Changelings Don't Get Cutie Marks
Tira Misu set down a tin of flour and checked her inventory. Everything seemed to be in order. Milk, herbs, eggs, salt… and everything else as well. It all looked ready for practice. She turned around, surveying the kitchen. With a sigh she lamented its sparkling cleanliness. In a matter of less than an hour, it would once more be an unfathomable, unprofitable mess. But it was all worth it. After all, these cupboards, shelves and ovens weren’t just for her. They were also for her sleepy eyed little apprentice. Tira Misu’s ears perked up as she heard the steady clip-clop of tiny hooves coming down the stairs in the back of the kitchen. That would be him, now. She went to the base of the stairs to wait.
Tira Misu stopped and gasped. Rounding the corner of the stairway and trotting towards her was the intimidating dark shell of a bug-like changeling. Tira Misu lifted the ladle and smacked it smartly in the forehead.
SMACK!
“Ow!” squeaked the tiny changeling. “Momma, what was that for?”
SMACK!
“You do not speak to me with that mouth! What are we, Tourtiere?”
The little changeling held his head, sniffling. “We’re ponies… oh.” A flash of green consumed the sheepish bug. His glossy black carapace became a mottled brown coat, the membrane along his back turned into a crème mane, and his green eyes closed and opened again as dull amber. “I’m sorry, Momma.”
Tira Misu snorted. “And do you think the ponies will be so nice? No, my little Tourtiere. You must not let them see this thing!”
“Yes, Mama Mandible.”
SMACK!
“Ow! I mean, Mama Misu.”
“This is much better. Come come come, we have much practicing for you to be doing!”
Mama Misu primly led Tourtiere back into the kitchen where she had set up all of their ingredients. She carefully directed him, wary of offering too much guidance. More than once she had to turn away before he could see her strained expression. He had to figure out on his own how much was too much sugar, how thoroughly to stir his mixtures, and the proper amount of batter on the cooking sheets. She did, however, help him with some of the ingredients important to taste.
“You already know, my little Tourtiere, how the ponies have such an advantage over us, yes?” Misu stood over little Tourtiere, carefully cutting the vegetables for him.
“Ponies get to taste, Mama.”
“Yes, that is correct.” She shoved the diced veggies to him to mete out on his own. “But we are not blind, are we, Tourtiere?”
“No, Mama.”
As Tourtiere’s experiment baked, Misu kept a watchful eye on her little charge. Tourtiere carefully pulled a tray out of the oven, keeping the towel between his muzzle and the tray this time. He placed his tray on the counter and sniffed it.
“Now we look very carefully at it, Tourtiere. Let no small detail away. You must know at a glance and sniff the taste, yes?”
“Yes, Mama.”
Tira Misu popped one of the flaky pastries into Tourtiere’s mouth. “And feel, Tourtiere! Do not forget the feel. Now tell me what it tastes like, my little Tourtiere.”
The disguised colt rolled his baked good around a few times, pushing it with his tongue. It tasted like water, but it felt like a carefully tended croissant baked to a perfect golden colour. “It tastes light and savoury, Mama.”
“Are you sure? Would you bet our lives on it that no pony tastes it and say, ‘Bleck! This food is so sour!’”
“I’m sure, Mama.”
“Are you sure that ponies will go, ‘Sacrebleu! This is the best thing my mouth has tasted!’”
Tourtiere nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, Mama.”
“And are you most completely sure they give you a prize for first place when they taste your delicious treats?”
“Yes, Mama!”
Tira Misu poked her hoof into the tin of flour and booped a little blotch of white onto Tourtiere’s nose, getting a giggle from the tiny colt. “So am I, my little Tourtiere. Because for all the ponies talk of baking with their hearts, who knows better to bake with love than us, yes?”
Tourtiere began to nod when a strange expression crossed his features. His eyes crossed, his face screwed, and he opened his mouth wider and wider until…
“Ah… ah… achoo!”
As little Tourtiere sneezed a puff of white flower, a green flame burst from his forehead and coalesced into a tiny horn.
SMACK!
Mama Misu brought her ladle down on the horn, pushing it out of existence with a puff of green magic. “Tourtiere!”
“I’m sorry, Mama! I can’t help it!”
Mama Misu admonished Tourtiere with a threatening wave of her ladle. “You had better help it! If the ponies see you make the change inside public, we will have to run away and find new places! Do you want to run away again?”
Tourtiere lowered his hornless head. “No, Mama…”
“Then we control ourselves! The ponies do not think we live as earth ponies, for then we cannot fly or use the spells. So we do not have horns, we do not have wings, and we most greatly do not change shape!”
“Yes, Mama...”
Tira Misu looked at her little colt, downtrodden at his failure to control his own magic. She wrapped both hooves around him and fed him the love she had earned for her food the day prior. “My little Tourtiere… you will learn. We just need to be more careful, yes? Now do not be sad. Your sadness goes into the food and sours it for ponies. Let me see a smile on that face?”
Tourtiere paused to feed off the love his mother fed him. After a moment, he burped. The colt giggled uncontrollably.
“Yes, Tourtiere. Very funny, yes? Now let us get to the baking.”
-
Little beads of sweat trickled down Tourtiere’s brow. All along the lengthy table he could see teetering cakes, exotic pastries, sandwiches made from rare and strangely shaped flowers he had never even heard of. The shivering colt looked back and forth along the table and then to his modest little savory and chive pie. It was so simple and plain next to all of these other dishes. Would the judges even notice it? Maybe they would simply pass it by, not even see tiny Tourtiere and spare him the embarrassment.
As the colt fretted behind a lengthy table proudly bearing a banner that read, ‘Jr. Gourmands for Greatness Baking Competition,’ he became more and more nervous about being watched by ponies. What if something happened? What if he sneezed and he grew a horn again? Or changed eye colour? Or dropped his disguise altogether and sneezed up that icky green slime? He was starting to think it might be best to ferret away his dish and make an exit before anypony noticed him. If there was anything his race excelled at, it was subtlety.
Far more than he could say for the latest addition to the contest. As Tourtiere ducked under the table and trotted to his mother, the clarion call and fanfare of the latest entrants nearly had Tourtiere jump out of his second skin.
“Stand aside! Ze main course ‘as finally ehrived!” Despite having the whole outdoors in which to maneuver, an arrogant grey and white griffin with a ridiculously long, twirling mustache decided it would be best to brush aside spectators and competitors as he hauled a tray behind him with a lion tail. He puffed his wings and ruffled his feathers, speaking in an abominable accent. The tray was covered silver, and as flawless as the cart on which it was pulled. Bringing up the rear, a tinier griffin puffed his chest proudly as he marched behind his father.
“Make way, make way, yu slow poniez! Clear ze way for ze fabulous meal of Gustav-”
“Le Grand,” interrupted Tira Misu.
The griffin stopped hauling his cart to stare Mama Misu in the eye with a familiar heated contempt. “Madame Misu.”
The tinier griffin waddled out from behind the cart and locked his green eyes with Tourtiere. His plumage was a crème colour and his feline quarters a mottled brown. “Tourtiere.”
Tourtiere met his gaze with adolescent ferocity. “Le Petit.”
The undercover ponies and the pair of griffins held their gaze for a moment longer before the two Gustavs raised their beaks and carted their meal to the table. Right, noted Tourtiere, beside his humble pie.
“Those snooty birds think that they are a manticore’s meow, do they not Tourtiere? We will show them how to have the real baking!”
But once his pint-sized rival had gone, Tourtiere lost all of his enthusiasm for victory. “Mama, I think we should go. I am scared and my pie is very small. And what happens if I sneeze? You know what happens when I sneeze…”
“Tourtiere!” For a moment, the colt thought she had snapped at him. But when he looked up at her the face he saw was not reprimanding at all. Tira Misu looked down at him softly. “My little Tourtiere, do not ever let these things make you afraid. We do not come here to hide in the shadows like cockroaches, Tourtiere- did you forget this? Your pie is delicious, and you will show to the judge how delicious it is because you are my fantastic little cook.” She bent down to nuzzle her son with a smile. “And you should never let your fears get between you and your happiness.”
Tourtiere smiled slightly, but he remained unable to lift his gaze from the ground.
“And don’t you want to see Gustav Le Petit’s fat beak drop when you win the prize?”
His smile stretched to cover his entire face, and Tourtiere nodded emphatically. “Yes, Mama!”
“Then take your seat by that smelly griffin and show these ponies a treat they could never bake themselves!”
“Yes, Mama!” Tourtiere called as he turned and ran. His tiny legs carried him under startled spectators and beneath the table, where he popped up to the left of Gustav Le Petit.
“Bonjour, mon adversaire!” chirped Le Petit, “I see you are finally ready to do battle in ze honourable arena of fine dining! You need not be afraid…” Gus put his claw on the tray that had been moved to his place on the display table. After straining the boundaries of dramatic suspense, he lifted the lid to show of a pile of scrumptious-looking croissants. They were adorned with fine herbs and steamed in a way that made even Tourtiere’s tasteless mouth water. “Once ze judge has a taste of Le Petit’s Creamy Cheese Croissant Crescendo, zey will be far too entranced by eets delicious flavours to notice the failings of your… your…”
Gustav looked down at Tourtiere’s little pie, and the colt panicked. They were supposed to think of names? Alliterative ones? His eyes darted around the field, trying desperately to find a name for his little treat. “I’ll have you know, uh, that your crass and clichéd croissants don’t stand a chance against my… Pretty… Penultimate… uh…”
“Pie?” finished Gustav with an unkind grin.
Tourtiere grimaced and his face grew a hint redder.
“Do not worry yourself, d’rien, mon adversaire. Ze judges will select ze most delectable dish out of all of us. I will be kind enough not to rub my victory in your face.”
Tourtiere winced at the griffin’s self satisfied laugh, a throaty ‘Ohn honh honh’ that was echoed somewhere in the crowd; no doubt Gustav Le Grand was having a similar conversation with Mama Misu. Tourtiere glowered down at his humble pie, as if to tell it that it should have been grander like all of the other dishes here. It wasn’t Tourtiere’s fault- how could he be expected to win if his pie was such an underachiever?
A whistle announced the beginning of the competition and Tourtiere neatly cut his pie into ten slices. It held up admirably under the pressure, which made Tourtiere feel like he could, too. He looked to the far right of the table to see where the judges were. He leaned out to try and peer past the head of every single colt, filly, and chick that had a similar idea. Eventually he simply crawled under the table again and stuck his head out from under the banner.
There were three judges, all supposed experts on the fineries of taste and wearing fancy blue judge vests. Second Helping, the pudgy and pale blue one, always started his meal with apparent eagerness. There was only an occasional dish that earned more than a jolly smile and a, “Delicious!” from him. Dine’n’Dash seemed too skinny to be a gourmand. Other than that he was a bit twitchy and had an interesting prismatic mane. He somehow managed to twitch out entire paragraphs of vague compliments to the entrants without ever actually saying anything or passing actual judgment on the food. Lastly there was Snooty Booty. Tourtiere remembered Mama Misu’s warning: it was pronounced Boo-tay. Rumour had it that Snooty could tell if you were even thinking his name wrong. Most of the meals he tasted were met with caustic bile- the only time he offered anything more was when Snooty spat the meal back in their face. Tourtiere gulped. He did not want to be one of those fillies and colts running from their post in tears.
He ducked back under the table and returned to his seat as the judges neared. The filly on Gustav’s right stared up at the judges expectantly as they each took a piece of her Carefully Crafted Corn Cobbler. One by one most of them swallowed and offered their carefully crafted opinion.
“Not bad,” said Second Helping, grinning broadly.
“Yeah yeah, it’s got, you know, a good kind of, what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, you know, that thing. A good thing. Yeah, it’s got it, you know? The good thing, yeah,” twitched Dine’n’Dash, looking around as he spoke.
Snooty Boo-tay pulled out a kerchief and rudely deposited his bite into it, throwing the mass away. “You do realize, I can only hope, that ‘cobbler’ is the dessert and ‘cobbled’ is the sidewalk? Are you certain there hasn’t been some sort of misunderstanding?”
Both Tourtiere and Gustav winced as the little pink filly dropped her head on the table. Gus took the first nervous gulp that Tourtiere had ever seen as the judges each took one of his steaming croissants.
“I… wow! Now that’s an expert croissant! Would you just taste that! It’s like the cheese is the shell, but not! A perfect blend!” As Second Helping helped himself to more than three words, Gus grinned and Tourtiere’s shoulders slumped.
“Yeah yeah, I see what you’re saying! It’s got a zing! A real zing. And yeah, the shell and stuff. Perfect blend, you know? Yeah, you know. Real good stuff. Croissants. Yeah.” Dine’n’Dash didn’t seem to have anything new to add, twitching and staring around him as if he was being stalked.
Snooty swallowed his croissant with a grimace. “Did you mean to fill these with greasy tar? Were you looking for a construction site? This is a baking competition. If anypony else brought construction material in place of food, would you please step out of the line now.”
Gustav’s wings twitched, but his proud mug refused to show any trace of disappointment. Instead, he turned his eyes to Tourtiere with a hungry apprehension as the judges moved to the shivering little colt and each took a piece of herb pie.
His huge amber eyes stared imploringly up at Second Helping, but the buck had already become inured to giant eyes further down the line-up. He munched on the pie for a second, swallowed it, and said, “Excellent!”
That meant plain, unremarkable. Tourtiere was beginning to feel the weight of defeat. His head started to droop… and then it shot up at the mind boggling sight before him.
Dine’n’Dash had finished his piece. “Wow. Like, wow.” The judge was, for the first time in this whole competition, completely still. His eyes were wide as he savoured the last crumbs in his mouth. Normally, they would be flying right off of him from the constant shaking. “Like, you know, good job, kid.”
As stunning as his reaction was, it did nothing to dull the shock of the next. Snooty Boo-tay swallowed his piece, a visible lump trailing down his throat. One could almost see the cruel cogs turn in his mind as he calculated the appropriate rebuttal. He closed his eyes, raised his nose, and spoke loudly and clearly.
“Hmph.”
And then the judges moved on.
Tourtiere’s lower jaw collided with the table, followed by Gustav Le Petit’s. The colt swept the audience until he could see his waving mother, beaming with pride. He could taste the love even from here, sweet as anything in the world. Gustav Le Grand stood beside Mama Misu, his mouth hanging open in shock. Tourtiere smiled. From a pony like Snooty, having no insult was a compliment of the highest honor.
Tourtiere won second place.
First place had gone to a gigantic cake so elaborate that the winner was currently under some investigation for cheating. But Tourtiere didn’t mind terribly because, just below him on the third place pedestal, was Gustav. He didn’t mind that some cake, legitimate or not, had been better than his pie. He knew that the pie he crafted with his own two hooves was delicious. He was, for the very first time, absolutely positive that he belonged in Mama Misu’s kitchen, baking food so mouth wateringly scrumptious that the ponies would keep them loved and well fed in return for the taste. This was why he was here. Perhaps tomorrow he would finally choose a cutie mark? Something to show the whole world that he was a baker, like Mama. An oven, or a ladle, something to wear for the rest of time.
As the judges pulled out their medals and trophy, something poked Tourtiere in the side. He turned to see Gus nudging him with a wing. What could the griffin want to gloat about now?
“Tourtiere.”
“Le Petit.”
“Congratulations.” Gustav extended his wing. “Eet was a most valiant competition.”
Tourtiere looked at the wing suspiciously, accepting it with a cautious shake. Gustav nodded curtly and looked straight forward as the judges approached. Tourtiere shook his hoof to free it from the feathers that clung to his fur. They flew from his fetlock and gently settled on his nose. No matter how he blew at the feather, it refused to budge. The wispy little thing was starting to tickle.
Second Helping approached Gustav with a bronze metal, Dine’n’Dash went to the victor (an energetic pink filly), and Tourtiere was approached by the ever-sneering Snooty Boo-tay. Tourtiere’s nose twitched as the silver medal was placed solemnly over his head.
Dine'n'Dash began to ramble a congratulatory speech to the winner, but Tourtiere’s ears were dedicated to the whisper coming from the most unlikely of places.
“The cake is grand, to be sure, but gauche and insincere,” whispered Snooty, “All of these pieces are. None of these young ones understand the truest fundamentals of food. They bake with ingredients, not emotion.” Tourtiere tried to keep his eyes uncrossed as the tickling feather on his nose became almost unbearable. “All of them but you. Ignore that shiny golden metal- you are the one here who deserves so much more. I have not had the pleasure of tasting a meal baked with such love since-”
“Ah… ah… achoo!”
Tourtiere sneezed loudly, interrupting the speech. But worse, he felt something change. He had lost control again. Desperately he looked to Mama Misu. The mare was paralysed in shock. Had he grown a horn? Wings? Changed colour? Dropped his whole disguise?
“Incroyable!” shouted Gustav, hopping into the air and flapping his wings. “Ze pony has earned his butt mark! Oh, what an honour it is to be a part of zis momentous occasion! You are truly lucky, Tourtiere!”
As Gustav Le Petit grabbed his hoof in a pair of claws and shook enthusiastically, Tourtiere looked to his rump. Emblazoned on his rear was a steaming pie, little wisps rising from it. Did only he notice the fading tongues of green flame? Looking around, some of the ponies did indeed seem to be giving him a suspicious eye.
“What are all of you silly ponies waiting for?” yelled Gustav Le Petit into the crowd, “Is this not a momentous occasion in ze pony life? Oui? Zen where is your applause?”
The little griffin brought his claws together, clapping alone for Tourtiere. Slowly, the other ponies began to join. Their suspicion changed to joy as they stomped on the ground or clopped their hooves together. Mama Misu was applauding hardest of all, a look of relieved joy on her features.
“Felicitations, mon adversaire!”
-
“And then everyling was clapping, Mama!”
Despite having her disciplinary ladle at hoof, Mama Misu corrected Tourtiere gently as she tucked him into bed. “Everypony, my little Tourtiere.”
“And Gustav tried some of my pie, and I had one of his croissants, and we promised not to hate each other for one whole day! Maybe even tomorrow, too!”
“This is a lovely thing, my little Tourtiere.” She finished tucking him in and stared at him.
“Can you believe it, Mama? My very own butt mark!”
“It is cutie mark, my little Tourtiere. And it is a good responsibility. You must remember it every day for the rest of your life- ponies do not just forget when a pony loses the mark.”
“I will remember Mama! I will never forget!”
“That is good, Tourtiere. Good night.” Mama Misu bent down and kissed Tourtiere gently on the forehead.
“Goodnight, Mama.” The colt closed his eyes. Mama Misu stayed a moment, watching him. The little pony flickered green once, twice, and then burst into a magical flame. The display cleared and she saw her black baby bug snoring contentedly under the covers, fangs and all. Normally she would wake him and make him try again until he could hold the shape in his sleep… but not tonight.
