away my friend?!”

Sandbar held up his hooves, trying to dodge but kept getting hit. “Wait, wait! Stop hitting me!”

“You heard him!” the griffon yelled, pointing at the tree. “You were going to get me while I’m sleeping and right inside a pony base, too! That sounds dumb, but I’ll not let myself get caught sleeping!”

“Wait!”

Gallus scratched his face with a claw.

“Ow!”

“You’re one stubborn changeling!” Gallus cried out. “You’re going to—“

“Cobalt, daffodil, odd! Orioles, eucalyptus, even!”

Sandbar was sweating, close to crying when he finished those words.

The leaves rustled once more and Coloratura jumped out, ran to Gallus, grabbed a hold of him, and shoved him away.

Gallus fell to the floor. “What was that for?!” he shouted as he rubbed his aching head. “Don’t tell me you’re with him, too!”

“He’s not a changeling,” Coloratura said, fixing her dirty mane and her green clothes. “He’s on our side.”

“Right after I heard he’s a real changeling!” Gallus said. “I don’t get it!”

“It’s all a part of the plan,” she said, picking Sandbar up. She touched the new wounds on his face. Then, turning back to the griffon: "Although...I’m not sure about you.”

“You should let me in!” Gallus insisted, pointing at himself like a beggar. “I didn’t come all the way here to get lost!”

“Shh!” Coloratura held a hoof to her mouth. “Not so loud! They might hear you!”

Gallus raised his claws to the air in stress. “Can I go in?!”

Coloratura nodded, threw Sandbar up the tree and saw him being whisked deeper inside the forest. She looked at Gallus, brushing some twigs off of her mane and her tail. “Apologies if you’ll be under watch, but...you’ll see why.”

Gallus followed Sandbar and Coloratura on the branches, hopping between them. He walked with them through a tunnel of leaves, moving steadily and carefully on a wooden bridge over which he did not know; it was all shadows.

They reached the end of the tunnel and saw a covering of intertwined leaves and branches. Coloratura lifted it and allowed the griffon to see the little village there.

The huts were still few, made of smoothed timber; from them emanated the faint yellow glows of lanterns and candles inside, their shadows flickering in and out of view. Hushed whispers and quiet talks went about, traces of ponies’ heads turning—here, a unicorn was sharpening his spear with a rock. Several guards in light wooden armor watched over more ponies hauling small sacks of items into a trio of wheeled carts.

Sandbar was startled at the carts. “We’re packing?”

“It’s the only way we can shake the changelings off our trail," Coloratura said. "If there’s a changeling among us, then we’ll be isolating them from the rest of the hive. He either leaves and returns to the hive or goes with us.”

Gallus glanced at Coloratura, thinking about what she said.

Inside the same hut as before, it looked bare. There was no carpet nor rug to cover the dirty, grimy floor; no items or objects to grace the shoddy shelves on the round walls; no weapons resting on the racks to threaten any visitors with their intimidating sight. The only thing remained unpacked in a bag was the lantern, and that, too, was held by a pony who had unhooked it from its feeble wire and took it out. She turned the wick down, holding a cupped hoof around the opening, and let the flame die inside; she could smell that pungent stench oil.

The whole hut was plunged into silent gloom.

“Fresh Coat?”

The mare almost dropped her lantern. She stayed there, looking at it, then stared at the open space before her, seeing the wall and its closed windows. “Sandbar?”

A little chuckle. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Fresh Coat turned around.

It was still dark, but she could make out the color of his coat, the whiteness of his eyes, that toothy smile. “Oh...it is you.”

Sandbar frowned, spotting those crestfallen eyes and her beaten mouth. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s...it’s not much….” She placed the lantern into one of the sacks lying beside her.

Sandbar trotted to her. “I know it’s much. Tell me. What is it?”

Fresh Coat shook her head. She withdrew a step. “No, no...it’s OK. It’s gonna be over tomorrow morning. It'll give us a fresh...heh, fresh mind for the day.”

Sandbar inched closer to her. His own eyes darted around, metaphorical butterflies in his stomach as he saw a real one fly past a window. “I know you’re not OK. What is it?”

“Can’t a mare keep a secret?!” Fresh Coat snapped, reserved yet harsh. She straightened her cap, making sure she did not hurt her horn. “What does it have to do it with you?”

Sandbar stepped back. “I-I didn’t want to see you this sad! I-Is it because we’re leaving and we’re going to the desert?”

Tears flowed down her cheeks, soaking them wet. “Well, part of that’s true!”

Sandbar arched a brow, stance unsteady as he heard the mare's whimpers. “What’s th-the other part?”

Coat rubbed her eyes and threw her cap down, letting her black mane out. “Don’t you see, Sandbar?! We’re losing!”

Sandbar repeated those words in his head, those two words, opening his mouth blankly.

“I don’t want excuses!” Coat said. “I don’t want to hear how we’re going to come back from utter defeat! How are we going to get back from this?! How?!”

Sandbar steeled his jaw, pursed his lips in a show of toughness. “By not losing hope! Equestria’s been through thick and thin. We will bounce back, better than ever, and see Chrysalis lose once and for all! Just wait and don’t quit on it!”

“How long do I have to wait?!” Coat yelled, holding up a sack of her things.

Sandbar held up his hooves. “Woah, woah, woah! Put that thing down! You’re gonna hurt yourself!”

Coat held it up, kept holding it up, kept looking at Sandbar with those red eyes.

She put it down on the floor with a gentle thud.

Then, murmurs. Moaning murmurs.

Coat sat down on the floor, raised her hind legs up to her chin.

“I...I don’t...I don’t wanna die….”

Tears going down, splashing to the floor.

Sandbar's lips shivered. Looked at the pathetic mare, her black curls ruined.

He slowly trotted to her side and sat down.

Saw her sob, saw her crying, saw her coughing and saw her choking only for her to return to weeping in that dark place, in that dark and empty hut with almost everything gone.

Sandbar looked in front of him, seeing emptiness.

His eyes misted up. He could feel the tears, too, welling up.

He cried with her.

Both hugged the other, tears mixing and gleaming under the moonlight.

“Hey, who’s crying over there?!” Coloratura shouted from outside, busy stuffing random things into a huge bag with the help of a yawning Gallus who sometimes stumbled in his drowsiness, though he did not drop anything—yet, that is. “This is no time for self-pity! Get up and pack! We’re moving in fifteen minutes!”

So they did. Everything was packed up, those three carts ready with plenty of bags, sacks, and containers by the huts, all veiled by the trees' leaves and branches above.

Coloratura was at the forefront of the pack of ponies plus one griffon who sat on one of the carts, dozing off and snoring. She looked at the three stallions to her right, all wearing hankerchiefs and rags.

“Burn and hide everything,” Coloratura ordered. “If they catch up to you, remember what you promised.”

“We’ll say nothing,” said the stallion closest to her. The others nodded and saluted her.

Coloratura nodded back. “Thank you for your service. I hope we’ll see you down the line.”

Those stallions took up their matches and torches. They galloped to the village proper, the red glows of their fires fading.

Coloratura looked back to her crowd of attentive villagers which, of course, did not include the sleeping griffon.

She took in a deep breath.

“We’ve been here for a few months already. When we started this camp, we never wanted to move farther away from Equestria. We wished to move forward, to move back to the land we love. However, the tide has turned and Chrysalis is only getting stronger and more powerful with every battle.

“Does it look bleak? Yes. Are the odds stacked against us? Yes. Will half of us survive the rest of the year? I don’t think so. But, remember this, everypony: As long as there’s one of us—one of us—then there’s always a chance, always a hope, that Equestria will return, that the changelings will be banished and that evil Chrysalis will see the light of day no more.”

And everyone cheered in quiet.

“Let’s go.”

Coloratura trotted forward, leading the crowd of ponies through the thick jungle, past the trees and past the bushes.

Behind them, fires glowed as the huts burned, spreading from roof to roof. The stallions rushed, hurling more fires into the huts and hoping the smoke would be covered up by the foliage.

The cliffs were the jungle's end.

Past the cliffs, one could see the tremendous deserts. Hot, harsh, topped with a red sky. Dunes and dunes for miles and miles without end, the horizon filled with more sand; for the inexperienced survivor, one wrong step meant getting a mouthful of dirty sand.

Sandbar bared his teeth, felt the sweat go down despite the hat that he was wearing on his head. He trudged on, pulling the cart as he crested yet another dune with his fellow campponies by his side.

And yet, more wind. Scorching wind.

“Water!” he could hear Coat cry out.

Fresh took out the bottle of water strapped to his torso, hoofed it to the mare leaning half her weight on the side of the cart. Gasping for that bottle of fresh water, she levitated it and poured the cool drink into her mouth.

“Ouch!” cried out another pony.

It was Strawberry Ice, an ice blue mare with strawberry-colored hair. She was holding up her swelling hoof. Before her was a rock.

Then, snoring.

He looked behind him.

Past the sacks on his cart, he could see the feathers of a sleeping Gallus.

“How does that griffon sleep out here?” he muttered to himself.

The feeling of hot, dusty stand on his hooves returned to him.

He groaned. Nothing to do but trudge on.

Under the cold, freezing desert night, the campfire had just been stamped out. At the foot of still another dune were those carts and several crude shelters which were really two ponchos or jackets nailed to the ground with tall rocks acting as the supports on each corner. There, ponies slept, safe from dust, protected from the cold. Other ponies slept by the wagons, too, either sleeping under the wagons or sleeping on them, one mare resting beside a snoring griffon. She did not look too mad or upset about it, so that’s fine.

Sandbar, Coloratura, and Strawberry Ice were the only ones awake as they maintained a triangle of security over the camp. They safeguarded their fellow camp members by their vigilant presence.

Sandbar looked around, turning his head to another place.

Nothing. Just the desert around them. Not even a hint of cacti.

He turned his head towards Coloratura who was looking the other way. “How long until Klugetown?”

Coloratura turned her head back to him. “About nine more hours!”

Sandbar sighed. “What about heat strokes? We’ve been draining the water supply like crazy!”

“Then we’ll have to give them more shade,” Coloratura said. “We’ve already been doing that, though.”

Sandbar looked away, queasy.

“Don’t worry,” Coloratura reassured. “Once we make it there, it’s over. We’ll restock on food and water, and then we’ll go through the Sea of Clouds. If we could stow on an airship there, then so much the better!”

Sandbar let out a hollow laugh. “I hope we get an airship. My legs are killing me.”

“Better your legs than those traitors.".

Whether it was really funny or not, Sandbar did not laugh this time.

Friendly Fire

Swift River continued sweeping the stone floor. It was free from trash, garbage, or rubble. The dust was reduced to short supply and the dirt was practically gone, but Swift continued his task of sweeping the floor with his trusty broom, its fweep-fweep giving life to an otherwise dull room.

He not only swept the floor but the cabinets and drawers as well. Sure, most of them had been ransacked, with nothing but scraps of paper and some photographs remaining, but that only inspired him to keep sweeping, now poking his broom inside a locker, now cleaning the top of a drawer and freeing it from dust. Flapping his wings and hovering close to the top, he swept the walls and the ceiling, adding some cleaning agent there and wiping the ceiling with a rag for good measure.

He flew down to sweep the rest that was there. A simple table, its chairs, the light bulbs and their lamp coverings, the maps and illustrations tacked on to the wall—nothing was spared from the overarching sweep of this broom.

However, despite his grand ambition to sweep everything he saw, he could not gather up the strength or the will to sweep Thorax with his broom.

Thorax was just standing there, holding out a clipboard and writing down a few words and numbers on it, holding the pencil by the eraser with his mouth.

“Do you have anything good to say about Queen Chrysalis?” Thorax asked out of the blue.

Swift stopped his great sweeping, holding the broom in mid-air. “Nothing.”

Thorax wrote the word “Nothing” down.

Swift sighed, bending his head back in a groan after seeing it on paper. “Was that really necessary?”

Thorax took out his pencil and clipped it to his board. “The queen must know everything. Not a single thought should go out of her sight.”

Swift snorted. He proceeded to sweep the floor another time. “As if she can hold all our thoughts and grievances in that tiny little head of hers.”

Thorax looked and felt queasy. “You better be careful with what you say, Swift River. I can write that down right now and I'll report you to Chrysalis herself.”

“Please!” Swift said, holding both of his forehooves up. “She probably gets ponies like me all the time. I don’t think I’ll be worth a second in her timetable.”

“You are worth one second,” Thorax countered, lowering his clipboard to get a good look of his frustrated slave. “If we get too many even for her to handle, she could always get some of her commanders to fill in for her.”

Swift bobbed his head left to right, mouthing jeers and insults with his back turned to the changeling.

Thorax took up his pencil and wrote down again. “’Continues to show a rebel attitude towards you, your Majesty.’”

Swift rotated his shoulders, throwing his broom to the table. “I’m done cleaning this room. I've done it too many times." He raised his hooves to the air. "What else do I have to do?”

Thorax lifted a few sheets of paper from his clipboard, peered in to see what the text read. “Apparently, you’re going to help with the lighthouse.”

Swift looked at his back, rubbed his aching back. “My poor body!” He turned to Thorax. “How long will I have to stay there?”

Thorax read it again. “Twelve hours.”

Swift replied by slamming his own head on the table.

“And you’ll do the same thing for the rest of the month. You better eat your instant oatmeal up.”

At the top of a McIntosh Hill, one tall framework had been set up. Wooden beams reached to the sky as few changelings oversaw the work of many ponies, most of them hauling and laying bricks for the structure against the harsh climate: the snow on the hooves, the gale on the coat, the bricks on the muscles. Over there, several more changelings were hard at work on several huge cooking pans and a massive lantern.

Swift felt the weight of the bricks on his back. Although they were not difficult to balance, what was draining to him was how arduous it all was. He looked at the ponies behind him, and he saw a great line of brick-carrying ponies, all silent as they walked towards the unfinished building. He looked ahead of him and saw many ponies with their trowels and their buckets of mortar, building the structure brick by heavy brick.

He looked to the side and saw several more changelings who were busy shouting at a mare; that mare was frantically holding a blueprint.

“You have to tell us how the schematics work!” shouted the head changeling at her, swinging his beret at the mare. “Or else!”

She shook her head fast and defiant. “I’m not going to give you the secrets of the lighthouse! Never!”

“Maybe you will after some more...coercion,” said another changeling, this one with a feminine voice. She let loose her tongue and extracted another pink river of love out of the mare.

The mare struggled to keep her stance, her eyes fluttering.

“Now will you tell us?” this changeling said, placing a firm hold on her head, slowly forcing the pony down to her knees.

She grinded her teeth. “Never!”

“It’s just a lighthouse!” yelled the head changeling in a somewhat reassuring tone. “You’ll not get hurt anymore if you just give up the information we need!”

The mare’s eyes fluttered more. Her breathing slowed. “No!”

“You are a stubborn pony, don’t you know that?” said the other changeling.

The head changeling took a cautious step forward. “Delilah, please be careful!”

Delilah hissed at him.

The head changeling proceeded to raise his forehooves up in surrender. “OK, OK! You go and do...whatever you want. I’ll just stand here...see if you can do it….”

Delilah turned back to the mare and grinned, her fangs shining under the midday sun. “Looks like you’ll be in for big trouble!”

The mare gulped.

Delilah brought in yet another river of love from the mare. The other changelings watched; some of them opened their mouths and fed from her, too, leaving the pony wearied and tired.

When it was all done, the mare almost collapsed to the floor.

Delilah looked straight to her eyes, bending in to get a good look. “What about now? Are you willing?”

The mare shook her head, though she groaned, struggling just to do that. “The secret will stay with me! You can learn it from somepony else, but not me!”

Delilah smirked. “And here, I thought you would finally obey.”

The mare opened her mouth in a big gasp.

Delilah lashed her tongue out and took in the mare's love.

The only thing the pony could do was moan, eke out a “No!” as it was taken from her.

Swift looked away, back to the incomplete lighthouse before him.

The sky was clear and blue. Some changelings flew around in it.

Swift sat down on the bench, his face covered by a sullied mane. He heard all the other ponies sleeping and snoring back in the bed area with those rows of hay lumps that could pass for beds.

Thorax sat down next to him. He turned to the rest of the room, saw the changeling guards over there with their crude helmets and their sharp spears, defeating boredom by exchanging quips and questions.

“What’s wrong?” asked Thorax in a whisper. “Is there anything I could do to help you?”

Swift merely looked ahead. “If you could help me get out of here, then yes.”

Thorax shook his head. “You know I can’t help you with that. Even if I tried, they’ll imprison me.”

“Then you’re selfish,” Swift said.

Thorax recoiled. “Selfish? I’m not selfish! I do everything I can to help the hive!”

“Then the whole hive is selfish,” Swift said, lightly hitting his knee. “You didn’t ask me if I was up to fighting you or anything like that.”

Thorax did all he could to not laugh at that. “It doesn’t work that way.”

Swift snarled. “Then you’re all dishonorable! Can’t even have the patience to wait for the enemy to prepare himself.”

“We’re not here to get honor,” Thorax said. “We’re here to win, and that means having to do whatever it takes to get there.”

“Huh?”

“Exactly,” Thorax went on. “It may be a pony custom to wait for your opponent to prepare, but we changelings…we don’t have that. We have our queen, our broodmates, and…you.”

Swift gulped. “I-Is this what I think it is?”

Thorax nodded. “This may sound very sudden, but...I want you to rise up the ranks in our hive.”

Swift made a sneering smile. “Are you serious?”

Thorax nodded again, wearing an honest smile back. “Yes, I’m serious. I think it’s something you said that made me think about it...that if you can’t run away from us, you might as well make the best out of your time here.”

“And if I live out the rest of my life here?” Swift asked pointedly.

Thorax mellowed his smile. “You’ll die a respected pony.”

“I’ll die a traitor to my fellow Equestrians,” Swift said, holding up a bruised wing. “Don’t want to leave that kind of legacy.”

Thorax raised his head, about to say something.

Swift held up a hoof. “Nothing you’ll offer me will make me change my mind.”

“But you’ll stay here, a miserable pony,” Thorax said, raising his voice.

Swift swished the hay around with his swaying hindhooves. “I did my part for Equestria. It’s best I stop there and not do anything to undo it.”

Thorax kept his face as neutral as possible.

“I’d rather die a hero,” Swift said, “then live on as a villain.” With hung head: “Kill me. It’s better you kill me than let me be tempted to betray my home, the...the ponies who trusted in me.”

Thorax raised a suspicious brow. “Then we won’t kill you.”

Swift sighed. “Should’ve kept quiet.”

Thorax patted him on the head. “Yeah, you should’ve.”

The snores continued and the changelings around those sleeping ponies left them alone to dream in peace.

Thorax stood up. “What about you sleep on it?”

Swift cast a glance on him.

Thorax maintained a calm facade. “Almost impossible to ask you, but...I gave it a shot.”

He opened his wings and buzzed his way out of the room through the hole in the wall.

Swift looked at the only hay bed still unoccupied.

He felt the guards watching him with those unmoving eyes, those sharp blades on their spears.

“Roll!”

And Pharynx threw down his stone-carved die which bounced around on the wooden table.

A small crowd of changelings had gathered around the table, watching a game of Cockatrice in action. The seven players had their cards and their irregularly-shaped gridboard filled with squares marked with various colors and names.

In other parts of the room, changelings were enjoying their night. Some played other kinds of games like checkers or charades—here, a changeling tried his best to act out the phrase “vinyl player”, although the guesses from the other side ranged from “derby hat” to “dry ice” which solicited the actor to smack himself on the face with a shameful hoof.

That only helped bring the guesses farther away from the correct answer.

Other activities included changelings eating and drinking their insect-filled celebration feast, drawing up individual plans for the next pony settlement, and feeding from the chained ponies that happened to be there.

The die finally settled on a one.

Everyone buzzed and hissed at that as Pharynx moved his game piece—which was a coin painted purple—sideways one square and into a plaid section of the board.

“I think it’s Ptery with the cannon in the kitchen,” he coolly suggested.

Delilah, sitting beside him, showed one of her cards to him.

Pharynx smiled and pointed to his head. “Keep it in mind, keep it in mind!” Then, he turned to his brother on his right and threw the die at his face.

“Ow!”

“Get used to it!” Pharynx said as the crowd went back to talking among themselves. He turned round and shouted at everyone else: “Hey! This is supposed to be a quiet game! No cheating!”

Everyone quieted down, gesturing to themselves and zipping their lips.

Thorax took the die, placed a rock on his face-down cards. He rolled it, landed a three. His blue token was moved inside the golden room on the board.

“I say it’s Fritill with the box of matches in the daytime observatory.”

On his right, Cornicle showed him a card.

Thorax took out his notepad and checked something off the list.

“We’re getting nowhere,” a player from across the table complained with hunched shoulders.

Pharynx hissed at her. “What are you saying? The more the merrier! By the end of the night, we’ll be playing with ten players!”

“But this game only supports eight,” Delilah said.

“Who said it can only support eight?!”

“The box?”

Delilah brought up the box which showed a cockatrice being attacked by eight ponies in the middle of a forest at night. At the top left of the box was a note saying: “Fun for up to 8 friends!”

“Then we’ll order the ponies to make the board bigger,” Pharynx said.

A knock on the door.

Pharynx opened his wings and flew to it. “Who is it?! We’re busy!”

“Um...i-it’s Swift River. I-I need to talk to Thorax.”

Thorax’s ears went up at that. “Why now? Isn’t it past midnight?”

“I...I thought about what you’ve said.”

The other changelings looked at him.

Thorax looked away from the door. “Just wait there. I’ll be there in a minute.”

In the narrow hallway of stones and damp smells, by the light of several torches, Swift and Thorax sat down on the gravel floor, their heads and backs on the rough rock wall. Past the door, they could hear die rolling and shouts coming out, with arguments and accusations flying around.

“You want to what?” Thorax yelped.

Swift nodded. “You think it’s a trick, a plan to leave this place, but what can I do?” He raised his forehooves to the air, only to let it fall down. “I’ll do my best to be obedient. Give me a good job, give me some good work. Perks, promotions, payments—everything you can offer.”

“So you’ll use them to escape with other ponies?” Thorax asked.

Swift hesitated. “No...not that way….”

Thorax sighed. “I know you want to escape. No sane pony would want to stay here, but that’s who we are. I’m already suspicious now you want to serve us willingly all of a sudden.”

“I don’t want to drag out the rest of my life,” Swift said right after.

Thorax looked at him. He made a quick smile but soon dismissed it.

Pharynx shouted from inside, blaming Cornicle for cheating by moving his token a square too many.

“Forget what I said about honor,” said Thorax. “We may have no value for honor between you and us, but...what about your value for honor? Didn’t you say something about legacies and how ponies would see you if you worked hard for us?”

“I’ll keep it a secret,” Swift said. “Besides, if they figure out, they can chalk it up to brainwashing or force. Not that hard, right?”

Thorax could not help but smile a little. “A pony becoming a liar...just like one of us. It’s...it’s…”

Thorax was sleeping in his own bedroom which contained a single lit candle and a mattress for a bed. In this small room, Thorax lay face up, snoring and showing his fangs to the ceiling.

In the corridor outside, Pharynx passed by. He stopped, took a look at Thorax, and smiled. “You did a good job, brother.”

He trotted on, not knowing the tears that drenched Thorax’s cheeks.

Breadsticks

Sandbar sat down in the night as the other ponies slept inside the cabin. He could feel the night’s breeze flow into the room, the patched curtains giving way to its subtle blow.

The near empty room had nothing for the ponies to sleep on. Their blankets and their pillows sufficed, but they still endured the hard, uneven surface of the floorboards beneath.

A soft light flickered from the hallway. Someone’s shadow flickered.

Sandbar bit his lip and looked, slowly raising himself up. “Who goes there?”

A plate with a candle came into view, held up by an orange hoof. Then, Fresh Coat tip-hoofed into view, paint of different colors splotched on her body.

Sandbar gasped, almost took off to her. “What happened?”

Fresh sighed. “Do you remember when I took the job?”

Sandbar trotted to her, hugged her.

She hugged back. “I-I don’t know if I can handle this. They’re so...mean! I did my best, but—“

“Shh.” Sandbar patted her on the head, tapping her cap. “It’s gonna be OK, it’s gonna be OK….”

The two of them remained in each other’s embrace, their figures casting long shadows under the light of the candle.

At the top of a windmill-like house was a cobbled-together room. It was an all-in-one sort of room, for the bed and the stove and the dining table were all here along with all kinds of collectibles and goodies: exotic lamps and lanterns, foreign paintings and pictures, peculiar plants and herbs, unfamiliar potions and spells, decaying books and maps. It smelled sleazy, food moldering over there by a bowl and a fish’s skeleton.

A long cat wearing a coat sat down on the chair with a mole rat-like creature dressed up in a tuxedo and a tall hat, eyes hidden by gray goggles.

“What do you want me to do with them, Verko?” the cat asked. “You know there’s a line for these kinds of creatures.”

“I’m not asking you to take everything and the kitchen sink, Capper,” replied Verko in a nasal voice, his thick teeth showing under his dirty whiskery snout. “What I’m asking of you is to...ask nicely for the edulis beans.”

“Why?” Capper asked back. “What’s so valuable about them?”

Verko shook his head, wagged a finger with an uncut nail. “Magical properties. Heard it grows way up in the Everfree Forest. I’ve got some clients who’d be willing to do a lot more than ask for these hard-to-find beans.”

Capper rubbed his chin. “What does it do? Poison your target in a single go?”

Verko smiled. “Some say it has the power to extend your life by decades. Others say it can be used to show the true thoughts of anyone. For me...I think it’s not so legendary, but hope is a wonderful thing to have here, eh?”

Capper cocked his head a bit. “So, it’s not that magical, but it’s...still magical?”

“Correct,” Verko said, adjusting his black bowtie.

Capper leaned back on his chair, thinking. “What else do you want me to do?”

“Getting far ahead, aren’t we?” Verko asked, still smiling. “We still have ample time to discuss the terms of your job.”

“Ample time?” Capper repeated. “They’ll be leaving by tomorrow.”

“Twenty-four hours is more than enough time if you know how to use them right,” Verko said, clasping his hands on the table. “It’d be a shame if something happened to them before those twenty-four hours are up….”

Capper looked away, looked through the open window and the vast landscape the town had to offer in the morning.

The sky was a muddy brown.

Klugetown lay with its hobbled shanties and houses made up of whatever material was lying around. Metal sheets, leftover concrete slabs, sceond-hand bricks, and low-quality cloth rags which usually patched a dozen places here and there. Rickety wooden bridges connected the blocks of Klugetown as diverse creatures hung around and did their groceries—which was a gentle way of putting it, to say the least.

For groceries, it was not all that simple and straightforward. Huge crocodiles and tortoises on two legs shouted to all who were passing by to take a look at their produce which was not worth looking at if their partially rotten looks were any indication. Those vendors then proceeded to argue with each other about how the other's produce was bad, stolen from someone, picked up from the back of a wagon—sometimes, these were the best opportunities for a native to snatch some additional cabbages before they went off.

As for more “legitimate” avenues of life, there was the shipping business. The whir of airships coming and going was enough to arrest the usual visitor who was not familiar enough with how big Klugetown was as a hub for trade and exchange.

Well, not the legal form of trade and exchange, that is.

While the crates were supposed to be closed and shut tight, some had holes and others were creaking open, revealing the nature of what was inside. Weapons, cider, magical items and plants, among other things.

Over there, passing by the crates, Verko was leading a little parade of caged creatures which consisted of a griffon, a dragon, a yak, and a unicorn. Windows smacked open, giving way to Klugetown residents’ curious eyes and ears at the spectacle before them.

“Come one and come all!” Verko announched as he strolled down the dirt path beside the carriage’s front which was helmed by a big walking frog cowled with a cloak.

The yak was close to tears, sniffing about. “Yak miss daughter Yona!”—only to be yanked by the other creatures holding him down with chains.

Verko slowed his pace down to meet up with the unicorn there. Here, he saw her purple coat and her broken horn. “Sorry for being so impolite, but what is your name?”

She snuffed. “Tempest Shadow.”

Verko smiled. “Now, I’ve seen those fireworks of yours! So brilliant! We’ll get you with Gearan to start up our first circus from Klugetown! Do as he says, miss!”

Tempest looked off, looking ahead.

There, she saw the airship port with various airships arriving and departing, those arriving hooked to the boarding platforms hanging over the ground by ropes. It was a perilous port; there were no fences to prevent passengers from falling to their deaths as creatures carried more crates and boxes and, sometimes, chained creatures, too.

“You’ll be enjoying your time there in the mountains,” Verko said in an assuring tone, waving his hands about like an entertainer. “You don’t have to buy food! It’ll all be given to you as long as you spit out those fireworks and colorful explosions!”

Tempest remained neutral. “What else does this...Gearan have for me?”

Verko smiled. “Oh. Gearan’s in touch with some...pony like you who may or may not have the secret to restoring your horn to its former glory.”

Tempest broke her steel face with a frown. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Tsk.” She turned forward, her wagon getting closer to the cliff and the strong winds. “If you’re lying, know that I will find you and make you regret getting my hopes up.”

Verko kept smiling. “Of course! I profit from happy customers, so why should I lie to them?”

Tempest did not smile back. “Because I know first-hoof what it means to be lied to.”

Half a minute passed and the carriage stopped at the edge of the boarding platform, mere inches from falling to the abyss below. On their left was the airship, a rather unassuming one operated by a changeling at the steering wheel. “Hey, Verko! What’re we having?!”

Verko stood, hands at his hips. “We’re having the makings of the world’s premier circus! Go over to the very south of the Sea of Clouds, right beside the Gorm River! The first shed you see—that’s where you should take them to!”

The changeling saluted Verko. “Aye, aye, captain!”

In the airship’s mess hall, various changelings guarded the four captive creatures as they sat on the table, letting them eat their food which was made up of canned soup, canned lettuce, canned orange juice, canned salt, canned pepper, canned utensils, and canned water which had been canned into larger cans.

The changeling who had been at the steering wheel now sat at the head of the table, bearing a vicious smile and wearing a neat apron around his neck.

The four creatures looked at him.

“Let me introduce myself so we won’t have any misunderstanding, OK?” the changeling spoke up. He stood up and raised a spoon, commanding their attention with it. “I’m Red Noise. Named myself after my former position in my squad; used to be the guy who shouts a lot and makes ponies surrender with my voice—or else.” He placed the spoon down beside his plate of greens. “Now, I’m a renegade and I have no shame. It’s nothing ideological, and I’m not in it for your revolution or whatever. I’m here to make a living—and, before you ask, yes I’ll take your love but not too much. It's in moderation.”

The dragon covered his eyes, shuddering and whimpering under his scrawny yellow hands.

Red Noise ignored this sight. “So, now that you know who’s the boss around here, I’ve got two rules for you: Show up every five in the morning sharp, and don’t go overboard. I expect you to do the former and I know you won’t do the latter.”

The griffon raised a nervous claw.

“Yes?” asked Red Noise.

The griffon coughed. “Sorry, sir, if this is nothing to you, but...are the other changelings also renegades?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Red Noise asked back, annoyed. “They’d kill me if they weren’t. I give them their wages for keeping this ship afloat, and they thank me for giving them a normal life.”

Tempest glared at him.

Red Noise took notice of it. “A relatively normal life. You don’t see me doing jumping jacks, do you?”

The griffon scratched his chin. “Why jumping jacks?”

“Because changelings don’t do jumping jacks,” replied Red Noise. “Now, eat. I don’t want to have Verko breathing down my neck for starving you to death.”

So they ate, munching on their pitiful canned food and drink. It tasted bland, dry, and parched, causing the dragon to cough and almost choke on the lettuce and he would have were it not for the yak stomping on his back to force out the leaf.

The changelings also ate, eating the same canned meals. Even Red Noise deigned to eat the miserly food, but he did not whine nor complain. In fact, he enjoyed every bite of it; his frequent smiling “Mm!’s” made it obvious.

“How does he do it?” whispered the dragon to Tempest beside him, seeing Red Noise's joy over his buffet of cans.

She gave a snort. “Endurance. Stamina. Also, he’s a changeling. He’s supposed to be a master at deception. I know he doesn’t like it one bit, but he’s keeping it up to ease us into liking him.”

“Is that so?” the dragon said.

Tempest made a scoffing smirk. “Honestly, I expected you to be much meaner. You?” She looked at him up and down. “You’re such a pushover. It’s laughable.”

The dragon rubbed his scaly head. “And I expected you to be much nicer. You’re a pony!”

Tempest shook her head. “Well, I was nice to my so-called ‘friends’ and look what that got me!” She leaned her head forward, displaying her broken horn.

A few more changelings entered the room, carrying more chains and some arrows between them.

Red Noise stood up from his chair. “More restraints for the pony. Good.”

The other creatures looked at Tempest to see her response.

There was no response. Only that cold, stoic face, even as the changelings fastened the chains on to her legs and tied her up to the wall, giving her just enough freedom to continue her dinner.

Red Noise smiled. “That would be enough to stop her when she gets into one of her outbursts. If they’re like fireworks, it’s best to keep her in place.” He then returned to his seat and resumed sipping his soup straight from the can.

Tempest made no sign nor gesture. She went on eating.

“Gregory?” the dragon asked the griffon across the table who was busy drinking from his can of water. “Do you see anything?”

“I see you,” Gregory shot back after a gulp. “What do you want?”

“Are we going to be circus guys forever?” the dragon asked. “Because I don’t want to be circus guys forever.”

“If you think of escaping,” Red Noise interrupted, speaking brash, “then you’ll be reduced to water and soup! Got it?!”

The dragon murmured, became silent as he went on with his meal.

This breakfast progresses peacefully enough. Red Noise did not shout at them, Tempest kept to herself, the dragon and the yak remained quiet, and Gregory limited his complaints to the cans' little details.

After a few minutes, a changeling flew in with a hurried look on his face. “Sir! We got a stowaway pony!”

Red Noise stood up.

The other changelings looked at the messenger.

The captives stopped eating.

Red Noise flew towards the messenger at the other end of the dining room. “Anything specific?”

“A mare. Looks wet. She fought back, but she’s not strong enough for a magical attack.”

Red Noise arched a brow. “This is interesting.” He looked at the prisoners at the table. “You keep eating. Don’t you dare get away from this airship.”

And the changeling flew away from the table, leaving them there with their canned food.

Give Way

A light turned on inside the seedy, smelly room. It was decorated with various photos of a variety of places from deserts to jungles, from mountains to valleys. A lantern dimly lit up the room, casting a dying yellow glow upon the whole room.

Red Noise sat at the other end of the table, his lips pursed. His speech husky as before: “Are you afraid? You’ve got to be afraid. My client didn’t ask for more ponies on this vehicle!”

Fresh Coat shuddered, holding up a hoof to separate him from herself. “I d-don’t want to hurt you! I don’t kn-know what you’re doing! I’m here just to g-get away!”

“Get away from what?!” Red Noise asked, boiling with rage.

“You!”

Red Noise held his head back. Then, he abandoned his pout and adopted a smile. “I know what you mean. You want to get away from Chrysalis, eh?”

She shuddered more, obviously shaking, her teeth making loud clatters and rattles. “I didn’t know this i-is one of hers...please d-don’t hurt m-m-me!”

Red Noise chuckled a little. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You’re just saying—“

Red Noise slammed the table.

Fresh Coat went quiet.

“I used to work for her,” he began. “After several years, I decided it was not worth my time. We escaped and now we’d do any kind of work as long as it pays nicely.”

Fresh Coat backed down, relaxing. “So...you’re not an evil changeling?”

Red Noise chuckled again. “I have to admit, the business we do here...they don’t exactly call it ‘good’, but what do I have to lose? I’m not going to be some actor on the stage, that’s for sure.”

The mare flipped her cap. “What do you do?”

Red Noise raised his shoulders. “Deliver. Kind of like pirates except we don’t pirate. I let others do the pirating for me.”

Fresh Coat nodded, inspecting the pictures on the walls. “Can I get out now?”

Red Noise frowned. “I wish I could let you go, but you’re over a thousand hooves above the ground, and I’m not ready to stop this thing now. I have a schedule to follow and Gearan is not a forgiving guy.”

The mare’s ears drooped. “I’ll have to wait, then.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to wait.”

The two of them became quiet, trying to avoid each other’s glances.

“I’m curious, though, about what brought you here,” Red Noise asked, motioning a hoof to her. “Are you one of those pony fighters?”

Fresh Coat nodded. “I used to be.”

Red Noise rested his head on an angled foreleg. “That doesn’t sound good. What happened? Internal struggles?”

Fresh Coat choked on her words. Then: “I don’t...I don’t see us winning soon. They’re clearing out the Southern Jungles, and then...it’s the desert, then here, then the cloud sea, then the actual sea—“

Red Noise knocked on the table. “I see where you’re getting at. Impossible foe.” He stood up. “Which is why I’ve settled for something I call ‘Plan B’.”

Fresh Coat opened her eyes wide. “What’s Plan B?”

Red Noise chuckled a third time. “Funny you ask.”

He took out a zipper bag, opened it, and took out some maps and papers and flattened them on the table, their diagrams and their text visible under the lantern’s light.

“It’s a resistance from the inside,” the changeling said, growing and sounding more passionate. “When the time’s right, some of us go in and obey her as usual. Then, when we get into the higher ranks, we get a shot at becoming her second-hoof changelings. We get to advise her and tell her our suggestions. “

“Wouldn’t that be a bad thing?” Fresh Coat asked, fear in her tone. “You’re just going to tell her smart things and make her better!”

Red Noise tilted his head a bit, scratched his ear. “Are we?”

Fresh Coat looked confused. “So, you’re not going to tell her smart things?”

Red Noise then scratched his chin, looking arrogant. “Smart...but not right.” He picked up one of the scrolls there. “What you see here is a list of things to make a pony’s life in the empire much more miserable than it needs to be.” He scrolled through the list. “Unnecessary curfews, forcing ponies to become warriors in the raids, burning everything they love and cherish—that sort of thing.”

“But why would you do that?” Fresh Coat said. “That’s going to make everypony mad and they’ll keep on fighting and then the other changelings might think they’re better at handling the hive than Chrysalis and—wait, I see what you’re trying to do.”

Red Noise nodded. “You like the idea?”

Fresh Coat rubbed her hooves, trying to imitate a villain. “It sounds...unconventional, but it makes sense.” A pause. “Making everyone mad so they’ll turn on the leader? But they might target you, too.”

Red Noise smiled. “Which is why...”

He glowed, changed his eye color from blue to slightly green, his fangs now a little longer.

“...I make sure they target someone else.”

Fresh Coat shivered. “OK, I know you’re trying to be good—“

“I’m not,” corrected the changeling.

“—but...what will you do if you take over. Will you be bad and will you steal love from us?”

Red Noise shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. None of us have found a way to live without taking love from others...not yet, at least. Even if we don’t, we’ll just ask politely. In fact, I’m already getting love from you right now.”

Fresh Coat stood up, surprised, face flustered. “What?! When?!”

Red Noise brushed it off with a hoof. “Don’t worry. I don’t take too much, and it’s so little, you can barely feel it. Haven’t you heard of passive love? That’s what every creature emanates and if I took the place of a mare’s husband, it’d be more than enough for me. But, there’s so many of us….”

He trailed off, looking off to the ceiling.

Got up of his chair, hovering over it. “Anyway, I think you’ve heard enough, so, sit back, wait it out, and disembark when we land. Nothing more, nothing less. Alright?”

Fresh Coat nodded. “Alright.”

Red Noise flew his way to the door and opened it, showing a stuffy and fetid hallway of broken doors and missing floorboards. “Let me introduce you to our passengers. One of them’s a unicorn with a broken horn.”

Fresh Coat stood up, impressed by such a thought. “Really?”

Fresh Coat was eating her share of dinner with the to-be circus performers in chains. All of them looked suspiciously at Fresh Coat who gobbled up half of her food in half a minute.

Red Noise, from his place at the head of the table, looked upon the hungry mare in awe. “I...didn’t know she had the appetite, but we’ll roll with it. While I’m gone, you make her comfy. She just wants to have a normal life.”

The yak stomped the table, causing all to turn to him instead. “Why changeling not give yak normal life?!”

“Because we changelings want bits,” Red Noise said, making a sign with his two forehooves of gathering a hoard of coins for himself. “We need bits to survive, make it big out there. Besides, you’ll love being in the circus. They’ll pay you for being you, especially you.”

The yak growled at him. Changeling guards came to hold the chains keeping him down.

Red Noise sighed. “I’m sorry for making you mad. Be behaved; otherwise, you’ll crash all of us.”

The yak turned away, embittered but resigning to his canned soup.

Red Noise turned to Gregory. “As for you and Thermal, you better behave, too.”

The griffon and the dragon nodded, then continued with their respective breakfasts.

Red Noise glared at Tempest.

Tempest glared back at him.

“Don’t make any fires here. Don’t burn this airship. Keep yourself in check.”

Tempest did not nod. She only blinked, sustaining that sober face.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” Red Noise said. “If you burn this, everyone will know it’s you.”

Tempest nodded.

“Now, what were we talking about?” Red Noise asked. “Right—so, Tempest, how did you lose your—“

Boom!

The whole room lurched sideways, causing everyone to fall off their places and to collide with the wall, food and drinks splashing on to them, everyone disoriented.

“We’re being attacked!” yelled a fallen guard as he flew out of the dining room with his comrades.

Red Noise groaned. “Already?! They don’t do it this early! Who could it be?!”

Tempest and the yak moaned as they got up, then noticed they could move their hooves about. The unicorn looked at her hooves—the chains were broken.

Another changeling rushed down into the hall. “Pirates! Celaeno’s crew!”

“Celaeno?!” Red Noise shrilled. “What do they have to do with circus folk?!

Boom!

Another lurch, rolling everyone back to the wall as the ship tilted to the left.

“I don’t wanna die!” yelped Fresh Coat lying down on an old painting.

Gregory threw her off to the table with his claws. “It’s either we go or not!”

“What do you mean?” Thermal asked shyly.

“All of you stay down!” a guard ordered, holding a spear close to the dragon’s throat.

Thermal held his hands up and gulped.

“Everyone has to stay down!” yelled another guard. “Nobody move, nobody panic!”

Another changeling came down the hall, screaming, “They took out captain Red Noise!”

Fresh Coat gulped.

The griffon opened his wings. “I’ll handle those pirates myself!”

Several changelings restrained him with their hooves. “You better keep yourself down!” the same changeling commanded. “They have swords and cannons—“

Boom!

Lurched again to the wall with screams and shouting.

“Please take me with you!” Fresh Coat cried as the mare attempted to jump out of the room.

Only to be stopped by yet another guard in mid-air.

Hard footfalls marching down the steps.

“They’re coming!” shrieked still another changeling guard, then turning back to the only way in.

Shadows growing at that end of the dining hall.

Then, a tall white parrot garbed in typical pirate fashion: tricorne hat, golden earring, stump for a missing leg. She brandished her sword, letting the blade shine under the hanging lanterns.

“Where’s the treasure room?!” Celaeno shouted, holding her sword out, directing it at the changeling before her.

“We have no treasure room!” the changeling yelled and plunged the spear at her.

She dodged, grabbed the spear, whacked the changeling out cold with it.

The dining hall became a mess as buzzing changelings brawled with not only the parrot captain but also with Tempest dishing out uncontrollable blasts of her horn, electrocuting the changelings with her lightning-like magic outbursts. The yak trotted around, stomping the floor and slightly shaking the airship with it, causing more changelings to stumble.

Gregory helped Thermal up from his tumble. “You’re a fire-breathing dragon! Why don’t you go breathe fire and burn them?”

“I’m scared!” yelled Thermal, doubtful in his accent. “Don’t you know how many changelings are still around?”

“We’re going to fix that!" He pointed his claw at the changelings still fighting, scuffling with parrot and unicorn. “Do your thing!”

Thermal sighed. “Here goes nothing!”

He seized a huge gasp of air.

Was then bumped by Tempest, galloping her way out of there. He fell onto the griffon, made him stumble and fall back to the floor with him.

Meanwhile, Fresh Coat was recovering from the bruise on her foreleg. He felt the sore, the ache there, but she trotted on, hopping out of the table and closer to the swashbuckling pirate.

“Please, miss!” she yelled at Celaeno busy holding off the changelings with slashes of her sword. “They took me prisoner! Please save me!”

Celaeno stopped for a second to glance at her.

She grabbed the pony from the floor and threw her outside the food hall.

“Get on deck!” the captain shouted, not looking at her. “This ship’s falling apart and we need you to get on ours now!”

Fresh Coat ran up the stairs and on to the deck.

She felt the cold and chilly gust of the air zooming past her; she could hear the shouts of more parrot pirates fighting off the changeling guards who were there, battling on the spacious, empty deck. At the right edge of it was a plank to another airship flying beside it.

She galloped towards the plank, jumping over corpses and unconscious bodies.

“Hey, there’s someone loose!” yelled out a voice.

“Where are you going?!” another shouted.

“Are you crazy?! Don’t jump!”

And she jumped, flying through the air.

She landed on the other side, breathing heavily. Pain on all four legs and her head, but she could not hide a smile, maybe even a little laughter. “Free! I’m free! I’m free at last! I don’t have to hide anymore! We’re going to be survivors!”

She stood up, confident and beaming, then turned around to see the battle continue on Red Noise’s airship.

There were holes in the hull but not enough to send it hurtling to the ground. She could still see the pirates there defeating the changelings and holding them at swordpoint.

Then, Fresh Coat looked down.

Saw nothing but dark gray clouds.

She screamed and fainted on the spot, her body limp on the pirate airship flying above a massive and vast gray sea of clouds.

An Error, Not a Trial

Her eyes shot open.

Fluttering, closed.

Breathing, breathing on the wooden table.

Figures shifting their heads under darkened lights.

“Do you think she’s alright?”

“She looks OK. Maybe she’s scared of heights.”

A claw felt her lower jaw.

“She’s fine,” said a familiar voice. “She needs some rest.”

“Where are we going to drop her off?”

“Somewhere. We’ll see. I wasn’t expecting saving anyone this run.” A pause. “Spittle, you’re in charge of keeping her well-fed and well-rested. Tell me when she wakes up so we can explain things to her.”

“Aye, aye, captain!” cawed a female crew member.

Shuffling of steps fading away.

Fresh Coat’s eyes shot open again.

Felt the warm mattress and the pillow on the back of her head. She turned her head to the right.

Nothing but gray clouds past the window.

“Agh! Where am I?!”

A door creaking open. “She’s awake!”

Fresh Coat turned around, saw the chubby aproned parrot holding the door open. She pointed at her, scared. “Wh-Who are you?!”

The parrot smiled kindly, her chubbiness notwithstanding. “I’m Lix Spittle, but you can call me Spittle. Just don’t call me Spit.”

She pointed at the parrot, kept pointing at her with an unsteady hoof. “Are you...are you a friend of that Celaeno parrot?”

“Friend?” she repeated, a little surprised. “She’s my friend and my captain! She’s a jolly fellow when you get to know her more. Oh,” looked out the door, “here she is!”

The steps increased in volume and finally stopped with Celaeno herself at the door, sword holstered on her back.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, ma’am,” Celaeno said, walking past the carpets to Coat on the bed. She took a seat and sat down beside her. Looked at Spittle. “You can go now. It’s almost dinner.”

Spittle glanced at the clock on the wall. “Right! How could’ve I forgotten?!”

And off she was, running out the bedroom and down the hallway, her footfalls decreasing.

Celaeno looked off at the open space for a few seconds. Then, she turned to the mare lying down on the bed. “Fresh Coat...do you know who we are?”

She shook her head, then slowly pointed at her. “I kn-know you.”

Celaeno looked upon her with that solemn face. “You’ll get to know the rest of the crew later on. Spittle’s our cook. Makes the best of whatever she’s got. She could turn a bunch of fruits and fish into a hearty meal.” She finished it with a swing of her claw across the space before her.

The mare shuddered, preferring to hide behind a pillow for a second.

Celaeno scooted the chair an inch forward, squeaking the floor with it. “I guess you know what we do. We’re swashbuckling treasure hunters.”

“Isn’t that a long way of saying ‘pirates’?” Fresh Coat mentioned.

The parrot cracked a smile. “Some of us don’t like the sound of the word. It makes us sound like we’re evil when, really, we just want treasure. The adventure, the thrill...I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Fresh Coat looked off, away from the parrot.

“We’re on our way to Basalt Beach,” she said. “There’s a forest nearby. Rumors are that the Sphere of Fortitude lay hidden there.”

The mare opened her mouth, wondering. “What does i-it do?”

Celaeno’s smile grew. “If you wield it, you are guaranteed to never lose a fight with your foes.”

Fresh Coat drifted her eyes off of her.

Celaeno then became curious. “What were you doing over there? The others said you stowed away on that ship.”

The pony balked, shifted herself closer to the window by the bed. “Th-That’s because...I was trying to run away.”

“Run away from who?”

She shivered. “From the changelings.”

Celaeno straightened up on her seat. “Makes a lot more sense now.”

They were silent for a while, Fresh Coat letting herself see the room she was in with its trinkets of treasures from jewel-laden bracelets and necklaces to gold and silver coins.

Then, Celaeno spoke: “If you want to go far away from them, what about you come with us? Basalt Beach is pretty much the farthest you can go on foot. There’s no settlement there, but I heard that the hippogriffs live nearby. You could move into their land, if they’re willing.”

Fresh Coat nodded. “They’re more than willing to allow ponies like me to get some shelter.”

Celaeno nodded back. “So...could you tell me what happened along the way here? It may be close to dinnertime, but I’m up for ten minutes of storytelling.”

Fresh Coat sighed, still lying down on her bed. She looked up, facing the ceiling above. “Well, I grew up in Canterlot. Big city, the capital. When I figured out my cutie mark was a paint can, I realized my talent and my destiny was to help others by painting things. I tried painting...um, paintings but that didn’t work out, so I took the easy way and offered to paint walls for new houses and stores. They liked what I was doing, I got money, and I thought I’d live the rest of my life without much trouble.”

“Then the changelings arrived,” Celaeno chimed in.

The mare nodded, her lips turning down.

In the sky, a faraway streak of lightning flashed.

“I was one of the ponies tasked to spruce up the castle where the wedding would take place. I attended it and then...Princess Cadance wasn’t really Princess Cadance—it was Chrysalis. I was scared when I saw many of the ponies attending with me weren’t really ponies, too. They almost caught me, but I managed to escape in time.

“At first, I tried hiding underground, but the changelings were searching the tunnels and caves out, so I had no choice but to leave my home. It wasn’t easy, trekking on my own with nopony you know because they’re either dead or taken away by those flies. Then, after staying a while in Appleloosa, I was assigned to go with the second batch of ponies who were going to make a new base at the edge of Bone Dry Desert. So, I went there—turned out one of those ponies was also a changeling and...the distrust, the fear we had of each other. We were ready to beat each other up if they acted too fishy.

“But we made it. We made it to last stretch of jungle and that’s where I stayed. I didn’t do much. I gathered for food, helped start the campfires, sometimes went on guard duty. I tried painting again, both on canvas and on walls, but our leader told me to stop painting on the walls because it would give ourselves away to changeling patrol.

“After almost a year of staying there, we had to go. Go far, far down south through the desert. We reached Klugetown and we barely made lodging up in some windmill or something because one of the talking cats had it for sale and they were OK with it if some of us had to do odd jobs for him. I volunteered to paint the locals’ walls because they looked nasty and he said it had good pay. It did have good pay, but I couldn’t bear being insulted and have paint thrown at me. It’s...it’s gruesome...and I couldn’t wait to get out, even if it meant abandoning my friends back there.”

Celaeno could see those eyes moistening.

“I didn’t want to bother my friends by being annoying to them, so I sneaked away in the night, stayed inside the ship you saw me in, and waited. I....”

She sneezed, her nose becoming runny.

“Sorry for lying to you”—Celaeno raised a brow—“but I wasn’t mistreated there. The captain was actually quite nice to me even though he had the others trapped there. Gave me a good enough breakfast, and then you came...I-I didn’t know what to do. He was going to leave me alone with no one to be with—did this Gearan guy live in a town or does he live alone? Would the natives throw paint at me there? I didn’t like it.

“So I thought of going to you. You had more heart, more...good in you. I could tell, and I was happy to be proven right just when you offered me a trip to Basalt Beach and take shelter with the hippogriffs.” A pause, looked at her with a thoughtful face. “I’m staying with you, captain. It’s going to be better this way for me….”

She trailed off.

Celaeno sighed, slumping down on the chair and putting her sword dowjn on the table.

Past the window, more lightning streaks flashed. This time, the both of them could hear the thunder.

The aftercastle of the airship consisted of short flights of stairs leading to the steering wheel along with a carved figure of a parrot’s head above the door which brought anyone to the living quarters inside. Over there, Gregory and Thermal were hauling boxes and crates stored there down to the deck where the yak would open them, revealing packs of gems and sacks of sweet-smelling herbs inside. Tempest kept guard, watching over them all with her impassive face as the windy current surged past them. Above was the yellow envelope shaped like a parrot’s face, yellow in paint.

Fresh Coat, on the other hoof, stood at the railing, looking down at the sea of clouds below her, that sea of nothing but gray clouds. Sometimes, a white spark would course through them, and she could pick up the bellowing of thunder.

“Don’t you worry,” she heard Celaeno say. Fresh Coat turned around and saw the captain herself, away from her steering wheel. “We’ll be there in no time. You won’t have to traverse the mountains, so you’ll make it in...say, six to ten hours. Depends on whether we meet any other ships to raid.”

Fresh Coat shuddered but smiled. “I’ll take it.”

Celaeno smiled back. “That’s what I’d like to see from you!”

A door swung open from the deck floor; a voice howled, “We’ve got a changeling!”

Gasps around, Celaeno and Fresh Coat running down to the deck and Thermal dropping a box and stumping Gregory’s claw, the yak galloping towards the parrot holding the changeling wrestling against the rope as she was carried in the pirate’s arms, and Tempest wrecking her with a torrent of magic, frying the intruder there.

“She’s got Spittle!” cried out the eyepatched parrot, seeing Celaeno coming down. “I don’t know where she’s storing her, but Boyle’s checked everywhere and we couldn’t find her!”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Mullet?” Celaeno shouted. “You could’ve rung the bell!”

“I didn’t want to cause any panic!” he blubbered back, holding his claws up. “We’ve got a loose cannon on deck and I don’t want her to shoot me!”

“Tempest is fine,” Celaeno said. “You’ll have to get used to her since she’s coming with us for the treasure.”

Then, all were silent. Even the changeling froze for a bit in his rope.

Buzzes. Many buzzes.

From below, a horde of changelings rose up from beneath the clouds, with one holding a sword.

He landed on deck, and swung his sword around, letting it gleam. He pointed it at the captain. “Verko’s not gonna like it when he hears I’m late, but better late than never! You give me my customers back, or else me and my pals are going to take you down and steal this ship!”

Celaeno smiled. “Make me.”

Red Noise hissed. “You asked for it! Changelings, charge!”

And his pals swarmed the airship, some landing on deck and engaging in battle with both pirates and prisoners, with two more parrot pirates coming up through the door to join in. Buzzes and slashes went across the air, as changeling after changeling fell lifeless to the floor, some sliding off into the clouds below. Thermal, with intense urging from Gregrory, unleashed his fire breath and burned several more changelings while the griffon himself took to carrying off unsuspecting enemies and then breaking their wings before dropping them into a long fall to the ground. The yak stomped around, throwing off the changelings and confusing them, leaving those invaders vulnerable to Tempest’s slow blasts of magic energy dripping from her broken horn.

Fresh Coat froze, stood there alone and untouched by the fighting around her.

Celaeno looked at her, locked in combat with Red Noise as they dueled with their swords. “Get in the cabin, lock your room, and close the window! Hide under the bed and don’t get out until you hear me! Understood?!”

And Fresh Coat was off, running back into the quarters through the door, quitting the creatures on deck to duke it out as more changelings flocked onto the airship.

Below, more lightning streaks flashed through the dark clouds with their thunder.

The Cost of Klugetown

Back in his windmill house, Capper sat down on his comfy chair, facing Sandbar across the round table marred with broken vases and a discolored tablecloth. By the window was a teapot fashioned out of cloth and irregular stitches.

Capper slammed the armrest.

“It’s a good thing I intercepted the letter!” the cat yelled, flailing his paws up and down like someone kooky . “If my boss finds out, he’s going to make me his personal slave or worse, and he will exact revenge on you! He’s not the kind of guy who’s willing to forget mistakes and runaways!”

“What can I do?!” said Sandbar in despair, throwing his hooves out to him.

Capper looked at him intently. “You’re the last one who talked to her before she left.”

Sandbar closed his eyes halfway, growing wary. “How come you know that?”

“I have my ways," brushing the question off his back. “Let’s get to the real problem: How am I gonna make you and Verko happy?”

“You said it was pirates who burned the ship, right?” Sandbar asked. “If it's them, then it’s not Coat’s fault; it’s the pirates’ fault."

Capper hissed, extending a bothered paw. “No, no, no! Verko doesn’t like that kind of explanation!”

“What other explanation is there?” Sandbar reasoned, panicking with dilated eyes. “Are you telling me she sabotaged the whole boat by herself?”

“There were other creatures on that ship,” Capper said, looking out the window and seeing the brown sky. “It’s not much of a stretch that one of the prisoners took her up as a minion, most likely that Tempest unicorn.”

Sandbar leaned his head, curious. “Who’s Tempest? Is she wanted?”

“Notorious criminal in these parts,” Capper said, slouching on his chair. “Infamous for the power of her broken horn. She could blow up entire buildings if she wanted to—and when she doesn’t wanna.” He banged a closed fist on the table, letting a vase fall over and break, then swept the fragments away with his tail. “Probably came from your Equestria, though I don’t know what part of it...but that doesn’t matter!” He struck the table with two closed fists. “What matters is that our lives are on the line and we’ll be in hot water if we don’ help each other out! Verko will be on to you and your pals once he knows a stray pony got into his ship!”

Sandbar felt alarmed, raised his head. “What do you want me to do? I can’t tell Coloratura I’m helping a concat pay off his debt and please his crime boss!”

“Which is why you don’t tell her,” Capper replied. “Make it a pleasant surprise when you’re way over there by the sea, or, better yet, don’t tell her at all.”

Sandbar's nose flared. “This is bad. What did I get myself into with Coat?” He covered his eyes with his hooves and his blue bangs.

Capper crossed his arms, rubbing his fingers in thought. Then, with some more energy than before: “What about you stay here for a while? They’ll be thinking you’re out buying fruits, and if they can believe that, they’ll believe anything. We’ll find a way.”

Sandbar looked at the feline, interested.

“I’m not used to your pony ideas about friends...but I’ll have to take it if I have to get out alive. Might have to meet up with an old buddy I used to know." He lifted a paw, only to let it fall down; a gesture of discomfort. "I could get you a drink. You up for salmon surprise?”

The pony caught himself about to puke, his cheeks bulging. “Uh, n-no thanks! I want something, uh, less fishy.”

“Water?” Capper asked. “Haven’t you forgotten we live in the middle of the desert? Salmon juice is cheaper than water here.”

Sandbar drove out a loud belch.

“Do you want to get to Mount Aris where the hippogriffs are?" Capper asked in a threatening tone. "You better drink something if you want to stay sharp.”

Sandbar sighed, giving up. “Fine. What is it anyway?”

“Glad you asked." Capper smiled. "It’s fresh salmon pound and ground into a pulp, and then we drain the juice from it. Delicious every time.”

Sandbar took up a garbage can and vomited.

A knock on the door.

Capper, now alone in his house, sighed. He stood up from his chair, walked up to it, and opened the door.

“Verko!” Capper greeted, putting on a wide smile that pushed the limits of his cheeks. “How’re you doing?”

Verko, on the other hand, pushed the limits of his untrimmed finger by poking it at Capper’s chest. “You’re trying to hide something, aren’t ya?! How come I received the note later than usual?!”

Capper held up his paws. “Woah, woah, woah there, Mister Verko! You seem to be taking this a bit too seriously!”

“That’s because I would’ve liked to put my name up there on those circus tents!” Verko said. “Gives me good publicity! The moment I saw those four, I knew they would be the stars of the show and I would finally lift Klugetown out of its poverty.”

“You mean you’d finally lift your cronies out of poverty?” Capper snarked.

“It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, fella’, and you know it!” Verko shouted, slamming the door shut with his foot. He rubbed his goggles clean from mist. “The circus is a lucrative venture! Those diamond dogs’ve never seen the light of day, so anything’s possible with them!”

“I know it’s nice to let them have some entertainment, but—“

“Who cares?” Verko shoved him away; Capper almost staggered to the floor. “I’ve lost a fifth of my fortune acquiring those acrobats, and they’re either dead or held for ransom. I can’t afford losing more bits to some swindlers!”

Capper chuckled, muttering, “Says the worst swindler in history.”

Verko shook his head, tsking all the way as he paced the room. “This is unacceptable. You know the saying, right? ‘Everything costs in Klugetown’? Well, I’ve paid up just to see good money burn, and now it’s your turn to pay up! Give me those five hundred bits now! No extensions!”

Capper dropped his smile. “Uh, what?”

“Those five hundred bits! Where are they?!”

He growled, looking past the window.

“Ah, looks like you’ve hired your own crony to do the dirty work for you!” he said. “Good thing I know what mercy means! Make sure he scraps it up by tonight, or else you’ll be assigned to the Dragon Lands!”

“You’ve got contacts there?!” Capper yelped out, reeling a few steps from his boss.

“That’s the thing,” was his placid reply, turning his back on the cat. “I don’t.”

Sandbar found himself in the middle of a dark alleyway; broken pipes dripping water falling onto his head. He looked here and there, hid himself behind a couple of boxes.

“Where’s that Chummer guy?” Sandbar whispered to himself, examining the space before him again. “He said I had to look for the door with black stripes, but it’s nowhere!”

Then, a glow before him.

Sandbar gasped. “No...not here! Not here!”

Grabbed, mouth covered by a black hoof, and forced down to the ground by another hoof.

Tried to scream—muffled. His eyes adjusted to the darkness to see the changeling pinning him down.

“Don’t make so much noise!” came the reluctant voice of Thorax. “I don’t want this to be harder than it should be.”

"Mm-mmm, mm, hmm!"

Thorax opened his mouth and fed on the pony’s love, bringing a pink stream out of his body.

Sandbar’s eyes tired, his restless hooves slowed down.

Thorax sniffed. “I-I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize!” spoke up Pharynx who stepped into view from farther in the alley, holding a sack. “Just ask him about the location of the pony base and we’re good to go.”

Sandbar looked, shook his head rapid.

Thorax was still holding his hoof on the pony's mouth. “When I let go, you should answer my questions as quietly as possible. Don’t try to shout for help; I’ll just get more love from you.”

Sandbar still shook his head.

Thorax sighed.

Pharynx shoved his brother to the side. “Let me handle this!” Then, facing Sandbar with an upraised sack: “Alright, tell me where your pony friends are!”

Sandbar spat on his face. “Never!”

A hiss and another stream of love was gone from him. He slumped down to the floor, a waning body.

“Again! Where are your pony friends?”

“Never!”

Another hiss, another serving of love.

Thorax shuddered on the side, wanting to move back but standing frozen there, seeing Sandbar dwindle down—eyes floundering, hooves and legs limping about.

“We’re going to run through this one more time. Otherwise, I’m going to cripple you into a lifeless slave with nothing for you! Tell me where are your pony friends?!”

Sandbar breathed fast, tears all over. His hooves convulsed, could barely lift a leg up. He was lying down on the cold, hard ground; no comfort to be found there.

Closed his eyes.

Whispered, “Mom, Dad...thank you….”

Pharynx chuckled.

Sandbar opened his eyes. Faced Pharynx. “Never! I’ll never give you the answer!”

Pharynx grumbled. “Pony, you’re making a big mistake right here. Are you sure you want—“

“I’m not sure! I’m certain!”

A look of horror flashed upon Thorax’s face. He glanced at Pharynx who was bending his neck; he could hear bones crack.

“Eh, we’ll find your base anyway,” Pharynx said. “I was hoping we’d find a shortcut.”

He unleashed his tongue in a wild hiss and depleted the love out of Sandbar, making him move in and out of consciousness as the pink streams rushed like a hose on full blast.

It was over.

He closed his mouth.

Sandbar fell senseless to the ground.

Thorax leaned in, checked his pulse. “He’s still alive.”

“Good,” Pharynx said. “One more servant for us.” He stuffed Sandbar’s entire body into the sack, then tied it up with some rope. He turned to Thorax who could not stand still for he was shivering violently. “I trust that you will stay under cover until the rest of the crew arrive. Be the welcoming party...or something." A pause. "For me, I’ll stash him somewhere safe.”

Pharnyx flew off, carrying the concealed body on his back. He disappeared in the shadows of throwaway skyscrapers made of stones, brick, and wood under sloppy paint.

Thorax’s eyes fluttered. He let out a dampened yowl, seeing the creatures on the road walk around and push each other, about to start a fight.

Then, a shadow on the ground spreading its wings.

He looked up.

The last thing he heard was “You’re not gonna take away my friend!”

Changeling kicked on the head and knocked out.

Coloratura sat alone in that secluded room of boxes and crates marked “Moving/Fragile”. Before her was a lantern on a table, resting beside half-burned books, a watered torch, and some unused matches. It was dusty; she coughed, stood up.

“First Fresh Coat, and now Sandbar,” she mumbled to herself, almost giving way to a stutter. “Next is probably Gallus. Then who? Perhaps Strawberry Ice is going to be missing, and then it’s going to be Soft Spot, and then it’ll go on until it gets to m-me….”

Coloratura took the chair, sat down on it. She massaged her forehead, jittery at the hooves.

“I didn’t sign up for this! I was supposed to be a singer, a singer and a role model for the foals, not spearhead a rebellion that’s not even rebelling anymore but just...retreating, down and down until we hit water and we have to make a boat.” She sighed, pressed her temples. “A boat? We’re going to be dead long before we could make a working boat, and then where? Aris? the Scaly Isles? Zorgarth? I don’t even know where Zorgarth is!”

She felt her cheeks puffy. The lantern flickered.

“Everything’s going to fall down. Too many of us in danger, some of us missing or captured! I wish I was back...back to the good old days when all w-was right, when we could hug each other and say that everything will be alright, everything’s gonna be OK….”

She cuddled up on the chair, pulled up her hindlegs.

“Everything’s going to be OK, Coloratura. Everything’s going to be OK.”

A hard knock on the door.

She stood up, sliding the chair with a noisy grind. “Who is it? I’m busy.”

“Get out of there,” demanded a gruff voice. “We know who you are, changeling.”

Coloratura looked flustered. “What?! I’m not a changeling! I was with all of you the whole time!”

“Except when you’re locked up in this room!” the voice shouted. “I and what’s left of the Guard’s got here to make sure everyone is safe. We don’t want anyone to be endangered by you!”

Coloratura took out the lantern and held it up with a hoof. “I’m not a changeling! I can prove it to you! I have the green gooey stuff—“

“That won’t be necessary, ma’am."

She clucked her tongue. “Who are you again?”

“Flash Sentry, once part of train patrol.”

Coloratura furrowed her long eyebrows. “Shouldn’t you be following someone else? What about the ponies with their underground—“

“They have their own guards,” Flash said. “Now, get out or I’ll make you get out.”

Coloratura took out a match. She drew out a sigh and lit it up. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Huh? What do you mean by that?” The door creaked open, revealing a bit of his yellow muzzle. “I’m ready—“

He saw the fiery match on her hoof.

“—and nevermind. Please don’t burn yourself. It’s not worth it, bug. With us, you’ll live.”

“I’m not a bug, I’m not a fly, I’m not a mosquito!” Coloratura insisted. “I’m a pony! A mare, an Earth pony! I am Coloratura!”

Flash grinned. “Good to know!” he said in an elated voice.

Coloratura shuddered. “What’s going on?”

The guard kept on grinning as he glowed blue.

Then, there was no guard. There was a changeling.

“You made it here?!” Coloratura screamed, holding both match and lantern up in her hooves. “How is that possible?!”

Cornicle fully opened the door, revealing a group of changelings holding the lifeless bodies of her ponies. “Aren’t you supposed to be moving fast? We caught up to you, that’s all.”

Coloratura looked at the wall behind her. “You’ve still got a lot of catching up to do!”

She punched the wall and jumped out through the hole.

The changelings rushed out to the hole and looked down.

No sight of Coloratura in the vast and tumble-down view of Klugetown’s filthy streets below, some inhabitants looking up at the changelings.

Coloratura hid out in the scaffold behind the wooden blades of the windmill, light coming in and out as the sail turned. Beside her were cans of chocolate bars and a jug of water half full. A little behind her was a fluffy pillow.

She lied down on it and looked up, seeing nothing but the blackness of what was supposed to be the ceiling.

“They’re g-gonna find me,” she muttered to herself. “They’ll f-find me. It’s only a matter of days, hours, minutes...maybe a changeling’s right behind me. Maybe he’s the chocolate. I didn’t touch the chocolate yet. Why would it stare at me with those wrappers and that steel...tin...metal can?….”

She noticed the light shine on her again. Coloratura poked her head out and looked down.

Saw changelings riling up ponies and Klugetowners in chains, overseeing them pulling wagons of heavy wheels and those shapeshifting rocks. There was a changeling—distinct because of his purple eyes—yelling at a probable lackey, “I can’t face Chrysalis with a brother unaccounted for! You have to find him! He can’t be that far off; this is supposed to be the last group of ponies they have over here!”

Coloratura sighed, put her head back on the pillow, and closed her eyes. She tried, in vain, to sleep the night away under the solemn sky, under the dark ceiling.

Postharvest

A sea of clouds. The Sea of Clouds.

An awning of gray clouds shining under the moonlight, bearing silver linings and bringing forth ashen outlines wandering by peeking mountain tops. Above sprawled the clear sky with its abundance of stars and the one moon, glowing bright.

Below this sea of clouds, one would see a lush valley with flowing tufts of grass bending under the freezing breeze. There were no flowers here, only the rare tree firm and steady against the wind. Few dirt paths winded up and down the mountain slopes.

A cottage punctuated the countryside, its lights on and its chimney gushing out smoke. Posted on the door was a sign with the words: “Changelings will get shot by cannon!”

The clinks and clangs of utensils could be heard from outside.

Inside was a table upon which was spread out an array of simple food: flat pasta in curry sauce, garlic syrup in big bowls, and spicy gazpacho topped with baked beans and rice—all these dishes radiating smells that permeated the air with their appetizing scents.

“I suppose you’re enjoying my impromptu meal,” said Cheerilee, the purple pony at the head of the table, hankerchief tied around her neck. “I can’t say I wasn’t expecting visitors, but I hope it was worth the wait.”

Fresh Coat and Celaeno smiled at their host.

The dining room was humble with its lack of furnishings. There were no potted plants to speak of nor any paintings to look at or some other valuable antique—only the fireplace and a shelf of emergency weapons stashed on the wall.

“Sorry I haven’t asked you before,” Cheerilee said after taking a sip of water, “but what brings you here?” She was eyeing Fresh Coat who was helping herself to slurping up her pasta. “I haven’t seen another pony in ages! I would’ve lost track of time if it weren’t for the calendars left over.”

Celaeno raised her claw, about to speak. Then, she changed her mind and motioned to Coat. “I’ll let her speak first. The food’s too good to pass up!”

Cheerilee giggled. “I don’t consider myself a good cook.” She blushed. “Actually, my talent is in helping my students grow and flourish.”

The pirate looked confused. “What students?”

Cheerilee sighed, picked on her food with a fork. “That’s what makes living here so hard. Not only am I alone most of the time, but I have no one to teach.” She paused. “You see, I used to be a teacher in this town called Ponyville.”

Coat raised a brow. “Did you say ‘Ponyville’?”

Cheerilee made another smile, looking at her now. “Then you know it for something else. Were you from Ponyville?”

Coat shook her head. “No, ma’am.”

“Figures.” With her fork, Cheerilee swirled the pasta on her plate but did not eat any. “I had to leave with most of the parents because they wanted to take their foals somewhere safer. Who wouldn’t? We split up many times. I was able to stick with some of my students, but we had to separate by the time I reached the last river in the forest.” She paused, pulling her plate closer. “I said to myself, ‘I made it this far. I can’t stop now.’”

Another pause. Both parrot and unicorn were all ears, leaving their food alone for the moment.

“I didn’t stop. I came upon this house and the owner told me I could have it. He was lambasting himself for being a coward and after I moved in, he headed back to Equestria to fight.” She sighed. “I hope he’s OK.”

Celaeno and Coat were silent, bending a little to hear what else she had to say.

“But, enough of me,” Cheerilee said, facing the other mare in the room. “How did you get here?”

Coat levitated her soup spoon down and cleared her throat while Celaeno returned to her dinner though keeping an eye on her. The unicorn hung her cap on the chair. “The usual, miss. I am a Canterlot pony, so when the changelings invaded, I had to get out and save myself. Went around and settled in a base deep in the forest. We had to leave since the changelings were getting closer.”

Cheerilee made a silent nod. She sharpened her frown, turning her lips further down.

“We went to Klugetown”—Cheerilee winced—“and...I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t want to rest, I didn’t want to do odd jobs and get splashed with paint! It’s good they didn’t get into my eyes!”

Celaeno stopped eating, holding a fork in mid-air.

“I stowed away at some prisoner ship and the prisoners were going to perform in the circus somewhere here. I got found out, but the captain—a changeling, but he’s good—he kept me safe and didn’t do anything bad to me...just me because he mistreated the prisoners there. Then, Captain Celaeno here”—gestured to the pirate who was holding her fork still—“raided his ship and brought me to her crew. After a while, the changeling got mad and brought his friends and they burned our ship.”

Celaeno turned away, hiding her clenched jaw from their host.

“Before we knew it, everyone’s dead except us. We escaped by trying out a teleportation spell...it was a lucky shot, but we did it right before the ship crashed on to a mountain. We traveled for some time; we couldn’t find any good place to stay. Then, we found your cottage and...” she attempted a smile but ended up appearing fake. “You know the rest.”

Cheerilee finally ate some pasta, chewing on savory testaroli and mulling over the story. “It’s good you made it here, but...she’s a real pirate?” She glanced between her two guests. “I thought you’re wearing that get-up to ward off the changelings!”

It was Celaeno’s turn to frown although with a hint of anger. “You’re saying you’ll kick me out just because I’m a swashbuckling treasure hunter?”

Cheerilee kept her stern face for a while, then dropped it. “You’re here now, and there’s no use in leaving you out in the cold. I’m...I’m also sorry you’ve lost most of your pirate mates.” She poured more water into her glass, making a quick glimpse at the barrel of wine standing in the corner. “It must’ve been hard to cope.”

Celaeno put down her fork. “It sure is. We parrot swashbucklers are few and far between these days. It’ll take me months to assemble another crew.”

Cheerilee merely nodded. “Well, it was a pleasure having someone to talk to during dinner—“

And a howling cry echoed throughout the house.

Celaeno and Coat turned their heads around, trying to discern where the cry was coming from as it filled the room.

Cheerilee shivered, tugged at her own mane, hooves quivering.

“Is that your foal?” Coat asked, sounding unsure.

“Um, uh….” She scratched her cheeks, then her mane, then her snout, hemming and hawing. “I-It’s not mine a-and it’s not a foal.”

“Not a foal?!” shouted Coat and Celaeno together.

The cry returned, louder than ever.

Celaeno raised her brows once again. “Sounds like a foal.”

“Eh...it isn’t,” responded Cheerilee, patting her face to check if there was sweat. “I was hoping he wouldn’t make some noise but, now that you ask...”

She turned her head away from the food.

“Follow me.”

And Cheerilee stood up. The parrot and the unicorn followed her, leaving their dinner to cool off and lose their delicious heat.

Cheerilee opened the door, revealing a dark room inside.

It was the perfect place for a foal. Toy carts and pony plushies were scattered on the floor, collecting a little dust. A stroller stood under the closed window, its view of the night obstructed by the trees’ thick leaves and branches. A dozen unused diapers lay on the cupboards beside an empty rocking chair where a nightlight had been placed—it was off. At the far end of the room rested the crib, and Celaeno and Coat could see a figure squirming there as it cried.

“Looks a lot like a foal to me,” Celaeno whispered, giving Cheerilee a skeptical expression.

Cheerilee took a step back into the hallway. “You be the ones to find out yourselves.”

Celaeno and Coat gave each other weirded out faces. Then, they tip-toed and tip-hoofed their way to the crib. They avoided stepping on whatever could trip them up or whatever could make noise. Finally, they reached the crib and leaned in to see what the baby was.

It looked like a big black caterpillar shrouded in a naturally hard white cloth. Its complex eyes were blue; his cute black cheeks accentuated his cute little white fangs. A little horn was coming out of his forehead.

Coat gasped. “A grub?!” She whirled her round to see Cheerilee standing in the bright hallway, her shadow dark and ghastly.

Celaeno turned round to see Cheerilee, too.

Cheerilee herself swayed her leg around. “I found it lying in a ditch during my walks, crying alone...helpless. It must’ve been from the changeling scouting party that was somehow stopped later on—don’t know who; probably some ponies from the other side.”

Silence. The grub broke it with a high-pitched cry.

Unicorn and parrot covered their ears, gritted their teeth.

“You better give it some milk,” whispered Cheerilee as loud as possible, gesturing towards the bottle on the floor.

“Do grubs even digest milk?” Coat asked.

“Feed him with the milk!”

Celaeno grabbed the bottle and stuffed the grub’s mouth with it. Pacified, the baby changeling guzzled the sweet milk down.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Cheerilee said, staying there in the hallway and crossing her forelegs. “The first time he saw the bottle, he was stretching his arms towards it. Maybe it was incompatible, maybe I might kill the baby if I gave it milk...but, so far, he hasn’t shown any symptoms.”

Celaeno and Coat stood still, staring at the baby wriggling about.

Cheerile trotted inside the room. “Do you have any questions before we move on? It’s something I’d like to get over with quickly.”

Celaeno raised her claw. “Why don’t you just return it?”

Cheerilee tapped her own chin. “At first, I didn’t want to give it back because what if he grows up to become a powerful changeling, an unstoppable force of evil? After I nursed him back to good health...I thought...even if he doesn’t become a hive hero, why should I return the grub? Chrysalis isn’t a good mother...I have not seen her myself, but she’s...she doesn’t seem like the creature I’d trust my own foals with any day of the week.” She coughed, took in a closer look to see the grub. She rubbed the grub’s head and his smile grew wider. “I wanted to say that, if I raise him right, he will experience the joy that someone like him deserves: a good foalhood, or grubhood, I should say; he won’t be bossed around to do despicable things against non-changelings like you and me; he would do what is right no matter what.”

Coat looked at her, unsure. “What if he turns out bad anyway?”

Cheerilee turned round and glared at her. “At least I did my best! I’ve never had a foal and I probably never will, but this is the best chance I’ve got! What better way than to teach him how to be friends with the creatures he meets?!”

Coat and Celaeno now took steps back, giving the Earth pony some space.

Cheerilee placed a hoof on her head, looking and feeling guilty. “Sorry for bursting out like that. It’s...I know myself...I’ve grown attached to it. I’ve b-become its mother...a-adoptive mother….”

She trotted away from the crib, pushing her two guests aside as the mare went back into the hallway.

“Follow me. Let’s resume our dinner.”

One cold dinner and a few hours later, Celaeno and Fresh Coat were back on the road, trudging their way through picturesque landscapes late at night under a looming army of clouds that ever threatened to break out into a storm but never really did despite the many flashes of lightning and thunder. At times, they retreated to a copse of pine because they thought heavy rain was coming: the wind blew hard, the lightning cracked, even a little drizzle fell and graced them with their cool shower and made them a little wet that way. However, it was all over in a minute, and the pair returned to journeying the valleys.

There was a moment where, confronted with a bunch of old towels lying about on the grass, stained with dirt and mud, the mare thought it was a trap and that the changelings were the towels.

Celaeno laughed. “They may be clever, but I don’t think they’d risk being wiped with sweat and oil!”

Coat agreed to that though with reservation in her mouth.

Thirty minutes later, they encountered a colossal ravine yawning deep into some jagged rocks below. Vultures and crows squawked together in unison, creating a little song with their ominous hisses and caws.

Fortunately for them, a bridge presented itself nearby, but it was the unstable kind with wooden planks held up by ropes.

“You’re a bird,” Coat said, nudging her on the arm. “Can’t you fly us to the other side?”

Celaeno glowered at her. “I’m a wingless parrot just like my crew.”

Coat smacked herself on the head.

“We’ll make it out just fine,” Celaeno said, beholding the rope bridge that would surely give way and throw them down into a death they did not call for.

Except it did not give way. Aside from the pony screaming every couple of seconds, they reached the other side with no complications.

Thus, they continued their journey south.

One hour after midnight, the two of them came to rest by an abandoned bar. It was wooden and the floor was flattened logs. An uneven surface, but it was passable. There were bottles upon bottles of untapped concoctions inside: beer, rum, vodka, whisky, brandy, mead, wine….

“No water?” Coat asked after opening the empty fridge which had not been turned on for quite some time.

“It’s ironic,” Celaeno said. “Living in a place where there’s lots of clouds and you can’t have water here.”

“Must be stronger than a salt lick,” the mare said, closing the fridge and trotting back. “This must be the rowdiest establishment in the world.”

Celaeno looked upon the racks of drinks resting on their never-melting ice cubes. “It’s a good thing that it’s out of business. What would’ve happened if it kept on growing?”

“Selling poison to their customers?” Coat asked.

“It’s not unlikely.”

Fresh Coat gulped.

Celaeno noticed the little clock lying on the floor. She picked it up. “It’s almost one. We better sleep in.”

“Here?!” Coat cried out. “But, we have to stay awake! What if there are changelings right in front of us and they’re the bottles?!”

“You’re delusional,” Celaeno quipped, heading for the stairs. “If the changelings are up in Equestria, then we’re going to be fine for...about two more days here.”

Fresh Coat hesitated, stepping back only to trip on a chair.

Celaeno rolled her eyes, one foot already on the staircase. “We don’t have all night, Fresh-o. A good pirate needs all the energy she could get.”

This “Fresh-o” dusted herself off, getting up on her own. “But I’m not a pirate!”

Celaeno replied by pulling her ear and dragging the squeamish mare upstairs.

They slept on two beds inside a drab and dull bedroom which consisted of those two beds and only those two beds. No drawer, no cabinet, no shelves, no tables, no chairs—only a locked window and a box of candles.

While Celaeno slumbered peacefully, Fresh Coat slept with a motley range of snores and whistles. How was the parrot able to survive this? The answer was turning her back towards the mare, and it was enough for her. However, the mare’s snorts and snuffles drowned out all other possible sounds.

Including the sound of quiet hoofsteps from the hallway.

In a Row Back

Late in the afternoon, the sun was close to setting but Cheerilee could not see that past the thick sea of clouds above her roof. All she could see was the sky turning darker.

She sat alone at the dining table with her leftover pasta and garlic syrup. The gazpacho had been slurped clean with not a single crumb or drop left to it. By the sink were a few cleaned plates already dried up from yesterday.

Cheerilee breathed easy but her face did not show it. The wrinkles and creases on her forehead made that clear.

A loud chirp from the window.

She got up and trotted to it, passing by the living room’s sofas and the pictures of the previous owner—a stallion with a thick brown beard and a pair of glasses.

Cheerileee opened the window and saw the pigeon over there, swinging its head around dumbly with those big eyes. Attached to its leg was a note. She untied it and read the letter aloud:

“‘To anyone who can read this, move to a safe location right now. The changelings have taken over Klugetown and are learning how to use airships. Gallop to the Dragon Lands or Mount Aris; these are the only strongholds left. Hurry!”

Cheerilee almost suffocated. Then, composing herself, she carried the letter to the fireplace and burned it, seeing it char and dissolve into oblivion.

The mare, for the second time, left her meal to cool and galloped to the grub’s room where he was sleeping. His eyes were closed and he had an adorable smile on its face, maybe more adorable because of its fangs.

Cheerilee looked at the cupboard. Over there, lying beside the diapers, was a book. She pulled it out and saw the title.

How to Raise Your Foal Right!

“Better take it with me,” she murmured before putting it into her mane. “The flowers, too.”

Cheerilee pulled out a drawer, yanked an empty suitcase, and laid it on the floor as quietly as possible. She eyed the baby.

He did not cry nor yawn.

“Sorry, junior, but we’re going somewhere.”

She packed the book inside the suitcase.

The moon had just risen, yet Cheerilee was not done with her packing. She only had one suitcase’s worth of items to deal with, but it became a puzzle on how to make them all fit: blankets, pillows, toys, bottles, vitamins, pesticides—organic, to be sure—food packets, spare bits, paper and quill and ink, and a foldable fighting stick.

All windows were closed and locked. Dinner was set on the table but no one was to eat it this soon.

When Cheerilee finally closed the suitcase with a heroic jump, she trotted to the crib where the grub was still sleeping. She picked him up, held him close to her face, pecked him with a kiss on the cheek. “You’ll be fine with Mommy. We’re just going out for a walk. A long walk.”

He rolled around in the grip of her two hooves. Did not stir.

A blanket was brought out and, a few seconds later, he was swaddled inside, hidden. Cheerilee also slung another blanket around her, this one carrying a bottle of water and a bunch of crackers and biscuits.

“You’re going to be alright,” Cheerilee whispered as she brisked out of the room and locked the door. “You’re going to be alright, you’re going to be alright, you’re going to be alright. Mommy’s got you now….”

She galloped all around, saw that all the lights were turned off and the lamps and candles extinguished.

It was a cold, chilly night.

A gulp from her mouth. “We gotta flee—“

Knocks on the front door.

She froze. Stood still.

Silence. The space between her and the door was empty in dreadful silence save for the wind's blow.

Knock knock knock!

She held her breath, slowed it to a halt. Crouched by the dining table, hid herself there with suitcase and grub.

Knock knock!

A hoof slipped. She looked at it. Soaked with sweat.

Knock! “Uh, howdy! Is there anypony home? Anyone in there? I’m looking for my child!”

Cheerilee fastened her teeth firm, held the grub closer.

“I know you’re in there!” the mare from outside yelled. “I saw one of you moving through the windows!”

Cheerilee looked at one of those windows.

The curtains were not closed there. She could see the dark sky devoid of stars and moon.

“I promise you I won’t cause any trouble or harm,” the stranger said through the door. “I was told my foal was in some kind of adoption center around these parts. This is the only building I’ve seen for miles, so, if you could just answer….”

Cheerilee sighed, sweating. She glanced at the door, then at the window. “Do I choose to talk or to escape? Talk or escape? Talk or es—“

The doorknob squeaked.

Cheerilee gripped the grub to her chin, cradling him near.

“Oh, sorry!” the stranger said, startled. “Very rude of me to try out locked doors! I don’t want to bother you any longer, so please do the both of us a favor and let me see my baby. I have the birth certificates!”

Cheerilee inhaled a huge gulp of breath. “She can’t possibly be the mother. A changeling...a changeling who saw me with the grub...how does she know? How did she know?”

Knock knock knock! “Come on, ma’am! I don’t have all day and they might be here any moment!”

Cheerilee stood up, closed the curtains of that one window, and galloped down the hallway, turned left and went down the stairway. Then, another left in the basement, and she saw an open door leading to a storage room of opened boxes and containers.

She closed the door behind her, locked it with three keys she found underneath three different boxes.

Cheerilee looked up in the pitch black room.

Knock knock knock knock! Though muffled, she could still hear the stranger: “Ma’am,...ain’t funny! I...know if you’re...prank, but this is my colt...talking about! I haven’t seen...when he got lost!...”

She let her hooves fumble around on the floor, searching and searching.

Picked up a key.

It slipped away.

She picked it up again and unlocked the hidden hatch. It slid open and she went inside, carrying everything and the one grub with her further underground. Carrying all four keys, she closed the hatch with a smish! and analyzed what she had gotten herself into.

A rocky, unsmooth tunnel reeking and stinky. Over there, shovels could be found under a lantern still burning bright beside some sticks and twigs. Lying over there was a scrap of paper. She picked that one up and read the scrawled message:

“‘Find a way to clog the hatch. Get the shovel, run to the other side and dig. You’ll be out in five minutes.”

She pocketed the note into her bag, picked up the lantern and the shovel, and placed some of the sticks there to snag the hatch’s locking mechanism.

The pony ran in the dark, dry tunnel. She picked up dust, she sometimes fell on her face, but she did not give up. The other side of the tunnel held freedom.

The stranger, standing outside the house in the middle of the night, took off her hat. “Ma’am, you’re leaving me no choice but to force my hoof and barge in! That’s my colt you’re hiding from me!”

She turned around and kicked the door down.

When the dust settled with its broken door, there was no one to be found. All that was left was the dinner on the table, complete with utensils placed in their proper locations.

She growled. “Come out! You can’t stay away from me for long! Give me my baby!”

The reply was her own words echoing back.

She stomped the floor. It cracked.

“Don’t you try to trap me!” she shouted. “I know the food you’re serving is poisoned! You can’t give the baby back to his Mom if she’s dead, so I’ll not eat!”

She stepped forward, jumping ahead.

“You’re not going to last long here! You had a chance to give my foal back easily, but you’re much more than suspicious now!”

Cheerilee stumbled another time. She protected the grub from contact with the rough ground by embracing him with her hooves, bearing the bruises herself.

She stood up and trekked on, though her pace was slower than before, taking a limping mien.

Everything more than several feet before her was nothing but darkness. The lantern was weak, but it was sufficient to see her immediate surroundings although they were not that interesting—rock walls, rock ceiling, dirt ground.

She looked back, seeing nothing but the same darkness as before. Clutched on to the shovel, she pushed herself more with a strong leap ahead.

“Hah! There you are!”

The stranger opened the door and discovered the baby’s room. Most of it had remained as it was before, the toys and the diapers confirming that, yes, this was where a baby would live.

Except the baby was no longer there.

She shook her head in dismay and galloped to the crib to double check if the baby was not there.

It was empty. The baby was gone, the pillow was gone, the blanket was gone, the rattler was gone, and so, too, was the milk bottle.

“She couldn’t have possibly escaped through some backdoor!” she shouted, using up most of her energy to hold back her rage. “There must be some secret room somewhere! Hiding won’t do her good much longer!”

She beat a path out of the room and re-entered the hallway.

Cheerilee thrust the dirt out of the way with her shovel, making beams of light appear through one hole and then two and then more. Cracks, crumbles, and then she put the shovel on her back and, with her forehooves, dug her own way out.

Her head popped back into the world above, breathing in the fresh evening air. She could see that she was facing a mountain whose peak was obscured by the clouds above.

The stranger opened the last kitchen cabinet and closed it.

“Urgh! Why is it so hard to find her?!” She banged her head on the wall. Then, she stroked her red mane and smiled.

A glow came upon her. It disappeared as quickly as it appeared and in her place was Ocellus.

“No more games for you!” she snarled. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find that missing grub, and if you’re so concentrated on hiding it from us...maybe you’re hiding something else, too.”

She spread her wings and hovered to the front door.

Outside was an unassuming dirt path and some ordinary rocks chilling in the night.

“You made sure the pony hasn’t left the house?” she asked the stones.

They glowed and were replaced by four changelings.

“Well?” Ocellus tapped her hoof impatiently. “Any news from the other guy?”

Cheerilee roamed the fields in the dark, mentally recording every possible angle of attack and deliberately scrutinizing every object that was not a blade of grass. She looked up, fearful that one of those clouds would fall from the sky and snatch the grub and her.

Two minutes of wandering around, she heard the rushing sound of water. A minute later and she found a river. There was a sign posted near it which told its name: Gorm River.

Then, whistling.

With strained and baggy red eyes, Cheerilee looked to the right.

Rowing down the stream was a whistling pony alone with her paddle. This pony was on a small boat, but Cheerilee could see that there was room for one more rower. She felt relieved when she saw that there was a spare paddle at the back.

Cheerilee waved her hooves frantically. “Help! Can I go with you?!”

The mysterious rower looked surprised and turned towards her direction. She hollered with cupped hoof, “Really?! How do I know you’re not a changeling?!”

“I’m carrying a changeling grub and it needs my help!”

The rower invited her to come in with a swing of her hoof. “Hop in!”

Cheerilee took a running start and, holding briefcase and baby tight, jumped halfway across the river and landed on the boat, rocking it about but not tipping it over.

Now, the sound of the water was all around as it splashed on her.

Cheerilee got up, composed herself again. “Whew! Thank you so much, miss! What’s y-your name?”

The rower put down her hat. Her salmon coat and her dull purple mane clashed with that cowpony-like hat. With that over, she grinned and said, “My name’s Wildflower Heartease, also known as Wildwood Flower. Used to do rodeo stuff, but...”

The spare paddle glowed and a changeling grabbed Cheerilee by the neck, covered her mouth and restrained her, leaving her no time to move her hooves or say anything.

“...I got into a few problems.”

Fortitude

By some tall pine trees in the final hours of night—for, in the horizon, stretched the color pink, signalling the inevitable morning—a circle of changelings had gathered around a bonfire and were now feeding off Cheerilee’s love, that mare holding on to a trunk to stay upright but with her nerves failing and her sight fading….

The only changeling who was not feasting on this fresh early breakfast was Ocellus. She sat on a log, caressing the sleeping grub with her hoof. She adopted a cutesy voice to say, “There, there. It’s OK. You’re safe with us, back with your family.”

The baby stirred, turned around in its blanket, and yawned, extending its tiny little legs to the air. His eyes fluttered, half open at first and then fully so, beholding the face of his caretaker and rescuer.

Ocellus smiled. “Aww, who’s the nicest little larva in the hive? You are! Yes, you are!” She poked him gently on the head, ready to laugh along with him.

She was not ready to hear him stick his tongue out and hiss at her.

Ocellus shook her head, though making a smile out of her frown. “What’s wrong, little one? Was I too loud?” She turned aside. “It’s probably the milk.”

One of the feeding changelings raised his ear and flew away from his meal. He landed beside Ocellus and sat beside her.

The baby remained in her hooves. “Empis, have you checked the contents of the milk yet? She may have tried to hurt the grub.”

The other changeling shook his head. “I’ve sampled it from another bottle, if that would provide the needed data.”

Ocellus leaned closer, looking over his face. “Did it taste funny?”

“No. Tastes like normal milk.”

And the baby hissed again, flailing its legs against Ocellus but to no avail since they were too short to reach her neck.

“This is not normal,” Ocellus commented, sounding deflated. She kept the grub a good distance away from her yet still held him with both hooves. “If it’s not the milk...have you checked the food?”

“Just baby mash,” Empis answered nonchalantly with a shrug. “None of it’s been opened, though.”

Ocellus slouched on her log. “If it's not the milk and if it's not the food...it’s not physical. You checked the contents of her bag?”

Empis nodded. “We found some interesting stuff inside. We got a kind of…container of a compressed substance with a warning label about not spraying at the eyes—“

Ocellus gasped. “Don’t open it! That’s probably pesticide!”

Empis was silent and surprised. His swinging head betrayed second thoughts.

“Anything else?” Ocellus asked, afraid. “Anything unusual?”

Empis looked up to the brightening sky. “We found some flowers. I don’t know what they are...could be tulips.”

“No magical plants?”

Empis thought about it for a while. “No magical plants.”

Ocellus frowned. “And...?”

Empis caught his breath. “There was this book. I skimmed it and it was like a list of instructions about making sure the pony has a well-behaved foal.”

Ocellus stood up, growling and making a fist out of her hoof. “Burn it! It’s corrupting the mind of this grub!”

Empis gulped. “R-Really?!”

“Didn't you see how he greeted me when he woke up?!” she shouted, smacking the log with her hoof and hovering over it. “They’re willing to make our own grubs fight us! They have no idea what they’re doing!”

Empis nodded, spreading his wings open already. “I’ll burn the book right away!”

He was off.

It was a bright morning, the sun shining upon the fields of grass as the Gorm River surged by. Sitting on a picnic mat beside it was Wildwood Flower, donning her hat and eating her breakfast with Ocellus, both feeling the warm shine.

“You’re consistent with your excellent work,” Ocellus said, calm with her compliment. “If only you were a real changeling, then Chrysalis would promptly give you a better job in the hive. As you are now, be grateful you could do what you’re doing while being fed and paid for it.”

Wildwood smiled, ripped a bite off of her dry bread loaf. “My pleasure.”

Ocellus nodded. “Make no mistake, however. Since you are still a pony and have not shown any signs of being an actual changeling, the rest of the hive will still look down on you. Don’t worry about that for long, though; the reports I make about you are positive and, hopefully, that would help bring in more pony turncoats to our side.”

Wildwood laughed. “I don’t think myself as a turncoat, really.”

“Oh?” The changeling inspected her features. “Then what do you think are?”

Wildwood took off her hat*, letting her mane flow. “That’s easy. I’m a pony who’s OK with someone else ruling Equestria. I’ve had my time with Celestia and I still need her—she raises the sun and all. But, Equestria’s always been too quiet. It’s big, but it’s not moving anywhere. Thanks to you, I’ve got something to look forward to.”

Ocellus arched her brow. “That’s strange. You did not tell me that when we first met.”

"You might've suspected me if I said that right then.”

Ocellus put down her barely-bitten cookie. “Nevermind. You’re becoming more honest with us and that’s good.”

The pony took a tomato and took a bite off of it. “But, what will Chrysalis think of me when it’s over?”

“She’ll have to give you compensation,” replied Ocellus. “We can’t have you begging around for food in our prosperous empire.”

“Yeah….”

Silence as they finished a part of their breakfast, the river's clear water rushing by.

“So, do I have new missions or can I take this time to rest?” Wildwood asked. The pony rubbed her mane, fixing it.

“Actually, you do have a new mission,” answered Ocellus. “I just received word that there’s an enchanted relic in the Dwillig Forest past the river. It's said that if you have the relic, you’ll always win. That would be valuable, but even if it doesn’t work, it surely would be something nice to have. Also, and more importantly, there might be a pony hideout in the forest, and you’ve proven yourself to be a skilled actor.”

Wildwood laughed again, quieter this time . “Comes with the territory. Who’ll recognize a pony they’ve never seen before?”

“That’s the kind of thinking a changeling should have all the time,” remarked Ocellus, pointing at her with a cheerful smile. “We really should make you an honorary changeling at some point.”

The both of them laughed at that bit of absurdity, forgetting their prisoner at work.

Not so far from the picnic was Cheerilee who was not living up to her name right now because she was busy performing the drudgery known as gathering random rocks and piling them up only for the changeling at the top to overturn it and make those stones fall down. It was a nonsensical ordeal, to say the least, since she was told to pick the rocks back up and form the pile again.

“You better work harder!” yelled the changeling on her left. “Faster!”

Cheerilee whimpered, riddled with scars on her body. “Wh-Where’s the baby?!”

“It’s not your baby!” screamed the changeling. “It’s ours!”

Head aching and hurting, she stopped to catch a breath.

Kicked on the side by another changeling beside her. “Don’t rest! Every second is valuable!”

She heaved, about to lose her grip on the rocks she was carrying, pain shooting back in her veins.

Half a day later and, mid-afternoon, Wildwood Flower was journeying through the Dwillig Forest. However, it was not much of a forest if one were to think of forests as trees crowded around together and blocking out the sky with so much shade and so many shadows. This forest was rather sparse with its vegetation, carrying fewer trees than expected.

Wildwood sneaked from tree to tree, crouching and crawling her way to each location with ease and quiet. Although she could see nobody around her, she felt her blood pressure rising, her heart pumping and beating fast.

She cooled down, took in a deep breath, and exhaled. “Like she said, don’t worry. It’s going to be worth it.”

An hour later of such sneaking and pausing, she found something rising in the distance. A circular figure like a dome. With the temple being so close, she did not want to risk detection. She continued sneaking by the trees, creating as little noise as possible.

Then, she saw some tents and some modest shelters over there right before the tall steps to the entrance which was an enormous archway leading inside.

Wildwood leaped, landed with no crashes. After a few more leaps, she reached the camp.

What she saw was not encouraging. Trampled tents, stamped campfire, toppled supplies and spilled food; hoofprints were plenty, hard and deep into the soil. She inhaled the burnt odor and walked her way through the mess, careful with her steps so as to not make any sound.

She turned her head to the temple before her. A massive work of ancient art, made more beautiful by the fact that whoever had built it was limited to stones, bricks, mortar, and good memory. There were cracks especially near the bottom of the structure, but it had stood the test of time. Towers integrated into its design, sheer size towering the tallest trees within the vicinity, overgrowth only adding to its aging style—here was a temple of not just good taste but of something greater.

And she could hear rumbling from inside the temple.

“Huh?”

She jumped out, hid underneath one of the fallen tents, and waited.

The rumbles continued. Now, she could hear voices.

“You’re not taking the Sphere from me!”

“We’ve had an agreement!”

Cling! Swish!

Bzow!

“Agh!”

An evil chuckle. “You would be mad to do that when I have it. I...I could see it’s not just a legend. No, it exceeds the legend!”

“You’ve got to give it back! You promised!”

Another chuckle. “Really? You’re a pirate, Celaeno, and you expect promises to be fulfilled? You must be dreaming. You, of all creatures, should know better than to throw trust around like a pony.”

“But you’re a pony!”

Bzow!

Silence.

Thud.

Wildwood shivered underneath the tent.

“Come, Fresh Coat,” said the other pony’s voice. “We’re going to have more than success with this Sphere.”

Wildwood peeked half of her head out of the tent, seeing who they could be.

At the bottom of the humongous staircase lay the fallen corpse of Celaeno. Her sword, holstered in Fresh Coat’s bag. The mare’s companion, Tempest Shadow herself, was holding a silver sphere with jewels on it, shining in brilliant colors under the sunlight. Her horn, now complete and whole, glowed a fierce blue, its glare unstable like contained electricity.

Her eyes glittered under the glow.

“W-Will you—” Coat coughed. “Will you defeat…the changelings? Every one of them?”

“As long as I don’t lose the sphere,” Tempest said, “but why save them? Why save Equestria?”

Coat did a double take. “Because...it’s your home?”

“Pfft!” Tempest shook her head. “How naive you are. It was the ponies of my ‘home’ that shunned me, that rejected me for being different, for being hit by mere circumstances.”

“So...you won’t save Equestria?”

“Mm-hmm.”

The two of them stared at the abandoned camp before them. They could feel the wind breezing over it, letting the tents flap about and drifting the campfire's smoke away.

“What will you do?” Coat asked innocently.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do: see if I could become queen of Mount Aris and Seaquestria. That way, I’d have many subjects who’ll serve under me. They’ll fend off the changelings while I go back to Equestria to exact revenge.”

Coat cocked her head. “Who?”

“The ponies who ruined my horn in the first place!” she roared, that horn glowing and crackling with its glow.

“Isn’t that a bad idea?” Coat asked, close to stuttering.

“Without the help of this Sphere—“ she held it up, letting it glisten in the air, in her grasp “—I would’ve perished at the claw of this pathetic pirate.”

“What if they’re ca—“

“Then I’ll destroy the hive with them!” she said, planting a hoof on the ground. “I will let them know that I am not only alive, but that they should’ve never, ever, left me.”

Then, a cough.

Both ponies looked towards the camp again.

Tempest pushed Coat to the side, shoved her to the dirt, saying, “I know a sitting duck when I see one.” She let her horn crackle again, magical lightning beams striking out of it as she approached the only blue tent at the campsite.

Painted into a Corner

Over the wide open fields and the solitary rocky river, the sun in its sharp orange sky finally set upon the day, lowering behind the mountains to plunge everything into a cool darkness. From the other side, the moon appeared, returning with its mellow glow and its myriad of accompanying stars.

Everything became colder and Ocellus, who had watched it all from beside the parked rowboat by the Gorm, looked to her left and saw the endless fields across the water, these sporting four more trees than her side. “Where is she?”

Standing behind the nearest tree and with their backs to the trunk, Tempest and Coat slowed their breathing to a silent halt.

“Why are we hiding?” Coat asked, shivering and hugging herself in the cold. “If the legend is true, then it doesn’t matter how we attack them, right?”

Tempest cradled the Sphere, her horn now inactive. “I’m taking all necessary precautions. I know how tricksters can set me up for failure. As long as I’m holding it, we’re safe.”

“You can’t just put it down?”

Tempest slapped her on the face. “Can you stop asking questions? You sound like you have nothing but questions!”

“That’s because I’ve been through a weird week,” she said through the pain, massaging her affected cheek. “What next? Maybe when I wake up, you’re a changeling and you’ll take me to your boyfriend so we can become best friends.”

Tempest rolled her eyes. “This is not the time to make jokes.”

“I could, uh...lighten up the mood, like somepony told me before all this?”

“You buried two bodies and you want to lighten up the mood?” Tempest grinned, wagging her head at her. “You’re a bizarre pony. Then again, all of you ponies are bizarre to me.”

Coat looked away, seeing the grass sway under another gust of wind. Then, she turned back to Tempest. “So, what’s the hold-up?”

Tempst moaned. Without looking at her: “We’re going to wait for that changeling over there to turn around; she looks like the local leader. We slip up to her and knock her out. Whole squad will think she’s searching for her missing pony buddy. Then, we get to the rest of them.” She paused, focused on her. “Do as I say and don’t question it.”

Coat nodded her head blankly.

“We’ll start with you staying right behind this very tree while I watch out for her,” Tempest finished. “Got it?”

Coat nodded again, still blankly.

Tempest poked her head out of the trunk.

Ocellus was looking their way.

“Hah!” Ocellus shouted, spreading her wings and flying away from the river. “Every—“

Bzow!

She fell limp, her legs and ears marked with burns.

“What?!” Coat shouted, shocked and holding her head, turning it about. “I thought you’re gonna sneak up on—“

“She saw us,” Tempest said, coming out of the tree. “Had no choice.”

Tempest placed the sphere inside her saddle bag and sallied out, approaching the river.

Fresh Coat fell to the ground. “Hey! Wait for me!”

“What’re we having?” a changeling asked Empis as he and their peers sat around their second bonfire, now in the middle of a somewhat thick copse of trees—not enough to be a forest, but it felt like one.

Empis was the odd one out, standing by a little campfire by the big bonfire; beside him was Cheerilee, legs tied to a wooden branch hammered to the ground. He was busy cooking ants, caterpillars, worms, and one huge beetle inside a pot of boiling water.

“Crust?” the cook called out. “You got the coconuts?”

Crust, sitting on his log, took out two coconuts. “I brought straws and—ooh! I also found this while I was out foraging!”

He brought out an empty beehive. His friends admired it with “Ooh!’s” and “Aah!’s”

Empis did a double take. “Woah. How’d you get the bees out?”

“I burned them!”

Empis blinked. “O...K….”

“What?” Crust held his hooves out like one falsely accused. “Coconut and honey for us, leftovers for the cheery pony to drink. A healthy pony is a lovely pony, am I right?”

“Too much sweets and she won’t be healthy,” Empis remarked, stirring the pot with a stick.

“Sugar to keep her awake!” the coconut changeling talked back, pointing at her.

“It’s almost dinner,” Empis said, exasperated at Crust. “After this, she’ll go straight to bed and we move on with her. I heard everyone else is going to reach us...about four hours from now.”

“Why so late?” asked Pycno, another changeling by the bonfire.

Empis sighed. “They’re busy with...something. I don’t know.”

“Speaking of being late,” Crust went on, “where’s Ocellus? Isn’t she supposed to be here by now?”

“Probably looking for Wildwood,” Empis said, taking a look at the pot. More bubbles popped as an appetizing aroma wafted out of it.

As for Cheerilee, her views of what was appetizing were apparently different from those of her captors since she covered her mouth and was close to throwing up, cheeks bulging.

“I’m not surprised if she comes back empty-hoofed,” Empis continued. “She could’ve bailed on us.”

“And left for another changeling party?” Pycno asked.

“Doesn’t make sense to me,” Crust answered for Empis, flying nearer to the bonfire to warm himself up. “She’s going to cause confusion between our groups, might start a little fight between us on accident.”

“Unless that’s part of her plan,” Pycno suggested.

The thought of it made every changeling stand up, alert and ready, wings open and taking defensive stances.

“Won’t you calm down?!” Empis yelled from his spot by the cooking pot.

Everyone blinked at him.

“Sit down!”

And everyone sat down.

Empis thrust his hoof to the air. Kicked Cheerilee in the face, bruising it purple—well, more purple than it could already be.

“We are not having this argument again!” Empis screamed, facing his changeling co-workers. “Ocellus and I would never let a pony do our thing without serious thought! We’re ninety-nine percent sure she’s on our side, and even if she tries to turn our back on us, we’ll capture her on sight and send her to the prisons northside!”

He took a breather, putting a leg on a log.

The other changelings looked around, blaming each other not with words but with glances and glowers.

Cheerilee, seemingly missing from this heated talk, took the time to rub her hurting nose.

“We are not going to make any plans against Wildwood Flower,” Empis railed. “Do you understand?!”

His new subordinates murmured their “Yes’s”, some with a fearful shake.

“Good. Dinner in five minutes.”

The changelings then erupted into a free-for-all conversation as they took up their wooden bowls or, at worst, their stolen clothes to hold the food with. Empis himself went around and distributed the food, picking out and dropping equal servings for each of his comrades. For the huge beetle, he placed it on one of the flatter logs and sliced it open with a knife.

Crust, meanwhile, put his dinner down on the ground and cut the coconuts into halves without too much spillover. He took the beehive and brought out enough honeycombs for everyone to enjoy.

Everyone except Cheerilee who was left with a slice of a slice of honeycomb, a little cup’s worth of refreshing coconut water, and a bowl of crunchy boiled ants.

“What’s the matter with you?!” Empis shouted when he noticed her untouched food, busy carving out huge servings of beetle. “Eat!”

Cheerilee turned her face away. “Uh, wh-why, thank you—“

“Eat the honey and the ants!” Empis ordered.

The mare looked at the bowl of ants, their tiny bodies already burned and boiled.

She gulped twice in a row. Sweat was rolling down her face and her hooves. “I-I’ve never eaten ants before!”

“Then, congratulations!” Empis said, stopping his knifework. “Everyone has firsts, and you’ll have yours with those ants.”

“But...they’re ants.”

“Try something new!” was Empis’s last resort. He then returned to carving the beetle into hefty portions.

Cheerilee looked back to her bowl of ants.

She shuddered and raised her forehooves to her face. Dirty hooves, bruised hooves, scarred and hurting hooves.

She could feel her heart burn. She could feel her eyes well up.

From behind the trees, Tempest and Coat watched disaster unfold as Cheerilee cried loudly to the sky, ruining the whole dinner and prompting more than half the changelings present to console her, at least according to their idea of consoling since what they were telling her was that she was “going to be treated well as a slave”, that she would “have lots of fun times with your friends when you get to the cells in Canterlot”, and that she might even “be the pony dishing out those fried ants to us!”

In spite of these efforts at consoling this poor mare, she only cried more, souring the general mood of what would have been a great celebratory dinner.

“She’s pitiful,” Tempest commented under her breath. “If only she would fight back. She’s an Earth pony! Strong, athletic—why is she letting those ropes tie her down?”

“Because she is weakened—“

“I did not ask for your opinion!” Tempest snapped at her aggravating partner.

Coat sighed, muttering, “And you’ll go down dying….”

“What was that?”

The capped mare shrank away. “Uh, n-nothing!”

“I heard you were saying something.” Tempest raised her head, letting her grumpy face loom over Coat’s hat.

“Um...n-nothing?”

Tempest stomped a hoof right before hers, menacing her with a full display of her shiny teeth. “Do you dare try to get the Sphere away from me?”

“I-I wasn’t, I-I-I….”

Tempest kicked her on the chest and threw her down, leaped out of her hiding spot, and glowed her horn.

The changelings looked at the unicorn.

They charged at her, flying and running.

Leaving Cheerilee behind.

Tempest threw them down with punts of her head; now it was kicks and punches, and then a changeling grabbing her leg and her tail at the same time with tugging pain—kicked with a hind leg and flung him out, only for a changeling to bite at her tall mane. Dragged around, she fell to the ground.

The Sphere slipped out of her grip.

She shot a beam from her horn at a nearby changeling and he fell, his body falling to the Sphere and pushing it back to her grip. Several more changelings were done in by the heaviness of the artifact, being knocked on the head by it.

Tempest jumped back on to her four hooves and spaced them out, holding on to the ground as she fired beam after beam at each attacking changeling, yet more came and those fallen just stood up again.

“Don’t drop it!” cried out Fresh Coat from past the trees.

Tempest opened her mouth wide in surprise. “What?”

Then, orange hooves took hold of the Sphere.

Both mares were fighting over the relic as the changelings targeted Tempest, all trying to get it for themselves.

And then Coat pushed in and shoved her head under Tempest’s, covering the Sphere with it.

Coat pulled it out and kicked Tempest back down to the ground.

Pain surging through her sides, she looked at that other pony, that mare standing beside plenty of other changelings, all of them weakly reflecting the bright bonfire.

Fresh Coat glowed. It was now a changeling who had the Sphere of Fortitude.

Tempest gasped. Her hooves scampered backwards, hurling herself away from the changelings.

Only to be battered by half a coconut thrown her way.

She stumbled, slowed down, and a hoof caught her tail and another hoof and still another hoof until she was dragged all the way back to their grasp.

Tempest did not scream, Tempest did not cry, Tempest did not stay silent. Drowned out by countless changelings swarming her and beating her up, she struggled, wrestled, fought back despite her restricted hooves and horn, until—

Delilah was holding the sleeping grub on her hoof, both of them resting before the bonfire. A smile appeared on his face as she caressed his small head. Who could resist that cute fanged smile on a little grub?

“Ahem.”

There, standing before her, was a long-faced Ocellus.

Delilah looked over her shoulder, seeing the changelings chaining both Cheerilee and Tempest up together, the former’s wailing overpowering the lattere's mere silence.

“Where have you been?” Ocellus asked, expressionless. “And why are you here?”

The other changeling pressed her lips together, took some seconds to ready an answer. “I was racking up ponies to share and bring back to the hive. I encountered a pony sleeping in a bar out here and took her up. It worked until now.”

“Well, you got us what our pony agent could not do,” Ocellus replied, “so we must do something for you even though you are not part of our troop.”

“Thank you.”

Delilah returned to tending the grub’s needs, rubbing it softly as he yawned.

“About that….” Ocellus sat down beside her on the log. “The grub has been corrupted by the ponies. You must take extra care in teaching him who he is. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

Delilah nodded.

Ocellus got up. “We can accommodate you until your troop catches up. I’ll send a scout to his leader immediately.”

“His name is Hymeno,” she answered. “He works directly under Pharynx.”

“Alright.” Ocellus opened her wings and flew away, flying towards the rest of the changelings who were currently taking love from their two prisoners.

As for Delilah, she occupied herself with the grub, looking after him and muttering sweet words and phrases to him.

Before long, she dozed off, the grub sleeping on the log and Delilah herself sleeping on the grassy ground, unmindful of the freezing night.

Peasant Food

The grub yawned again and opened his eyes. He stretched out his tiny legs, taking in all the precious sunlight.

He looked around.

The bonfire was gone. The changelings were gone. Actually, the trees were also different; they were placed differently. Weren’t there less trees last time he was awake? Sure, it had been dark, but he could feel it, somehow, that there were more trees now. Maybe that was normal, that trees sometimes came and went without any notice.

“Oh, you’re up.”

The grub turned his head around and saw a changeling slowly coming out from behind a tree.

He hissed at the stranger, showing off his sharp fangs.

“No, no!” this new changeling said, raising his forehooves up as he hovered. “I’m not going to attack you! I-I’m a changeling, just like you!” He waved his holey hoof in the air. “See?”

The grub stopped, watching that hoof go about.

He returned to hissing this older changeling down.

“No! Wait!”

The stranger flew to him and grabbed the grub, then held him close to his chin.

“It’s a new day,” the changeling said. “A lot of things to be excited about, but...not the bad kind of things.”

The grub then quieted down again, looking curiously at this unusual changeling.

“Ah, I almost forgot! My name is Thorax. You have a name?”

The baby looked at him weird.

Thorax frowned. “Right. You can’t speak yet.”

Thorax held the grub with a firm hoof as he traveled through the forest, careful to never fly above the dirt path. He encountered some of the local wildlife along the way: rabbits hopping around, deer prancing about, birds chirping a-now. The grub would point its tiny legs to this or that new and unseen creature, opening his mouth in young awe.

“These are ants,” Thorax said, pointing at a trail of such climbing up and down a tree’s bark. “They live in anthills and feed off both plants and dead animals, but you have to be very careful. If you make them mad, they can bite you and you'll get a boo-boo or an owie!”

The grub tilted his head.

Thorax smiled wider for him as they moved away from the ants. Those ants were not minding the changelings' business anyway.

After twenty minutes of traversing through the forest, they came upon a lodge hidden by abundant trees and many shrubs. Thorax could hear hooves shuffling, plants breaking and snapping, ponies speaking—also a fire crackling.

Thorax landed on the ground with a loud thud.

The talking and shuffling stopped.

“Who goes there?” asked a raspy voice.

“It’s me, Thorax!” the changeling yelled, still holding the baby on his hoof. “I brought a lost grub with me!”

Some more shuffling of hooves; whispers. “Hold on, everypony,” the voice said to the others there. “I’ll handle this—no, you stay there and eat your cabbages; I don’t want to hear about you leaving good food to waste.”

More hoofsteps. Then, the one and only door swung open and an old pony appeared, wearing shades and a goatee. “It really is you, huh, Thorax? Come on in! We’re a part-a-way through breakfast and Agliata’s sick missing you! And, you brought a grub, you say? Take it up with Kibble!”

A hearty breakfast it was. What was on the table was not exactly food fit for royalty but one would be wrong to think they could not fill their tummy with healthy goodness. Dandelion bread with cheese, carrot and garlic stew, deep fried corn with pepper and other spices, and a diluted but rich soup, all to be doused by fresh water from the nearby river.

Thorax did not have much to miss. Although it was true that the ponies were “part-a-way through breakfast”, they were busy with all kinds of talk: happy talk, serious talk, casual talk, trivial talk. They brought Thorax into their discussions and he would shift in and out of topics like a natural.

As for the ponies themselves, they were mostly Earth ponies save for one pegasus and one unicorn. The pegasus was Agliata and, true to her name, her cutie mark was a clove of garlic alongside a salt shaker. She would harp on about how hard cooking was when she was younger—“...and you had to be there and wait! Earth ponies had it better; their way of cooking developed patience, initiative, good character overall. While most of us cloud city folk moved to microwaves and toasters and microwaving toasters, Earth ponies down here stay close to their food and made sure the meals were home-made!”

Nobody would stop her because, from the looks of it, nobody was bored, not even Thorax.

Beside her were foals of varying ages, the oldest about to enter into marehood while the youngest required a high chair to reach the table’s surface. They talked with the adults—except for the foal—but they could not help but give Thorax a knowing glance or two.

“Don’t worry,” the changeling said after being noticed for the seventh time. “I’m not gonna bite! I just want to be good, that’s all.”

“You know I know!” whined Cotta Bread, the oldest one. “I was only looking because you’re still new and...I like new. Better than doing the same thing everyday.”

“Now, now, is that complaining I hear?” said the elderly stallion who had brought Thorax in. “We do the same thing everyday because our livelihood depends on it. You don’t see yourself complaining about eating everyday but it’s the same thing.”

Cotta Bread smiled a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Grampa.”

“Bean Pot, could you cut it out?” broke in Iron Starch, an adult stallion who picked up a slice of cheese with his blue hoof. “It’s good to teach the kids how to behave, but they’ve been out here for months! They want to get back to what's normal.”

“Well, son, I’d like to see you live normal and do your business while changelings abound!" his father shot back. "Try to sell your soda and chips to those flies, see if they like it!”

“Dad?" Iron Starch gestured towards Thorax. "There’s a changeling at the table.”

“He’s not like the others!" Bean Pot threw his hooves in the air and let them fall, feeling superior that way. "Why do I care?”

Thorax smiled at that.

Bean Pot turned to the changeling. “Speaking of you and others and not caring, I remember you said something about this griffon you wanted to bring here but can’t because he died. How’d he die?”

Thorax gulped. “A boulder fell on him while we were in a canyon. It was sudden and I couldn’t do anything because...well, he was already dead.”

Bean Pot shrugged his shoulders. “What a shame, but let’s not waste our time on the past! We’ve got a breakfast to finish! And you, Thorax, go help out in the field and take out the weeds!”

Thorax opened the door.

“Who’s that? Wait, it’s you!”

The mare got away from the crib and lurched the door open wide. “Don’t you forget Kibble Chip!”

Thorax was dragged into a hug. He patted the yellow mare on the neck.

“The baby’s doing fine,” she said, leading the changeling inside where he could see the furnishings fit for a baby: toys and diapers and books on the shelves, milk bottles sitting on the table. “I placed him right here—“ pointing at the crib “—and, so far, he’s having a blast—“

“No!” Thorax yelled, shoving her away and flying to the crib, passing by all the foal stuff inside. “You don’t put grubs in cribs!”

The mare got up, shaking her mane. “How rude! We’ve been using cribs for ages and they’ve never whined...a lot.”

Thorax took the sleeping grub out of his crib and placed him on the ground. “There. That’s better.”

Kibble did her best to not scream. “You can’t just put babies on the floor! What if I step on him?”

“You’re supposed to be placing them on the floor,” Thorax said. “Maybe not this floor, but you have to let grubs roam wherever they please. Let them climb walls, hang from the ceiling, even on yourself.”

Kibble held her breath. “OK, I get it. It’s a changeling thing. Biologies….”

Thorax nodded. “It’s the only way to make sure the grub has a good future...along with other ways by feeding it bugs—“

Kibble covered her mouth to prevent herself from vomiting. “I’ll take your word for it, Thorax. I’m sorry for not treating the baby—I mean, not treating the grub right. Is there anything you want me to do?”

Thorax rubbed his chin. “Not for now. He’s sleeping, but when he wakes up, I’ll call you. OK?”

“OK…wait, are you telling me to go out?”

Thorax smiled. “You could stay if you want to. See how a changeling takes care of a changeling.”

Kibble sat down on the floor before the grub. “I’m all in!”

“Shh!”

“Oh, right!”

Thorax sat down on the floor.

The both of them were looking upon the grub. That little, tiny, cute grub sleeping and dreaming.

Minutes passed, caretakers silent as the grub continued sleeping. At times he turned around and yawned, but he did not wake up.

“Thorax?” Kibble asked in a whisper.

His ears perked up. “What is it?”

“I’m very sorry if I’m interrupting your flow of thought or what,” Kibble said, “but...why are you so...um, different?”

Thorax blinked. “Excuse me?”

“What I said. Why are you so different?”

He leaned his head back, sunlight hitting his face through the window. “I...I’m not sure myself, Kibble.”

Bed and No Breakfast

Kibble looked at him odd. “It can’t be that hard to tell me.”

Thorax nodded. “Yeah...I guess so.”

The mare tapped her hoof, waiting with a smile.

He grabbed the grub and lifted it with a hoof.

“Kibble, it all started when I was born. I don’t know much about how much of the early years you ponies remember, but I could remember even before I burst out of my egg. There was nothing to see; just black weird gunk in case someone rattles my little home, but I could remember wanting to get out and be...happy.

"I got out of the egg and things got way worse from there. I expected to see some other changelings like me—instinct, I think—and I was right...but they weren’t happy to see me. They weren’t happy to see each other at all. I saw my younger broodmates being hatched and the first thing they did was hiss and argue with their brothers and sisters. It was...t-terrifying, and when I realized that my mother was an evil queen wanting to conquer the world by violence, I kept on thinking to myself, ‘What if there’s nicer beings in the outside world who don’t deserve to be crushed?’

“As I grew older, Chrysalis and our instructors taught us the changeling way: analyze, disguise, plagiarize. Something like that. We were taught how to see which ponies have the maximum amount of love and how we could get that love with the minimum amount of effort. We were taught how to mimic every part of our target’s body, even straight to their internal biologies, so we would be nigh undetectable. We were taught how to copy the target's manners and how to survive in their environment for long periods of time just to get love from their unsuspecting families and friends, to make sure they never question who we were.

“I saw many things in when I was young. I saw my brother rise up in the ranks and, now, he’s Head of Patrol and a commander, too. He became famous in the hive; everyone wanted to be like him because of how ruthless and how capable he was. Chrysalis gave him so many promotions it made my head spin. Me? I was never into the whole ‘love-taking’ thing. I had to do it because...I’m a changeling. I’m decent at disguising, but I never felt good doing it, because when they find out...they would hate me, despise me, insult me for deceiving them this whole time when I had to do it because I would starve to death if I didn’t do it!"

He smacked the floor, staring at the newly-formed crack on it. Kibble was about to say something but chose to drop it.

“One day, Chrysalis announced her plans to the whole hive, the plan to take over Equestria. It was smart, it was perfect, and it was not good. You know how it began: the royal wedding. I was actually one of the better performers out there—I even got to see Cadance and Shining Armor up close and personal, though I was one of the bakers that time. I could feel their love radiating like someone turned up the lights too much and you could feel the heat. It was genuine love, true love, and I imagined them being happily married until death does them part.

“I had to fight the tears when we were given the signal that our queen replaced Cadance. I knew where she was locked up—somewhere in Canterlot Castle. Shining Armor never thought that anything was out of the ordinary.

“I remember it very clear. I was seating near the end of the hall and I was told by my pony boss to stay there since they were done with all the cakes for the party later.” A pause, stared at her with imploring eyes. “Do you know that feeling of being in front of your worst enemies and they don’t know you were there?”

Kibble shook her head. “Not really. I had a close brush with one of your guys once—the bad guys, yeah.”

Thorax winced. “Well, I was sitting in the same room with Princess Celestia and Princess Luna, the very ponies who control the sun and the moon.”

“We all know that,” Kibble said, miffed.

But the changeling powered on: “As I was saying, those two ponies were right there. What if we blew it then? I was wishing we did so I could confess and go straight to their side and be under their protection. I n-never worked up the courage, and I stayed quiet. Next thing I knew, as Celestia was saying, ‘You may now kiss the bride’, Chrysalis revealed herself to the world and all of us had to reveal ourselves, too. I did and I t-took the love out of my own boss—he was my boss for less than two days, but he was just as excited for the union of two loving ponies as they were...as I was." Thorax bent his lips this way and that, trying to form the next words. "He looked surprised. He was more than surprised. He saw me change, and he felt...betrayed.”

He choked, shoved himself on the back, trying to cough out something but nothing came out.

“It broke my heart—his own tears...he was reduced to crying out for help like a foal and I was a part of it! I had no choice; I had to drain the love out of him and he was later sent to one of our gulags on the Eastern Coast. He couldn’t do anything at all but cry, cry, cry. Believe me: I was with him the whole time while we were transporting him and our other prisoners to their ‘rightful places’."

He looked out the window, took in the green view of the forest, and looked back at Kibble.

“As the war went on, we hit some snags here and there. I was secretly hoping we would lose each and every time, but that didn’t happen. Instead, we were slowed down for one to three weeks and then we were back to rolling everypony down to our will. I’ve seen their dejected faces, their eyes and mouths accusing me of breaking their lives, of ruining their futures, of subjecting them to unspeakable terrors that love-draining brings, and I...I….”

Kibble grabbed him and the grub just in time before Thorax fell to the floor. Breathing fast, too fast—hyperventilating.

“Hold your breath!” she whispered loud as she brought out a paper bag. “Here, use this!”

Thorax yanked it from her hooves and breathed into and out from the paper bag, the poor bag inflating and deflating in rhythm.

A minute passed with this breathing, tension rising as the grub neglected everything in his sleep.

Then, Thorax removed the paper bag, gasping for air.

“Are you OK?” Kibble asked, worried and sweating. “You’ve got to be OK!”

Thorax nodded, waving a hoof off in sweat. “Yeah...yeah...I’m OK….”

Kibble sat down on the floor, distressed. “I was scared for a moment. I thought you were going to die or something!”

“Not now.”

“Oh, no! Not now! I don’t want you to die right now! You’re a fun guy for a changeling...I never expected to meet a fun changeling!”

A smile went up on his face. “You don’t need to flatter me—“

“It’s not flattery,” Kibble said. She turned her head down. “Sorry for being so irritating—or, I’m about to be irritating to you—but, ever since they took our home back in Seaddle, we had to stay in Bean Pot’s hidden house and it’s been months. We could never say a word against him—he’s well-meaning and he’s looking out for our best, but he’s...traditional.”

Thorax raised a brow. “Seriously? Is that why you wanted to talk—“

“Which is why I said I’m sorry in advance,” Kibble blabbered. “I don't want to use you to fight my boredom, but...maybe I’m desperate.” She slumped her shoulders. “I’m a city rat. I’m used to the hectic days and the busy nights—the nightlife there in Seaddle with all their coffeehouses and their cruise ships and their orchestras...talking to a changeling is many times better than staying here without anything to do.”

Thorax groaned. “You have work to do. Farm work.”

“I had work there, too, but it’s better than here and—“

She stopped herself. Saw the irritation in Thorax’s eyes.

“I’m sorry again! I...I’ll just let you speak, right?”

Thorax tilted his head, lightening up. “Don’t think too much about it. It’s alright with me.”

They relaxed on the floor, let themselves settle for a while as they allowed the grub to continue sleeping, and Thorax continued:

“Where was I? I was, uh...headed for Ponyville. They’d already gotten it by the time I arrived and I was sent by my brother on a mission to Appleloosa. The same things happened: I went with some squadmates, we infiltrated the base, they did not see our ruse, and we got the whole town under changeling control thanks to...my brother. He stepped in; wasn’t part of the plan, but he did it anyway.

“I met a pegasus named Swift River. He was an honest pony—so I thought. It turned out that he wanted to become a slave to us. I’ve never heard of that before; even the most obedient always had something to say against us behind our backs. But him? Over time, he became chummy with the other changeling captors, he began berating his own kind behind their backs, and he’s even sent a letter to Chrysalis about how to oppress ponies further.”

Kibble gasped, about to bite her hooves. “That’s horrible! How could he do such a thing?”

“Perhaps he gave up,” was Thorax’s sullen reply. He was silent for a short time, contemplating that pony. “Who could blame him? I don’t want to see my own brother suffer the things we subject ponies to. It’s cruel...cruel….”

Kibble let him be silent, caressing the grub with her hoof.

Thorax sat in his small guest bedroom which, besides the bed, consisted of a cabinet where one could see the various books, instruments, and pillows that the family had stored over the months. He sat up and looked out the window.

The chirp of crickets flooded the air. Fireflies twinkled in and out of view, turning the forest fantastic, into a wonderful place to walk around in. He could feel the pull of those fireflies, desiring to see one alight on his hoof and see them glow upon himself.

“Wouldn’t that be something?” Thorax asked. “I’m sure they’d let me frolic around if they were awake. Isn’t that right?”

He turned to the grub sleeping on the floor.

“They’re always cute,” he remarked to himself as he looked back at the outside.

Knocks on the door.

Thorax turned round. “Uh, I’m a-awake! Who’s that?”

“It’s Iron Starch,” was the stallion’s clear voice. “You don’t mind if I come in and have a chat with you?”

Thorax smiled. “Sure! Come inside!”

The door creaked open, revealing the stallion. He was wearing a hat which covered his brown mane. His hooves were shaky, turning the knob with a painful, creaking slowness.

He double-checked the lock. Triple-checked it, quadruple-checked it.

“It's strange for me to ask a changeling to keep a promise,” he began, taking his hat off by thrusting it inside the cabinet, “but that’s what I’m going to do. I need you to keep a promise.”

Thorax’s smile disappeared. “Anything, Starch, as long as it’s not bad or evil. I don’t want to be a part of that again.”

Starch nodded as he sat down on the bed beside Thorax.

Their bodies shone under the faint moonlight.

The pony took in one huge sigh. “First of all, I want you to tell no one else about this. Your lips are sealed until you’re allowed to say it.”

“Which is when?” asked Thorax.

“When I say so.”

The changeling blinked. “Alright. What’s the promise?”

Starch let out another sigh. “Well, before that, I have to tell you a part of my story.”

He placed a hoof on his eyes, rubbing them. Then:

“I was...I was on my way here one night—recently since you were here already. I was out collecting fruits and berries. Didn’t like the job, but don’t tell my Dad.”

Thorax snickered.

“It’s not funny.”

Thorax then stopped snickering.

Starch removed the hoof from his eyes and faced the changeling. ”When I came home and shook your hoof—you were there by the door—I noticed something about you.”

“A-And what would that be?” said a nervous, shaky Thorax.

Starch stretched his forelegs, cracked his neck and his wrist. He gave Thorax a long look, staring at his eyes with an icy stare. “Do you know a certain...Swift River?”

Thorax inched away from him, though he smiled. “What’s the color of his c-coat, if I may ask? Where did he come from?”

“He came from Stratusburg,” Starch continued. “He was trying to apply for a spot in the Wonderbolts before...well, before you came along.”

Thorax gulped, sweating. “Look, I knew better but what could I do? I can’t publicly rebel against Chrysalis! I apologize—I’m very sorry for what I did to him! Please, forgive me and give me another chance! I don’t want to steal love from you—“

“Then how are you still healthy?” Starch inquired, raising a brow.

Thorax opened and closed his mouth. “Y-You know how we changelings eat! We sometimes consume love passively, keeps us—“

“I’m not asking how you're not dead,” Starch corrected. “I’m asking...how are you still healthy?”

Thorax placed a hoof on his head, murmuring to himself. Then, he blurted out: “I only get...some love, but I told them! I asked permission from them and...they’re a very loving family and I can be healthy on a...a fiftieth of their love, which is what I’m doing—“

“And why did you hesitate?” Starch asked further, growling and inching closer to him. “I didn’t expect you to lie to me, especially when you’re supposed to be keeping a promise.”

“O-OK!” Thorax said, raising both of his forehooves. “I may be taking a bit more than a fiftieth of their love.”

“More like a fifth?” Starch tilted his head to the side, smiling. “Or, was it more like half?”

“Do you want me to die on the spot?!” Thorax said, almost yelling at him. “I had to do what I had to do! They’re happy I’m here and that I’m not forcing them to work for me—I’m the one’s who working for them and—“

“Let’s not talk about that,” Starch said, calming him down with a gesture of his hoof. “Let’s get back to Swift River, OK?”

Thorax's ears drooped. With lowered voice: “What about him?”

“You see,” he began, scratching his mane, “I know him. Not personally—we’ve never really met until this month, but I know him, knew him even before we met. I said something about him wanting to be a Wonderbolt, didn’t I?”

Thorax nodded, glancing at the window.

“Things went downhill from there. He was down in the dumps, became some poor old border guard. He had to resort to being a newspony for the surrounding camps as well and he did his best to scrounge up money if we somehow won. He had a wife before she perished in a fire back in Manehattan. He didn’t have a foal, so he’s the only one left in his family.”

Thorax was shivering all the time. In a mutter: “Why does he sound so familiar?”

“He used to feel remorse over his wife," resumed Starch, "but then...I managed to get in touch with him. He’s currently one of the pony supervisors over at the changeling site in Klugetown, beating up unruly pony slaves. He’s in cahoots with your kind, and I have a feeling that..."

He pointed at him, mad.

"...you had something to do with it.”

Thorax gasped, eyes dilating. “How did you know?!”

Starch grinned. “That’s because I’m your brother.”

The stallion glowed. He disappeared and in his place, Pharynx.

Thorax muffled his scream with a hoof. "No! You can’t possibly be here! I must be dreaming, I must be drea—“

Pharynx grabbed him by the neck. “It took me a long while to know your whereabouts, but you were too clumsy! You were always sloppy when it came to hiding your tracks from me, Thorax.

“But, really, I am surprised,” he went on, smiling. “I’m surprised you were OK with lying to a pony about how much love you were stealing from his family! They trust you so much, those gullible ponies!”

Thorax shivered, desperate for air.

“Face the truth, brother! You are a changeling. You can’t run away from your nature! No matter how ‘good’ you want to be, you can’t resist eating their love! You will always be a changeling! Now, come with me and—“

“Not if I can help it!”

“What?!”

Thorax flapped his wings and hit his head on the ceiling, threw Pharynx off balance, and cast him off to the door. He opened the window and flew out of the lodge.

Lights were turning on around the house. Voices stirred:

“Hey, what’s going on?!”

“I told you we should’ve given Thorax my night soup!”

“But the window broke!”

“It’s not broken!”

More were fading from his ears as Thorax flew, upsetting the fireflies and the crickets, passing by the trees and bushes, feeling the forest's cold wind.

He opened both of his forehooves.

There, the grub lay, still sleeping.

Don't Let Your Guard Down

A sigh. A chuckle then echoed throughout the dark room. She could not see anything—not with normal pony eyes at least. Feeling the rough yet damp rocky surface below her, Chrysalis grinned.

“At long last,” she began in a rising voice, “the day I’ve always dreamed of since my first waking moments...it is within my grasp. All these years, these centuries...they’ve been leading up to this very moment. Soon, it will be one land, nay, one world under the changelings, under me!”

She took off her little dinky black crown and held it up in the air.

“All those pathetic ponies, those pathetic griffons and their pathetic yaks and dragons and zebras and hippogriffs and...pathetic everyone! They will know, they will see that all their friendships will mean nothing against the might of our armies, against the intelligence of our spies, against us!”

She stomped her hoof to the ground, triumph swelling in her heart as she returned the crown to her head.

“Do they have us in a corner? Yes, but only for now. Those ponies outside with their flying dragons...they don’t know what’s coming. They don’t know what they’ll meet when they open this chamber and see me! They will destroy themselves and fail; they’ll be hoofing victory to me!

“And when they see our swarms covering the whole continent, they’ll see that the only sensible thing to do is surrender, to give up and become my slaves! We will feast on their love for ages!”

She chuckled again. “’We’? It’s amazing how my own kind can do so well at such low levels of love! They don’t even notice the dinner they’re having is only a drop of what's really out there. They don’t know, but do they care?” Paused, placed a hoof up to think about it. “Nah. Why would they? If they can conquer all of Equestria with measly amounts of love, then I can let them languish in poverty. They wouldn’t even know what being full is like anywa—“

A hole of light opened from the rocky walls and in poked the head of Pharynx.

The head of a furious Pharynx if his bared fangs said anything.

“Pharynx?" Chrysalis looked and sounded surprised. "What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be out there defending the town!”

He flew straight to his queen and landed there, the light revealing the ragged edges of that special stony surface. “I was defending it. I came here to ask if we could call in reinforcements from the north, but I overheard you monologuing again.”

Chrysalis growled. “It is a habit of mine and—“

“Only this time,” Pharynx interrupted, hovering level to her face, “I also overheard you taking all the love for yourself! Is that why you can’t let us have too much love? Is that why you cast that mysterious spell over our prisoners after two weeks?”

Chrysalis laughed. “I understand you are still sour over my lecture on letting your brother escape.”

“This is not about Thorax!” Pharynx shouted and shoved a hoof on the bridge of her snout, right between her pupilled eyes. “All my life, you taught me that our hunger for love could be fulfilled if we just had enough creatures to steal love from! All my life, I did my best for the hive and excelled in everything a changeling could do: I had no feelings for my victims, I took as much love as I could from them, I never thought of caring them beyond their basic needs!” He flew closer and closer, making Chrysalis walk back farther and farther. “All my life, I thought of nothing but the benefit of the hive and, more importantly, making sure you were pleased with the effort I’ve put out for my fellow changelings...and to see this is all just some ruse to...” he looked at his raised hooves, confused and muddled, “to get the world’s love and hoard it for yourself in the end...to never share it with us?!”

Chrysalis’s smile cracked.

“What are you planning for us when it’s all over?” Pharynx said, quieter, pained. “Do you have another mysterious spell, one that will wipe us all out? Do you plan to turn us into your prisoners, taking our love? Or will you take away our powers and make us useless so we can’t stop you from eating all of it and let us starve to death?”

Chrysalis blinked, backed to the wall.

Pharynx punched the stones behind her, crumbling them into pebbles. “Answer me!” as those words echoed hollow throughout the chamber.

There was silence between the two, Pharynx glowering over her.

Then, Chrysalis rolled her tongue in a cheek. “Even if that was true, what will you do about it?”

Pharynx looked up, then back at her. “I’ll protect this town and my fellow soldiers, but when I'm done, I’m going to expose you and turn the whole hive against you! Love was meant for all of us, not just for one changeling even if that changeling is our queen!”

“So,” Chrysalis continued, raising a brow, “you are offering to be their...king?”

“So be it!” Pharynx yelled, pumping his chest. “I’ll lead this hive to a victory everyone can enjoy! We’ll keep the non-changelings in place, but the rest of us? We’ll have the love to ourselves and nothing, not even you, can stop us!”

Chrysalis laughed. “How sweet. You haven’t rallied a single one to your cause and you’re acting as if you’ve overthrown me already.”

Pharynx balked. “Wait, you’re...admitting it? You’re not going to deny what you said and—“

Another bout of laughter came out of Chrysalis, her chuckles roaring through the dark room. “What’s the use of hiding it, anyway? I would...” hesitated, “do something about it before the truth gets out anyhow.”

Pharynx’s eyes opened wide. “Are you saying you plan to...silence me?”

Chrysalis’s horn glowed and she blasted a beam at him.

Pharynx screamed and fell to the floor with a limp body.

There, by the light from the hallway past the hole, she saw Pharynx lying there. Unmoving legs, closed eyes, and half-open mouth with those fangs for no one else to see.

The queen kicked his body.

It did not move. The corpse did not move.

Chrysalis made one more chuckle, a weak one. “'Head of Patrol' needed someone new anyway. Can’t let the same changeling stay there for a decade.”

Then, she looked upon the body again.

She was silent. Her evil grin melted.

Chrysalis stood on the street riddled with torn down buildings and carriages as her subjects and their pony foes fought on the ground and in the afternoon air; those high up could see the plethora of trees and mountains in the distance, although some grass patches were black and singed, smoke trailing up from once lush lands. They exchanged strikes and blows as a changeling and then a pony and then another changeling and then another pony and, this time, a dragon fell on some roof. Fire streamed from the sky, burning those shapeshifting bugs into retreat but, since these dragons were not the most accurate at lighting up their foes, two or three ponies were caught in the crossfire.

She looked upon the battle going on around her. She could hear the screams of her enemies and her lips curled upwards—to fall down soon after, back to a dazed expression with those staring, unfocused green eyes. The ground rumbled with explosions but she stood her ground, turning her eyes higher towards the sky.

“Your Majesty!” a voice cried out.

She turned around and saw Cornicle scrambling from up the street. In a flat tone: “What is it?”

“Have you seen Pharynx at all?” he asked, exhausted yet fast with his words. “He’s nowhere to be found and I’m afraid they...they got him and I want to see him and—“

A hoof on his mouth stopped Cornicle.

“He is recovering in our base,” Chrysalis said. “There is no need to be concerned for him.”

Cornicle wiped his head shiny with sweat. “But, he’s the one with—“

A dragon appeared around the corner.

Cornicle screamed and charged at the dragon.

Only for Chrysalis to take it down with a magical blast to the head, the ferocious fire-breather falling down to the concrete.

Cornicle did not notice this soon enough and, therefore, tripped on the dragon’s body and fell down, too.

The queen did not laugh at this new source of comedy. Instead, she sighed, ignoring the battle with its beams, its fires, its scuffles, its corpses.

Under the nighttime clouds, past changeling patrols on the roads and behind an empty house, Chrysalis busied herself with digging a hole in the backyard. She took care to not be too loud; multiple times, she raised her shovel in alarm when she heard rustles from the trees or the bushes. Instead of a band of pony resistance about to seize her or a horde of her own turning against their ruler, she saw a stray bunny or a badger wandering around.

When she thought the hole was deep enough, Chrysalis dropped Pharynx’s cold body into it.

She looked long at that corpse. The wind blew on her and she shivered, but she did not move from her spot. She just looked, seeing that familiar face, imprinting it on her mind. Memories of bossing him around and being met with undying loyalty via successful raids, expanded territory, brainwashed food, and a comfortable lifestyle secured for his kind...and her.

Then, Chrysalis shoveled the dirt back in and covered up the burial spot. She turned her head all ways, all directions. Hearing no more rustling and seeing no likely threat closeby, she flew over the fence and vanished into an alley.

Chrysalis walked through the corridor of prisoners locked in their cages, following her guide as she led her queen around, curving through sections and sectors of diverse hostages. Most of them were sleeping, but some kept awake by murmuring something though not to each other.

“And here’s one of the three we did get their names of,” her guide said in a nasal accent, pointing at the freckled blue Earth pony. “His name’s Star Tracker and he’s been causing massive havoc with his dragon and hippogriff pair.”

Chrysalis nodded at her. “That’s good, Gnatha.”

She looked at the captive in question, that pony shuddering in his cage.

“I don’t regret anything!” Tracker cried out of the blue. “I’m only fighting because it’s the right thing to do and I know it and I really know it very well and if I don’t fight for my friends, then what’s the use?!” He finished his brave defiance against the queen by cowering under his two forehooves, shading his eyes with his scruffy bangs.

Chrysalis approached him, her head resting on the cage’s chilling bars which made her a bit more awake. “How pathetic. Here you are, boasting about how bold you are and you’re about to cry in front of your enemies.”

“I’m not gonna cry!” yelled Tracker, voice stifled thick by the lumps in his throat.

Chrysalis kicked the cage, shook him to his knees. “You will! Do you want to see how useful you are to your ‘community’?! You’re with us now, and you can never get away from us!”

“Actually,” Gnatha spoke up, “he did get away from us once.”

Chrysalis raised a hoof to slap that thoughtful guide. Then, she restrained herself and turned to the incarcerated pony. “Then, you can never get away from us twice!”

Tracker backed to the end of his cage. He sniffed, and then...cried.

Chrysalis turned her head upwards, snooty. She did not see the tears of her prisoner though she did hear his wails.

“Is there anything else you need, your Majesty?” Gnatha asked above the sobbing.

Chrysalis jabbed her on the knee. “Will you be quiet?! I’m deep in thought!”

Gnatha winced and doubled down on her leg, bending to the floor. “S-S-S-Sorry for disturbing your...thoughts, my queen! I promise it w-won’t h-happen—ow!—again!”

The queen looked upon her, seeing her struggle to keep standing.

A few minutes later, Chrysalis was seen leaving the shapeshifting prison with an injured Gnatha on her back.

Inside one of the many dining halls in their base, Cornicle and Ocellus were busy eating the cabbages and lettuces with plenty of their comrades on the same table. True, on their own, those vegetables would not stand a chance against something as grand as a box of pizza, but when “lowly greens” were eaten with the company of close friends, one would be tempted to eat only cabbages and lettuces for the rest of their lives.

That statement could not be said for changelings, however, since they also had to eat love from their prisoners along with their cabbages and lettuces.

“I can’t believe it!” Cornicle said, surprised and holding a cup of no water. “You got promoted?”

Ocellus shrugged her shoulders. “I mean, 'Head of Patrol' is a huge responsibility, but being promoted by default is not a wonderful feeling.”

“Yeah.” Cornicle stuffed his mouth with his whole plate.

Ocellus picked her food with one of the few forks available.

“All of a sudden, he’s gone,” said Cornicle after swallowing his fifth serving of the night. “The two most famous brothers in the world are gone in one week. Thorax? Missing. Pharynx? Dead. Body’s missing, but he’s dead.”

“Nonetheless, it's very strange,” Ocellus said. “He’s always able to defend himself no matter the situation. Remember when he had to hide in a room full of security guards back in Vanhoover?”

“Chrysalis said he was in the middle of a battle when he got killed." Cornicle knocked the table with his plate. “That would’ve taken his focus off. Not good—that’s what I’m saying.”

“We’re all saying that.”

“Not after this.”

Cornicle then turned around to see the pony chained to his bench. “Hey, stumbler!”

“I have a name, you know!” his food cried out, desperate to let this changeling know that he was Type Face.

“And I choose not to use that name,” Cornicle said. “Come here, stumbler, or you’ll get hurt.”

The pony shambled to him and suffered another minute of feeding, his love taken away from him.

Ocellus did not look but, instead, picked on her food again with her fork.

Chrysalis sat cold on an abandoned couch inside a furniture shop. It had been broken in and most of the furniture had been stolen, but the couch was left untouched. It stood well as could be seen by being capable enough to handle the queen.

She stared lifelessly at the street across the shattered windows. There, changeling patrols hovered about, some equipped with armor and helmets.

The front door creaked open.

Chrysalis stood up from her couch.

The figure stepped out.

“I apologize for interrupting whatever you were doing here,” the visitor said, putting down his lancet, “and I also apologize for sounding...petty, but—“ he coughed, he mumbled, he whispered the words to himself over and over, then: “I...don’t see you th-that often.”

Chrysalis frowned. “What do you mean?”

The guard took a step forward. “It’s been hard for me. My superiors keep on dying when I’m not looking, and then it’s Pharynx who’s the next one to drop. It’s...” he lowered his head, “it’s very shameful and embarrassing to ask you to accompany me, but...y-you—“

“Embraced you when you were a grub and raised you as a loving mother should,” Chrysalis said deadpan. “I see where this is going, Hymeno.”

Hymeno cowered and slowly trotted to the door. “I-I’m sorry for bothering—“

“Wait.”

He turned around and saw his queen with a raised hoof like she was pleading. “Huh?”

Chrysalis groaned and looked at him straight in the eyes. “I may not always be there for you, Hymeno, but you must r-remember that I only want to see you be good in what you do. Despite the many losses you’ve had, you were able to fight through and give your fellow changelings victory.”

Hymeno looked up to her, dumbfounded by those words. “A-Are you...sure?”

Chrysalis nodded. “Now get out. You’re busy going around, aren’t you?”

Hymeno rushed out of the door, leaving it swinging open.

She looked upon the outside through that door. A gust of wind closed it with a slam, so she resorted to using the windows.

After standing there for a while, she returned to her couch and sat there, relaxed.

“I hope he doesn’t notice the love I’ve given him,” Chrysalis muttered. “If they are that faithful, then what is there to lose? They really do love me. They really do....”

There was silence. Chrysalis stared.

She grinned.

“It’ll all be better when I give them love; more love for them, more love for me.”

Hook, Line, Sinker

The Celestial Sea was something splendid. If anyone had never seen the ocean before and only possessed experiences of rivers and lakes, they would be awed by the sheer scale of this body of water. Once precious land was out of sight, there was nothing but the sea and the sky. In many places, one would never get to see a boat or a ship for miles on end.

Now, the sun was setting over its orange sky, the water becoming a murky gray and red. Over the rolling waves flew Smolder and Silverstream, dragon and hippogriff beside each other as they fixed their eyes forward, traveling high enough to avoid the splashes.

“That’s it, huh?” Smolder spoke up.

“What’s it, huh?” Silverstream said back, utterly perplexed by the expression.

Smolder was pensive, holding her tongue for a moment. Then: “I don’t wanna say that we’re gonna lose. We dragons never lose.”

The hippogriff opened her mouth, about to provide evidence of dragons losing but decided not to for her own safety.

“But, the way this is going,” Smolder continued, “we’re going to need a good string to survive.”

“I don’t have strings!” Silverstream complained. “Did you bring strings?”

“It’s not literal.” Smolder crossed her arms. “What I mean is, we need a lot of things to go our way, and there’s too many things to get right.”

“Like what?”

Smolder rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, Silverstream, like...not giving up so many ponies to the other side? At this rate, they’ll be filled with ponies. How are we gonna stop ‘em?”

“By figh—“

“That’s obvious," the dragon replied, annoyed, "but it has to be more than just fighting.”

It was Silverstream’s turn to roll her eyes. “Now the dragon wants more than figh—“

Smolder groaned and smacked herself on the face in-flight. “Flap your wings faster. We have to get someplace safe before night falls.”

The two of them flew on, emanating a little orange from the sun’s light and the sea’s reflection.

It was half an hour after the sun had set when Smolder and Silverstream found such a safe place. It was a congregation of cottages by a cliff with its jagged rocks jutting out of the sea like organic spikes; on those spikes, some audacious hippogriffs perched, feeling the adrenaline course through their veins as the waves tried to wash them out. By the farthest spike, a couple talked to each other, but what made this talk interesting was that the husband was the hippogriff on the rock and the wife was the seapony in the ocean.

The duo landed on the field of grass before the first cottage which was protected by a troupe of armored hippogriffs, one flying out of his post to enter his patrol. Just outside, other hippogriffs munched on their snacks in their refreshment tents: mixed seeds, seasoned worms, and salmon juice. Some waved their claws at the pair who just showed up.

Then, walking out of a tent, was a blue hippogriff who towered over the both of them, donning his bronze helmet. His eyes caught sight of them, and smiled. “Ah! You’re here at last!” Facing Smolder: “Thank you for accompanying my daughter once again. I always knew she'd be a valiant warrior, but I have to thank you again for pushing her off the nest!”

Smolder blushed. “It’s no biggie, Sky Beak.”

He took off his helmet, showing his tall white mane. This time, he faced Silverstream who was devouring a bowl of beans and peanuts. “I don’t care if you had to retreat; you made sure the bugs knew who’s boss around here!”

Parent and daughter then exchanged a high-five with their open claws.

Inside one of the cottages, a lot of hippogriffs stayed to rest and unwind. However, the fear of an imminent changeling invasion—or, worse, a changeling right inside the settlement—lingered in their minds; it was evidenced by the wary looks out the windows, the quiet rumors whispered from ear to ear, and the not-so-secret points of a toe at this or that slightly suspicious character. The few ponies among them participated in these distressing practices, so that everyone, no matter what they were doing—whether it was eating a hippogriff’s feast or playing a board game or warming their claws or hooves by the fire or reading a book by said fire or fighting to keep said book from falling into said fire—they were cautious, perhaps too cautious.

“Seaspray will do his best to hold it down,” Sky Beak said as he led Smolder and Silverstream down several flights of stairs by gliding. “We’re already running out of dragon back-ups and our burning arrows won’t be enough to halt a changeling swarm.” Turning solely to his daughter: “Your mother and your brother have already moved back to Mount Aris since two o’ clock 'cause we apprehended another changeling; he was disguised as Ice Splash.”

“Did you get the real guy?” Smolder asked as they rounded to another flight of stairs.

“Not yet,” replied Sky Beak with worry in his voice. “We’ve been searching, but we can’t send too many away without slowing down activity here.” He sighed and scratched his head, yet another turn to another set of stairs. “It’s not exactly looking bright, but we know he’s alive out there.”

They were silent for the last staircase. After that, they approached an enormous door with multiple locks attached to it.

Sky Beak banged on the metal surface. “Hey, it’s me!”

“It’s who?!” shouted a voice from the inside. “Is that you, Beak?”

“No, call me ‘Sky Beak’,” he said, exasperated.

Silverstream covered her laughing mouth. Smolder smiled, perceiving the teasing nature of her companion.

“This is serious,” Sky Beak went on as he grew flustered. “I don’t want you joking around when they bomb this place.”

“Whatever you say, Beak,” the voice replied.

“I’m not Beak!”

“It makes up more than half of your name," answered the figure hidden behind the door. "I waste half a second saying the other word—oh, wait, what was that other word? I have a short memory problem, so would you please help me by saying—“

“It’s Sky Beak!” he shouted and banged the door as loud as he could.

“Woah, there!” A lock slid open with a roaring chirr. “I didn’t know you’re so hungry! How'd you know we got lobster on the menu?”

“You do?” Cleared his throat, looked nervous, heard uproarious laughter from those two young creatures beside him. “Uh, open up!”

The rest of the locks slid open and the door veered inwards, revealing a green hippogriff wearing a pair of glasses and a mouth dripping with salmon juice. “Hi, Beak!”

Sky Beak balled up his claw into a fist while keeping a smile on his face. “Skip the introductions, Brook Raft. We got more important stuff to take care of,” and he flew past him, tagging Smolder and Silverstream along.

A big table adorned this room and it was the only piece of furniture here, resting under several bright hanging lights. All the chairs were filled, most of them hippogriffs, but two ponies, two dragons, and one griffon were in attendance as well. Those seated were busy talking to each other with what lay on the table: maps marked with arrows and lines and circles, plans with lists of instructions and back-up plans with their own fail-safes, minutes of the activities and whereabouts of creatures deemed suspicious by the majority of the settlement, and plates of lobster and fish along with salmon juice—for the ponies who could not stomach such a meal, they were given potatoes and cauliflowers with either glasses of water or bottles of soda.

At the end of the room was another metal door though smaller. Some buttons were beside it, branded with random numbers.

The hippogriff at the head of the table stood up and took notice of the newcomers. His mane and his tail flowed a long thick and teal way; his face carried a composed air around him, and it matched his accent: “I am very glad that you could make it here, and let’s not forget to congratulate our, ahem, would-be decorated fighters of the Queen’s Navy.” This General Seaspray gestured a claw towards Silverstream and Smolder and the table erupted into subdued applause. “What are you waiting for? You must be famished from the festivities on the ground. We can celebrate with a fine dinner.”

“Are you celebrating a loss?” Smolder asked, taken aback.

“A minor loss is a victory at this point,” he said, still with dignified style. “We’ve worn down Chrysalis’s troops and slowed down her advance. We have ample time to sort things out.”

“Sort what out?” Silverstream asked innocently.

The table was getting back to its noisy self, the occupants discussing, among other things, emergency exits. “Too many things to list down one by one, but we can start with our suspects.”

The bubbly hippogriff placed her claws to her cheeks, excited. “Ooh! Mystery!”

Seaspray eyed Sky Beak. “Yes, it was indeed a mystery, but it is all cleared up and we can safely say that we could….”

He was looking at Silverstream, his lips quivering.

“What’s wrong?” Smolder asked.

Seaspray shook his head. “Ah, nothing. A sudden lapse of memory, that is all.” He looked at himself, the only one still standing at the table. “Silly me, I look funny!”

He then sat down.

Hippogriff guards flew in to provide chairs for the late arrivals and they sat down at the table. After that, the guards returned to their positions by the walls.

Seapsray raised a claw and all were silent, fixing their attention on him. “Before we begin in earnest, we must deal with our changeling situation right here.” Many nodded, several murmuring “Yes, yes” at the general. Then, he saw Sky Beak holding out a picture and looking fondly at it. In a stern voice, focused on him: “What are you doing?”

Sky Beak kept looking at it.

Others watched him in that silent defiance.

“I said, what are you doing?”

“Seeing my family together one last time,” Sky Beak said, grim and staring at Seaspray with furious eyes.

Seaspray raised his brows. “You caught my hints, didn’t you?”

Silverstream hovered up from her chair. “What’s g-going on? Dad, why aren't they happy at you?”

“Seize him!”

And hippogriffs from around the table lunged at Beak and restrained him, holding him down as they cuffed his legs and pushed his head down. Silverstream screamed, clawing her way to her father before getting caught by the tail. She looked at Smolder who shouted, “What if he’s a changeling all this time?!”

“He can’t possibly be a changeling!” Silverstream shouted and punched her on the cheek. “He’s my Dad! I know he’s—“

Seaspray landed beside her as more hippogriffs and even the two ponies in the room ran to help control Beak who wrestled claws and wings. “Silverstream," the general spoke above the chaos, "you have to understand that your father is still alive. He could be out there in a temporary holding area—“

Silverstream then punched him on the face. “That’s my Dad you’re going to drown!”

Seaspray rubbed his sore cheek, managed to retain a passable smile for her. “Haven Bay’s the one reporting all the evidence to me. What you must know is that he is not dead—“

“He will be if you kill him!” Silverstream shouted and flung another punch at him only for it to miss.

Amidst the shouts, the roars of her father, the shuffling of hooves and wings, the spilling of cups and plates, she dropped to her knees.

Silverstream cried, tears dropping to the floor.

Smolder flew up to Seaspray’s level and planted a finger on his beak. “Listen here, buddy! I’m siding with her and if you—“

“I’m trying my best to keep everyone here at Castnet safe,” Seaspray said, grunting and planting a toe on her nose. “I am not about to let the Queen down again.”

“Well, you better be!”

Only for the dragon to be grabbed by the neck and thrown across the table, stringing along maps and plans down to the floor with her.

Seaspray walked to the hippogriffs and ponies keeping Sky Beak down. He was trashing and flailing his legs about, screeching but to no avail.

The general looked at him with those piercing eyes. “Sky Beak—or, rather, the changeling impersonating as Sky Beak—what do you have to say for your crimes?”

“I have no crimes to speak of!” Beak cried out. “You let me go!”

“I cannot do that without endangering the rest of us,” he said. “We cannot risk letting a changeling like you roam free.”

“You’re going to regret it!” Beak yelled, grasping for his neck but failing.

Seaspray ripped his pearl necklace away and smashed it with a claw. “Take him out!”

And the guards flew him out of the room, with Brook Raft by the safe door, wiping his glasses from smudges.

Silverstream saw him disappear by the stairs. “No, n-no! They’re really going to drown Daddy!”

“Please, Seaspray, please!” Silverstream begged at his claws as they stood on the grass at the cliff’s edge, the waves crashing down on those sturdy barriers and dragging the rocks away. “You have to believe us! That hippogriff is my Dad and he’s not a changeling! He’s the same old fun and loving—“

“Have you forgotten how deceptive changelings can be?” Seaspray interrupted, leaning his head down to see Sky Beak cuffed and held dozens of feet above the turbulent water, the guards flapping their wings. “All it takes is one look—one look—and they’ll have memorized half of the things your father’s made of from that one look.”

“But..I—“

“I know you’re emotional,” Seaspray said in a comforting tone or, rather, tried to, “but you have to realize you’ve been spending time with a changeling, not your father. Like I said, he’s probably trapped somewhere in the area; otherwise, he’s fine.”

“He’s not fine because you’re strangling him—“

“Ugh. We’re not repeating the same words, OK?” Seaspray put on his helmet and gave the young hippogriff a mad stare. “You agree with us or not? That is not your Dad.”

Silverstream’s face was soaked with tears both old and new, her eyes were puffy and red, and her mane was ruined and frizzed.

“It’s for everyone’s good,” Sky Beak said, growing irritated. “We’ve always done this before and we’ve never been wrong. What’s to whine about?”

“Well—“ sniffed “—what if, this time, you're wrong?!”

“That’s crazy,” Seaspray answered. “Didn’t I tell you about Haven Bay?”

“She’s wrong!” blamed Silverstream, pointing at the ground which now represented Haven Bay to her. “And you’re wrong!” with pointed claws at the general. “Everyone’s wrong except me and my dragon friend!”

Seaspray opened his mouth, surprised at the outburst. “You wouldn’t want me to tell your mother about your rude behavior, would you?”

“If it means saving my Dad, then tell her all you want!” Silverstream screamed and then opened her wings and took flight.

Only to be stopped by more hippogriff guards restraining her and placing her back on the ground.

Seaspray wagged a toe at her. “You will not interrupt the execution of a bug.”

“He’s not a bug, he’s not a bug!” Silverstream cried as she was dragged back into the cottage, those lines repeated though muffled behind walls and windows.

Seaspray opened and closed his eyes, clearing out his own tears before they poured onto his face.

He flew over the cliff and dove down, reaching great speeds until halting in front of Sky Beak and his guards. They could all feel it was slightly hotter here; water splashed on them, the waves growing higher as the weather worsened, clouds blocking out the stars but not the moon. Not yet.

Sky Beak himself struggled, slugging his legs about and trying to pinch his out-of-reach captors.

Seaspray looked him in the eye—those eyes reddened by sorrow, tearful sorrow. He could hear the chokes, the sighs of the creature before him, changeling or not. “Any last words?”

Beak heaved in, heaved out. That calm face before him, persuaded that he was right. “N-Never thought I’d die...I’d die like this. Not this way, no...not by my own….”

“You are a stubborn bug,” Seaspray said, banging him on the head with a fist. “Refusing to revert to your changeling self? You must’ve had intense training from Chrysalis.”

Beak felt the splash more, seeing the water closer and closer as his head reeled in agony.

“You won’t tell me what you’ve done to us, or what you’ve disclosed to your queen?” The general inched his head closer.

Then, he flew away from the prisoner. Hovering over the rough waters, he looked at the guards holding him. “No more words for this imitator. Drown him!”

So they did, shoving him down into the water as they all surrounded themselves in the ocean’s wet cold. The guards pressed their necklaces and turned themselves into seaponies, losing their wings for fins as they breathed freely under the surface. Sky Beak, however, remained a hippogriff. He swallowed the water, tried to spit it out. Holding his breath, holding his breath. Pressure on his lungs, the urge to exhale and to inhale—but inhale what?

Everything blurred. Their faces became mushes in his vision. The bubbles blended with the water and faded into the blue. Pain in his chest, pain in his lungs. Then, he breathed out, a stream of bubbles out of his mouth and nose. He let the water come into his body and—

“He didn’t change into a changeling?!” Silverstream screamed at the living room’s table, throwing up all the books and papers laid out there.

Seaspray held a claw to his chest. “I’m sorry to say that we have made a terrible mistake—“

“’Terrible mistake’?!” Silverstream shouted, holding her claws out. “You sentenced my Dad to death! He did nothing wrong!”

“Uh, could you calm down a teensy bit?” suggested Smolder who was seated beside her.

Silverstream threw the dragon down to the table and smashed it, having everything fall to the floor. She pointed a claw at Seaspray on his beak and yelled: “No one’s happy and it’s all your fault!”

With that, she stormed out of the cottage, everyone inside with astonished looks at where Beak’s daughter had been moments ago. Then, they all turned to Seaspray, the most shocked of all as he slowly took off his helmet and kept that wide-eyed look, that look of horror and dread, teeth clattering.

He released the helmet from his claw. It tumbled to the floor.

Brook Raft sat on the grass outside and was busy reading a book to himself as the wind breezed by and swayed the meadows. Resting his back on the wall, he cleaned his glasses a ninth time, turned around and saw the light coming out of the window above, and resumed his session.

Then, screaming.

Brook Raft closed his book and spread his wings. “Who could that be?”

And Silverstream turned round the corner, flying at him while swinging a pipe.

Hit on the head, out cold.

Brook fell to the ground, unconscious. His glasses collapsed onto the grass, becoming dirty once again.

“And that’s for calling Daddy ‘Beak’!” Silverstream shouted. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but...I’m angry and it’s all Seaspray’s fault! If he’s not dead...the jokes, the laughter! The good times we could’ve had and—“

A glow came upon Brook and revealed the changeling lying there, still unconscious.

Silverstream yelped and dropped the pipe.

Which landed on his head again.

The hippogriff covered her mouth. She took steps back, laying her eyes on the changeling—no, that bug before her.

“I-It’s you!” she shouted.

Then, wingbeats from around the cottage and Seaspray and more hippogriffs came to her side along with Smolder. “What’s going on?” the general asked, but a second later and he saw the changeling, too.

Everyone saw it, that body right before them.

Seaspray stood still, shuddering and shivering before Silverstream, before fatherless Silverstream and the changeling’s body on the grass.

He flew away, back into the cottage, leaving the rest outside in the night to ponder on Silverstream and the changeling.

Morning came and Seaspray looked out of the window. He noted the somber mood that had fallen on the whole village: the proud hippogriffs relegated themselves to drifting around on the ground—those flying hippogriffs, capable of flight, sticking to the ground! He rested his head on his chest, staring down on the floorboards as if they accused him.

A stroll outside did not help at all. Yes, the air was fresh and, yes, swimming around in the water did relieve his thoughts a little. Nevertheless, his mind kept returning to Silverstream.

That Silverstream. That poor, fatherless Silverstream.

“He’s not that old,” Seaspray mumbled to himself as he walked down a dirt path, ignoring the civilians who saluted him with half of their hearts, their energy all gone. “Not even middle-aged. I...”

Sat down on the ground. Looked at his claws and opened them. Stared at them, those claws as clear as day.

“I...killed him….”

Smolder, meanwhile, was in the middle of a forest, trees everywhere she saw in that windy forest as the plants bent. “Silverstream!” she called out, hand around her mouth. “Silverstream! We need you!”

She flew above the trees and scanned the forest from above. She looked down but saw no trace of the hippogriff. She looked straight ahead but her friend was nowhere, not even standing on a branch of those bulky, lanky trees.

“Silverstream!” Smolder shouted for the umpteenth time. “Where are you?!”

“Who’s that?!” cried out a voice from somewhere.

Smolder looked around. “That’s not her.” Then, shouting as she tracked down whoever it was: “Who are you?!”

“A lost...um, hedgehog?”

“Hedgehog?” Smolder asked.

Down there, a gray spot raising its chubby hands to the air. “Here! I’m over here!”

Smolder landed right in front of him.

The “hedgehog” was not the usual small kind although he was still shorter than Smolder. He had gray fur and a white streak of mane across his back and on his head; he sported a white mohawk over his blue eyes and his big nose.

“And, who are you?” Smolder repeated, leery of him.

He looked around, hearing the birds chirp from the trees. Seeing that they were the only ones at this small opening, he began with: “I’m Grubber. Lost, nobody with me, and nothing to do here. Anything I could do or...you know, something?”

Forest Dynamics

Dragon and “hedgehog” walked through the forest, not encountering much on the way. They saw some abandoned houses and shops, also several trails here and there, but there was no one else besides them and the local wildlife.

“You’re from here?” Smolder asked about ten minutes in.

“No. I’m from an island down south.”

“What island?”

“You know...” Grubber twiddled his thumbs together, “that island with the mountains and the water and the lightning clouds. We enjoyed the life out there until I got banned and then...yeah, that.”

“A troublemaker?” Smolder smiled. “I like that!”

“I wouldn’t personally call myself a ‘troublemaker’,” he said in a sing-song way. “I’d call myself a professional...”

“Troublemaker?”

Grubber put his tongue out, still thinking. “Maybe.”

A minute passed silently as they walked, seeing nothing more than new trees which looked pretty much the same. The sun was higher in the sky now; it was getting hotter.

“So, what did you do?” Smolder asked.

“What do you mean? My old life back in the island or what got me kicked out?”

She thought about it. “Both.”

Grubber laughed, holding on to his belly. “You better pick up a seat because it’s story time for you...but, don’t take a seat because you’re looking for your hippogriff friend and she’s probably lost as well—but, if she isn’t lost then she might be...um, far away to the point that...uh—“

“I get it, now what’s your story?”

Grubber raised his short arms to the air and dropped them. "As I said, I’m Grubber, and I’m what everyone calls a hedgehog. My friends were like that, too, but they’re taller than me, like, a lot. They were hunky and could bat strong dragons like you to the sea from miles away. Used to serve the Storm King ‘till he accidentally shot himself with his magical staff and we got...uh, nothing to do. Tried building buildings, doing ordinary stuff, but it wasn’t the same without him.”

He looked up to the sky, seeing the wide open blue above. “I wanted to make the greatest cake in the world because I was bored. Cherries on top, chocolate flavored, oozing with chocolate and more chocolate...it would’ve been the biggest achievement of my life.”

“Your biggest achievement in life is making a cake?” Smolder asked, stunned.

“It would be more than a cake,” Grubber said, raising a finger. “It would be the greatest cake in the world. Nothing could top it...except for cherries, but you get what I mean...I hope….”

Smolder looked at him close. “Is that why you got kicked out?”

Grubber smiled, picked up a twig to clean his teeth with. “You got me good!”

“Let me guess. Troublemaker? Stole all the sugar and flour?”

“It wasn’t exactly stealing,” Grubber said with a tinge of anxiety, spitting on the branch and throwing it back to the trail. “It’s, uh...I was secretly borrowing them, but I meant to give it back when it’s all done. Besides, they weren’t using it anyway, and it was going to rot, so someone had to use it for good.”

Smolder giggled, stopping to pick up the twig to burn the sharp end of it, making it a throwaway torch. “You’re telling me you got kicked out because you wanted to make a big cake? This is classic!”

“It’s not classic if everyone abandoned you and forced you to sail away from your home!” Grubber shouted. Then, calming himself down by combing his mohawk: “Anyway, please ignore what I just said because I’m not the guy who usually gets angry—ahem!—I mean, usually, with a...’y’ in the end.”

Smolder rolled her eyes, waving the torch around, seeing the flame go left and right in the air. “Do you talk like that all the time?”

“Some say it’s a self-defense kind of thing,” Grubber answered, twiddling with his thumbs again. “You know what I say? I say it’s me. My attitude, my personality, my...way of rolling, ‘cause that’s how I roll.”

The two walked without a word once more for a few more minutes. Then, they came across a sign by the trail which said: “Caution! Do not go further without necessary preparation!”

Grubber stopped the dragon by running in front of her. “OK, there has to be another way! We can’t risk our lives and—“

Smolder sighed and pointed at the other paths nearby with her torch. “You think this is a dead end?”

Grubber looked at those other paths. “Oh. Right. Must’ve been blinded by a, uh...myself.”

They took down another path and passed by denser trees, the sky becoming wrapped in branches and leaves as they saw sleeping owls and crawling caterpillars.

“Why do they call it ‘trail mix’ anyway?” Grubber inquired. “It’s peanuts, grains, fruit, chocolate, candy...it’s crunchy sweets and sweet crunchies." He picked up some dirt and held it in his hand. "It’s not like they took actual trail and mixed it, right?”

“It’s not,” was Smolder’s reassuring reply which made the hedgehog sigh in awkward relief.

“Wow. Thanks for that! That’s because I have, uh...” and took out several trail mix bars from his hair. “Here! Trail mix made by my islanders! It’s filled with preservatives, so it may not be, um, healthy, but it gets the job done.”

Smolder grabbed the bar and inspected it.

It was a horrible trail mix bar. While the ingredients were in there, tons of salt and sugar had been sprinkled on it.

Smolder looked at Grubber, confused. “Why would you add preservatives?”

“Don’t fruits also rot?”

“They’re dried, Grubber." She pointed at the trail bars for emphasis. "They’re not supposed to rot for a long time.”

“And the nuts and other stuff?”

Smolder groaned. “Do you see any ants on your bars?”

“No, but—“

The dragon took a bite of the bar and spit it out, wiping her tongue from the overwhelming taste on her buds. “What?! How could you ruin trail mix?!”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Grubber lashed out, almost falling to the dirt trail beneath his feet. “It's their idea to rinse good food with bad salt and sugar! I had absolutely nothing to do with their horrible opinions on good food!”

“If you think you’re better than them,” Smolder said with two crossed arms and one upset attitude, “then why don’t you stop talking about yourself and help me find Silverstream?!”

“If you wanted to find your friend so much, then why do you keep asking me about my history—“

“Could you keep it down?” asked a voice from behind the trees.

Smolder and Grubber looked at the shadowy darkness from beyond the bark. “Uh, wh-who’s that?” Grubber asked, teeth clattering. “Are you going to eat us? If so—“ took the half-finished bar from Smolder’s hand “—please take this! I don’t taste good!”

The bushes there rustled, and then out came a changeling.

Grubber screamed and jumped his way to Smolder’s head, taking cover behind her ears.

“Hey!” the dragon shouted, looking up at the hedgehog. “It’s just one changeling! I can take him on easy!”

“Wait!” yelled the said changeling, holding up a sleeping grub. “Don’t hit me! Don’t hit me!”

Smolder cocked her head. “Yeah, and why?”

He returned the grub to his back, keeping a good distance from the dragon. “The name’s Thorax and I mean no harm! I don’t work for Chrysalis...not anymore. I just want to live a normal life!”

Smolder took a step forward, examining the changeling’s face—those wavering eyes, those drooping ears, those spotless teeth. Not minding the extra weight on her head provided by her hedgehog buddy, she said: “Why should I trust you? How should I know you’re not putting up an act?”

“What do you want me to do?" Thorax begged, about to kneel down on the ground. "I’ll do anything if you could just leave me alone!”

Smolder scratched her chin. “Let’s see….”

Grubber grabbed her ear and whispered, “Why don’t you ask him about the hippogriff?”

“Why would he know about Silverstream?!” Smolder shouted. “If he knows, then he's getting love from her!”

“I’m n-not!” Thorax cried out.

Smolder raised both of her brows, turning to him. “You know where Silverstream is?”

He shook his head. “N-No...but I saw a hippogriff fly around here an hour ago. Is that Silverstream?”

“Yeah,” Grubber said. “That’s probably the—“

Smolder threw Grubber down from his head and approached Thorax. “What’s the color of her feathers?”

“Pink!” was his immediate answer.

“Then it’s Silverstream alright,” Smolder said, helping up a Grubber whose face was covered in dirt. Then, facing Thorax with a hard nose: “Do us a favor and find her. We’ll leave you alone, but if you try any funny business on us...” she punched two of her fists together under her glare.

Thorax gulped. “I-I promise.”

“...which is how I ended up angering a bunch of seaponies with my hair,” Grubber finished as they trudged through the forest, seeing different trees but that did not matter because they were pretty much still the same trees with pretty much the same birds. The day had advanced, it got even hotter than before, but everything looked and felt the same although now it's windy again, the trees swaying under the breeze. “They’re going to be so mad if I go back to Basalt Beach. They’ll be saying, ‘Grubber, you’re so bad!’, and I’ll be like, ‘So what? I got trail mix!”

Thorax turned to Smolder, carrying the sleeping grub on his back. “Is he always like this?”

“I think…?” Smolder said, not looking at the changeling. “He’s annoying, but I can take it.”

“Hey! You say I’m annoying?” Grubber said with a jump, leaving two deep footprints on the trail. “I’m not ashamed of it! I’m annoying and proud!”

Thorax giggled. “I can see why you got kicked out.”

Grubber groaned. “They’re useless with or without me! They could tease my height all day long, but when I come back, they’ll see I’ve made...uh...something…uh, something worth considering…” and tapped the tips of his fingers nervously as they walked.

Smolder took a hop ahead of him and walked beside Thorax. “Is there really no one here besides us and Silverstream?”

Thorax nodded. “I’ve stayed here for half a day. Other than your hippogriff friend, we’re the only ones here.”

“Then how are you able to get love?” Smolder asked, opening a hand. “You must be starving.”

“I have my ways,” Thorax said. “For instance, I’m already getting love from you—“

“What?!”

“Passively!” Thorax shouted, raising his forehooves in the air, seeing Smolder put her fists up and spread her wings. “It’s passive and you won’t even feel it! There are no side effects 'cause I only get a fraction of it like nothing happened. You don’t have to kill me—please, don’t kill me right now!” and he shrank away, grub on his back still sleeping.

Smolder stared at him, crossing her arms again. “Remember what I said about funny business?”

“It’s not funny business!” Thorax replied, shaking his head and his hoof in panic. “It’s the only way I could live another day! I...I….”

He sat down on the ground.

Grubber looked at the dragon. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Shush!”

And the two of them looked at Thorax as he put the grub on the ground.

Thorax stared into the distance ahead, those complex eyes losing their vigor. “When I see creatures like you, living with full stomachs, half-full stomachs, even a little full...I get jealous. Why can’t I live like that? Why? Because of this.” He pointed at himself, at his head. “I’m a changeling. The only way I could survive and thrive is to take others’ love.” He paused, grinding his teeth. “Why do we have to steal love to live? Ponies plant and harvest, you dragons grab gems from underground, even the yaks and griffons eat meat...the animals have their lives end there! Us? We have to trick you, enslave you for an average meal, and it’s...it’s something I don’t want. It hurts, it’s painful because...b-because….”

“Could you just spit it out?” Smolder asked, irritated and tapping the ground with an eager foot. “We still have a missing hippogriff to—“

“Would you be quiet?!”

Smolder zipped her mouth and sat down on the ground.

Grubber raised his hand. “Uh, is this the cue to sit down, too? Because, I remember the sign from a while ago and I don’t want to be eaten by whatever monster’s lurking over there.”

The dragon responded by smashing him down to a seated position and Grubber yowled in pain.

Thorax sighed, neglecting what had happened. “That’s how it’s been for me since the day I was born. Nothing but harming others for our good, for my good.”

“You’ve tried eating just normal food, right?” asked the dragon, becoming troubled herself.

“Mm-hmm. I wished it worked, but it didn’t. It’s like eating sugar for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Gives you energy but it doesn’t satisfy.”

Grubber licked his lips. “Oh, I’m already satisfied with having cakes and pies for the entire day!”

Thorax glanced at him. “Then you’re the exception, because it’s just not working for me. I already feel guilty for taking love from you—the both of you.” He motioned his head towards his listeners. “But, I have to….”

Thorax trailed off, looking back into the distance, the path ahead of them with its turn to the left. Several birds flew that way including some pigeons.

Smolder sighed, trying to sympathize with the changeling. “Wow. I never thought of that before.” Smolder took in a long breath. “Are there others like you?”

“I’m the only one,” was his weak reply. “I’m ostracized by my own kind, I’m hated by the creatures I want to be friends with, and that leaves me very lonely." Punctuated with a hollow sigh. "The only ones who could get me are those who don’t pay much attention to our war.” He spread his forehooves out. “So, here I am. The one and only changeling who doesn’t want to eat your love. I want to do what’s right, but guess what? I’m famished, I’m despised, and nobody wants to help me.”

“I want to help you,” Grubber said, reaching a hand out.

Thorax’s ears perked up. “Thanks, but I honestly don’t see how you could help me.”

The hedgehog lightened up. “I could bake you a cake!”

Grubber’s reply was met with a slap to the face courtesy of Smolder.

Thorax took the baby and stood up. “Well, I appreciate you listening to me, but I guess you got a friend to find.”

Smolder and Grubber stood up, the latter recovering from his blemished nose. The dragon spoke up: “What are you gonna do when we find her and leave? Maybe you can follow us back to Castnet.”

“No.” Thorax shook his head, shuddered. “It’s too risky. They’re going to kill me the moment I step hoof there.”

“I see….”

So the four of them ventured onward, Thorax looking at the snoring grub on his back.

It was close to noon and they had not seen Silverstream anywhere. Bushes and trees rustling gave false hope as they always revealed someone else—a weasel, a beetle, an otter. Calling out her name did not help either, for despite their reverberating echoes, they could hear no reply.

When noon arrived, they were sweltering and exhausted, sweat pouring down their faces. Before them was the dirt path and more different yet more same trees.

“Why would she run away?” Thorax asked, head drenched in sweat and hooves covered in mud. “Did something happen to her?”

Smolder swallowed the lump in her throat. “Something real bad. They killed her Dad on accident, thinking he was a changeling.”

Thorax gasped, stopped for a second. “That’s terrible!”

“What’s worse,” Smolder continued, gesticulating with one hand, “they figured it out too late. There was a changeling in the premises, but it wasn’t disguised as her Dad. It was some random dude.”

“That’s tough!” Grubber remarked, devouring another trail mix bar right after. “At least you found the changeling, so you have no worries whatsoever!”

Smolder glared at him, his gaze lasered on that smile. “You’re very insensitive.”

Grubber raised his hands in resignation. “I could relate!”

“How could leaving your home relate to having your Dad killed because everyone thought he was a spy?”

“It’s the same thing!” rambled Grubber, gesturing with one more bar. “I’m telling ya’, losing your home is like losing your father, because your home, uh, takes care of you and your father does exactly that...uh, identical stuff that your home does because they are...one and the same but n-not really but—ugh, you win, dragon, you win! Here!” and gave the bar to Smolder.

“Yuck! I’m not having a bite of that again!”

Thorax offered an open hoof. “What about you give one of those bars to me? I could find a way to make it better.”

Smolder laughed at the idea. “How?”

Thorax yanked the bar out of Grubber’s hands—“Hey! That’s mine!”—and licked the salt and sugar out of the bar. He flew over to a nearby creek, washed as much of his saliva from it as possible, and dried it by the wind. Thorax returned to the group with a supposedly clean granola bar and hoofed it to the dragon.

The dragon responded with “You made it worse.”

“I don’t know about you,” Thorax started, smiling on his own, “but I think I made it better. If the problem was too much taste, then I removed the excess.”

“You could’ve just cleaned it without, um, putting your saliva all over.”

“I like condiments,” Thorax said, keeping up that smile.

A nearby bush rustled.

All three of them looked at the bush, leaves falling off.

“What was that?” Thorax whispered, anxious.

They were all silent as they looked at the bush.

It shook, it rustled.

Then, it screamed: “Did someone say ‘condiments’?!”

Smolder let out a “Huh?”

A figure jumped out and flew into the air. “Hi, guys!” Silverstream greeted with a wave, the hippogriff stretching her wings open.

Thorax gulped. “A-Are you the hippogriff we’re looking for?”

“Why, yes!” Silverstream said, joyful.

“Wait a minute,” Smolder said, putting her guard up. “How come you’re not surprised we have a changeling?”

“Long story short,” began Silverstream over the ground, flapping her wings, “I got caught up with my emotions. I figured out I couldn’t make it out of this forest without you, Smolder! What I did was, I knew you were going to find me, so I searched the forest looking for you, but I didn’t want to surprise you and give you a heart attack because that would be bad. When I finally spotted you, there was that weird gray thing—“

“I’m right here!” Grubber shouted. “You don’t have to talk like that with me around!”

“—and you also had the changeling and I was shocked because I was thinking, ‘What? Did he capture my best friend and the weird gray thing?”

Giving up, Grubber relegated to just sighing and sitting on the dirt.

“But, when I heard Thorax’s really sad story, I knew he was the real deal! The only thing left for me to do was to find a way to walk up to you without making you faint, so I sneaked around in the bushes and I was attracted by the granola bars you’ve had over there! I was wondering what that white stuff all over it was, though, so I stayed quiet and when I saw it was salt and sugar, I had no choice but to make a joke and jump out and that’s how we got here!”

Silverstream landed on the ground.

Smolder smiled and turned to Thorax. “It’s nice knowing you. Don’t you want to come with us?”

Thorax shook his head. “Uh, n-no. Didn’t I say they’d kill me if they see me?”

“I can explain everything to my cousin and my aunt back in Mount Aris!” Silverstream said.

“A-Aris?!” Thorax repeated. “Your queen’s going to kill me before she sees me!”

“That’s why I’m going to explain it to my cousin and my aunt!” Silverstream said. “Queen Novo is my aunt, and the Princess is my cousin! My Mom’s a sister of the queen.”

Smolder did a double take. “We’re going to Mount Aris? Aren’t we supposed to be going back to Castnet?”

“Yeah, no. I don’t want to spend another day with that mean general!”

“Can I go, too?” Grubber said to the both of them. “I can get to Basalt Beach and find a way back to my island!”

Smolder shrugged her shoulders. “Uh, sure. Why not?”

Silverstream looked at Thorax who was rubbing the head of the slumbering grub. “Don’t you want to be with us?”

“It’s for the best. We’ll be fine on our own.”

They exchanged farewells and left, advancing farther into the forest.

Meanwhile, Thorax exhaled and flew off the path and into the trees’ thick shadows, escaping the sun's heat.

It was nighttime once again with its chill and its winds. Thorax was taking care of the grub by feeding it fresh water and picked berries. They were surrounded with screens of leaves constructed to shield them from being sighted. The grub maintained his smile as he gobbled up the food and drink before him.

Then, steps and talking outside.

“Sh!” Thorax placed a hoof to his lips.

The grub stopped eating and sat still.

Thorax raised his ears, picked something up:

“I can’t believe a pony’s in charge,” said the first one, his voice gruff and thick. “Imagine if he was fighting you. You’d be so conflicted—he’s a pony, but he's on the changelings’ side.”

“He’s no true pony,” the other answered, this one smoother but deeper. “He may have the same wings, but he’s not us. It’s sad to see him. What must’ve gone into his head?”

“I’ve heard that Swift River was part of the Equestrian resistance, but he got captured like the others. They must’ve treated him really good to get him on their way of thinking.”

“Does he know they’re feeding on him?”

“Definitely. There’s no way he doesn’t know about….”

And Thorax could hear no more. He sat down on the grassy ground and flattened his ears with his hooves. A frown came over him. “Did I...did I…?”

Low Tide

“Do we know where they’re coming from?”

“I don’t know. How am I supposed to know anyway?”

Deep in the forest and sitting inside a nearby bush, Thorax watched the two changelings bicker out, their pony slaves in tow as those helpless servants could not help but watch their masters argue in the night.

“You were the one who’s supposed to know!” Ocellus shouted, pointing at Cornicle. “You were supposed to know where the hippogriffs would be hiding, you were supposed to know where all the refugees would be going through, you were supposed to know where Thorax is!”

“What about we leave him alone?!” Cornicle complained, flying above the ground to make a point. “It’s clear he doesn’t like being in the hive. He hates our great queen, he doesn’t wanna be with us, and if he wants to come back to be with his brother, he has no brother!”

Thorax perked his ears, making sure he did not move a muscle. A smile flashed on his face. “Is Pharynx not in the hive anymore? Did he leave? Did he change his mind?”

Ocellus kicked up some dirt. “You’re forgetting the fact that he has a hundred other brothers and sisters. It’s a shame they got Pharynx, but we’ll replace him with someone better.”

Thorax gasped, then bit both of his hooves. Tears welled up in his eyes. “H-He’s dead?”

“Don’t downplay yourself, Ocellus!” Cornicle said, reversing his angry frown. “Pharynx was good because he had lots of training and passion. You have a prodigy’s mind.”

Ocellus smiled. “Oh, I wouldn’t call myself a prodigy...” then snapped back to something more neutral, “but let’s save that for later. We need to rat out the scaredy-cats in this forest.”

“Aren’t they scaredy-hippogriffs?” Cornicle asked. “Scaredy-seaponies? Scaredy-ponies?”

Ocellus turned to her pony slave/food, a mare with a long and flowing mane. “Hey, scaredy-pony.”

The nickname was appropriate since she shuddered at that. “Wh-What is it? Am I being punished?”

“What’s the name of your boyfriend again?”

“Uh, Star Tr-Tracker—“

And Ocellus took the love out of her, draining the pony with that pink stream emanating from her body. The mare faltered to her knees, struggling to even crouch.

Cornicle looked at his slave, a stallion with a bowtie around his neck. “And what about you? Where did you get that?”—pointing at the fancy cloth.

“I got it from the...from the—“

And Cornicle took the love out of him as well.

Thorax looked away, turned from the sight of it. “N-No...n-n-no!….”

Ocellus stopped her feeding and yanked the pony back on her four hooves. “We got places to be!” Turning to Cornicle: “I’ll accompany you instead. We’ll work together and find whoever’s hiding. Got it?”

Cornicle nodded while picking up his own slave, pulling him up. “Got it.”

“Good thing the both of them are pegasi,” Ocellus murmured before they took off to the sky, slaves following them in flight.

Thorax shivered and sat down inside the bush, the thorns and the sharp branches pricking his chitin. “Ow!”

“Let’s say we’re in big trouble because we are in big trouble.”

It was morning and Thorax was back in his bush, eavesdropping on a pair of hippogriffs on the path. One of them sported a bronze helmet, the other had a box of pearl necklaces and sported short yellow hair.

“Since we’re in big trouble,” the box-holding hippogriff continued, “we have to do something drastic to save everyone.”

“We are not doing anything drastic,” General Seaspray replied with his trademark deep accent. He broke a branch off a tree. “Everything is fine.”

“Everything is not fine,” the other hippogriff said, seeing the birds fly out of the tree. “How much of this are we going to take? The majority mistrust you, some are saying you are a changeling!” He took out his spear, did not prod him with it but kept it close. “Even I don’t trust you much.”

Seaspray looked shocked, held him back with his branch. “What are you doing, Wind Swell?”

“It’s self-defense,” was his nonchalant reply, eyeing the hopefully harmless branch. “Nothing more than that. I wouldn’t really kill the real General Seaspray.”

“But I am the real General Seaspray!”

“I don’t want to doubt you or anything,” Wind Swell said, holding up the box, “but I have these necklaces with the fragments. A changeling would be so happy to see me alone so they could take it from my claws and bring down Castnet from within the premises.”

“I won’t take it from you!” Seaspray said, sounding tense. “I promise!”

“You really promise?”

“Yes!”

Wind Swell nodded. He paced around on the path, making some circles. Then: “OK. Why did you bring me out here?”

“Because I’m also afraid,” was Seaspray’s reply. “They are out there. I know they’re out there." He stretched a claw towards some direction. "A changeling—no, maybe ten of them!—they might be there!" It was now the general who paced around, Wind Swell trying to maintain eye contact with him. "What I did was a mistake...I didn’t want to cause his family harm...but, they’re coming. They’re using that mistake to hold us in," jolted his head to the side, "to force us to stay there!”

“How do you know I’m not a changeling?” Wind Swell interrupted, walking in front of him and stopping him in his tracks. “How do you know a changeling’s not listening to us as we speak?”

“I don’t know!” Seaspray yelled, now flying around in a circle, holding out his fists. “This is our best shot! If there are any changelings here, it’s my fault, but better here than back in Castnet where they could overhear us and start rumors...and execute me!”

Wind Swell rubbed his eyes, then his beak, thinking. Then: “Hah! I have an idea!”

Seaspray beamed, landed on the ground. “What’s the plan?”

Wind Swell brought him closer by pulling his neck. “It’s going to sound really bad, but trust me. This is going to lure out any changeling inside.”

“I’m listening!”

Wind Swell opened his mouth and said: “Act dumb.”

Seaspray's eyes went wide. “Act dumb? Are you crazy?!”

“It’s genius,” Wind Swell said in a low but sure voice. “If you act dumb, a changeling will try to induce everyone to kill you. So, if we make it too easy for him, he will be too encouraged and he might get overconfident about his plan. He’s going to trip, make a bad step, and the both of us will be there when he slips up. Once we get him, we can show the changeling to the entire town and everyone will be safe.”

Seaspray rubbed his chin. “But, what about my image?”

“Who cares about your image?” Wind Swell said in a partial insult. “They’ll talk about you later when you save the town. You can take some pain for, say, two days.”

Seaspray was silent, thoughtful about the plan. “I like it, but there is one problem.”

“What is that?” Wind Swell asked, putting the box on his back and slightly raising his spear.

Seaspray looked slightly over Swell's eyes. “It will backfire if there are no changelings to begin with. I would be acting dumb for no good reason and I would be drowned as a result.”

“The changelings are getting awfully close,” Wind Swell reminded. “It’s unlikely we don’t have any infiltrators.”

“Hmm….” Seaspray looked up to the sky again, wondering and pondering on Swell’s plan.

Thorax felt his hooves shaking, beads of sweat on his face. He whispered, “What’s he gonna do?”

A minute passed in silence as the general still thought about it, feeling the breeze past by and rustling the bushes and the trees. He was cooled and comforted by that, getting him closer to an answer yet still not quite there.

Thorax rubbed his hooves slowly, impatient. “Could you do something?”

“I have it!” Seaspray yelled, pointing to the sky.

Wind Swell cocked his head. “So, what’s it gonna be? Yes or no on the plan?”

Seaspray grinned. “We have to go with—“

Screech!

They looked to the sky.

Over there, a lone hippogriff flying past the clouds.

Seaspray and Wind Swell looked at each other, nervous and anxious.

“That can’t be possible!” Seaspray shouted, trembling. “How could they get there so quickly?!”

Wind Swell opened his wings, took off, and shouted, “Go!”

They flew, disappeared behind the trees.

Thorax shivered. With a sigh: “That’s my cue.”

He turned away from the bush, hurried to the stamped out campfire beside which the grub lay awake and was feeding on a can of mushy baby food. Thorax picked him up along with the can which he closed. He placed the can inside a saddle bag sitting by a log, took the grub, and put both on his back.

“They’re coming,” he said. “This is the final stretch. After this….”

And left it incomplete as he lugged the logs around to random places, threw the firewood around and scattered them, and squirted perfume and cologne above where the fireplace had been, extinguishing the stench of smoke.

Thorax looked at the grub.

The grub looked back at him, confused and wondering.

“We’re going to be fine,” Thorax said, making sure he was smiling as wide as he can for the baby. “We’re just going on a trip, a stroll. Won’t be coming back here, though.”

He flew with the grub on his back, flying past the trees and avoiding the path, remaining under the shadows.

Seaspray and Wind Swell dodged trees, checking that they did not smash themselves into hard bark. They could hear themselves zipping by, barely evading damaging branches and boulders.

Screech! from above.

“How could they get here?!”

“Would you stop repeating that?!” Wind Swell shouted.

And Seaspray was quiet, eyes focused ahead, going up to dodge a rock, then left to go back to the path and into the open, out of the forest.

Before them, Castnet riddled with invading changelings. The hippogriffs and their other-creature friends fought back with spears, lancets, arrows, and bare hooves and claws. The changelings returned with magical blasts from their horn and stealing love from their foes, draining them dry of energy as pink streams popped in and out.

Seaspray gasped. “No!”

They saw families flying out of their houses as changelings smashed windows and broke open doors, tearing the place apart by destroying the furniture and fracturing precious valuables and heirlooms. Hippogriffs and ponies alike were screaming, changelings flying fast and chasing their heels.

The general threw himself into the fray, screeching and taking out the first changeling he encountered. More changelings surrounded him and he kicked and punched his way out of their grip and grasp. He then flew around, dodging beams and more flying changelings, making them miss and hit the ground instead.

Seaspray flew up, flew higher…then, shot down, gaining speed and grabbed a changeling and threw him down through the roof of a house and wrecked him through the floors down to ground level.

Now surrounded by musty walls and debris of bricks and concrete, he rubbed his aching head and flew out of the cottage, fighting through the pain ringing everywhere in his body.

He stumbled onto the village’s main road where much of the fighting was taking place, changelings battling the best guards Castnet had to offer with their sharpened spears, their dextrous movements, and their solid armor. Screams and cries, groans and moans—

“Here!”

Seaspray turned around, held out his claw and received something.

Over there, a marred and dying Wind Swell crawling on the grass, only to be dragged by several changelings.

“Use it!” he shouted before being beaten on the head.

Unconscious.

Seaspray opened his mouth, could not say a word nor a single syllable. Then, he held the item up to his eyes.

The box of pearl necklaces.

He looked at the final glimpses of his friend dragged then flown away to the sky. “Looks like you weren’t lying to me after all.”

Seaspray opened it, flew right above the center of the village, and jingled the necklaces in the air.

Screech!

All the changelings stopped and looked at him, floating over there with that triumphant grin.

“You want this?!” he shouted, waving the necklaces about. “Then you gotta get me!”

The changelings collectively looked at each other as if waiting for an answer from their colleagues. Then, together, most of them charged at the general.

Seaspray fought with all he could. When direct attacks did not work, he switched to flying around and hoping they would not be as fast as him. When that did not work, he stuck back to direct attacks with his kicks and punches.

The changelings, try as they might, could not get he necklaces out of his claws. When they caught one of them, a knock-out uppercut was their answer and they were considered unable to grab them.

Seaspray grunted, looking around him and seeing more and more changelings flying to him, trying to pry the necklaces out of his claws.

They were returning the punches, returning the kicks, returning the dodges. His hits missed. Pain was surging and stinging throughout, each hit only worsening him, weakening him.

His vision dimmed, his head throbbed with pain.

Seaspray shouted, “Sky Beak, I’m sorry!”

Released the necklaces and—

“Follow me!” shouted Thermocline, mother of three not-so-young hippogriff fledglings, as they and their father flew in the forest, whizzing by trees and logs and animals and bushes. They could hear the changelings’ hisses and buzzes die down although that did not slow them down.

“You did not lose track of them, did you?!” desperately screamed Wet Well, her husband.

“We’re going to get there!” yelled Thermocline. “We can make it out of this!”

As they rushed, flying and gliding—

“Ow!”

The four of them stopped, looking at the middle son with a wing snagged by a branch.

“We’re not gonna make it!” cried the eldest daughter, holding on to her head in terror. “Come on, Tidal Stoke!”

“Why don’t you move and help your brother out?!” the mother shouted as everyone, now including her, moved towards their stuck son gritting his teeth and wincing at the pain.

They approached him, Tidal Stoke hanging by his wing caught by a sharp and thin branch.

“Let me get you out!” the youngest one shouted with enthusiasm. He pulled on the wing.

“Ow, ow! You’re just making it worse! Stop pulling it, Shallow Puddle!”

“That’s not how you talk to your brother!” the mother yelped, glaring at him.

“I don’t think we should be scolding our kids for being impolite now!” the father said, looking back in dreadful and shaky fear, his brown ears flaying. “We’ve got bigger problems.”

He heard the buzzing approach, growing louder.

They all heard it.

“We have to get out of here!” yelled Meander Bend, the daughter, and flew away with open wings.

“You are not going away!” Thermocline shouted after her.

And the daughter froze in place, slowly turning back towards the mother.

“You’re not going to be abandoning your family anytime soon, you know!” Thermocline said in a harsh manner. “What if we leave you alone when you’re in trouble?!”

“But, Mom, it’s dangerous!”

“They weren’t complaining when you were beating them up!” she shot back. “Now help me lift Tidal out of this!”

And the four went to Tidal Stoke and tried to pull his wing, shifting it this way and that way depending on his “Ow!’s” and how long or how loud they were, the buzzes only growing.

Snap!

Stoke fell to the ground, feeling excruciating pain at the impact as he groaned. Then, everyone, even the injured hippogriff, looked in front of them.

A kind of yellow, kind of green pony with cyan hair. He scratched the back of his head, laughing worriedly. “Sorry for that, but I gotta get you out of here fast! We’ll get it out later!”

“Thank you!” Wet Well yelled, shaking his hoof with his claw. “Now, let’s get out of here together!”

And, as they flew and ran, dodging more trees and rocks and other stuff that could halt them—Tidal Stoke, branch still on his wing, asked the pony, “Who are you? I never saw you before!”

“Me?” that pony said, panting with each leap. “My name’s Sandbar!”

Hippogriffs

It was close to noon. Up there on Mount Aris, past the huge stone gate entrance which extended far up and far high with the cliffs its walls, resided the Harmonizing Heights. In this windy place of rolling green with its wealth of trees, surreal chimes and knells floated through the air, moving in and out of ears. Birds flitted about from branch to branch, many taking to the air to experience the great height of this towering mountain; here, ducks waddled about by the rivers, being fed breadcrumbs by a lonely Silverstream.

She sighed hearing those ducks quack happily as they ate those tiny little crumbs and swallowed them big.

Silverstream sighed again, throwing another clawful of those tiny crumbs. “Dad, you were a good Dad….”

Wingbeats from behind.

She looked around, saw Terramar coming down to the ground. In a forlorn voice: “You’re here to check up on me, huh?”

“Pretty much,” was Terramar’s nonchalant reply. He closed his wings and approached his sister. Held his leg, nervous, ignoring the mossy stones around them where more birds perched on. “You OK?”

Silverstream shook her head. “How could I be OK? Dad’s dead!”

Terramar stood beside her, taking out his pouch of breadcrumbs. “I...I know….”

“You know?!” Silverstream yelled. “How dare you say you know?! He’s your Dad, my Dad, our Dad and the love of Mom’s life, and you say you know?!”

“Silverstream, wait up, let me explain—“

“I’m not letting you explain for yourself! He was there for you when you first took off with your wings! He was there for you when Mom helped the both of us swim around underwater! He was there for you all the time, and you say you know?!”

“Silverstream!”

She stopped, placed a claw on her chest. “Terramar?”

He sighed, lowered his head. “Didn’t you see me cry to sleep last night? I couldn’t stop then...of course, I’m going to be more than sad that Dad’s not here anymore.”

“Then why are you acting so calm?!” Silverstream asked in a shout, furious and roaring with her mouth open.

Terramar drew in breath, fearful. “It’s because we can’t cry forever.”

Silverstream gasped, holding her cheeks in awful disdain. “What?!”

He put a claw on her shoulder, calming her. “Sis’, as much as he’s precious to us—and we’ll never forget him—we have a huge situation on our fins—ahem, our claws...or both our fins and our claws with those changelings….”

Silverstream looked at him as the ducks quacked, half-closing her eyes in suspicion.

“Oh, wait—“ and he threw some breadcrumbs at the ducks, providing them a second serving.

Flapping her wings above the ground, Silverstream looked upon the ducks down there

He looked up at her. “We have to get back to Aris, see what we could do. I’ll get you some orange juice.”

Silverstream nodded, silent.

The two of them wrapped arms around each other as they flew towards the stone gate entrance, hovering over the streaming rivers and the lush trees, listening to those chimes and knells again before they could hear it no more.

Before the Harmonizing Heights, Mount Aris proved very homely when it came to living and working as a hippogriff. They occupied the trees which were carved and modified to fit their standards—windows of different colors, greenhouse-like modules at the tops; they also adapted to the different sorts of trees there: the short trees had one-floor houses the size of the average dining room, while the tall trees with their broad trunks and branches boasted multi-floor manors—if the word could be used for what were actually more elaborate treehouses. There were also some structures that stood on their own, located on the ground; they also looked like greenhouses, home to shops and stores.

However, there was no time to relax. Most of the hippogriffs present held a short no-handle blade somewhere, either on a holster or in their mane. The guards had more obvious weapons with their spears and lancets and arrows.

Standing by a tall treehouses where some snores could be heard, Silverstream and Terramar stood as if on post. In front of them was a group of hippogriffs flying around in the air, performing aerial tricks and wowing the small audience below.

“They’re going to regret it if they start now,” Terramar murmured under his breath. “If we’re unprepared when they come—”

“We’re all dead,” Silverstream said, shuddering.

“Not if we can help it.” He looked at his sister with a caring smile. “We got each other; we’re going to be safe.”

Silverstream shook her head, looking at her brother with trembling anxiety. “Safe for two days and then we’re out.”

“Don’t be so negative!” Terramar chided though keeping a hint of optimism in his tone. “We’re going to stand here. If they can’t take us, they'll never defeat the good side.”

Silverstream thought about it. A smile crept up.

“As long as there’s one of us,” Terramar began, his voice swelling, “then the changelings will never win.”

“Hi!”

Both siblings looked up.

Princess Skystar landing on the stone ground before them, sporting three shortblades in her light blue mane. Speaking with her pepper attitude: “How’re you doing?”

Silverstream frowned again, sighing once more. “Not so great.”

Skystar placed a claw on her shoulder, making her look up again. “Yeah, it’s really bad, isn’t it? Don’t worry; my Mom said she’ll have a stern talk with Seaspray. He’s not going to be expecting that!”

Terramar faced her, concerned. “What do you think will happen to him?”

“Probably get kicked out of the navy,” she said, pawing the flat stony ground. “She said he’s too careless about lives. ‘If you don’t trust anyone, why bother?’ Those are her words, not mine.” A pause; she turned back to Silverstream. “What about we hang out at the diner? You know, the one with the grilled fish and the tomatoes and salt—mm-mm! They’re putting in the sugar as well!”

Silverstream still frowned.

Skystar pinched her cheek. “Come on, cousin! Remember when you won the Fish Champion Contest years ago and I lost to you by one fish?”

Terramar budged Silverstream on the back. “And since you’re all grown-up, your appetite’s even worse now!”

She could not help but smile at that.

“If they have it again,” Skystar said, tapping her head—“no, they will have it again! When they’re going to have the Fish Champion Contest again, they’ll have to bring you in as the defending champion!”

“Wasn’t Shore Coast the champion last year?” Silverstream asked.

“He told me he won’t be back for a few months since he’s staying over in Seaquestria,” Skystar replied, “which means you have to return ‘cause the other champions are staying underwater! You’re here!”

“You’re seriously going to bring back the Fish Champion Contest?” Terramar asked the bubbly Princess.

Skystar laughed. “Not today, but soon! I am a Princess, after all!”

The three of them opened their wings and flew their way past the treehouses, headed for the diner.

The diner consisted of many tables and one counter. The walls were made of glass, the roof was made of glass—everyone inside had a full view of the outside; no matter which way they turned their heads, they always saw a different house, a different hippogriff doing a different activity like this yellow one over there by the pack of stones, making balloon animals for a line of eager fledglings, or that one over there feeding the birds on the ground with seeds.

Several hippogriffs and a few ponies ate at the tables, feasting on the local cuisine over sizzles and fizzles from the kitchen: roasted sunflower seeds, crisp wheat mixed with corn, cooked pistachios with cashews and other nuts, fresh oysters and fresh shrimp, pure crabs and lobsters, and pickled mushrooms. The ponies stayed away from the meat, though, so they helped themselves to their self-limited fare.

The diverse smells of the foods wafted together to form a new, beckoning aroma which made customers’ mouths water.

Gathered at one table were Silverstream, Terramar, and Skystar, munching on the food with their cups of orange juice.

“...and she said we’ll be getting something from Chrysalis herself when we get to her,” Skystar continued, capturing the attention of her two cousins. “We’re going to free everyone in those hives!”

“Wasn’t that always the plan?” Terramar asked, leaning his head to the side. “Aren't we supposed to free the prisoners?”

“Really?” Skystar scratched her chin. “Oh, forgetful me! How could I ever forget that?”

Terramar snickered and held up a fork. “Is it the lobster?”

“Stop it!” Skystar yelled though comical, putting that fork back down. “Lobsters don’t make you forget, silly! That would be weird if lobsters were this kind of food you avoid because it removes your memories!”

Terramar picked up an oyster, about to eat it. “What’re we gonna do if we find a changeling who doesn’t want to fight?”

Skystar rubbed her head, thinking, letting Terramar eat his oyster. “That’s a toughie. He’s a changeling but he also wants to be our friend because he doesn't want to fight...so he has to go to our jail until it’s over, staying under our protection. After that, we talk to him and give him a head start on a new life, one that hopefully doesn’t involve stealing love from their neighbors.”

“What’s he gonna do, hoard all the shrimp?” Silverstream chimed in with a rather playful tone. “Don’t they survive on love?”

“That’s the problem,” Skystar said. “Mom doesn’t want to deal with it, but when we win, there will be changelings who want to cross over to our side.”

“What if we tell them they can take, like...a certain level of love?" suggested Silverstream."Like five percent?”

“That’s the same as telling them to not eat when they’re hungry,” Skystar said with a tinge of worry.

“We arrest anyone who eats way too much and doesn’t give to others,” Terramar noted, now holding his fourth oyster. “Sis’ does have a point.”

Skystar picked on her food with her blade. “Yeah, that’s true, but what’re we gonna do to adjust to their love needs? Do we start dating them?”

The siblings chuckled at that one, bringing Skystar to laugh at her own words.

The laughter died down, and the Princess smiled. “If they take you, I will miss you so much! I hope we’ll never be separated!”

“Me, too!” Terramar yelled and looked at Silverstream.

She raised her claw to the air and shouted, “Me, three!”

And the hippogriffs hugged each other over their food.

Then, the blasts of trumpets.

They looked out the window walls.

Hippogriffs flying to the sky, taking out their blades.

Over there, by the center of the town, the flag of the Hippogriff Kingdom flapping with the gust.

The cousins looked at each other.

Skystar took out one of her blades from her mane. “They’re almost here. Let’s do this.”

The siblings took out their blades without a word and without a sound.

They flew out of the diner with everyone else, even the chefs and the waiters with their blades gleaming.

Under Fire

The sky was gray. Smoke filled the air as, on the barren rugged ground that extended for miles on end, dragons ranging from big to very big walked and flew about, minding their own business—here, a lanky pink dragon gathered up plenty of gems from a nearby cave; there, another dragon was busy making blades by an anvil, using his fire-breath to heat up the metal into malleable form; by a mountain, Dragon Lord Torch—who was humongous since he was as tall as the mountain—listened to a few ponies who were only as tall as one of his blue fingers as they showed him how a cannon worked.

This was the Dragon Lands.

By the coast, overlooking the Celestial Sea with its calm and undulating waves and without any sign of greenery whatsoever, Smolder and another dragon—blue and taller than her—stood by the cliffs, feeling the ocean breeze.

“I know you are worried about your buddy,” Ember spoke with crossed arms, “but you have to obey Torch. If he wants all of the dragons here, then he is going to get all of the dragons here, whether you like it or not.”

Smolder sighed in rebellion as evidenced by not looking at her superior.

“You don’t belong there,” Ember continued, pointing across the sea. “You belong here—“ pointed at the sooty ground below “—in the Dragon Lands; this is where you live and where you work. You understand me, Smolder?”

She nodded, silent.

“If they fall, let them fall. Those hippogriffs think they’re the last ones left.” She snorted. “Haven’t they forgotten we’re here to help them?—if we’ll help them?” A pause. “They’re going to take it, and they’re going to get what they deserve.”

“But if we let them lose,” Smolder spoke up in a whiny tone, “then we’re letting them die and that means less creatures who’ll save the world!”

“Of course, we don’t want the changelings to take over the world!” Ember shouted, scolding her. “But, I want you to think long-term. Guess why we’re letting the hippogriffs suffer.”

Smolder tapped her chin, thinking. “To lose?”

“No!”

“Uh, to come in and save them at the last minute?”

“No!”

“Wait, wait...um, to ambush the changelings?”

“Not even close!” Ember yelled, saliva splashing on her more than the seawater. “The reason why we’re doing this is to make sure the world will be ruled by us.”

Smolder stopped a gasp before it started. “Wh-Why? I-If we take over the world, are we any better than the changelings?”

“Yes, we are!” Ember declared. “Instead of enslaving everyone, we enslave the oppressors!...and others.”

Smolder gulped as the waves billowed. “Does that mean every pony, every griffon, every zebra—“

“It will be on a case-by-case basis,” Ember explained. “However, don’t think about that. Think about how you’re going to be happy in a dragon-led world. You’ll enjoy everything a dragon needs with all the gems and precious stones you want. Lots of opportunities to terrorize helpless villages!”

Smolder blinked, stumped.

“It’s not going to be bad,” Ember said, putting a firm claw on her shoulder. “It’s going to be...pretty much the opposite.”

Smolder looked at her, scared. “But...Silverstream is out there without me. If she dies, I’ll..." faced away, "I’ll regret not being there for her.”

“She’s a hippogriff,” Ember said with a twirl of her hand. “Let her be that way.”

Smolder let out a gasp, clutched her chest in sorrow.

Ember noticed it. “So what? We’re going to rule the world, hippogriffs or no hippogriffs. Now, come with me—one of those ponies found another hidden spot for gemstones!”

Ember took off to the air, flapping her scaly wings and…

“Hey!” she shouted, yelling at the disobedient dragon staying on the ground. “Stand up and fly!”

Smolder rolled her eyes and groaned. “Fine.”

So the two dragons flapped their wings and flew away from the cool coast.

Smolder walked through the torrid cave with Ember beside her. Plenty of gems and other precious stones shone under the light of a pony’s mining helmet.

“We got lots of things here!” shouted the pony, his coat blue and his mane black. “It’s not that much, but we got amethysts, quartz, onyx, even some turquoise over here.” He pointed at a group of shiny stuff on one of the jagged walls and, true enough, those unfashioned jewels laid there in their bulky forms, waiting to be cut and inserted into a necklace. “Trust me; it's not the richest cave ever, but it’s the best you can get around here...I think, I think….”

“I’m not letting a pony tell me they know more about my own home than I do!” Ember yelled, spit flying on the poor pony’s face.

Smolder scratched her own back, smiling sheepishly for the stallion spat on. “So, do you have diamonds? Any kind of diamonds here?”

The pony shook his head, the light on his helmet moving with him. “Haven’t seen one of the shiniest ones yet, but we’ll get there.”

Ember smacked him on the helmet. “Then keep on looking! And don’t forget the emeralds, too!”

The pony shuddered and took up his pickaxe and started digging at the end of the cave.

Smolder sat down on the stony ground.

Ember patted her on the shoulder again. “We all thought this was a dud. Torch even said he didn’t like it because there’s so much fool’s gold inside. But, Assembled Triplet here...he found something really good all because he was bored!” She let out a hearty laugh as the pony whimpered under the labor. “See, Smolder? Things are going to turn out alright.”

Smolder looked up, seeing the stalactites and straws hanging over them. “Yeah, that’s true…but, what about the non-dragons?”

The blue pony did a spit-take, spitting out his pickaxe. “Did you just say what I heard you say?”

Smolder stood up and nodded, facing the pony with a resolute grimace targeted at Ember.

She opened her mouth in disdain at this open rebellion. “What?!”

“That’s right, Princess Ember,” Smolder announced, striking her chest with a proud fist. “I care for this pony.”

Ember rolled her eyes. “You’re supposed to take care of the ponies! You let them eat inside your cave when it’s raining; that should be good enough!”

“But, what about Silverstream?!” Smolder protested.

“She’s not a pony!” Ember cried out.

“But she’s not a slave to me!”

The pony groaned. “I want to get out of here and you’re not even talking about me?!”

Ember pointed at him. “Stay out of this conversation or you’re fired!”

The pony screamed, picked up his pickaxe, and picked away at the cave’s walls before him, chucking the dirt out of the end of the tunnel.

“I’m taking you to your rightful place!” Ember grunted as she dragged Smolder through the ground, the young dragon’s feet grating out grooves in the rocks, in the open rocky fields. “You are staying here and that’s final!”

“It’s not final if I have anything to do about it!” Smolder moaned, pulled closer and closer to the towering mountain and the huge dragon before them, enduring the suffering her feet accumulated.

“I will have you know that dragons are supposed to be tough!” Ember yelled, tightening her grip on Smolder, about to crush her hand. “I don’t want you to be a softy ‘cause no one here likes a softy.”

Smolder struggled to yank her arm free, but to no avail. “Why don’t they like softies, then? Is it because they want to be loners?”

“We have each other!”

“What about Silverstream?!”

Ember slapped herself on the face. “You’re not going to win this argument by begging about her!”

“She's more than a hippogriff to me!” Smolder yelled, still being dragged through the ground and still feeling the pain in her toes. “She was a dependable partner, a loyal companion, and an awesome flier, but, most of all...”

“’Most of all’ what?” Ember asked in spite.

Smolder closed her eyes, inhaling. Then: “Silverstream is my friend!”

Ember dropped her arm and gasped. “Did you say...friend?!”

Smolder nodded, crossing her arms. “I don’t care if it’s not a dragon thing. She got me through hard times and I got her through hard times. We got each other through hard times, and we were becoming a good duo!”

“The only duo you’re getting is an uppercut and a burning when I’m done with you!” Ember yelled, poking her on the head.

Smolder opened her wings.

Only for Ember to grab those wings and fold them back closed to pull her back towards the mountain.

Finally, they reached the mountain and, over there, Dragon Lord Torch himself, still fearsome and fierce with his tremendous height and size as he sat on ground level. His eyes were the size of multiple dragons and ponies, some of his teeth were missing but those that remained were sharp, the spikes on his back were colossal and pointed, his open wings had wounds and scars but were otherwise fine, his tail was long and thick enough to make craters out of the ground, his armor was broad and black while being made of hard metal, and on his head was a humongous crown made of onyx and fire-like crystals.

Before him was the vast landscape of rocks and more rocks, canyons and cliffs notwithstanding. Then, a speck across his vision, coming closer and closer to form the figures of Ember and Smolder, the former dragging the latter through the air.

Torch slowly raised his head. “What are you doing?!” he roared, the sheer volume of his voice causing the both of them to bend back at the force. “My daughter, you cannot merely pull random strangers in front of me!”

Ember cleared her throat. “I have the right to do that, Dad, and I did not pull Smolder here just because I wanted to.”

Torch slowly rubbed his massive fingers together. “Do you think she has committed a crime?”

Ember nodded. “Yes, Dad. She doesn’t believe that we should be ruling the world with iron claws. She wants us to live with everyone else.”

Torch raised his brows and raised his head farther. “Ah! A potential traitor!”

Smolder screamed. “I-I’m not a traitor!”

“Every dragon must desire a world run by dragons!” Torch proclaimed, his voice booming. “What could’ve possibly swayed your mind to adopt such a pathetic mindset?”

Smolder sighed. “Silverstream, sir.”

“Silverstream?!” Torch yelled in confusion and exasperation. “Is she not the hippogriff we saved from the ship a month or so back?!”

Ember stepped in front of Smolder. “Yes, Dad, but why should we listen to a hippogriff like her?”

Torch nodded his head once, his movement lethargic.

Smolder shook her head vigorously, holding her hands out towards him. “We should listen to her once in a while! We don’t always have the great ideas!”

“We dragons do have the greatest of ideas!” Torch yelled. “To think otherwise is to not be a dragon—no, it is to forfeit being a dragon!”

Smolder shuddered, looking at the two dragons before her—near her, Ember; farther but more imposing, Torch; both of them, looking at her with those indicting eyes.

The young dragon stretched her arms, took a huge gulp. Then: “If you’re not letting me help out Silverstream, then I’ll do it myself!”

And Smolder flew out of the mountain, flapping her wings and quickly disappearing into the gray horizon.

Ember held her arms up in dismay, seeing that dragon fly away. “What?! Dad! Why are you letting her go?!”

Torch held up a huge open claw. “Let her learn the hard way. It is not like one missing dragon would affect us so much, would it?”

Ember crossed her arms, looking upon the rocky desolate landscape before her. “I hope you’re right.”

The sun was high in the sky, bearing down on the calm ocean. Not much happened here really; when the surroundings were nothing but more water, then there was only the sea’s immensity to behold, although that alone was something beautiful.

Smolder flapped her wings over the water, her reflection shown there. She had a bag around her torso, fitted with gems inside the pockets.

She looked ahead of her with a bold face. “You can do this, Smolder. This is your friend you gotta save and protect. Can’t be that hard...maybe a little with some changelings on the side, but they will just be obstacles...yeah, just obstacles! Silverstream can keep herself alive.”

Smolder continued to flap her wings, feeling the cool wind flow past her scales.

“They’re going to welcome me,” Smolder said. “They’ll be happy I’m helping to keep the world safe from those evil changelings. They’ll see I did not break any promises—not that I made any, but they’re supposed to be happy I’m gonna be on their side! They’ll know that I’m gonna contribute, that I’m going to burn the flies to crisp, and we’ll save the day!”

And Smolder flew on, doing her best to fight the tears though failing.

In Defense

Ocean Flow sat—or, rather, floated—at her table inside her home. Outside her house, the same water and the same kelp and the same seaweed and the same bubbles and the same seaponies swimming around, carrying spears and bows and arrows as they helped each other get to the surface.

She contemplated the picture before her, that family picture framed in seashells. That family, her family, playing together on the beach in the middle of a sunny day, smiles on their faces. To her mind returned the laughter, the cries, the hugs, the kisses.

The mother picked up the spear lying down on the floor and rushed out of the house.

By the beach, one could see the “Basalt” part of Basalt Beach: gray rocks and gray cliffs, craggy and jagged, providing lots of cover for the hippogriffs hiding there with their weapons. Behind one of the bigger ones were Terramar and Silverstream, standing on the sand not so far from the sea.

What they heard was the waves crashing onto the sand, the wingbeats of late and lagging soldiers. Nothing else.

“Psst!”

Silverstream poked her head out of the rock.

“Psst!”

She looked about, looked around at her front. No figures on the cliffs yet, no buzzes from the changelings yet. Just more hippogriffs like her, armed with whatever passed as a good enough weapon.

“Psst!”

Silverstream turned around to see Terramar there, holding his spear. “Are you sure you want to stay here? It’s dangerous; they can hit you first.”

“That’s why I make sure I don’t make them hit me,” she whispered back, opening her wings. “They’ll get me out, they’ll get you out...they’ll get us out.”

“Don’t be so reckless!” Terramar whispered, uneasy, looking at the field of sand before them. “If you die like that, you’re going to make Mom grieve for a long time! Losing Dad and then you in a single week...I don’t know what that’s gonna do to her...I don't know what that's gonna do to me!”

“It’s gonna do horribly,” Silverstream murmured, “but it's for Daddy." She held the spear up in the air. "I’ll make them pay!”

Terramar stayed her claw, lowered the spear down to the ground*. “Sis', you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. Revenge...it’s not pretty. I know they’re the bad guys, but what if I’m right? What’s gonna happen if there’s a good changeling there and he begs us to forgive him and let him into our land?”

Silverstream jabbed his nose. “Don’t talk to me like that!”

“But, what if I’m right?!” Terramar repeated, this time sounding less angry and more scared. “I’m ready to kill them, but not the good guys, not the good guys!”

“Why didn’t they speak up?” Silverstream argued. “Why didn’t they stop their friends? If they’re so good, why didn’t they risk everything to save us?”

“Because they keep executing the traitors!” Terramar said. “Have a cool head! If you murder one of the good changelings just because he’s a changeling, then who’re we to say we’re the heroes? We’re just as evil as them!”

“A changeling tricked Seaspray into killing my Dad!” Silverstream cried out, tears threatening to spill over from her eyes. “Why should I show him any mercy?!”

“Because most changelings don’t. If we show mercy to them, we’re miles better than they are.”

Silverstream balled up her claw into a fist. “But...but—“

“That’s enough.”

The siblings looked away from the rock to see Skystar, her three blades on her mane and her spear holstered on her torso.

“Sorry,” Skystar continued with sunk head, “but I can’t let you talk like that, not without attracting enemy attention.” She paused, looking upon them, then at Silverstream. “I know we all lost a very good father, but, sad to say, this is not the perfect time to mourn.”

Silverstream tried to say something. Couldn’t say anything.

“Your Dad was an avid fighter,” Skystar began, softening her voice. “It wouldn’t do him good if you sulk here.”

Feeling the tears finally well up in her eyes, Silverstream sniffed, wiped them away.

“Make your Dad proud,” said Skystar, faintly smiling and holding out a blade. “Make him as proud as you can and protect this land and sea from the changelings.”

Silverstream kept looking at her, dumbfounded.

“And...please send the prisoners to me. I don’t want to see them dead.”

With that, Skystar flew away to the blue sky, leaving her cousins alone.

As they heard a faint rumbling sound.

“We’re not getting anything, are we?” Cornicle asked.

Cornicle, along with Ocellus and Delilah and hundreds of other changelings, flew over the final stretches of grass fields with their dirt trails, swarming themselves with the sounds of buzzes flooding the air and drowning out almost everything else. Whichever way he looked, he could not see far for his allies choked his vision of the otherwise beautiful pastures. He strained his ears to listen to the rolling waves of the ocean not too far ahead.

“We will be getting something,” Ocellus shouted above the din. “A reward, a great reward for bringing the hive this far. When we crush their resistance once and for all, it’ll only be the dragons across the Celestial Sea who’ll be left.”

“I wasn’t thinking about that,” Cornicle yelled back. “I was wondering if we were getting any snacks!”

Ocellus gave him a dirty look. "At a time like this?! Haven’t you eaten from your slave already?”

“Yeah, but even my mints aren’t doing well for me! I could only pack so many and I left them back at base!”

“Why are we even talking about mints?!” shouted Delilah, upset at the mundane topic. “We’re about to win and you’re worried about bad breath?”

“I need the sugar!” Cornicle yelled. “The extra sugar! I can’t go that far without my fix!”

“You will go far without it!” Ocellus said with a slap on his face. “Pay attention, stay focus, and don’t lose your sight on them!”

Cornicle sighed as he flew, resigning himself back into the noisy swarm. “Whatever you say, Ocellus!”

Ocean Flow stayed by the entrance to Seaquestria which was a rocky cavern of seaweed and kelp filled with plenty of guards and soldiers decked out in full armor and sharp weaponry as they floated by tall columns of stone strutting out from above and below. Behind, they heard nothing but the whispers of bored yet tense citizens, equipped with everything from military-grade spears to homemade kitchen knives.

Some fish passed by, not knowing the situation as they swam.

She put on her bronze helmet and took out her spear, bow and arrow attached to her back.

The nearest guard looked at her. “Ocean Flow? I thought you’d be with your children on the surface!”

She shook her head, raised the pointed tip of the spear. “As much as I want to be with my family, I’m going to take my stand here. They’ll run to me when the going gets tough, I’m sure of it.”

The guard grumbled, then turned his head towards the ocean's surface. “If that’s what you want, ma’am….”

The buzzes grew, the ground quaked. The little pebbles in the sand bounced around.

The hippogriffs by the rocks pushed their spears and swords forward, grabbed the arrows from their quivers to ready their bows. The seaponies by the ocean sunk themselves back into the water, concealing themselves from the incoming enemy.

Silverstream and Terramar crouched behind the rock. Silverstream poked her head out one last time.

Still nothing beyond the cliffs.

She looked at the archers on top of their tall rocks. They were setting their arrows, stretching bowstrings out.

A tap on the shoulder. She whirled around and saw her brother again.

He gave a weak yet sincere smile. “If we don’t see each other again….”

And hugged her.

Silverstream’s eyes shot open. She was paralyzed for a moment. Then, she returned the hug.

Those embracing siblings, hugging brother and hugging sister.

As the rumbles grew, the pebbles bouncing higher and higher.

“I see it!” Ocellus yelled, grass darting by in her vision.

Delilah pointed ahead. “We’re almost there! Everyone, let’s get ready!”

Ocellus rolled her eyes. “We were ready two hours ago!”

She smiled. “Doesn’t hurt!”

As they flew on, seeing the last bit of grass and seeing the sea’s horizon ahead of them, their buzzes silencing everything else.

Terramar and Silverstream released themselves from their hug.

“Ready!” an officer ordered in a shrill.

Everyone looked ahead, weapons ready. Spears were raised, bows had their arrows in place. Excited yet nervous whispers abounded.

The officer, donning a silver helmet, looked ahead and pointed a sharp digit at the rising black mass forming ahead.

Cornicle felt the rush of the wind, the sweat cooling and drying on his chitin, his wings strained, yet he pushed on, seeing the landscape zoom by in a blur as his friends flew with him. He felt around his fin but could not find any mints at all.

“Hold!”

And they fired their arrows straight at them, picking off a few changelings here and there from the approaching army, but the swarm advanced unabated, still going at its hastening speed, kicking up dust behind themselves.

Silverstream poked her head out of the rock again and saw the many changelings approaching. She furrowed her brows, snorted through her nose, gritted her teeth, even grr'd at them.

Terramar poked his head out of the rock on the other side. He, too, saw the changelings flying by.

The buzzes, the rumblings—they grew.

Ocean Flow floated past the guards by the rocky entrance. Through it, she could see the distant seaponies by the beach as they raised their heads above the water and drew their bows to fire.

She gasped and covered her mouth.

“I hope they’re alright, ma’am,” said the guard from before, facing her and having chilled out.

Ocean Flow sighed. She looked up to the surface of the ocean. “I know they’ll be alright.” Tightened the grip on her spear.

Terramar shivered, loosing the grip on his spear, seeing the tremendous sight of so many changelings. His confident face gave way to one of terror, one whose beak drooped at the sight of them.

Silverstream sighed, seeing them coming. “And when they’re here, we’ll make sure they’ll never want to fight us again!"

“Cornicle!” Ocellus yelled, a mere dozen seconds away from the cliff’s edge. “What’re you doing with your fins?!”

“What if I fall asleep during battle?!” Cornicle shouted back. “I need the caf—I mean, I need my sugar! I’d be useless if sleep and slumber get me when I don’t want to!”

Ocellus looked at him suspicious, still flying. “It’s the coffee, isn’t it?”

Cornicle gulped. “Uh….”

“I should’ve never allowed anyone to taste pony-made coffee at all!” she raged. “It’s addictive, it’s filled with caffeine, it’s bad for your health, and it takes your mind away from—“

Fwip!

Saw the arrow whiz by and strike Delilah, plunging her down to a battering death on the beach below.

Cornicle looked behind him and moaned timidly as the changelings ahead descended to the ground with hisses and growls.

“It’s waiting,” Silverstream muttered to herself as she heard the hooffalls and the whack!’s going on before the rock. “All I have to do is wait until they get this far and—“

Her spear yanked away.

“No!”

She flew around the rock, faced a changeling holding her back with the tip of the spear.

Silverstream raised her claws up in the air in surrender. “OK, OK!”

The changeling cackled, moving in on her with the spear.

Then, she grabbed the spear and shoved him down with the flat end of it, turned it around, and poked him on the head, knocking the changeling out.

Silverstream grinned, planted the spear on the ground. “Just like old times, Smolder!”

Terramar had sweat pouring down on his face, teeth bare and facing the ocean with fear. He saw his fellow seaponies bob up from the water and fire arrows over the rock. He heard changelings and hippogriffs scuffling about on the beach; he listened to the familiar screams of death before the corpses fell to the sand.

He looked at his spear, saw a distorted reflection of himself on the tip of it.

“I hope those lessons were enough!” he whispered to himself before poking his head out of the rock, spear beside him.

Cornicle and Ocellus fought side-by-side, seeing the hippogriffs fly in from the sky to charge at them only to hit the ground with a great force and enough trauma to the head to strike themselves into comas. As they took care of the hippogriffs, they also dodged arrows from everywhere they could see, from the tops of the rocks to the ground level of the beach to the surface of the ocean. Arrows whisked by them, mere centimeters away from their faces.

“How many do they have?!” Cornicle yelled after slamming down yet another hippogriff.

“Many!” Ocellus screamed in reply before giving a series of punches to the head of still another hippogriff whose wings could not stop them.

Ocean Flow looked at the surface carefully, eyes peering, grip on the spear.

Then, screams from the distance, from behind.

She and several guards turned around, seeing changelings pop into view and battling it out with the guards already there under the hanging houses, with more seaponies shifting into changelings.

“This ain’t good!” yelled the guard beside her. “We have to—“

But Ocean Flow was already swimming her way to the changelings, spear in fin, silent but with arched eyes.

Terramar blocked punches and kicks from Cornicle who was taking his time to swing a hit in as many other battles continued around them with the dead being thrown around.

“Please go easy on me!” Cornicle yelled as he lowered his head to dodge a punch from the hippogriff.

Terramar looked confused. “Huh?”

Then kicked at the jaw.

“Got ‘ya!” Cornicle said, pointing at him in mocking fashion.

Terramar rubbed his sore chin and smiled. “No. I got you.”

It was Cornicle’s turn to look confused. “What?”

And was punched at the jaw, held by the head, and kicked at the jaw and then thrown down on the beach, the pebbles and stones scarring his body as he lay down.

Terramar placed a claw on his torso. “What do you have to say for yourself?!”

Cornicle struggled. Then, he relaxed, though the tension on his face grew. “Should’ve never drank coffee!”

Ocean Flow clashed with the changelings underneath the hanging houses, using long kelp and seaweed as ropes to tie them up with before smacking them left and right. The other changelings who were swimming there and holding their breath—they stopped for a second by her spear before trying to swarm her, yet she swam out of the way and let them hit each other on the head.

She looked behind her, then looked at the troupe of guards ahead of her above the seafloor, hearing and feeling the sudden silence. She felt everyone else watching her and the other soldiers there. “Is that all?”

The guards looked at the corpses littered around. “I guess so,” said one of them.

Ocean Flow turned her head back towards the entrance. “Make it out of there alive….”

Ocellus, bruised and scarred, wings broken and cracked, crawled her way under busy fighters occupied with their weapons and, at times, without their weapons as they resorted to their hooves and claws. Bodies fell beside her yet they did not notice; instead, they turned to the next opponent.

She looked at the various changelings still coming in from above the cliff. With a weak hoof cupped around her mouth, she yelled, “Retr—“

A claw stomped right in front of her.

She slowly looked up.

A pink hippogriff. She made a fist out of her claw. In a frightening growl: “I’m Silverstream.” Paused, breathing slow and steady as she looked down on her. Her grimace spoke of unspeakable fury—the wrinkles on her cheeks and her forehead, the tightened eyes and brows, the teeth all in full seething display.

Silverstream cracked her knuckles. “Get ready to die, bug.”

Take-Off, Run Away

In the flower-fragrant forest, several hippogriffs and ponies sat and rested, some by the trees’ barks, others by the ground alone, all sitting down by their backpacks and sacks and other containers for their belongings. Recuperating over by a tree was one pony and one hippogriff with one thing in common: an injury, the pony with a sprain on her hoof and the hippogriff with a cracked wing. Both of them were attended to by Sandbar who wrapped a tight cloth with ice around the sprain and put heaps of bandages on the wing, additional ice on standby.

“I didn’t expect you to know this stuff,” Tidal Stoke said, wincing at the pain of moving his wing again, “but...wow, it’s a good surprise!”

Sandbar smiled, parting his blue bangs from his face. “Eh, don’t think about it too much. I’m here and you’re there; we’ll be fine.”

The sprained pony rubbed her hoof in pain, her short orange mane getting out of the way of her face. “Well, thank you for sticking with us! How could we have done it without you?”

“Remember, it’s not my idea,” Sandbar said, wagging his hoof. “I got training from my leader back when I still had other ponies with me. Kind of basic, really.”

The pony frowned, slumping her yellow shoulders. “Are you calling me dumb?”

Sandbar raised his hooves, shook them in dread. “Uh, n-no! Y-You’re certainly not dumb! What I’m saying is...actually, what I mean is—“

“It’s fine,” said a gruff and older mare, walking to her side and caring for the injured pony sitting on the log. “What’s important now is that we get out of here safe and sound. That’s more important than calling other ponies dumb, right, honey?”

The daughter nodded her head, making a strange smile. “Y-Yeah.”

Sandbar wiped the sweat off of his forehead.

"But my High Hoof is not dumb!" the mother then said, glaring at the stallion.

Sandbar laughed it off as he looked behind him, trying to dismiss the shame being piled on him.

He saw the hippogriffs and ponies still resting up, some breaking open into conversation. Here, a pony and a hippogriff talked about how they were doing before they met each other. There, another pony was offered fried fish to which he said, “Get that thing away from me!” and proceeded to run to the other side of the camp in hopes of not being offered such a monstrosity to his taste buds.

Sandbar then looked past the thick trees and vegetation; they could hear chirps from the birds by the branches.

His ears perked up. “Guys, we might have to move pretty soon. They’re coming.”

Tidal Stoke groaned, raised his injured wing. “What about this?!”

Sandbar grabbed his wing, examined it for an instant. “Can you run as fast as you can fly?”

He placed his other wing on his own chin, thinking about it. “I think so.”

Sandbar looked at the sprained mare. “High Hoof, is it OK if you fly on the back of a hippogriff?”

The mare gulped. “I’ve never flown before!”

“We’ll make you fly!” Sandbar said, gesturing to a gray hippogriff who was standing up as if on cue. “Winds Aloft’s going to bring you up to speed!”

The mare gulped again, afraid.

Sandbar stomped the ground with his forehooves. “Come on, come on! We don’t have time to lose! Let’s go!”

So hippogriffs and ponies alike got up and repacked their bags.

As they ran and flew faster and faster, they jumped over branches and rocks, dodging trees so that they won’t hit their heads and suffer yet another time-wasting injury to heal. High Hoof and Tidal Stoke got by relatively well, the mare holding on to the Wind Aloft’s neck as she felt the wind rush by like never before while holding in her urge to scream and the hippogriff trying to keep up the pace on his legs with Sandbar who looked on ahead, never straying.

“How far do we have to go?!” Tidal Stoke yelled, nervously glancing at his folded wing.

“Not far! I heard there’s a cave you can stay in by the beach down some cliffs. Once you get there, wait a few minutes and then the dragons will come by. OK?”

Another hippogriff joined in, this one being Wet Well flying alongside the two of them. “Why don’t we just turn everyone into seaponies and we swim our way to the Dragon Lands all the way there?”

“Uh...maybe?”

“It’s a good idea!” the father assured, dodging a bush and a snake. “Changelings won’t think of swimming that much and, if there’s a patrol, we just hide under the water and hope they don’t spot us!" He sneezed, having tried to laugh. "They’re so dumb, they won’t even think of going under the ocean just to see if there’s anyone there!” He then successfully laughed to himself in between wingflaps. “Honestly, how come you never thought of that before?”

Sandbar nervously laughed at himself. “I d-don’t know! It never crossed my mind, really!”

Half an hour in and they encountered a rickety bridge held by only wood and rope. Underneath was a treacherous river with a lot of pointy rocks and stones.

Sandbar looked down at this horrible sight. “Uh, OK! I have a plan! What about we send the hippogriffs over the bridge and then us ponies will go one-by-one at a trotting pace! Got it?”

Only for Wind Aloft to pick up a pony, carry him over the chasm, and drop him on the other side, the hippogriff landing there, too.

Sandbar bit his lip. “Or, that. That works.”

So almost everyone crossed the bridge that way, a few ponies opting to go with the bridge so that the hippogriffs would not be over-occupied.

Another half hour passed by and, finally, after plenty of trees and bushes and forest life to dodge and avoid, they finally breathed in the fresh open air of the ocean before them, a hazardous cliff the only thing standing between them and temporary safety in the form of a yawning cave slightly visible to the left.

Sandbar looked ahead, seeing nothing but the cloudy sky and the rolling sea. He was tapping his hoof on the grass harder and harder, making a deep imprint on the ground there.

High Hoof’s mother took out a rope. “Here! I got one!”

Another hippogriff opened her wings and looked at the mare. “Why need a rope when you have wings?”

Sandbar smacked himself on the head, sweating. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

A hoof on his shoulder. He turned around to see Wet Well with his brown wings. “You’re stressed out. Don’t worry. You got us and we can share the load.”

Sandbar smiled and shook his claw as more ponies were carried their way to the cave. “Thank you, sir.” He nervously looked behind him, seeing the thick and dark forest there. “Do you think you have enough time?”

The father looked at the evacuees, seeing the hippogriffs from before returning to get their next round of ponies over to the cave. Turning to the pony in front of him: “We can make do,” he said. “Don’t you worry about us.”

Sandbar smiled.

“I’ll carry you,” he said, opening his claws and his wings. “You’ve been helpful. It’s time we return the favor.”

Sandbar shook his head.

Wet Well’s beak drooped, the hippogriff perplexed. “Huh? Don’t you want to live?”

Sandbar nodded. “But, I’d rather stay here and stand guard, distract the changelings if the dragons don’t make it here in time. I’ll be the bait to lead them away.”

Wet Well was still perplexed. “Don’t you remember we don’t need the dragons?”

Sandbar moaned and stretched his mane out, distressed. “Sorry, but...my mind’s so scattered right now! I want to do this heroic thing and protect you guys, but I don’t know if I could actually go through with it.”

“You don’t have to,” he said, putting a claw on his shoulder. “Come with us. Sure, you’ll have to swim there, but you’re going to be much safer in the Dragon Lands."

Sandbar shifted his eyes towards the forest again. “Thanks again, sir, but I made up my mind. I'll give you enough time and—wait!”

He ruffled through his mane in terror, took out a sleeping grub.

“What?!” Wet Well shouted at the sight of the baby. “Why’d you keep it in your hair?!”

“Found it by some dead changelings,” he said, hoofing the grub to him. “Take it with you. He can’t breathe underwater yet so you one of you has to stay a hippogriff and—“

The rumbling and growing of buzzes and shouts from behind.

Hippogriffs and ponies alike still at the top of cliff shuddered and whispered to themselves, some already giving up for the moment and whimpering.

“Go!” Sandbar whispered loud to Wet Well.

The father looked at him, still perplexed. “Are you absolutely sure about this? You’re missing your chance!”

“Go!”

That hippogriff hesitated for a moment. Then, he spread his wings again, swooped off one of the final ponies left, and took him down, disappearing behind the cliff’s cutoff.

Sandbar turned around, looking at the forest, feeling the ground rumble more.

He looked back towards the ocean. Here, he was alone on the ground; there, the hippogriffs and the ponies being carried by their claws towards the cave over there where the others waved their claws and hooves.

Sandbar looked back to the forest.

The buzzing, the rumbling grew louder.

Sandbar shifted his legs about, giving himself a firm hoofing on the ground.

He sighed. “No time to waste. Any moment, they’ll be h-here.”

Branches and twigs snapping, trees falling apart and landing on the ground with a thud!

“I’ll stand here, I’ll die here if I have to.”

He could hear their voices, closer and closer.

“When it’s over, they won’t win.”

Saw their blue eyes and their wings, their shiny fangs, too. They hissed, lashing their tongues out as they swarmed out of the forest and towards Sandbar.

He stood there, the ground shaking and quaking, the hisses deafening.

“Is everyone here?!” Wet Well said as all of the seaponies, even the ponies-turned-seaponies, swam underwater, himself a seapony, too.

Another hippogriff beside him silently counted all present with a fin. Then: “Everyone’s here!”

“Let’s go!”

They swam away, boosting past corrals and rock formations, swimming with the fish before overtaking them. The natural seaponies held the fins of those who were not, guiding them through and giving them little swimming lessons without any hooves to beat the water with.

“Rely on your tail to push you,” said Wet Well to his somewhat unfamiliar students, “and let your body do the rest!”

Wind Shear, the lone hippogriff, flew above the water, holding the grub with his claws. He stayed close to the water, making sure the size of the cliffs shielded him from the changelings’ sight, hoping the changelings would be distracted enough by that stubborn Sandbar.

Then, as he flew, he rotated his claw and held the grub face-up. He was still sleeping, smiling and snoring happily.

He looked at him. “What a cute little baby!” he said, unable to resist sounding cute himself. “You’ll grow up well. Good thing Sandbar got you.”

Then, he looked ahead.

Saw some flying creatures in the distance, approaching them from the horizon.

Sandbar dodged and landed on the ground, creating a little pile of dirt and rolled around to avoid changelings grabbing his hind legs. A smash on the ground beside his head and he looked up, saw the face of a growling changeling.

He rolled to the side and almost fell off the cliff and into the ocean, letting some changelings fall there only to flap their wings and regain height. He rolled back away from the water and punched the legs of his opponents, injuring them and letting them wince in their pain as their comrades tended to their help.

Then, wingbeats, not buzzes.

He glanced back for a second but it was good enough.

“Dragons!” yelled a changeling.

Sandbar smiled. “They’re coming! They’re coming to save me!”

A yellow dragon rubbed his scaly hands. In a roar: “We’re here! That birdpony told us about you and—“

Was shot down by a beam and staggered in the air.

“Seize those dragons!” yelled another changeling as he and dozens of others swarmed the dragons. Although many were shot down by the flames from the dragons’ breath, many more attacked the newcomers, making some fall while making others retreat.

“They should’ve stayed with them,” Sandbar whispered to himself as he punched more changelings in the face and knocked them out by the jaw and on the head, forcing more changelings to take their allies out.

With the dragons behind him gone, it was just him and the changelings, the many swarming that one pony at the edge of a cliff, the ocean’s waves rippling as the afternoon rolled on, the pain creeping to his head.

Sphere

Antennae hovered through the halls of the hive, carrying a sack of items on his back. Around him, he could see his fellow changelings strolling about and minding their own business past shapeshifting holes acting more like annoying doors to those who did not know how to navigate them—which usually meant the pony slaves being hauled around by not a few of his friends. Through the various holes in those walls, he could see changelings talk and laugh, playing this game or drawing up more plans for the lands beyond Equestria. The shape of this hall in particular made their conversations sound hollow, almost like non-stop echoes.

There, he saw a stall that looked out of place for an otherwise dark and gloomy hall in the hive. It was a wooden stand advertising its random assortment of food: cabbages, carrots, and cake, just to name a few. Also, there was ketchup, mustard, mushrooms, olives, beans….

Taking care of the stand was none other than Humerus himself, smiling dumbly as he waved a bell at the passers-by mostly ignoring his produce which were not really his—and he admitted it, if his “Stolen fresh from the farm!” sign said anything.

“Let me show you how it’s really healthy, these nice and juicy carrots here!” he shouted, looking at both changelings and slave ponies following behind them. “You see—“ picked up a carrot “—it’s rich in vitamin A, and, I heard, vitamin A’s good for the eyes and if your eyes are good and not bad, you’ll be able to see very far and read your books no matter what it is!” He paused and held up the sign for all to see. “So, why don’t you get some fresh carrots, blend it into carrot juice to digest the nutrients easier, and, with my help, you’ll be a better changeling!”

Antennae groaned. He noticed that the stall had been positioned in a very strategic place, right at a narrow point of the hall. There was no way he could get around it without being near the vendor.

He flew by the stall fast.

“Hey!” Humerus shouted, waving at him.

Antennae groaned again, slouching for his great plan had failed. “Not this again,” turned around to give the happy vendor a smile.

“I don’t know if you have good eyes,” Humerus said, pointing at him with a carrot and smiling at the sight of a familiar face, “but that doesn’t seem like a good way of holding your groceries.”

“They aren’t groceries,” replied Antennae in a gruff voice, holding up his sack. “They’re relics we got from the ponies. I’m sending them to Chrysalis so she can find something useful.”

Humerus nodded and held out a carrot. “But, don’t you want one of this? It’s good for your eyes!”

“I have good enough eyes, thank you very much,” and left Humerus alone with his stall.

“Goodbye, Antennae!” Humerus yelled, waving the carrot at him. “I hope she’s happy with you! I’m also sure she’s very happy with my jokes! Hey, do you want to hear a joke? I still got a lot leftover from the last comedy act—“

“I’m not gonna hear it!”

Antennae entered the spacious room. It did not contain much in variety, but what it did have was Chrysalis and lots of eggs of different sizes, all growing and thriving on the rocky and stony floor as the walls shifted around, opened and closed random entrances and exits from time to time.

The changeling bowed down to the queen despite being somewhat far off. Affecting a deep and respectful voice which reverberated throughout the spacious room: “Your Majesty, I’ve brought some relics you may want to investigate. I am certain that they have much value.”

Chrysalis, who was busy caressing a hissing newborn grub just hatched from his egg, placed the egg back down to the ground, leaving the grub helpless but yearning for his mother if constantly looking at her said anything. She turned to face Antennae, flew and landed her way right in front of him. “Ah, yes, it’s the delivery, isn’t it?”

“Uh...yeah. The delivery!” he said, playing along with her. He hoofed it to his queen who received the sack with that menacing scowl. “I hope you’re happy, your Majesty.”

Chrysalis nodded, her hoof already clambering around inside the sack. “Stay here, Antennae. You will be rewarded for your hard work.”

Antennae smiled.

“After all of these items have been examined, of course,” she said with a short, pitying chuckle. “There is no need to rush.”

He gulped and smiled, standing still on that rocky ground inside that warm chamber. He noted the abundance of eggs there, waiting to break open and bring a grub into the world. “I shall wait for my reward, your Majesty.”

Chrysalis rolled her eyes at that. “You don’t need to say everything.”

Then, she picked something up from the sack.

“Hm? What’s this?”

She rotated the object around, observing its rectangular shape and its cardboard-like hardness. It was a box of candy, still unopened. Chrysalis scanned the list of ingredients and checked the expiration date. “A week from now,” she muttered as she turned it further, not seeing much since the design was quite minimal, showing only the name of the candies and the company who made them plus the usual list of ingredients and, as mentioned before, the expiration date.

“What is it?” Antennae asked.

Chrysalis looked down on him, disinterested. “These are just sweets for eating. Nothing special.”

Antennae hovered closer to her and the box. “What if they’re poisoned?”

Chrysalis chuckled. “That’s why I have my personal tasters. Isn’t that right, Burnt Sugar?”

The only pony in the room, sporting a brown mane and a gray coat, shivered. “I-I’m not ready to die!”

“Then, prepare yourself!” Chrysalis yelled as she rushed to her slave, grabbed her, pulled her over to Antennae and threw her there with a thud! The queen then ripped open the box and, catching the intense whiff of sugar, saw the contents which were jawbreakers, lollipops, and consumable gum of different flavors.

The mare gulped at the sight of the box. Smelling it only made her shiver more. She hugged Antennae for help, but the changeling hissed back and pushed her away, letting her fall to the floor and bruising her neck.

Chrysalis placed an orange jawbreaker on her hoof and shoved it in front of the Burnt Sugar’s face as she helped her up on her four hooves. “Eat!”

She gulped. Then, she licked the candy, smacking her lips to taste it. “It tastes good, like oranges—“

“I said eat, not taste!”

And Chrysalis shoved the candy into the mare’s mouth.

She swallowed it. The mare shuddered.

Then, she stood there, looking at her. “I’m...f-fine?”

Chrysalis threw her back to the side. “I’ll wait a full day before trying them.” She faced Burnt Sugar. “Tell the next pony in case you die.”

The mare nodded solemnly, then proceeded to sit alone between a set of rocky spikes in the cavernous chamber.

Chrysalis took the sack back up and brought out another thing. She raised it for a more clear view and found a hat. It was an unusual kind of hat for it was made of leaves and twigs.

“Burn it,” she said nonchalantly, throwing it down to the ground. “I see no use in it.”

Antennae nodded, though sweating on the side of his face, wondering if his queen would remember that promised reward.

Then, Chrysalis let her hoof fumble about inside the sack for something else. She tried to pull up the next object—“A bit heavy….”—and groaned at the weight of it. She placed both of her forehooves inside it and, with ease, carried it into the light.

It was a round silver object made of precious metal. The gems on it shone the green of the cavern’s lights hanging from the uneven ceiling.

Chrysalis gasped, her eyes dilated. “I-Is it…?”

Antennae looked at it, the reward materializing in his mind. “Shiny! Yeah, it’s shiny! Also, look at those colored diamonds! That’s probably my reward, huh?”

Chrysalis hissed at him. “It’s not! Do you know what this is?!”

After looking at it for a good while, Antennae shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s the Sphere of Fortitude!” she said, pointing at it, gasping for air. Then, she calmed down but kept her crazy stare. “You know what it does to those who wield it?”

Antennae shook his head silently.

“It grants victory,” she said. “It...grants victory to those who wield it.” She sighed, rolling it with her hooves. “Where did you find this?!”

Antennae shrugged again. “I wasn’t the one who found it.”

Chrysalis examined it again, rotating it around with both of her forehooves as she floated above the ground. “Who did?!”

“I-I don’t know!” He raised his hooves to the air in protest, floating above the ground as well. “How should I know?!”

“I’ll give that changeling half of what this sack’s worth—no, all of it except for the sphere!"

Then, calming down again by breathing slowly, she landed on the ground and motioned to him to land, too.

"You see, Antennae," she continued, holding the sphere before his face, "this is how you help the hive!”

Antennae fell to the ground, feeling miserable. “Am I not helping? I do all kinds of work around. I clean the corridors like a janitor, I take care of the grubs in my free time—“

“That won’t be enough!” Chrysalis yelled. “They are stubborn! Resistance is always stubborn and I can never rest until I see every single one of them wiped out!”

Antennae cowered and bowed down to his queen. “Yes, your Majesty!”

Chrysalis then threw a hoof at his direction. “Now, shoo. I’ll figure out a way to safeguard this on my own.”

And the changeling servant away, leaving through the hole, disappointed that the reward might not go to him after all.

“Don’t you forget this day!” she yelled after him, holding the glittery sphere up in the air. “Remember it forever, for it is the day our victory is assured!”

“Yes, your Majesty!” she heard echoed through the halls.

Then, she placed the sphere close to her eyes. She looked at it, saw her faint reflection on the shiny surface. Then, she laughed, she cackled, howling as her mad laughs echoed throughout the chamber.

Burnt Sugar shuddered in her place over there, hiding her face from the hysterical queen.

Thorax

Sunset was upon the ocean once again, the sun’s sharp orange rays zooming through the sky in magnificent style. Around the water, more water. Some jumping fish popped out once in a while, but, other than that, it was pretty lonely for Smolder who kept flapping her wings, kept pushing herself to the limit with nobody to talk to. She often glanced to the side out of instinct—maybe a monster would come out of the ocean to eat her. But, sometimes, her otherwise innocent glances were met not with relief that she avoided becoming dinner but with disappointment that a certain hippogriff was not flying beside her.

In her mind, there she was, that bubbly Silverstream. She replayed the funny jokes and the unfunny puns in her head, almost hearing them. Of course, reality would not let her enjoy it for long because she saw the empty space beside her with her own eyes.

Silverstream was absent.

Smolder looked down on the orange-tinted sea, seeing her reflection matching the color scheme of her surroundings. She saw herself, a young and fierce dragon who could breathe fire—and again, the absence presented itself, for she could not see the reflection of that Silverstream who had breathed water but may or may not have used that ability as a weapon before.

She closed her eyes and sighed. “It was fun while it lasted, huh?” She raised her claws to the air, seeing them and their little details. “So what if they don’t like you back home? You’re my friend and I promise I’ll find you, even if it’s your dead body!”

She looked up, hoping to see land.

Except there was no land. Instead, she saw a flying creature approaching her.

Smolder narrowed her eyes and slightly slowed down her flight.

The creature neared. She saw the features, the shape of those wings. The outlines she saw were not that of feathers.

“A dr-dragon?!” Smolder shouted as this other dragon slowed down and neared her. “Wh-What a-are you doing here?”

The yellow dragon looked surprised at her, stopped and hovered in front of her. “I was gonna ask the same of...of you!” He coughed, punching his chest and shooting out a line of fire which disappeared in the water below. “What are you doing here, Smolder?”

Smolder shook her head. “Uh-uh. You first, Teocht!”

“Fine.” He drew in breath. “We’re the missing dragons Torch has been raging about. We wanted to save anyone who could make it to the shore, so we organized ourselves and took the trip.”

Smolder looked at him, and then to the space beside him. “Well? Where’s the survivors?”

“You didn’t see them?” Teocht asked, looking over her shoulder. “They started hours ago! They should be halfway there now.”

Smolder shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t see anyone! What were they? Pegasi?”

“No. There was one hippogriff holding a baby; the rest were seaponies.”

“A hippogriff?!” Smolder yelled, hands on her head like one startled.

Teocht nodded but refrained from smiling. “Not the one you’re looking for, though. I know you like Silverstream and, really, she’s a good gal, but she’s not there. I asked around.”

Smolder gasped. “That means she’s...she’s still out there!” Her eyes darted everywhere including there. “What happened? Did Mount Aris survive? Where are the changelings?!”

“Didn’t get any word,” he said, raising his shoulders, “but it’s safe to say they’ve pretty much outnumbered the hippogriffs.”

Smolder shook her head, angry with a growl. “No way! How do you know?!”

The dragon sighed, tired out. “When we started, there were ten of us. Eight of us are now dead, I don’t know why Teine’s lagging behind, but...we’re the only ones who escaped ‘cause the changelings already have the entire shore.”

Smolder gasped again, then tried to look past him.

“You shouldn’t go there,” Teocht said in an authoritative manner. “It’s dangerous and—“

Smolder flew past him.

“Wait!” he yelled. “Don’t you realize what you’re doing?!”

“No!” Smolder yelled back, fleeing into the orange horizon.

Hours later, and it was already nighttime. The moon was in the sky along with its many stars, shining upon the ocean with their white and gleaming reflections on the water.

Smolder, sweating and panting though flapping her wings as hard as she could, caught sight of land past the pointed cliffs. She looked at the trees over there still standing.

“Huh.” Smolder squinted her eyes, affording a clearer view of the coast but seeing no one there.

The dragon alighted on the ground.

It took a few seconds for her to get her bearings, but once she did, she saw what was around her: a great number of hoofprints, several broken and collapsed trees, many scattered leaves and twigs around with stray fruit squashed, and, most importantly, a lone changeling slowly limping away with broken wings, crawling.

Smolder grunted and ran towards that one changeling.

He heard the footsteps, crawled faster.

And was picked up by the throat, now face-to-face with an angry Smolder.

The changeling shuddered. “Wh-Wh-What do y-y-y-you w-want?!”

“Where is Silverstream?!”

The changeling raised his forehooves in surrender. “I-I h-have no idea who y-you’re talking about—“

Smolder threw him down, wrecking his wings more.

“Agh! Please, have mercy on me! I don’t know who this ‘Silverstream’ is!”

Smolder kicked him on the head. “You’re a liar! You know where she is! Where do you have her?!”

Moaning in pain, the changeling glared at her with anguished eyes and hollow cheeks. “I’m not l-lying! I’m telling you, I’m n-not lying!”

Smolder kicked him on the head again, eliciting cries and groan from his throbbing head. “Why should I trust you?!”

He looked up to her, slowly raising his head.

Smolder could see the scars and bruises on his head. She noticed he only had one fang jutting from his mouth.

The changeling looked straight at her. “We failed.”

Smolder cocked her head to the left. “Failed at what?”

“Your flying, swimming friends…they won….”

She leaned closer. “You...lost?”

“Yes!” the changeling cried out, hissing at her. “Now, leave me alone! Or...if you could do me a favor...please throw me over there,” pointing at the fields ahead of him. “I’d be making lots of distance if you could—“

And his request was granted for he was picked up and thrown a long arc, all the while screaming his way up to the sky and down to the ground.

Smolder heard a faint thud!

Then, she put her hands on her hips, surveying the destruction around her. She strolled through the chaos, trampling on branches and walking around logs. She heard birds chirping about but they were not perched so high. Instead, she found them on the ground, on the logs. They did not seem to mind her, really.

Smolder kept strolling, taking in deep breaths of fresh air.

Then, the tumbling of a few branches.

She whirled around. “Who’s there?”

Smolder arched her brows as she walked towards the branches and one of the trees there still standing.

“You can’t hide from me!” Smolder called out, taking to flight and hovering closer to it. “You better come out now!”

Closer, closer to the tree as she felt another chilly breeze on her scales, gliding closer.

Then, right in front of her, the tree.

“Got you!”, then jumped to the other side.

And saw a shuddering pony the color of spring bud, bruised and scarred, eyes half-open and blackened, bangs all scruffy, and some teeth missing.

Smolder looked at him, keeping some distance herself. “Who are you?”

The pony coughed, then choked and hacked his way to more air.

Smolder stood there, waiting for the hurt stallion to speak. “Well?”

He rubbed his face, rubbing his eyes free from the pain but could not. Then, looking up at the dragon: “Smolder?”

The dragon took a step back. “I’ve never seen you before! How come you know my name?”

He parted his blue bangs. “I’ll let you know my name. I-I'm Sandbar.”

Smolder tilted her head to the side. “Right….”

Sandbar chuckled, shaking his head as he did so. “Why would you believe me? You probably think I’m a changeling just because I know your n-name…most famous dragon-hippogriff duo the world’s ever seen….”

Smolder tapped her chin. “I’ll give you that, but...what happened?”

Sandbar coughed again, rubbing his wounded and discolored chest. “The changelings...they...they got me a-and...” he trailed off. Shook his head. “What’s the use? Here.”

The pony glowed and he was gone, an injured changeling there instead lying on the trunk.

Smolder bared her teeth and punched her fists. “Couldn’t even go through with your story! You tricked me for a second, though, so good for you...but, you know what this means!”

This changeling looked up. “N-No, Smolder!”

Then, Smolder jumped back, surprised and flapping her wings. “Thorax?!”

He slowly nodded. Carrying a feeble voice: “Y-Yeah. It’s me….”

Smolder leaned down, picked up a limp leg. “What happened to you?”

A few seconds passed, Thorax looking over her shoulder and seeing more of the leveled forest. He retracted the leg. “I...I saved some creatures. Gave them enough time to...to e-escape.”

“What creatures?” Smolder asked, panicking as her voice quivered. “Is Silverstream OK?!”

Thorax looked at her eyes, confused. “She...she’s not with them, but I’ve never seen her captured….”

Smolder breathed a sigh of relief, wiping her forehead. “That’s good, but...what about you?”

Thorax coughed. “There were changelings going after them. I was disguised as a pony named Sandbar a-and I helped them...got them to the shore, the hippogriffs t-turned them all into s-seaponies, and got away. The changelings n-never noticed….”

Smolder slowly opened her mouth, realizing something. “Does that mean...you saw the dragons?”

Thorax nodded, slower than before. “Most of them got down, but...I kn-know one got out alive….”

Instead of saying anything, Smolder just sat down beside him, resting her back on the tree’s trunk with him.

She looked up at the night sky, seeing those stars twinkle in that calm, peaceful night.

Thorax coughed, this time with a painful groan.

The dragon looked at him, worry in her open mouth. “I’ll carry you over to Mount Aris. I was going there anyway to see if Silverstream’s alright.”

Thorax shook his head, waved his hoof about. “N-No...i-it’s alright, it’s alright….”

He slumped his head on the bark, staring blankly at the pretty sky.

“You don’t want to die here, do you?” Smolder said, patting him on the back for encouragement. “Stand up and let me help you!”

Thorax shoved the encouraging hand away, letting his own hoof fall lifeless. “Trust me, Smolder...I-I know I won’t be making it out of here a-alive.”

“But you could come back with us!” Smolder shouted, pointing to herself and then to the horizon towards Aris. “I don’t know what kind of medicine or bandages or something they got there, but they’re there! What’re they gonna say if I leave you out here?”

He smiled despite the bruises on his mouth. “Tell them I a-am OK with being h-here. I’m n-not gonna survive the trip a-anyway—“ coughed “—and...a-and—“

Blinked.

“N-Nevermind.”

And Thorax stopped.

Smolder looked at that dying changeling, noticing his breathing becoming weaker.

“A-Actually,” Thorax managed, voice all gruff, “there’s o-one thing I’d w-want you to do for me.”

Smolder raised a brow. “What is it?”

Thorax made a frail smile. “B-Bury me. Bury me deep so th-they won’t find me if th-they...if Chrysalis gets here. M-Make sure th-they won’t find my b-body,” and coughed, covering his mouth.

Smolder scanned the area around them, found a couple of flat spots here and there suitable for the job despite the forest’s litter lying around. “It’s gonna take me some time without a shovel, though.”

Thorax chuckled a bit. “I-I won’t be a-alive to complain.”

Smolder chuckled, too. “Heh.”

And the both of them sat, seeing the moon inch slowly towards the top of the sky.

Smolder smiled, looking at the moon like that. “You know what, Thorax? I’m OK with this. I mean, I don’t like you dying, but...it’s a little break from what’s been going on. I don’t have to worry about an invasion and I’m beginning to think things are looking bright for us.”

She turned to Thorax for a response.

Saw his closed eyes and that smile.

Her own smile vanished. “Oh.”

She stared upon the corpse sitting there. She raised his hoof and dropped it, seeing it truly fall limp and hanging off his shoulder.

“You were a good changeling, Thorax." She patted him on the back.

Smolder looked around, remembering those flat spots.

“Now, where to?”

The dragon picked up the corpse and walked her way to the closest flat spot. She dropped the corpse, cleared the debris of leaves and branches and logs covering it up, and began to dig.

Return

The rainforest was hot and humid.

Trees, comprised of burly and bulky barks, reached high up and towered over the savage bushes, blotting out much of the sky, leaving only faint ethereal rays of sunlight piercing through the hanging foliage and the damp, pungent air which reeked of a rainy yesterday. Muddy paths cut across the ground burdened with fallen leaves and vines, sided by thorn-riddled shrubs producing berries dangling out of their little branches.

A hairy capybara scampered through and swiped a few berries off a bush.

Loud, rising buzzing. Over there, descending from the leaves of those stiff trees, were fly-ders—spiders with the wings of a fly, moving out in huge packs and flying round the tree with their eight legs arched and poised.

Nothing there for the insects but the capybara feasting on his measly meal.

Ignoring the big rodent, the fly-ders swarmed over to another tree and went around it.

Nothing there, too, except for a jackalope hopping away into a burrow wide enough for his long antlers, greeted by another jackalope before being ushered farther inside.

Overlooking the weird rabbits, the fly-ders swarmed to yet another tree.

Saw a pony with his back to the trunk, trembling at the sight of them.

"Get away from me!" he yelled.

Burst into a sprint.

With the fly-ders not far behind and catching up on him, this pony dodged big stones, tall trees, and other wildlife—jumped over a snake, darted away from a sleeping tiger, and did not fail in escaping the clutches of a crocodile as he leaped to the other side of the river.

Breathing, panting.

He turned his mane-ruffled head.

Saw the fly-ders glaring at him from their side, across the river.

They turned away, back into the darkness of that part of the forest.

The stallion wiped the sweat off of his face, breathing fast, about to wheeze, the stench of the forest and the danger of the crocodile and the stream of the river and the strange sounds coming from the rest of the forest coming back to his senses.

Glanced at the saddle bag he was wearing.

A little stained by dirt, and a few scratches here and there. It was fine, though.

"That's got to be the last of it!" he said to himself, shaky and unsure, before venturing deeper into the forest, concealing himself under the trees' leaves once again.

Sandbar trod past the trees, walking and never going into a full gallop. He avoided the dry leaves and the dry twigs which littered his way, keeping himself to a quiet, even stealthy, trip through the rainforest.

The farther he went, the darker it grew. Now, it was only as bright as twilight—the rare rays of light from above became natural lightbulbs in the otherwise murky woods, illuminating a patch of mud, rocks, and weeds with a creeping iguana or two. He could hear the rush of a nearby waterfall, the croaking of a dozen frogs, the calls of toucans from their holes in the trees, the snapping of fallen branches by shadowy silhouettes which, under the light, turned out to be more jackalopes hopping around.

Sandbar then turned away from the mud path, trudging through thick vegetation growing from the ground. With his head and his forehooves, he parted many leaves of different shapes and sizes, some sporting an exotic blue.

He stopped, raised his right hoof.

Surrounded by tropical shrubs and bushes covering most of his legs and part of his cyan tail, feeling the forest's sweltering heat of the day with profuse drops of sweat on his skin.

He looked up at one of the trees. "I want a number."

The leaves there rustled a bit. A gruff voice: "My number is three."

Sandbar furrowed his brows. "Mine is eight."

The leaves rustled again. "I want what number and with what other number shall I use to get there?"

"One hundred, eleven."

A sigh from the tree. "A Griffon named Gary. Favorite food and number."

Sandbar smiled. "Ice cream and thirty-one, plus he's never last in a marathon."

Another sigh. "Traffic. First yellow pegasus at intersection C."

"Should back up and reverse."

"Who will send you tomorrow?"

"A Princess of Melody."

"Who sent you three days ago?"

"Curly, simple, with stripes."

"When the gate is yellow, shall you fight?"

"Like a soldier, unlike a fighter, sir."

"Freedom and fire, but before them is...?"

"Crime."

A sneer from the tree. "Three patterns alternate starting with the shorter one."

"Save our souls."

"Plaid carrots are what?"

"Sincere and come in threes."

Another sneer. "You've failed the test. What are your last words before we kill you off, changeling?"

Sandbar chuckled. "'Peach' for one, 'desert' for the second cube, 'waterspout' for something above the roof, 'azure' for one and one, 'olivine' for five, 'shandy' is with 'shamrock', and 'rich' or 'registration' for second-to-last."

Silence.

The leaves did not rustle. "You're certain you did not bring anyone else along with you?"

Sandbar nodded, though his hooves shivered.

"Alright. Hold on. She's been waiting for you."

The leaves crinkled and crackled; the branch buckled under the weight, showing a glimmer of the pony who was there and now was gone.

Sandbar waited, staring at that unoccupied branch. He looked around, still surrounded by bushes and trees.

Not a light but a faint ray by the wayside, showering the sun's warmth over a couple of forget-me-nots. He saw not much else, the vicinity shrouded in shadows.

Then, rustling of leaves and buckling of branches again.

Sandbar stood up.

Looked at the new pony who came into view.

Her dark indigo mane was muted under the darkness, tied with ponytails made up of chopped vines and flexible sticks. Her face and her hooves were covered with a green salve, altering her into somepony fierce and mysterious, as if a mask had fallen upon her. The clothes she was wearing were simple: a green and brown shirt.

"Come up," she whispered, standing on the branch and beckoning him with a hoof.

Sandbar did so, climbing up the tree and then pulled up by her hooves on to the branch.

The mare yanked a rope hanging from above, and the canopy of leaves descended to cover the opening.

Now, Sandbar saw nothing but leaves and branches around him, his eyes adjusting to the extreme shade.

"Is it true?" Coloratura said in a hushed voice, closer to his ears.

Sandbar nodded. "I got into a close shave where Ponyville used to be. They turned it into their own base. Chrysalis is resting there for a while, but I have no idea what she'll do."

Coloratura placed a hoof on her cheek, feeling a throbbing headache with another hoof on her forehead. "OK. That's...it's good to know, b-but why does it have to be them? If Ponyville's down, then the rest of us will follow suit unless we do something drastic."

He gulped. "A move?"

Coloratura looked at him with a pensive frown, gesturing towards another branch nearby. "We're not in good straits between Ponyville and here. The McIntosh Hills rebels have the advantage of mountains, but not for long."

She jumped to the next branch, balancing on it with ease.

"Once they go down, it's time to move South, through the desert. I've already made plans to make peace with the locals at Klugetown, but that'll have to be temporary."

Sandbar jumped to her side, rocking the branch. "But, what's after that? There's not much left after Bone Dry Desert!"

Coloratura winced. "That's true, but there's been talk about meeting up with the hippogriffs at Mount Aris. Already, they've acted on contingency plans and have utilized some kind of magical pearl to turn them into seaponies in case of a changeling overrun. The back-up plan is to go underwater and hole up there until it's time to strike."

She hopped to another branch, this one connected to a wooden bridge strung together by ropes. It led to a tunnel purely made up of so many leaves and branches; it isolated the passageway from any sunlight whatsoever, creating a tunnel mostly filled with pitch black darkness.

"It's a worst case scenario," Coloratura continued, "but...we have to be prepared. As long as one of us is alive, there's a fighting chance."

Sandbar shuddered, looking at Coloratura with quivering lips and racketing teeth.

"What are you doing?" she prodded. "Come on!"

Sandbar jumped to her branch, and the two walked into the tunnel, disappearing in the tunnel's blind gloom.

Night had fallen, but there was not much difference compared to daytime in this dense forest. Under the trees, it was darker yet, for the rare sunrays were gone. Looking up, one could scarcely tell whether he was looking at a starless sky or at the leaves. All he would know is that the moon was up, but was it a full moon tonight? A new moon? Somewhere in between?

That would not matter if he was looking at the ceiling of a hut.

The hut displayed a main room. In fact, it was the only room the hut had, combining all the functions of an ordinary house: wooden tables and chairs for dining, little smoke and fire tepee for making actual dinner, hay beds for sleeping...and that was all. The shelves contained various potions and other magical liquids of various colors, locked up in their small jars. The racks resting on the round plank walls held a variety of weapons ranging from clubs to slings, from bows with arrows to spears. Everything here was then lit up by two lanterns, one on the table and one hanging from the ceiling.

Sandbar sat at the lantern-lit table, sitting across Fresh Coat, a unicorn mare with curly black bangs running over her face.

"We're not doing well, are we?" she said, looking straight at Sandbar, touching her cap sullied with white paint. "I...I don't know what I'll do after this. I'm sure most of us will survive the trek through the desert but, you know...it's hot."

Sandbar placed a hoof on the table. "It's something new to experience, right?"

Fresh Coat glowered at him.

Sandbar held his hooves up in defense. "I was trying to lighten up the mood here, OK?"

She sighed. "I don't blame you or Coloratura. We've been doing the same old thing for months now. Check supplies, check the ponies passing through for refuge, talk with the others. I don't...I don't sleep easy at night, but you already knew that. What if they catch me sleeping? But, I need my eight hours of sleep. Or six."

She sighed again.

"I just don't know. I just don't know."

Sandbar cleared his throat, tugged at his imaginary collar.

Fresh Coat yawned. "It's never easy. They got Ivy Vine yesterday, and I've never noticed when they got her. How much info did she leak out to the Hive? Was she with us from the very beginning? And...and you..."

Pointed at him.

"...you could be a changeling, but I know you're not...but, that's what I said to her last week, and we had deep conversations about what our plans would be after all's said and done."

She sighed yet again.

"Like, live out the rest of my life doing the one thing I do best: Paint stuff."

Sandbar raised a brow. "Aren't you happy with the camouflage you do?"

Fresh Coat nodded, though never smiling. "Yeah, but...I want real painting. Real renovating. I want clients with dusty old homes asking me to fix up their walls and make them look bright and lively. I don't want to worry about those clients building that house to trap me in, and then suck the love out of me. I just want to paint because that's my passion, my cutie mark...."

And raised a hoof to her eye.

Sandbar got up from her chair, galloped to her side, held her head. "Come on, Coat. You don't have to be like that. We're still in this together."

She wrenched his hoof away from her.

Sandbar staggered back, almost falling to the hay covered floor.

Left looking at her, that despairing mare.

"What if they're here and we don't even know it? I don't wanna be caged and treated as food! What happens if they get all the love out of me? Will I become an emotionless monster?! I've never thought about it before, and it's horrifying to think about! They—" sniffed "—they're coming to get all of us!"

Sandbar rushed up to her and held her head firm. "Keep it together! Don't panic!"

Silence.

The flickering of lanterns where they were, the flickering of shadows on the walls.

Sandbar let go of her head.

Fresh Coat exhaled.

"Look," Sandbar began, studying her, "if all else fails, we got the hippogriffs. Remember what Coloratura told us and everyone else? They'll have something, they got to have something."

Coat rubbed her nose. "You're just saying that to make me feel better, aren't you?"

Sandbar scratched his head, maintaining a forced smile. "What do you mean?"

Coat let out a short, sly laugh, turning her head away from him. "Are you sure they have something?"

Sandbar froze in place, his smile gone.

Then, slowly walked to one of the small windows there.

Looking out at the opening of grass and a few other dimly lit huts, their own lanterns flickering inside—all encircled by more thick, dense trees and whatever savage fauna prospered in the unknown—chirping, howling, beeping.

He looked up, seeing nothing but the blackness cast by the leaves above.

He saw no moon.

"I'm...sure they'll have something."

Victory for the Victors

Elsewhere in the dead of night, a village lay in ruins.

Once beautiful cottages of a simple, rural lifestyle—topped with hay roofs and dressed up in old style walls and greenery—these now rest devastated, in smoldering ruins. The closed in walls were burned, choked by infesting vines. The furniture remained in a tattered state, ripped to shreds and standing out in nigh empty rooms no longer protected from the sky since the ceilings had also caved in. Cabinets which used to be crammed with all sorts of things like food, kitchenware, clothes, souvenirs, knick-knacks—these were now vacant, void of anything but a few stray items enveloped in the first stage of dust.

The streets fared no better. Though there was not much to ruin outside, the effects were still hideous to anyone who would come here for the first time. Instead of trees and flowers blooming in the spring, there were only weeds—the trees’ leaves having fallen or been shaken out a short time ago. That subtle green had left; even the grass was not spared, for patches of them throughout the town had either burned, too, or had been uprooted as could be seen by the holes on the ground and the occasional leftover root mingled with the shards of broken windows reflecting the moon’s soft glow.

This village had a horrible stench, like the smell of rotten eggs. Coupled with low murmurs and subdued buzzes, the town had gained a lurid atmosphere, a ghastly mood.

It was a cold night. A very cold night.

A changeling shivered.

Imperfect was his black chitin; his legs were tainted with holes, and so was his fin-like tail. The carapace on his back shone a somber blue under the moon, countless sparkles coming and going in his wings as they inched and arched to and fro. His pupilless eyes complemented his sharp fangs, and his pointed ears completed his look.

He would have been very menacing if he were not blubbering gibberish to himself while holding a bag of goods.

Thorax flew about in the abandoned village, passing by yet more fallen houses and stores, talking to no one around.

Half a minute elapsed, and he found himself in what used to be a marketplace. The trappings of it became evident upon his closer inspection: over there, almost at the start of it, were a few honeycombs with dried up honey lying on the filthy ground; over here, farther in, was an overturned apple stand, every apple also on the ground and dozens of them the food of an ant’s midnight snack along with his many companions; finally, at the other side of the market, was a desolate bargain shop, the shelves and displays ransacked with a scant number of products left.

Thorax flew out of the marketplace, traveling through more of the town.

A bakery stood alone in the middle of the village. It had a gingerbread-house feel to it—much of the roof was styled after actual gingerbread topped with frosting and sweet buttons, a cutout of a pony standing at the edge of the roof was holding up a candy cane, and the window fragments sticking out of the frames were pink. Actually, a good portion of the bakery was in pink: the flowers still persisting beside the steps to the entrance, the steps to the entrance themselves, the entrance itself, and the mailbox standing beside a hanging sign bearing a depiction of a pink cupcake.

Still lugging the bag on his strained back, he lifted himself up the steps and walked through the door.

Confronted by a blast of sugary scents.

Inside, several more changelings were running about, busy with carrying boxes to this or that place or manipulating ingredients into different sacks or just trashing the place and kicking down furniture and fixtures. Their features bore much resemblance to Thorax's: their frayed legs, their washed out eyes, their thin yet sturdy wings....

Around him were sweets of all kinds. Sure, they were moldy and inedible, but they were sweets. Muffins, cupcakes, cakes, pies, and, sitting on its own by a special table, was a fusion of a cake and a pie—a “cakepie”, as it was called by the sign posted next to it. These were being hauled into sacks which were then tied up by three changelings who just finished another set of them and proceeded to go out, carrying them over their shoulders and into the night.

“Something’s always not right with you, huh?” a brusque voice came out to him.

Thorax shivered, jumping up and into a distanced hover.

Yet another changeling came through the kitchen’s swiveling doors, putting on a purple-eyed grimace for Thorax.

“Late as usual,” Pharynx said, wagging his head at him. “But, there’s room for improvement, brother.”

Thorax took a step back, feeling his fangs with his hoof.

“Are you still unhappy?” Pharynx asked, going over the counter and trotting to him. “Haven’t you realized what we’ve accomplished over the past week?”

“Um, uh, y-yeah, b-b-but—“

“That rebellious scum, Zecora, is out of the picture! Her special heroes are gone, too—to be subject to either execution or food. Haven’t you heard?”

Thorax closed one of his eyes, turning away from him. “I-I was out of the loop. I had to come over when it was all done and—“

“That’s no excuse, even if you just arrived!” Pharynx yelled at him, placing a rough hoof on his brother’s nose. “Didn’t we drill the word ‘discipline’ into your puny head?!”

“It’s not puny—“

“Bah!” Pharynx exclaimed, swatting him on the face. “Who cares? If your head’s puny, we all have puny heads, and the puny heads are the winners.” Then, his lips curling into a slight smile: “In other news, Ocellus discovered something about this boring old ‘Cube Cornersugar’ or whatever it’s called.”

“It’s ‘Sugarcube Corner’, sir,” corrected a changeling stuffing his saddle bag with muffins from the counter.

Pharynx rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

He placed his forehooves on Pharynx.

“Follow me. We’ve discovered an underground pony garrison in a hidden basement. Lots of things to loot, lots of confidential documents to give to the queen. They tried to burn it all down, but they were too slow to get even a tiny match on fire!”

Thorax caught air in his throat. “Am I g-good enough for—“

“You’re already pathetic enough as is,” Pharynx said, leading him by the hoof to the stairs. “You might as well jump straight ahead to something important for once.”

“Agh!”

The two brothers crashed to the stony floor.

Thorax, rubbing his head, struggled to get up, his legs wobbling and reeling from the pain.

Pharynx flapped his wings and hovered over the ground, looking at the long slide behind him. “Kind of childish, but it worked for them.”

And Thorax took it all in, smelling the same sugary scent in here as well.

Hanging from the rough cave ceiling were incandescent lights on ropes, the bulbs swaying with the least breeze. Carved into the walls were stone shelves, standing by those shelves were tall office-like cabinets and lockers—all now opened and under search by a team of changelings rummaging these spaces, examining objects and scanning papers and other kinds of communications. The end of the cave housed ten beds, all in good condition and complete with pillows; peeking out from one of the pillows was a mini-fridge with its door swayed open, revealing several plastic jugs of ice water inside.

The whispers reverberated, bounced around the walls, echoing into strange yet familiar forms inside his head.

“It’s about time you met one of the tops in this department,” Pharynx said, slapping his brother on the shoulder as he further led him to a changeling speedreading a stapled stack of paper. He motioned to her. “Ocellus, meet the brother I talked about earlier: Thorax.”

The changeling raised her head from the job before her and whirled it round to see him. A greenish tint was in her eyes, and a pink smidge was on the reflections of her wings.

Thorax gulped, holding out his hoof to hers. “Uh, nice to meet you.”

Ocellus smiled, shaking his hoof. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, too, Thorax. I’ve heard stories about you.”

Pharynx chuckled.

Thorax gulped again, cringing from the hoofshake. “Uh, why, yes! They were stories that were...true. Oh, and I also heard stories about you! Quite the, um, espionager!” which he finished with a swing of his forehoof.

Pharynx then smacked his own face with his own hoof. "No one says 'espionager'. It's not a real word!"

Ocellus giggled, putting down her papers and still facing Thorax. “I really don’t like flattery, but, I guess it’s not flattery if it is true.”

Pharynx glanced at her. “Ocellus, anything new? Substantial? Enough to discover secret plans?”

Ocellus nodded, picking up a loose sheet of paper and holding it up to the unstable light of swaying bulbs overhead. “This one had Vice Leader Fluttershy warning all the outposts South of Ponyville to change their locations immediately. I did a bit of deciphering and decrypting, but I wrote it all on the back.”

She hoofed the paper to Pharynx.

On the front were symbols. Some were simple shapes like squares, triangles and arrows. Others were complex not unlike a mishmash of patterns and punctuation marks. Still others were random groups of numbers—ordinary numbers, negative numbers, fractions, decimals, ratios, even real numbers outside of those categories.

Pharynx flipped it to the back.

On the back were written these words:

Approaching. 3 days don’t hear, move. Apple, ignore back-up and switch to high. Ready to support McIn. Dge, maneuver Hayseed and ignore back-up; try HorBay. Rockville, GorGal until end. McIn, stand ground, fortify. ColCur, if McIn goes, follow back-up. DaiCut, supply hub. Thbd, supply hub. HarKee, if prev. two go, back-up.

“Basically,” Ocellus continued, pointing at the paper and getting herself near the unusual letter, “Appleloosa’s going to move into the mountains nearby, discarding whatever back-up plan they have. They’re also supposed to coordinate with the McIntosh guys at the Hills. Dodge City will try to get to Horseshoe Bay through Hayseed Swamp.”

Pharynx grinned. “Right in our path! Then again, it was mostly obvious.”

Ocellus frowned. “There’s apparently a base at Rockville, and it’s probably a site of importance, considering that it’s ordered to hide in nearby Galloping Gorge for an indefinite period of time. It may have key items of interest, so we should at least send a scouting party there.”

Pharynx laughed and tugged his brother with a hoof. “This is what we’re waiting for! First, Ponyville’s destroyed, and now this! We’ll feast on their love for eternity, enslaving them and—“

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Pharynx,” Ocellus interrupted. “I’m still not done.”

Pharynx sighed, surveying his other fellow changelings in the cave studying their own papers and tearing apart an assortment of things from the shelves and cabinets.

“Colossal Curve is another new base. They’re stationed approximately twenty miles South of McIntosh Hills. It’s also new in another sense—just started in the winter. It’s moderately vulnerable, judging by the fact that the other new bases after it—Daisy Cutter and ‘Thoroughbred’—are ordered to become supply hubs, perhaps headquarters after that. That means Curve might be sturdy, but not too sturdy.”

Pharynx rubbed his chin. “Then, what’s ‘HarKee’?”

“Hard Keeper is located almost at the edge of Bone Dry Desert, near the old railroad on the East side of the tracks." She paused. "It’s their last ditch effort. Once we capture them, there’s not much left except for the stragglers.” She shrugged her shoulders. “There will always be stragglers to intimidate.”

Pharynx smiled. “That is good!” Faced Thorax, still smiling. “See, brother? Everything’s going according to our queen’s plan. An easy victory for the changelings!”

He looked at his comrades around him. “Say it with me! Victory for the changelings!”

And all shouted, “Victory for the changelings!”, raising their hooves in the air before resuming with their work.

With Thorax covering his ears, tuning out the irritating shouts.

Thorax sat beside the clock tower.

It was an immense clock tower. Made up of bricks, it overshadowed him already under the night’s shade, darkened by a blanket of clouds. Below the huge bell which was being repaired by two more changelings—the rest of the squad up there serving as guards in their newly acquired timekeeping watchtower—the clock’s face resided.

The time was eleven o’ clock sharp.

No ringing of the bell.

Thorax sat on the hill, looking over derelict Ponyville with its crumbling structures, its browning and withering plants, and its utter lack of lights and of normal life. He could hear the incessant buzzing of his kind roaming there, some issuing orders and some receiving orders. He could see boxes, bags, and wagons being pulled to certain spots. He could see a platoon of changelings coming in from far off in the horizon.

He could hear the screams begging his friends to stop stealing love.

Thorax turned away from Ponyville, closing his eyes and gnashing his teeth.

Incalzando

“Wake up!”

Tracker moaned, turned around on his bed.

“Wake up!”

He turned around again, upsetting his pillow with his hooves and a yawn. “Y-Yes, mother Chrysalis...I’ll go get you the pony you want.”

Slapped on the face.

Tracker shot up on his bed, hyperventilating and clutching his chest. He looked to his left and saw Press with an outstretched foreleg about to budge him on the shoulder. “What is it? What’s going on?”

She pointed up to the ceiling.

Tracker turned his head up and saw nothing in the darkness. What he heard, however, was something: shouts, arguments, those familiar growls and hisses.

“I have a feeling the changeling faked his death,” Press said, nervous with a doubtful accent. “I don’t know how he did it, but I can think of a few ways.”

Tracker covered his mouth, hiding a smile. “This is...not amazing! What are we going to do?”

Press smiled back. “I don’t think we have much else to do.”

She looked up.

Tracker kept looking up with her, still hearing those sounds above. “What do you mean?”

She brought herself closer to his ear.

In a hushed voice: “They’re coming.”

In the early morning, under a pink, sunless sky, a circle of ponies and one griffon surrounded the rope-bound changeling, holding on to their ropes. The changeling himself lied down on the hot and dusty ground, enclosed and unable to wriggle his way out.

“We’re not doin’ this again!” the sheriff yelled. “If you escape from us, you’re not comin’ back here!”

The changeling snarled. “Yes I am!”

Gallus pulled his rope, constricting the changeling. “They’re not supposed to be this strong with our ropes, right?”

Sandbar's wide open eyes darted towards him, holding on to his rope wrapped around his foreleg. “Let’s hope it’s true!”

Braeburn held up a flaming torch, and trotted his way to the changeling. “Any last words?”

The changeling closed his eyes, choking, almost into tears.

“Don’t be fooled!” Braeburn shouted to everyone else, casting a dark glance upon them all with the fire reflected in his eyes. “He’s goin’ to try his best to say he wants to be accepted ‘ere and that he’s gonna be with us, but I for a second don’t believe ‘im! Why should you trust a lyin’, cheatin’ scoundrel?”

“Yeah!” cried out several of the ponies there.

“We’re not backing down from whatever performance he’s gonna set up! We'll burn 'im! We will burn 'im!”

“Yeah!” was their repeated shout.

The changeling shook with sweat on his cheeks, ears flayed. Felt something like heartburn in his chest and grunted, trying to force his way out.

He stopped.

Heard the crack of fire.

The changeling opened his mouth, unwilling to turn his head round to see the torch. Nothing more than bleats came out of his throat. Cheers came around, blended with scoffs and sneers, with taunts and mocks, all mixing up together to form gibberish in his head.

Feeling the heat approach his body, the torch about to light him up.

Then, a smile on his face.

He said one word:

"No."

Several changelings blasted out of the doors and on to the open, coming in swarms and with boxes flying over.

Ponies and griffon yelped and released the ropes, panicking and also releasing the changeling who then glowed and revealed himself to be none other than purple-eyed Pharynx. He growled and stomped on the ground before him. “No prisoners!”

As fighting ensued, with changelings battling ponies with more changelings coming in from the buildings, one of them landed beside Pharynx and blathered, “Aren’t we supposed to be having prisoners so we can get their love?”

“That’s an expression!” Pharynx shouted and then slapped his underling in the face. “Don’t delay and don’t you stand there! Find as many ponies as you can carry.” Pointed at a group of changelings restraining Braeburn and tying him to a wooden wall with his own ropes. “Half of you stay there! Other half, follow me and we’ll be seeing the rest!”

Those changelings hissed in excitement and left Braeburn with their vigilant co-workers.

Braeburn felt the sweat and tears go together down his face, a witness to his fellow frontierponies. He saw them knocked out, their currents of love rushing into their captors' mouths. “No!”

The changeling beside Braeburn hissed with an unfolded tongue and took the love out of him, dried up that pink love river.

Tracker and Press sat in the room before the sleeping quarters, helping themselves to cups of coffee.

Then, wingflaps and wingbeats. Down the tunnel came Flash Sentry with a mug of cider in his hoof.

“I got a glimpse of what’s going on above,” Flash said. “Any moment now!” Faced a Tracker ruffling his mane unkempt. “Oh, your brother’s here! Don’t know how he got here, but he’s here now.”

“Where were you?” Press asked, sounding a little irritated.

“Upstairs, duh,” Flash said.

“Tsk!” Press shook her head.

“Oh, right.” Flash said. “You’re not dumb.”

Press smacked her face with a hoof.

“So,” Flash went on, raising his free hoof as he flapped his wings and floated, “when you hear the doors crack, we go to the quarters and take their love as fast as we can. No time for them to react.”

The two of them blinked at him.

“That’s my plan, but I want to hear yours.”

Press tapped her chin. “It’s a good enough idea. Besides, we may not have much time to make another plan before the cue—“

Crack!

The swarm of hisses and buzzes flooded the room, the whole underground.

“Go!” Flash cried out.

He and Press glowed, reverting to their changeling forms and flying towards the sleeping quarters.

Tracker stood there, watching it all unfold as the changelings hissed and took out little rivers of love from the sleeping ponies. Some woke up, and he could hear:

“What’s happening?!”

“Changelings!”

“Spare me! Have mercy on us!”

Tracker stood still.

He could see ponies falling limp, ponies struggling with those two changelings in hooffights but ultimately falling down to the ground as they had their love sapped, their friends crying out for their fallen ones before being taken up as the next love target.

Tracker's eyes came upon Swift lying down on his hay bed.

Staring at Tracker with those aghast eyes, that petrified look.

“You, too?!” yelled Swift, empty.

Tracker felt his lips tremble, something coming up—a lump in his throat. His eyes were getting wet.

He took a step forward.

Swift gasped, staying in his place yet opening his wings. He shook his head. “This must be a bad dream. You...you were a good pony! You listened to me and everything!”

Tracker nodded, phasing out the screams and the hisses around him. “I know, Swift.”

Swift’s eyes darted left and right, seeing those hideous figures taking ponies' love away. “I’m not the stallion I used to be. I...I don’t know if they already got what they want from me, but they’re...they’re….”

Tracker placed a hoof to his own lips.

As a tear fell to the floor.

“I’m...sorry, sir.”

Breathing in.

Swift grabbed him by the neck, pulled him to his level. Mad eyes. “You betrayed me! I was so trusting! I wanted to give Mister Nice Guy a chance, and this is what I get?! I should’ve stayed the old self I was! It was a mistake to be nice to any of you at all!”

Tracker saw those eyes, saw the loose grip Swift was having on his neck.

“But, what else?! What else?! I can’t fight back…if I get you, your friends will get me. It’s...it’s death either way.”

He let go of Tracker, saw him stand up.

Swift cried.

Tracker gritted his teeth, covered an ear to block the howls of his heart.

Then, this Earth pony glowed, turning back to his changeling self.

Thorax stood there, watching this stallion break down, convulse himself in his fit.

Then, Thorax opened his mouth. A pink torrent was coming out of Swift's body.

Swift gasped, breathing, cold sweat on his head and neck.

He looked up, saw the rafters of his sleeping quarters.

Looked at his yellow hooves, spread open his yellow wings on his hay bed.

He stared up. “A dream...it was a dream….” clutched his chest, feeling an ache there. “I shouldn’t be worrying too much...none of them heard a scream from me, right?”

“Uh, they did, Swift,” was Thorax’s reply.

Swift nodded. “OK, Star Tracker.”

He closed his eyes and tried to drift back to sleep.

Opened his eyes. “Wait a minute...that doesn’t sound like the Star Tracker I know!”

“Because it’s not.”

Swift jolted out of his bed and whirled his head about.

He saw his fellow ponies chained to the floor by the hooves, watched by individual changelings. Some had their streams of love taken out for a fast snack.

Swift tried to hold on to his head. His leg was detained by his own chain.

He looked to his left and saw Thorax standing there in his original changeling form, back with those razor fangs and those damaged legs.

“I know I shouldn’t be apologizing,” Thorax said. He bent his legs and leaned down to face him. “But...I apologize for what happened.”

Swift gritted his teeth. Spat on his face.

Thorax sighed, wiped the spit off.

“You think you’re gonna get off easy because you said the magic word?!" Swift screamed. "This was what I tried to fly away from, and I’m stuck here with you and your nasty kind! You shouldn’t even be a kind!”

Thorax held up his hoof. “Swift, I know it’s hard for you—“

“Oh, so you think it’s hard?!” Swift shouted, pointed at him—or did his best to point at him, for he felt his leg yanked back to the bed by his chain. “You’re the one who’s living it up! I don’t know what rank you are, but seeing you pretending to be sympathetic...it’s just a ploy to get me to show some love for a special someone, and then you’ll steal it!”

“Sir, please stay quiet and let me explain—“

“What is there to explain?!” Swift yelled.

Several changelings stopped their feeding, noticing the mad stallion on the hay bed.

“I’m here against my will, subjected to having my emotions fed off me for some kind of evil nourishment! Like, why can’t you just eat hay and flowers?!”

“We’re not like that—“

“What about something else? Do you love?! You love your queen and your queen loves you!" He picked up some hay from the bed and threw it at Thorax. "There, feed on that love!”

Thorax spat out the hay that did get in his mouth. “We can’t do that!”

“Why is that?!" persisted Swift. "What excuse are you going to use this time, liar?!”

Thorax gritted his teeth. “We can’t love! It’s only an emotional instinct for us! We have gratitude for our queen and we stick together, but it’s not love!”

“Do you love life?!” Swift shouted.

“I...I just see it as more beneficial than being dead!”

Swift spat on him. “You think you can try to make me smile! Well, you’re not getting a smile out of me!”

Thorax sighed. He wiped the spit off.

Ocellus came by from her slave pony and kicked Swift on the head.

He was back to sleep.

“You should treat your overlords better," said Ocellus to her unconscious and neglectful listener, "unless you want to die early!”

Thorax and Pharynx sat on the train station’s wooden platform. Under the sunset piercing the red sky, they took in a good view of Appleloosa, its windows shining bright under the sun’s harsh reflection, the wagons holding lots of good food and good cider, and ponies either in cages or in chains—if they weren’t bound, they were watched by changelings as they did manual labor like carry boxes or clean a street made out of dirt. Some changelings cheered to mugs of apple cider, others pursued more sober ways of celebrating like talking to each other beside their sapient dinner of love.

Pharynx placed a hoof on Thorax’s shoulder. “One step closer, Thorax. Pretty soon, it’ll be over. You don’t have to worry about being hungry all the time." He patted a nearby floorboard. "I’m pretty sure you had a good time.” Almost leaned back and relaxed, though he would have fallen over instead. “When was the last time you went hungry? I went hungry a month ago—a long time ago, Thorax!”

Thorax kept quiet, hearing the steps and the shouts. There, a changeling lashed a pony with a blunt pike, saying, “Faster!”

The pony complied with a grunt and she put some bags of coffee beans on to her back.

“Imagine what it’d be like,” Pharynx said. “It’s all going to be about us. We’d have a whole world of love under our hooves, and we’ll be at the top. I would overlook all your flaws and you...being shy or something." He pulled his brother closer by the neck, putting on a giddy smile. "You don’t have to be shy! We're the winners!”

Thorax let his attention drop off. He became occupied with the sky where, surprisingly, there were no changelings flying and buzzing around.

"You’d be so full of love," Pharynx continued, his voice rising to a fervor, "you’d be able to destroy anyone who gets in your way, and those ponies should learn where they are! Don’t be afraid to smack them and hurt them ‘till they can’t take it—or take it further!”

Thorax shuddered, almost burred.

He stood up, opened his wings.

“I’ll just…go see my pony," said Thorax, quieter than before. "See how he’s doing.”

As he flew away and passed by his changeling friends on the road, he could hear Pharynx yelling at him: “Beat him up for me, will ya’?!”

Postmortem in the Ocean

A picture is worth a thousand words, isn’t it?

Here, a picture of a hippogriff family: a father, a mother, a son, a daughter. They were flying past fluffy clouds and waving for the camera which did not capture any motion blur at all.

There, a picture of a seapony family: a father, a mother, a son, a daughter. They were swimming past reefs and seaweeds and waving for the camera which did not suffer any loss of quality from being underwater.

Finally, a picture of a family both hippogriff and seapony. They were standing by the beach, father and son on the sand with their wings, mother and daughter in the water with their fins. They held each others’ claws and fins, smiling for the camera.

A wonderful family.

Those pictures stood on a table under a hanging clock which read ten in the evening. Despite being underwater, the clock operated normally, the second hand ticking.

The seaponies’ residence made ordinary land houses appear outdated. The walls were made up of modules consisting of a glass-like substance that gave anyone inside a view of Seaquestria around them with their subterranean lanterns giving dingy light to a dull kingdom—cabinets made up of durable sand, tables carved from corals, not to mention that the floor was only useful for furniture since the inhabitants did not walk on them so the carpets were rendered useless.

A sigh from a restless Silverstream floating above the floor in her seapony form, complete with matching fins and gills, necklace still on her, feeling the water around her and course through.

A tap on her shoulder and she turned to see a white seapony, scratching his blue-end fins.

“Did you tell Mom yet?” Terramar asked, poignant. His eyes were red.

“N-No...and I don’t want to.” She looked sad, cheeks puffy. “What am I supposed to tell her? I can’t say Dad’s dead!”

“But we’re not gonna lie to her, are we?”

Silverstream looked down to the floor. “No.”

He looked at the bed made up of sand and shells. There, Ocean Flow, with yellow scales and long purple mane-like fins on her head covering almost half of her face—she was snoring soundly, bubbles coming out of her mouth.

“It’s going to be so hard to tell her, though,” Silverstream whispered close to her brother’s ear. “What if she gets mad at us?”

“She knows we won’t be joking about something so grave,” Terramar replied, glancing at their sleeping mother. “She'd want to know the details—how did it happen, why did it happen, who’s responsible...everything!”

“And she’ll bring the matter up to Novo and Seapsray will get punished,” she said as if out of rote.

Then, Silverstream faced one of the walls and looked out.

By the murky seabed, various seaponies of different colors and builds chatted about, some eating seaweed as they conversed. However, even underwater, a sense of caution pervaded: armored guards swam their way around Seaquestria, civilians eyed this or that seapony they had deemed suspicious, and hippogriffs who became seaponies to visit were asked five or ten questions by border patrol which had a dozen guards armed with spears.

“We have to tell her,” Terramar said, swimming to his sibling’s side. “We can’t hide this forever. She’ll know something’s up.”

Silverstream sighed, looked at him with pained eyes and a sorry pout. “If only this could be—“ sniffed “—easy. It’s not like I lost my stuff back at the mountain.”

Terramar pulled her close. “You and I know he’s much more than that.”

Both siblings looked outside, looked together.

Yawning from behind.

They gasped at each other, covering their mouths at the same time, shocked.

“What’re we gonna do?” Silverstream rambled in hurried murmurs. “There’s no plan, I didn’t memorize—“

“Just do it naturally,” Terramar said, passing by the table and some shelves as he flowed his way to the bed. “You stay there. I’ll be the one to break the news.”

Silverstream nodded, watching him approach their mother.

Ocean Flow stretched her mouth open, drew her arms high, smacking her lips in her weariness. Eyes baggy and barely open, and she saw Terramar by the bed, sporting a toothy smile. “Baby, you’re home early! Did they give you an early leave?”

She stood up—or, more clearly, straightened herself up and floated above the floor—and gave her son a tight hug, tight enough to make Terramar want to pry himself out of that loving embrace.

“Th-Thanks, M-Mom!” Terramar managed to eke out before getting out of the hug.

“Honey, you look like you’ve had an awful day at work. Did you hit yourself and—“ gasped and shoved him to the side “—Silverstream? Is that you? I thought you're with your father back in Castnet? Is something wrong?”

Terramar blinked, then cringed at Silverstream, mouthing to her, “You’re dead!”

Silverstream gulped. “Uh...you mean D-Dad?”

Ocean Flow put her fins on her hips. “Of course, I meant your Dad.” She raised a brow and looked at the both of them with maternal concern. “What’s going on?”

Terramar raised his fin. “Um, what’s going on is that...there’s, uh...Dad’s going to, um—“

“I can’t take it anymore!” Silverstream screamed and banged herself on the wall. “Dad’s dead!”

Ocean Flow looked dazed, a fin on her chest. “Wh-What did you say?!”

Half an hour later, Ocean Flow was sitting at the table, staring blank at the distance past her children; sitting there, fins on the table.

Blinked. Blinked. She blinked.

Silverstream sniffling, nose running. Terramar with his own tears which became bubbles in the water, eyes redder still.

Ocean Flow watched her children in awe. “I...I never thought he’d die like that.” A pause, voice straining. “Your father was a—“ sniffed “—was a good hippogriff...and a good seapony. Charming yet kind, bold and caring...he was everything I ever dreamed of...and, just like that, he’s...gone?”

Terramar nodded beside Silverstream and her box of waterproof tissues which she blew on every once in a while, reduced to a blubbering mess.

“It’s gotten so bad, they’re killing innocents,” Ocean Flow muttered, trying to embolden herself. “I have to talk to Novo about this.”

Terramar wiped his forehead. “We were wondering if you were gonna—“

Ocean Flow placed a fin on his lips and stood up. “But first...a favor for all of us.”

Terramar blinked, leaning closer. “Anything, Mom.”

She sighed, turning back towards the submerged waterscape, seeing those guards drift about. “I know it won’t be easy, but could you help me get your father’s dead body?” Turning to a weeping Silverstream, she snapped her awake from her crying by just floating to her and said: “You stay here and don’t go out. If they ask why we’re gone, tell them we’re out to collect shells.”

Silverstream took some time to process the words. Then, she nodded and returned to blowing her nose and weeping.

Ocean Flow patted Terramar on the back, headed towards the door. “We don’t have much time.”

The clock ticked to midnight. It did not ring any bells; it was a simple, ordinary clock.

Outside, she saw some of the hanging houses outside dim their lights, plunging Seaquestria into a gloomy cavern, becoming pitch black save for some lanterns here and there.

Silverstream floated by the door. She leaned her weight on the locked door, squishing some of her face. Through it, she could barely see the guards though their armor shone under the lights. Behind them was a huge group of more seaponies, looking around with scared eyes and holding on to each other’s arms, whispering and murmuring.

She could see one crying.

Silverstream looked at her open fin for a moment and opened the door halfway. She poked her ear out and listened in.

“Sirs, I beg you...at least let me back up there this night! I need to contact anyone—“

“Sorry, Raspberry Beret,” the guard said to the reddish seapony, “but you have to follow the queen’s orders like the rest of us. No one gets in, no one gets out until six o’ clock in the morning sharp. No minute earlier, no minute later.”

“They could get out a minute later,” the guard beside him remarked, prodding him with the blunt end of his spear. “That's six o’ one. The queen’s never gotten angry when we leave at six o’ one.”

“I’m trying to make a point here!” the first guard yelled at his partner. With a groan, he turned back to Raspberry Beret and said: “This is for your safety. There could be changelings flying outside at night and we don’t want you to be captured by any of them.”

“But, I’ve never lived underwater before!” Beret whined.

“Then why are you here?!” the guard shouted. “You’re here for refuge, no? Then you gotta stay safe and value your life by following orders!”

Beret nodded, scared. “Y-Yes….”

Silverstream closed the door. “Another batch of evacuees,” she said in a dreadful whisper. “Poor ponies. How long are they gonna stay here without their sun and moon?”

Then, she stopped, frozen in place.

“How long are we gonna live without Dad?”

It was seven in the morning. Since it was a Saturday, Silverstream stayed at home, watching the activity bustle around underneath the house, watching through the door. She held a bag of crunchy seaweed chips and crammed her mouth with them. With that done, she threw it into a pile of empty chip bags and got another one, stuffing herself with an overabundance of those salty and savory chips.

Outside, she could see a lot of seaponies gathered by the guards. The chief guard, the one with the biggest helmet, swam by each of the refugees, asking a few questions and having his assistant jot the answers and details down on waterproof notepads with squids floating beside him if ever he ran out of ink for his quill.

After seeing enough of this recording and questioning, she went to the table and sat down there. The plates were set but no food had been prepared for breakfast. Instead, what she had to content herself with was more crunchy seaweed chips and some crabsticks.

She ate, filling her mouth with food as fast as she could and then broke down into another bout of tears, crying on the floor and banging the table, shouting, “Why?! Why, why, why, why?!”

Heaving in, heaving out. She grabbed a cup and turned it upside-down and nothing came out and she screamed at it, eyes growing redder and redder.

“Dad!” Sniffed, wiped her nose. “Why did you have to leave? Why did they have to kill you?! You didn’t do a-anything...a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a…anything!” She gripped the cup and held it close to her head, hugging it. “You were funny, you were strong, you were fast...zoomed in, zipped out, beating everyone at the games and you took us out for lunches, dinners, trips around...” sniffed, “a-and, you always stood to defend us when we were in help and y-you taught us and—“ banged the cup on the table.

Cracking it.

“Why?!” she shouted, grasping for the table. “I didn’t do anything...you didn’t do anything, a-and...you were always good! You were so good, so upright, how could they possibly mistake you for a changeling spy?! It’s not right, it’s never right! I need you, we all need you!”

The door creaked open.

Silverstream turned around, saw Ocean Flow and Terramar swimming back inside.

They were holding the limp corpse of Sky Beak, still in his hippogriff form complete with his blue feathers.

“I notified my sister,” Ocean Flow said, sober in words. “We will grieve over him for the time that remains...because he will be buried at eight tonight. There will be a—“ sniffed “—funeral, honoring him for the great person he was until the very e-end.”

Terramar wiped his eyes, still red.

Silverstream looked at them.

All of them had red eyes.

And so, minutes before eight in the evening, many seaponies had assembled around the biggest house in the area which hung over the center of the underwater kingdom. They all floated in rows, whispering to each other. Over there floated a portrait of the deceased, his infectious smile complementing his rather brave face which exuded confidence, a go-getter point of view towards everything he had encountered in life.

In attendance was, of course, the family, but there were also several guards, the evacuees, and the royals themselves: Queen Novo and Princess Skystar, both of which were seated beside the family.

Novo, a respledent seapony complete with a crown on her head and some eye makeup, let Ocean Flow cry on her head, patting her. “It’s going to be OK, it’s going to be OK. He didn’t die in vain.”

Skystar, the tip of her mane lighting the faces of her mourning cousins, said nothing for she cried with them, drowning in the bubbles of tears.

All in attendance, all those seaponies, watched the family in front crying, hearing them sob.

Hollow sounds. Silence but for their crying as a seapony wearing a black suit solemnly went up the aisle, went up to the dead body on the floating table before them all.

None of them were looking at Sky Beak’s smiling portrait. They were looking at his lifeless corpse and his living family.

His crying family.

It was midnight and the beach was occupied by a swarming mass of ponies held together by several hippogriffs. Over there, past the beach, was Mount Aris, not really a mountain as it looked like a long vertical stretch of land partially wrapped in a huge robe of stone, and, since it was nighttime, it was decorated with yellow and orange dots indicating lanterns from those homes. Roars and shouts proliferated the beach, one yelling for her foals to look at her and to tell them that they were safe with her. Guards wielded their spears, holding any potential stragglers off and warning any would-be troublemaker that they would be met with the necessary force to stop them.

Faint lights lit up a narrow part of the shore where some seaponies floated while holding their own brand of lanterns, observing the mass before them.

Then, one of the chief hippogriff guards spread his wings and landed before the crowd of rowdy ponies.

He ended their noise with a deafening screech that echoed throughout.

All stopped their arguing and shuffling, all looked at him.

His figure shone strangely by the lights. They could only see his outline and scarcely more.

“Ponies of Equestria and other creatures!” he shouted in a rich voice. “We want you to move about in an orderly fashion so we can settle in as quickly as possible.”

They were silent as they stood still, watching the guard with interest.

“I’m sure the others explained it to you before, but just in case any of you missed it: We will be turning all of you into seaponies and you will spend your first night underwater in Seaquestria. There, you will be taken to your accommodations and you’ll be given enough food for the night—and don’t worry about getting thirsty!”

This elicited several laughs from the audience which contrasted the general silence of everyone else.

“We’ll do this by having some ponies go to the seaponies over here—“ flapped his wings, hovered and pointed at the seaponies in question who waved their fins and lanterns at them “—and they’ll hold their fins. The rest of you hold their hooves or the hooves of anyone who’s holding the hooves of the ponies holding the seaponies.” He looked up, thinking. “That may sound confusing, but we're running out of time.” He pointed at the ponies in front. “You, go over there and hold their fins!”

The seaponies swam closer to the shore and held out their fins to hold.

Ten or so ponies walked there and held their fins, one fin per pony. The other seaponies merely watched, taking out their spears they were hiding under the water.

“Now,” the guard continued by shouting, “we want all of you to hold someone else’s hooves...or appendages! Make sure that you’re connected to a seapony somehow!”

That was what the ponies did, or tried to do. The whole process was slow despite being guided by the numerous guards ordering orders and counter-orders which confused more than a few into bumping each other on accident.

A bit far away, by some flat rock formations, sat Silverstream and Terramar, accompanied by Smolder. They all watched the mass try to hold hooves, making sure no one was left behind.

“Still another,” Terramar noted. “Good thing not everyone wants to stay a seapony.” He sighed, looking upon the tall mountain. “The Harmonizing Heights will have to be cleared for them, though, and I’m going to miss that place.”

“Everyone’s going to miss it,” Silverstream said, voice still choked by the tears from before, “but we can have it back soon.”

“What if it won’t be soon?” Smolder asked. “If the changelings get here, there won’t be any heights to harmonize with.”

“It’s a lot better than staying in the Dragon Lands,” Silverstream commented.

Smolder glared at her. “You take that back!”

“I won’t take it back!” was her mean reply.

“I thought you were the nice one!” Smolder said, planting her feet on the stony ground. She snorted, smoke gushing out of her nostrils.

Terramar flew in between them. “Stop! This isn’t going to help at all!”

They stopped, obeying Terramar’s words.

He lowered his head. “All we can do is wait here and defend whatever land we have left. Take in the refugees, help them get used to life here, and train them if they still don’t know how to fight. As long as there’s one of us here, fighting for freedom, then we can take on anything.”

“If only that could actually do something,” Smolder cracked. “Easier said than done.”

“Why don’t you do something, then?!” Silverstream shouted.

Terramar looked at her seriously. “Sis’, stop. Nothing good’s gonna happen if you let your emotions take you over.”

Silverstream breathed in, breathed out.

“Think about something else,” Terramar said. “We can’t grieve much longer. We have a home to protect.”

They looked at each other with silent looks and, with nods, agreed to go back to watching the evacuees on the beach.

“Alright, we need everyone to move into the water!” the chief guard yelled as the ponies trotted to the water. “Yes, that’s good! Don’t go too far! That’s it, that’s it!...”

Miles away from Seaquestria and Mount Aris but still on Basalt Beach, Grubber took out his last granola bar and scarfed it on the rocks. Before him crashed the waves, threatening to drag him into an early death. However, he was unfazed at this fatal prospect and decided to inch his way towards the edge of the craggy cliff.

“It can’t be that long,” Grubber said, rubbing his hands. “If you were able to swim your way to the other side once, then you can do it again and earn fame! Yes, fame! Then, I’ll become king of the island and...and….”

He sat down on the cliff.

“Huh. I guess I never thought this far. What will I do once I become king? Looks like it’s a job for trail mix—“

And realized that he ran out of trail mix.

Grubber sighed and looked on the dark sea foaming white. “Eh. I’ll find something to do.”