Lower Class

Chapters

The Dean's Office
The Job
The Interrogation (1)
The Client
The Interrogation (2)
The Meeting
The Interrogation (3)
The Argument
The Apology

The Dean's Office

When Catalyst came out from the bathroom—huddled inside a thin police windbreaker, mascara smeared underneath her eyes, ugly bruises purpling one cheek and her throat and a wrist—there were two new people amid the cluster of police uniforms, both of whom immediately turned at her arrival. Although the man was not in uniform, everything about him—from posture to moustache to sunglasses to sky-blue dress shirt and khaki slacks—screamed that he was with the police. The older woman next to him—portly, with hair in matronly buns, dressed in a crisp white blouse and pencil skirt—was harder to place.

The older woman spoke first, as she stepped forward in low heels. "Miss Ibanez? I'm Dean White." Her voice sounded sympathetic, but Catalyst couldn't smell any sympathy behind it, and she didn't stick out her hand for a handshake as she introduced herself. The dean glanced around the school commons for a moment, blue and red tinting her face as the lights of three police cruisers flashed, and she frowned at the milling bystanders watching from behind the police line. "May I suggest that we move this conversation into my office?"

Again, the sympathetic voice—but now that she was closer, with a subtle scent of resentment and judgment. That meant this conversation was about to get every bit as uncomfortable as Catalyst was anticipating. She gave a sidelong glance to the dress-shirted policeman, sniffled, wiped her cheeks with the back of a mascara-smeared hand, and nodded.

Dean White's office was large and high-ceilinged, but something about the room still felt oppressive. Muted light came in from the window overlooking the quad, filtered through gauzy curtains flanked by deep velvet drapes. Bookshelves ringed the room, with hundreds of ancient titles sitting in silent witness. Catalyst finally placed it: The office was too large for immediate scent feedback and too small for comfort.

White took a seat behind her enormous mahogany desk, with the dress-shirted man sitting in a plush recliner off to one side, taking a pen and pocket notebook from his shirt pocket. That left a simple wooden chair in front of White's desk, and Catalyst slid into it meekly, folding her hands in her lap. The light over White's desk seemed angled down at her, a spotlight on a harsh and judgmental stage.

"This is Detective Alan Bergmann," the dean said. "I'd first like to assure you, Juanita, that we take physical assault with the utmost seriousness. I'm grateful you weren't hurt any worse. Our campus should be a safe place."

"Did I mention that I don't wish to press charges, Detective?" Catalyst said quickly. "I'm sorry, the last few minutes have been a blur."

"You did," Bergmann said, speaking for the first time. His voice was slow and husky, with a casual air to it, quite at odds with the tension in his pen grip and the practiced way his eyes darted around Catalyst's form. "But we're hoping that you can help us understand the story behind your relationship with Harvey Chutney."

"He said some interesting things," Dean White said.

The detective took his sunglasses off, pocketing them, and gave White a look. "Marian."

Catalyst braced herself. There it was, then.

Bergmann looked back at her. "We're here to help, Miss Ibanez. But I'd like to understand the full context of what happened, in the interests of justice. I don't want you to be afraid of Harvey anymore."

"Don't soft-pedal this, Alan," Dean White said, standing up from her chair. "Miss Ibanez, the man who attacked you has made some grave accusations, and this is your chance to contest them."

Catalyst drew in a deep breath. "Ma'am, sir, I see where this is going, and I intend to fully cooperate. Have you both been within proximity of Equestrian magic before? I am about to shapeshift, and you may feel a tingling sensation some people describe as distressing."

Without waiting for an answer, she closed her eyes and released the spell molding her into a human form. She felt fire wreath her limbs—a blaze she knew was ghostly green, ephemeral, burning hot against her essence but with no chance of damaging the furniture. In moments, fire had evaporated the artificial etheric structure that expanded her form, shrinking her back into a drone—her black carapace dully gleaming in the room lights, her vision widening, her scent sharpening. Dean White smelled startled; Detective Bergmann's lack of scent-shift told the story that he'd been through this before.

She, too, knew what was coming. Catalyst opened her eyes, lighting her horn to open the handbag that moments ago she would have had to fumble through with fingers, and went through the formalities. "Juanita Ibanez doesn't exist. My true name is Brittle Horn."

White and Bergmann glanced at each other, and this time she caught a whiff of mutual surprise.

"Then we'll need to see some identification," White said. "Green Hills has one changeling student, and that's not her."

Brittle already had pulled her papers out. "I'm a registered shifter, affiliated with Freedom Hive, and I have a current residence pass. Detective, if you please, here is my passport and thaumic key. I consent to thaumic scan. Did you bring a wand up with you?"

Bergmann stood up, fishing one from his pocket. "I did." That meant he had prepared for this, then. She had made the right move opening up.

Catalyst stood up on the chair, facing Bergmann's chest, and waited in silence for him to sweep the keywand all around her body. Thaumic keys were unique and didn't change during shapeshifting. The process therefore gave Earth law enforcement confidence that the shapeshifter in front of them was who they claimed to be. Essentially, she had just been magically fingerprinted—and the outcome of this conversation was going to stick with her for the rest of her life.

Finally, the wand beeped, and Bergmann compared the wand's readout to the card she had provided. He then scrutinized her passport, taking a photo of her documentation and making several notes in his notebook. "It checks out, Marian."

"Does it? Give me the key." White pulled a laptop from her desk.

"I'm not Dark Wing, ma'am," Brittle said, the name coming out sharp and hot. "Do what you need to do to confirm it, though."

Dean White tapped at the laptop for a bit, then held up Brittle Horn's ID and glanced back and forth between it and the screen.

"Thank you, Mx. Horn," Bergmann said while the dean was working. "Do you have a preferred name-form? Any pronoun requests?"

"Since we are here to be fully honest with each other—Brittle, please," the changeling said. "Standard usage is fine." Given the situation, she was trying to be as courteous as possible—accepting whatever gender role her counterparts had met her under, meaning that she would continue to be a she, since some idea of "Miss Ibanez" was still stuck in White and Bergmann's heads.

"You are, in fact, not Miss Wing," Dean White said with a frown that had been deepening since Brittle's revelation. She slid Brittle's paperwork back across the desk. "I would ask what you're doing on my campus, but let's cut to another question I suspect will answer that. Who is Catalyst?"

Brittle nodded, and levitated a stack of simple white business cards from her handbag.

"There is no Catalyst," she said. She levitated a card to both White and Bergmann, and put the rest away. The card said simply "Catalyst Professional Services," with a phone number underneath. "Catalyst is a brand name, not a changeling. But you're speaking to the correct drone, regardless. Given what you already know, perhaps you can understand why I might not share my real name with my clients."

"I'd prefer to hear that explanation in your own words," Detective Bergmann said.

Brittle braced herself. "Because my services are in a gray area of academic morality which Miss White will take understandable exception to."

White's scent grew grim. "I appreciate you at least admitting that much," she said, her face stony.

"And how did this lead to Harvey Chutney assaulting you in broad daylight on campus?" Bergmann said.

"Well," Brittle said, "let's start with how I met him."

The Job

"Catalyst?" Harvey said, staring at the business card, and then looked up and frowned. "You don't look like a changeling."

The nondescript young woman in front of him—amber skin with scattered blemishes, a thin nose over protruding lips, shoulder-length dull black hair, wearing an earth-tone modestly cut blouse—turned her palms upward. "That's the point," she said in an unplaceable Midwestern accent. "Nothing about Juanita Ibanez is unusual. Nothing is notable. Imposters don't succeed by acting sus."

"Yeah, well, I'm not throwing cash at some 3 outta 10 here to scam drunks." Harvey scowled, his angular face tightening underneath slicked-back blond hair. "I want proof." Then his scowl climbed slowly into a leer. "Turn into the hottest bitch in the state."

Catalyst hesitated for a moment. The first purpose of the screening interview was to make certain both of them were comfortable with the arrangement, and she was already getting bad vibes. But that wasn't unusual for the sort of client who wanted her services, and as ugly as it was, crude sexism wasn't by itself a dealbreaker.

"Okay," she said, wishing that the Bicentennial was a little less crowded and she could trust her scent-cues more. "But not here at the table, obviously. The other reason you're hiring me is for my discretion. Give me fifteen minutes—and some distinguishing feature so that when I return to the bar you know it's me, and not just some friend of mine in on the scheme."

Harvey took a swig of his beer, his eyes darting around the bar. His face tensed in thought, and the grimace stayed for an uncomfortably long time, as if pushing out a constipated blockage.

"Bring me a little box of chocolates," he finally said. "I told my friends I was here on a date."

Catalyst inwardly sighed, and decided to cut her losses. Never mind the crass assumptions, or the idea that proof of shapeshifting might come from something literally anyone could buy. (Stupidity was another ugly trait she'd come to take for granted among her clientele.) The real sin was a prospect who tried to scam her out of free work.

She pushed her chair back from the table. "I'm an academic facilitator, Mr. Chutney, not an escort service. Thank you for your time."

A look of shock spread across Harvey's face, and he immediately shot to his feet. "Hold up," he said, lowering his voice but with an audible edge of panic. "I'll give you extra. Up front."

Catalyst paused, then let out a breath. At least he's not here for a freebie. Okay, one more try. "I know you have a certain stereotype of changelings in your head," she said. "And I'll be the first to admit there's plenty of truth to it. Shapeshifters from Equestria, consummate actors, who can be anyone and do anything, who can sense emotions and who eat love. You couldn't invent a more perfect sex worker. And yes, mister Chutney, when Freedom Hive emigrated to Earth the vast majority of us decided to turn their talents in that direction, and I take no offense at the assumption. But we are still individuals, with our own hopes and dreams, and I'm here at Green Hills because I want to apply my talents in a different direction."

Harvey's eyes darted from side to side. "Is that a no? Look, chica, I can pay. I can pay well, I come from money."

Despite herself, Catalyst hesitated. Money was always tight. The idea of a cushy side job to get ahead on her rent was tempting, but it was exactly the sort of work she was here to get away from.

"Can we keep the conversation to our original deal for now?" she said with a touch of reluctance. "You give me some advance warning when you're unable to make a lecture. I attend it on your behalf, and give you my notes. You don't get penalized for missing class, and you get to study the material at your own pace. Midterms and finals are strictly your own responsibility. Is that acceptable?"

Even in the crowded room, Catalyst could smell a nervous edge to go along with Harvey's fidgeting. "I… yeah, man. I mean, uh, I just…" His eyes darted from side to side, and he opened his mouth again, but glanced away and fought for composure. "Sure. Sorry, I still need you for that."

"Great." Catalyst gave Harvey a short, professional nod, then paused again. Harvey was visibly desperate, and the lure of money was powerful, and they would need an hour together…

"Listen," she added, against her better judgment. "I need to spend time with you today anyway, in order to pick up your voice and mannerisms for a better disguise. If you want this to look like a date with an extremely attractive woman, I'll consider it, with a few strict conditions."

Harvey's eyes widened, and then his relief was immediate and palpable. "Yeah? Yeah," he said, trying to project a cool and collected image. "Of course."

"One, it's $500 for one hour, payable in advance."

Catalyst had named a number which seemed unseriously high by her standards, but Harvey didn't even flinch. "Sure. What's your PayPal?"

"I'll get to that. Two, this is strictly about other people seeing you with eye candy. If you so much as cop a feel, I am instantly gone and I block your number."

Catalyst had expected more hesitation at that one, but Harvey just nodded. "Cool. And?"

"Three, this is strictly a one-time thing. You can take some selfies for proof, and I'm happy to make it sound to bystanders like we're heading home together, but once we leave the bar and walk to the corner together, we go our separate ways and never speak of today again. When you call me in the future, it's only for the class work."

"Yeah, I…" Harvey took a sip of his beer and frowned, nodding reluctantly. "If one time is all you'll do, sure."

Catalyst sighed. "Look. I might be able to find someone if you want a rut-buddy, but it won't be me and you won't ask me for it."

"That's not what…" Harvey started, then shut up, and his cheeks flushed as his fingers tightened around his pint glass. He covered it up by taking a deep draught. "Never mind."

Catalyst gave him a CashApp code and waited for the payment confirmation. Half a month's worth of living expenses flashed into her account, and she was committed.

"I'll see you in fifteen minutes," she said.

The Interrogation (1)

"And what happened after you two left the bar together?" Detective Bergmann said as he scribbled into his notebook. The question sounded casual, and smelled very, very intent.

"I was getting to that," Brittle said, "but nothing. We parted ways at the corner of State and 4th when I excused myself to go into the grocery store at the corner and use their restroom. If you interview the bar's patrons, they will attest there was no sexual contact during our time together, and we were in full public view until I left him."

"And you didn't meet him privately later?"

"I am not a prostitute, Detective Bergmann. I say this both as a matter of legality and of fact. Myself and my hive are in compliance with all Earth laws. More directly, the entire point of my story is that I have no desire to be a prostitute. If I did, I would not choose to be at Green Hills University, taking academic piecework from college students and splitting an apartment six ways. Yes, five hundred dollars per hour sounded ridiculous by my personal standards, but I have escort friends in the city who regularly make twice that rate feeding the egos of lonely businessmen."

"That's not the only reason you might leave the city," Bergmann pressed. "You might have arrest warrants, or have upset the wrong people there, or you might be too inexperienced for high-end work—"

"I'm sure you already ran my record, detective," Brittle interrupted. "As for the rest, you can believe me or not, but I'm telling you the truth."

"I'm sure you are." Bergmann flipped back a page. "Like when you mentioned knowing a friend who could be Harvey's rut-buddy?"

"My exact words were that I may know someone, and there was no implication of payment. As you were going to discover if you had let me continue, I have strong feelings about the idea of helping compatible people find each other." Brittle briefly glanced over at Dean White, took a deep breath through her nose to confirm both of the humans' scents, and turned back to Bergmann to take a calculated risk. "Detective, if you would like to turn this into a pointless fishing expedition about solicitation, I will answer all further questions with my lawyer present. But I don't believe that is why the three of us are in the room."

At the mention of lawyers, Dean White narrowed her eyes, shooting the detective a subtle glare. Bergmann locked eyes with her, then put up his hands placatingly and leaned back in his chair. "There's no need to make this formal, Miss Brittle. We're just here to talk."

Brittle suppressed a smile—she'd read that one correctly. White and Bergmann's relationship definitely read as more friendly than professional, meaning that the dean wanted her policeman friend there as an implied threat to do some fishing of her own. Something Brittle was, fortunately, happier to oblige.

"So the thing you have to understand about Harvey is…"

The Client

Harvey was gay.

Catalyst had begun to suspect it even before returning with the chocolates—she hung around for a few minutes, in the form of a mousy guy smelling of weed, to watch how Harvey behaved by himself. Harvey refilled his beer and sat down alone at his table, drinking nervously. Every so often his eyes would wander around the room. Sometimes they lingered in mixed company; sometimes, amid clusters of guys out for a friends' night.

And after Catalyst had transformed into a woman, "Cat", that turned every head within range—wavy blond hair, flawless light skin, a halter top that left little to the imagination, shorts that hugged her ample curves—there was no love in Harvey to ingest. She topped her magical reserves back up from bystanders over the course of the hour, as half the Bicentennial's crowd stared with open desire at Harvey's amazing catch, but all she got from him was performative misogyny over empty emotions. When she laughed at his jokes or leaned in to touch his arm as she shouted over crowd noise, his mask broke into a smile, but his eyes were dead. When she leaned in head-to-shoulder to embrace for their selfie, he kept his hand tentatively against the small of her back—smelling of fear more than anything—and even the perfect angle down her cleavage merited little more than a passing glance.

At first, it helped Catalyst relax—finally understanding that the desperation which drove him was of a far different sort than lust. And as she began to understand him, she realized she was feeling sorry for him. He spent a lot of time talking about all his good times with his Lambda Omicron Lambda fraternity brothers, but when he did, Catalyst could detect an underlying scent of fear. His crudeness was armor against his ostensible friends.

Harvey asked her about herself, finally, forty minutes in.

"Emigrated ten years ago with Freedom Hive—the second hive—after the meltdown with the first one had gotten sorted out, and they passed all the laws and made all the infrastructure for thaumic keys," Catalyst said. Harvey didn't actually care—she had read him well enough already to know that—but she needed to see how he reacted to her taking over the conversational space. "Grew up on The Ants Extended Universe, Kissy Kissy Mew Mew, and The Scary Door. Kind of fell in love with humanity along the way. I enjoy being around people more than my fellow drones, can you believe that?"

"Mm-hmm," he said, already not paying attention.

"I mean, I don't hate being a changeling. I think what I can do is amazing. I'd die without shapeshifting, and I don't take emotion-scent for granted. But I hate being a changeling, if that makes sense?"

"Mm-hmm."

"The social aspect of it. The way people react when they learn what I am. There's always that suspicion, that fear. I can be anything, which means I'm everything to everyone. There's always a part of me which is everyone's worst nightmare come to life."

"Mm-hmm." Harvey's eyes wandered up from his empty drink and began scanning the room.

"People take it personally. When they see a changeling passing them on the street, I smell the fear, like I'm here for them in particular. Like I have nothing better to do than set fire to everything they value and gloat at their suffering. That's not me, honey, that was Chrysalis, and Princess Twilight captured her a decade before first contact. Does it bug you that I've got black chitin?"

"Mm-hmm." Harvey's gaze, at first drunkenly wandering, was beginning to fixate.

"Right. I'm a conniving, heartless son-of-a-pupa, brother to jackals and sister to owls. My lineage fled to Earth rather than going pastel with King Thorax, and that black carapace is all anyone ever sees. But you know what, screw them. I'm going to be the changeling that makes it big the same way non-changelings do. The one who redefines changeling-possible. Also, I'll give you twice your payment back if you tell me your name."

"Mm-hmm."

Catalyst laughed, leaning in and clasping his bicep in search of a better viewing angle on Harvey's object of fixation. He startled, glanced back into her eyes, and laughed back. She firmly took his arm and draped it around her shoulders, now confident he wouldn't take the touching any further.

"So as I was saying," she said, "I'm here at Green Hills for a business degree. I mean, kind of. Obviously I'm not a student, at least not on the books." She saw his eyes starting to wander again, and kept up her patter. "But do you know how much I learn from all the classes I sit in on? I won't ever get that magic piece of paper, but I'm beginning to realize how little that matters after you charm your way through the door. So I'll learn the basics, make some connections, get started at a venture capital firm, pick some unicorns, and once I make them enough money they won't care who I am. I'll show them. I'll show everyone."

As she talked, she turned her head to match his, and lined up her vision with his viewing angle. Her eyes lighted on a chiseled male student drinking at the bar, wearing a tight white tank-top and jeans that hugged his bulging legs. He had a dark buzz cut, a thin black goatee, and immaculately shaven armpits underneath well-defined arms covered in thin hair.

Harvey glanced inquisitively back at her face, and Catalyst startled, realizing she had gone silent as she processed his distraction.

"Holy shit, Harv," she said, meeting Harvey's eyes and then dragging his gaze behind hers back to tank-top guy. "That is one amazing ass."

He nearly spit out his beer.

"What the hell, Cat," Harvey said, coughing, his face flushing beet red. "What the hell."

She backed off a bit, catching whiffs of shame and alarm. "I'm a woman, Harv. I'm allowed to say it." She gestured discreetly over at Tank-Top. "I'm just saying that's the sort of ass that would look fantastic on you. Do you work out?"

Harvey's eyes lingered again, his embarrassment ratcheting slowly down as Catalyst's own attention gave him permission to stare. "Not like that, I don't. Shit. I wish—"

And he shut himself up with a drink of beer, even though Catalyst smelled exactly what he was stopping himself from saying.

The Interrogation (2)

"So you're telling us, Miss Brittle, that the entire purpose of your business was to find a way to attend classes for free?"

Brittle Horn glanced up at Dean White's interruption, blinking to refocus. "Out of everything I've told you, that's what caught your attention?"

The dean laced her fingers together. "That's what stretches the boundaries of credibility. For someone who says they're intent on acquiring an education, I can't believe you're going to such trouble to sporadically audit lectures, essentially at random."

Brittle shifted in her chair. "It's not just attending lectures, alright? It's the principle of the thing." A scowl flushed the carapace of her cheeks. "Some of us want to do this without taking any handouts."

White's eyes narrowed. "Interesting. That's exactly what Dark Wing said when we talked about the possibility of financial aid."

"That's not interesting, it's exactly why I'm here!" Brittle stood up, face fully flushed. "4.0 GPA, practically lives on campus, on a first-name basis with half the department heads—isn't Wing just your perfect golden girl? The one playing by the rules, the great shining example of an unredeemed changeling escaping through education. But how do you think she was able to afford tuition? Because she's a stars-damned fraud. Everything she accomplished has been secretly funded by the hive's money."

"What's shameful about that?" Bergmann asked from the side. "That's how humans do it. Something like two-thirds of students get a family ride through college."

"Actually, for full family coverage, that figure is around 30 percent," Dean White said, "with another 40 percent sharing costs. But his point stands. Not to mention, if you're avoiding handouts, why not just get a student loan?"

Brittle sighed. "Because the entire point of coming to Earth was showing we're capable of breaking free from our past. When you've spent your whole life as an unthinking extension of the queen's will, and then suddenly have a chance to define yourself without her, there's two ways you can go. Embrace the hive, and turn technicolor, and go join Thorax's candyland socialist bug dystopia. Or embrace individuality, and stay black, and be your own bug by overcoming your instincts. But when you're trying to make your own way, anyone having power over you just turns you into a drone again. Taking gifts mean accomplishing things with resources which aren't yours — which is a flashback straight to the days when everything belonged to the queen. And a debt is just another method of control, binding you with a contract until it's paid off."

"No being is an island, Miss Brittle. If you're trying to put yourself through college ethically, perhaps that's a concept you should learn from the ponies." White raised one eyebrow. "Or your hivemate."

Brittle's muzzle—which had been fading back to its normal color—flushed again. "No. Screw that. And screw Dark Wing. This is what actual principle looks like. No feeding from clients, and not a penny from anyone that I didn't directly earn. And you know what? I'm making it work. I'm late on my bills, and everything I earn from being Catalyst goes straight to rent, and thank the stars I get to eat love instead of ramen, but I'm actually making it work. The only way I can afford to learn anything is free, but I am learning." She winced. "Well, I was. Until…"

The Meeting

Two months later—two days before the conversation with Dean White—he stumbled into Tank-Top again.

It was in class, ironically. Harvey was sitting midway down on the left, furiously taking notes about business law, raising his hand occasionally. (Never early enough to be called on. As much as he sometimes burned to request clarification, he was a professional, and he wasn't about to attract attention to his clients. If a question ate at him throughout class, he would discreetly change into another form, and then catch the professor in the hallway as they were walking back to their office.) The period passed quickly, and Harvey gathered his notes, preparing for a beeline to the library photocopiers.

"Harv!" Tank-Top said right from Harvey's side, making him jump, as Harvey climbed the last stairs to the auditorium exit. Harvey realized a bit belatedly that Tank-Top had been sitting right by the exit door. Waiting for him.

"Bro," Harvey said with carefully calibrated enthusiasm, offering this stranger-or-maybe-friend a fist-bump. Showing up in a classroom, he could do without breaking a sweat; navigating unexpected social situations with none of his client's memories took much more finesse. "What's up?"

Tank-Top stood up, fidgeting almost to the point of vibration. "Holy shit, dude. Last night."

And instantly, all of Harvey's nerves went on high alert. The room was awash in scents, so even at arm's length smell told him little, but one thing was unmistakable to his hunger: the flutter of love in Tank-Top's chest.

"Yeah," Harvey said noncommittally, stuffing down his panic. He glanced at the row of students filing out through the packed exit. "Look, man, as much as I wanna chat—"

"Last night." Tank-Top barreled on, stepping in and giving Harv a double high-five he was obliged to follow through on, followed by a chest-bump that seemed ambiguously congratulatory. "Damn, man!"

Harvey combed wildly through his memories. He'd gotten the call that morning, barely in time to scramble to class, and had made a note to charge a rush premium. The actual Harvey had sounded like hell. Was that exhaustion? Hangover? Probably not sickness, given Tank-Top's reaction. Had he partied too hard? Had the two of them been together? Or—adrenaline squeezed Harvey's chest, at Tank-Top making this public of a scene—had they been together?

Fortunately, his paralysis seemed to go unnoticed in Tank-Top's enthusiasm. "That tackle you made! Holy shit, they felt that around the state!"

Wait, right. Tuesday night. Harvey was on the team. He had awesomed at the sportsball.

Harvey's chest loosened in a flood of relief, and he mimicked enthusiasm—no. Smugness. Harvey was a gloater. "Look, I ain't big on taking credit, but when that was 100 percent me, I don't have much choice."

Harvey listened to Tank-Top's glee as they filed slowly through the door line. But as his relief at successfully parrying the situation settled, new worries stirred up. Tank-Top's nervousness was spiking, both in his body language and in his scent now piercing the haze of the crowd. Love was still fluttering in his heart, too—which Harvey, given time to focus, placed as the jumpy, vibrant love of an active crush.

The instant the crowd cleared out, he was about to get hit on.

There was an obvious answer to the problem. Stammer, brush it off, make a crudely sexist comment, and flee. It not only washed Catalyst's hooves of a problem, it was 100 percent what the real Harvey would have done. And in the process, all he had to do was snuff out a love that was young, and terrified, and true, and—worst of all—silently reciprocated.

Harvey's instincts warred, changeling-smart and changeling-hungry. His brain shut down, supplying a few "mm-hmms" to carry the conversation through the doorway. And then they were out into the hall, and he gestured to excuse himself, and a perfectly toned bare arm slammed into the wall in front of his face.

"C'mon, man," Tank-Top said. "You've gotta let me buy you a drink to celebrate."

Harvey blinked, crashing back into reality.

Tank-Top's love and fear spiked. Harvey's mouth watering, his nostrils bathing in raw panic, he locked up. And the only thing he could think of was to reach in his pocket.

"Dude," Harvey said, shooting his other arm forward. He clenched his fingers tightly around the wrist of Tank-Top's free hand. "Bro. Broski. I have never asked you for anything important. But this is… like. Inches from a matter of life and death."

Harvey locked eyes with Tank-Top, who shrank back at the sudden intensity. "Um?" he said, love dissolving into uncertainty and alarm.

Harvey pressed a folded piece of paper into Tank-Top's hand, squeezing his fingers shut around it. One of Catalyst's business cards.

"In five minutes," he said, "call this number."

The Interrogation (3)

Bergmann and White sat quietly as Brittle trailed off. The room settled into uneasy silence.

White was the first to break it. "And?"

"And?" The word seemed to jerk Brittle back into the moment, and she took a shaky breath and shifted around in her chair. "And he called Catalyst. And Catalyst told him everything."

Bergmann paused in his writing. "Everything?"

Brittle glanced over at him. "Enough. Too much. Catastrophically so." The rigid chitin of her muzzle didn't shift, but her mandibles shifted with a clicking that at least two of them would recognize as grief. "I arranged a meeting as Juanita Ibanez. She introduced herself as a changeling and told him that 'Harvey' in the classroom had been her imitating her client. Ibanez told him Harvey was in an extremely precarious place to accept his proposition, but as someone who sensed love directly, she couldn't bear to see their mutual interest extinguished. They talked for half an hour. She did everything she could to help Tank-Top make a safe and discreet approach."

Bergmann digested that for a moment. Then he asked, "What was the young man's name?"

"I don't know," Brittle immediately said.

Bergmann frowned. "I know you think you're protecting him. But given Harvey's violent tendencies—"

The changeling's head snapped up. "I don't know!" Brittle said, raw anguish lifting her voice. "I didn't want to know. I specifically avoided asking. Some part of me knew I had stepped way too far over the line. I couldn't not intervene, but I tried to pretend that the less I knew, the less it was my responsibility."

"You're a smart woman, Brittle," Bergmann said, both smelling and sounding of sympathy. "You've got to have something."

"A phone number," Brittle immediately said. "The one he called me with. But it's useless—his number was a burner, and please don't ask me how I know that. I've already given you his description. I didn't take any pictures. He wasn't registered in the class he met Harvey in." Her head drooped. "That's the one thing I feel most scared and awful about. I'm sorry. I'm honestly sorry."

Bergmann nodded, pen flashing across his notebook page.

"Is there… anything else you've heard?" Brittle asked hesitantly. "Recent missing person reports? Disturbances, fights, shootings?"

Bergmann stared at Brittle for a moment, then his scent of sympathy strengthened and he sighed. "Nothing comes to mind. We'll do our best to find him and confirm his safety."

"Thank you," she said in a small voice.

Dean White looked back and forth between Brittle and Bergmann. "This doesn't answer the big question. Why did Mister Chutney attack you?"

Brittle took a breath and shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know that, either. I mean, I do, but only what you already know. He ran up to me in the quad today, screamed that I had ruined his life and that I was dead, and then went to strangle me. Some other students pulled him off, but he got in a hard punch to my face before they separated us."

"And we were there for the rest," Bergmann said.

"Maybe Tank-Top wasn't sufficiently discreet, and Harvey's frat brothers learned. Maybe they threatened to make it public, or kick him out, and he was struggling enough in school that that sort of social crisis pushed him over the edge. Maybe someone with a grudge leaked it to his rich parents who cut him off." Brittle shook her head. "I don't know. That's all just speculation."

"Could well be." The detective took a moment to flip back through his notes. "Hmm. Actually…"

He wasn't close enough for Brittle to catch the subtleties of his new scent, but suspicion was displacing his sympathy. She mentally braced herself.

"There is one thing I'm curious about, Miss Brittle. You were on campus today as Juanita Ibanez?"

Brittle stared at him for a moment. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you only attend classes when you're sitting in for one of your clients."

"Right." Brittle fought a sudden stiffness in her body and swallowed. "But, you know how it is. Being a changeling. I don't make a habit of walking around in borrowed bodies. The less time I'm taking someone else's place, the fewer questions I have to field." She felt her muzzle flush.

At that, Bergmann's scent grew smug. He leaned in. "You're a smart woman, Brittle. The fact that we're only finding out about your scheme now is proof of that. Juanita Ibanez isn't a borrowed body—she's someone you made up to handle your business logistics. And I think you're not stupid enough to walk around as her unless you were actively at work."

Brittle tensed herself, flicking her eyes around the room. "Okay, right, but I don't see how that's relevant."

"Seriously?" Dean White blurted out, straightening up in her seat. "You were—"

"Marian," Bergmann said, "let me—"

"Alan," White said, and her eyes hardened despite her quiet tone. She turned to Brittle without waiting for his reply. "Miss Brittle, you were meeting another one of your clients. Tell me who."

"My breaking confidence about my clients has already caused quite enough trouble." Brittle shook her head. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Are you?" The question was soft, but the room seemed suddenly more oppressive around it. "You're certainly sorry for one of the lives you ruined. Do you have any remorse for all the other students whose educations you've destroyed?"

"That's an unfair characterization, Dean White."

"It is an accurate one." White's voice turned icy; her scent, angry. "Every student at Green Hills signs our academic honesty policy, representing that everything submitted under their name is the product solely of their own work. You are directly enabling nothing less than fraud, Brittle, fraud on a massive scale. How many students paid you? Dozens? Hundreds?"

Brittle sat up straighter, some fire returning to her voice. "I did nothing but trade money for freedom, ma'am. The freedom to study at their own pace when a strictly regimented schedule created struggles. I never crossed the line of taking midterms or finals for my clients—"

"Pop quizzes," White immediately said.

Brittle looked down at the floor. "I answered them with only the knowledge I had. Meaning I basically went in blind. I assure you I didn't help those clients' grades."

"I'm hearing excuses. You just actively admitted you helped students cheat."

"Grades are a mechanism of assessing knowledge," Brittle said. "If you're passing students who can't prove their knowledge on midterms and finals, your problem isn't with me."

Bergmann cut in, with Brittle smelling concern—presumably he hoped to steer the conversation. "Miss Brittle, do you realize you're been committing some serious violations?"

"With respect, Detective, the seriousness here is entirely regarding a private institution's internal rules, which I will discuss with the institution. Respecting the university's mission, and respecting the university's policies, are different matters, Dean White." Brittle quickly shifted the conversation back to her. "Believe it or not, we share a common principle in the importance of education. If I didn't respect that, I'd take students' tests for them. I'd earn considerably more money in the process."

"We're not here about the rules you didn't break, Miss Brittle. We're here about the ones you did."

"And I'm trying to tell you that those are rules not serving your mission." Brittle softened her voice. "Do you remember me mentioning my own goals? I'm here to learn, and I'm here to help my clients learn. I pay attention in every class. I take detailed notes, which I give them. I answer questions when they don't understand the professor's intentions. They pay me to understand what they're here to learn, and I deliver."

"Then you're a thief," White snapped, her face reddening. "You're stealing education from us, and money from the students. Everyone loses."

"It's exactly the other way around!" Brittle said, frustration hardening her own voice. "You have an inefficient market. I'm giving your consumers options you won't offer. Your profit remains the same, they gain benefits, and I benefit from correcting the inequalities. It's textbook arbitrage." She hesitated just long enough to add weight to her addendum: "I learned that in one of your business classes."

White's face drifted from red to purple.

"Marian," Bergmann said. "If I may."

The dean glanced over at the detective, giving him a curt nod. Brittle smelled her anger simmering.

"Miss Brittle," Bergmann said, pulling out a handkerchief and his sunglasses to clean the lenses as he talked. "I'm not certain what you're trying to accomplish here. You had to know the university would take a dim view of your activities. You're about to get the book thrown at you." He paused, and gave her a meaningful stare. "This isn't Equestria, and even in Equestria, forgiveness requires contrition. But I know Marian, and I know she's not heartless. If you're willing to come clean, I'll personally see to it that we can help you turn a new leaf and continue your education on ethical terms. Let's start by giving her the names of all your clients."

Brittle sat silently for a moment, evaluating the room's scents. There was the barest whiff of sympathy, but it was hard to pick out behind the frustration. She didn't smell any hope. This was merely a showdown, then—one in which she had virtually no power.

But neither did the school, if the dean was trying to bully her behind closed doors. Green Hills had everything to lose by formally charging her; it would turn her actions from quiet shame into public scandal. The assault already made them look bad enough.

Brittle Horn took a deep breath.

"Many of them are people who have done nothing morally wrong," she said. "They just didn't want to be penalized for being sick, or needing to cover a work shift, or dealing with a personal crisis when a cold and unflexible system tells them that ten percent of their grade is simply for placing their flanks in a chair. I'm not perfect, ma'am, and I understand you have standards to maintain. But I hope we can both take this as an opportunity for reflection."

"You first, Miss Brittle," Dean White said, glowering. "You keep claiming the moral high ground—but if you would like an opportunity for reflection, you only have to look at the changeling who has done it right. Dark Wing faces all the same struggles you do. She keeps her head down, and pays for classes, and earns fantastic grades. She has faced up to her past, and her fear of accepting help, and overcome them. What I've heard from you, on the other hand, is a crippling amount of pride blinding you to your own flaws. You say you want to change the world ethically, and yet instead of asking for financial aid or working with your family, you repeat all of their mistakes." White stood up and leaned over her desk, fingers clenching the dark wood. "I'm disappointed. Severely disappointed. We're giving you every possible chance, but unlike Miss Wing, you seem determined to prove all the changeling stereotypes correct."

Brittle Horn winced, eyes snapping shut.

"With all respect, Dean White," she said in a small voice, "I'm afraid we have nothing further to discuss." She opened her eyes and turned to the side. "Detective Bergmann, sir. Setting aside the assault I was a victim of, I do not understand any matters we have discussed to be criminal law violations. Am I being detained?"

"Miss Brittle," Bergmann quickly said, "please reconsider. My own ability to help you rests upon your cooperation with your client list. If you can't trust me, my hands are tied. And I would hate to see someone with such big dreams slam the door closed on her future, when all she has to do is the right thing."

Brittle hung her head for a moment, and then let out a long and soft breath. "I understand, sir. Dean, ma'am, if any of my clients are cheaters, I am certain that they will continue to violate university policy in ways you will sooner or later discover, and I will not interfere in your investigation. But I cannot violate their trust and ruin their lives for my own personal benefit. Detective Bergmann, if you please, am I being detained?"

Bergmann and White exchanged a glance. Frustration curled White's face. Bergmann checked the clock, then scribbled one final note in his notebook and snapped it crisply shut. "Not at this time," he said.

"Then I would like to apologize once more for the situation, assure you I'll pass along any more information I find out about Tank-Top, and bid you both a good day."

Dean White massaged her temple with one hand. "Miss Brittle, you have my phone number if you change your mind," she said. "Otherwise, we will consider any future presence on university property to be criminal trespass, and I assure you I will not hesitate to press charges. Detective, kindly escort Miss Brittle out to the edge of the school."

The Argument

Across the street from the university offices, after the police cruiser had driven away, a young human woman walked up to Brittle Horn — nondescript, of average height, with pale skin and shoulder-length auburn hair and a round face caked in heavy layers of makeup. She had a backpack slung over one shoulder of her puffy jacket, and fell into step with Brittle as the changeling began to trot down the sidewalk.

Brittle stared straight ahead as she moved, her face impassive. "Dark Wing."

"How'd it go?" the woman asked.

"We need to talk, is how it went," Brittle said, voice tight. "Meet me at the Bicentennial."

The Bicentennial's midday crowd was unusually light. It was, in fact, deserted aside from two humans at a corner table out of view from the street. One was a tall and lanky young man with broad glasses and a bush of curly brown hair. The other was a middle-aged woman whose stringy blond hair framed a long, uneven face caked in heavy layers of makeup. The bartender brought them two pints of mead and an ice pack, double-checked that the sign on the front door read "Closed", and retreated into the back room.

The woman closed both hands around her pint, making no move to pick it up, tapping fingernails against the glass. "We might as well rip off the elytra. How bad was it, Brittle?"

He picked his pint up and took a long drink before answering. "Short version? There was zero chance this was ever going to end in anything other than me being banned from GHU for life."

"Ah, Tartarus." Dark Wing's face stretched into a grimace, and then her cheek twitched through the heavy layers of concealer, and her expression curled into a wince of pain. She picked up the ice pack and gingerly pressed it to her face. "I really do owe you one, then. And Tank-Top?"

"They appear to sincerely know nothing."

"Shit," Dark Wing said. "I guess no news is good news, there, but what a disaster."

"It could have been worse. They came within a hair of realizing that Ibanez was attending your classes—"

"Dragon shit."

"But fortunately, when I froze up, they came to the wrong conclusion." Brittle sighed and sipped his drink. "They'll probably realize their mistake once they start properly investigating. Get out ahead of it. Tell them you noticed me shadowing you, and you found it weird and creepy."

"Ugh." Dark frowned. "But yes, I can do that."

"Good. After what I went through, you need to follow up carefully. I almost walked out of the room in hoofcuffs." Brittle took another sip. "But I got Bergmann to back down on the solicitation angle—"

"Because that never happened," Dark Wing quickly said.

Brittle paused, then frowned. "Pull the other leg, Dark. Your Catalyst side hustle has been paying your rent and tuition."

Dark scowled past the ice pack. Brittle stared at her levelly.

"No sex happened," Dark Wing finally said. "This is what actual principle looks like. No feeding from clients—"

"And not a penny from anyone that you didn't fairly earn," Brittle Horn interrupted. "Yes, yes. We've all had your self-righteous lecture memorized for a while. Except you took Harvey's escort job before you knew he was gay, and you jacked up your prices because you sure expected it to turn out different."

Dark's uncovered cheek reddened. "Think what you want," she said. "What I said in the bathroom, when I was filling you in before you took my place, is the way it actually happened. I drew my lines, he didn't cross them."

"I certainly hope so. Because otherwise I lied right to a police detective's face about something the humans insist on calling a crime, and they've got the witness with the truth in custody."

"Harvey doesn't matter." Dark took a sip of her mead, her composure rebuilding. "It's my—well, your—word against his, and the testimony of a man so driven by vengeance that he tried to kill me in public is basically self-discrediting." She set down the glass. "But you helped me when it mattered, and I really do appreciate that, and so I need you to understand: I didn't break any laws with Harvey."

Brittle took a large gulp of mead and tapped the base of his pint glass against the table. "That's a very precisely crafted denial."

"What else did you expect from an unredeemed changeling?" Dark said, staring at him with her expression once again stony.

Brittle stared at her in silence for several seconds. Finally, he took another gulp of mead, sighed, and set the glass down. "Irrefutable logic. If we wanted to be anything other than unrepentant bastards, we'd have turned rainbow. Speaking of which, we never discussed my price for pretending to be Catalyst and taking the fall for you."

Dark Wing stiffened. She turned her face toward the bar, hiding behind the ice pack.

"I give you a favor back of equivalent size," she said, voice tight. "Then we walk out of here square and I go back to campus to keep earning my degree. That's how this works."

"Oh, is it?" Brittle tilted his head. "Really."

"What are you saying? I'm not in the mood for games."

"Could have fooled me." Brittle leaned forward, his voice hardening. "But fine. That's how it works with the hive. You've made very clear you have Actual Principles which mean you want nothing to do with our way of doing things."

Dark Wing turned back to him, frowning. "I know how you feel about my principles. But keep in mind that they're the only things keeping me from walking out on you and pulling a Chrysalis."

Brittle frowned back. "Don't pretend you've got a monopoly on ethics. Principles are the only thing keeping any of us from ditching the hive, going lone-queen, and deciding we don't care about what lines we cross." He finished his drink. "My own principles are why I'm charging you the hive rate. One simple favor. Graduate from GHU."

Dark's frown deepened into a scowl. "Bullshit, it's a simple favor. We're not friends, and neither of us believes in charity, so there's no way you're asking for something you know I'm already going to do."

"I guess we're both liars then." Brittle stared straight into her eyes. "Tell me the truth and I'll tell you the catch."

Dark Wing silently locked eyes with him—and then was the first to break the stare. Her face twisted up, and she looked away while she took a long drink.

"Damn it," she said. "Fine. My actual plan was to do the bare minimum to square up with you and then vanish out of state. I do pay my debts, but this is way too much heat." Dark Wing pushed her half-full glass off to the side, face bitter. "That said, it's tempting to accept. It would be heartbreaking to start from scratch at another school when I've made so much progress toward a degree. But I know you're not merely asking me to stay, because there's nothing in that for you."

"You're wrong," Brittle said, "but thank you for being honest, at least. So here's the deal. You finish this degree. And the hive pays for it."

Dark Wing leapt to her feet, slamming her palms down hard on the table. "Fuck you."

"Sit down, I'm not done."

"You're asking me to betray everything I stand for, and there's more?!"

"An explanation. Sit."

"You're out of your mind," Dark said, but she sat.

"First of all," Brittle said, "do you understand what I had to pull off to take suspicion off you? I had an off-duty police detective grilling me. There was no sane reason for me to be on campus. You were a known unredeemed changeling with known access, and known to have been refusing financial aid. It should have been impossible to make them think you had nothing to do with it."

"I'm beginning to regret making that request."

"It was the smartest thing you did today. You were panicking after the attack. Better to melt down with someone who will treat you fairly than with a cop."

"Fairly," Dark Wing said, her voice acid. "Sure."

Brittle Horn slowly shook his head. "Dark. I get that you're on tilt, but stop and think. What do I get out of this?"

"Are you really going to make me re-explain fundamental hive principles? Accepting your ongoing donations means you own me. I'm the crab climbing out of the bucket and you get to pull me back down."

"If this was about spite, I'd have laughed in your face when you begged for my help. If this was about owning you, I'd be gloating in your face now. Try again."

"You're too smart to gloat. You…" Dark Wing's protest trailed off, and she lifted the ice pack back to her cheek. "This is wasting both of our times. Tell me."

Brittle Horn nodded. "So, I shouldn't have been able to convince them your hooves were clean—"

"Brittle."

"I'm going somewhere with this." He leaned forward. "By all rights, I shouldn't have been able to get you anything but a head start. But you are a master storyteller. You built yourself such a sterling reputation that there were cracks of doubt for me to exploit."

"Brittle. Is this turning into a lecture about the power of stories?"

"It… wasn't going to be. I didn't think you were that far gone."

"I've never said stories aren't powerful. What I hate is the hive's mythologizing of it, and the hypocrisy it creates." Dark made a broad gesture with a hand. "Facts are the mere clay of the world, stories are its lifeblood, yadda, yadda. Sure, storytelling is useful, but we've turned it into this idea that because we can be anything, because we're constantly redefining ourselves, we're inherently superior at the only skill that actually matters. It's ideological heroin, and the hive's content to cower in the corner and shoot it up. If we're so superior then we should be out here showing them what we can do."

"You do get it then." Brittle pointed. "That, right there. I am helping you because you are correct."

Dark Wing frowned. "I still can't get from there to why you think the gross humiliation of relying on your money is in any way 'helping'."

"Because you did it, Dark. You set out to redefine changeling-possible and it happened. I know that, to you, success looks like having more money than the princesses, but you have objectively already succeeded. Before I even opened my mouth in that room, you had a school administrator and a cop both desperate to give Dark Wing the benefit of the doubt."

After a moment of hesitation, Dark Wing shook her head. "That means nothing. I just pressed the model-minority lever. It was grub's play to convince them I was 'one of the good ones'."

"That requires having good ones," Brittle said. "That's you. You're the first. You wanted to know what I get out of this favor? Keeping that idea alive. Being able to walk down the street and have people wonder if I'm one of the bad changelings, rather than know."

"Very touching," Dark Wing said caustically, "but that still doesn't make this a fair trade. I'm not going to throw away everything I stand for in order to give you a chance you should be seizing for yourself."

"Then do it to keep your own dream alive," Brittle said. "You don't really think you can run far enough for a fresh start, do you? There's still going to be a full investigation, and if Dark Wing vanishes now, you're basically admitting complicity. And then suddenly she's proof that unredeemed changelings aren't better than that, actually. Poisoning that well hurts you even more than it hurts us."

Dark let out a tight breath. "Okay. I can fix that by staying, but that's still not an argument to take your money."

"You're stupid enough to keep your business running under the microscope of an active investigation?"

"I didn't say that," Dark said sullenly.

Brittle tilted his head. "Okay. Back to the success of your story, then. It was powerful enough to give me an opening—but that opening was to play the villain who resented that you did everything I was trying to do, but better. Everything except for the one thing that would have given you a motive. So my deep dark secret became Catalyst, and your deep dark secret became that you didn't need to be Catalyst because the hive was already funding you."

"Ffff." Dark Wing bit back an expletive, and cradled her head in her hands. "Bastard. Asshole. I knew it. You set me up."

"Your own reputation did. Do you know they actually chewed me out for not being able to overcome my pride like Dark Wing did by taking hive money?" Brittle Horn chuckled. "I nearly laughed and blew the entire cover-up apart."

Her mouth curled into a snarl. "There's nothing funny about this."

Brittle studied her face for several seconds. "Then don't laugh," he said. "But listen."

He slid sideways from his chair, and sank to one knee.

Dark's eyes widened, and her expression twisted from anger into shock.

"Do you want me to grovel?" Brittle said. "Is that what it will take to get us what we both need?"

"No," Dark said, her composure recovering. "This is transparent manipulation, a token gesture of humiliation to placate me as you bring me under your complete control. You're the hive's best gaslighter, Brittle—that's the entire reason I begged for your help. But I know you too well to fall for it."

"You have a real talent for burning olive branches, did you know that?" Brittle, rolling his eyes, slid back onto his chair. "Think this through. Your entire objection is that, by the hive's standards, we are dealing you the ultimate insult, and yet the entire point of your going to school is that the hive's standards are garbage and should be disregarded. The point of bowing to you like you're a queen is to show you I agree with that second part."

"See what I mean? You're folding the truth like paper."

"Dark, I'm just trying to remind you of something you already know. The hive is sick, feebly gasping for breath, suffocating in a miasma of contradictions. We're a hollow and bitter people, rejecting friendship while clinging to each other for survival, and proclaiming with one united voice our pride in our new individuality. You're the only one who has been brave enough to call bullshit on it."

Dark's eyes darted around the empty bar. "Even if I believe that's your angle here, that's not how the others are going to see it."

"Not all of them, no," Brittle said, "but I'm far from the only one. There's a lot of drones sick of watching their back with everyling, all the time. The drones who directly stand to benefit from your failure of principle will mock you, yes. But you show the rest of us an alternative"—he suddenly stood, placing both hands on the table and leaning over her, lowering his voice to murmur in her ear—"and you will break the hive right in fucking half."

Dark Wing sat in silence for several seconds, Brittle still looming over her. Then she reached over to her drink, tilting her head back and draining the glass dry.

"Hm," she grunted, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. "Hm."

The Apology

"Catalyst?" a male voice said from behind Dark Wing as she was reviewing her calculus notes in a remote corner of the school library. While the school's investigation had played out, she had spent the past two weeks attending only her own classes, and scrupulously sticking to a single disguise—an uninjured version of herself. But it hadn't quelled the whispers, or the occasional direct questions.

"Brittle Horn is gone," Dark said automatically.

"She's not, actually. She left campus, but she's still in town. And she said I needed to talk to you."

Dark Wing turned and looked. The man—dark buzz cut, thin goatee, smelling of nervousness and hope—was wearing a jacket over his tank top.

She craned her head around. Her floor of the library was otherwise entirely deserted, and she wasn't picking up any scents except for his nervous energy. "Brittle Horn is a liar and an asshole," she growled, "but on the specific point that we need to talk, she was correct." Dark gathered her notes, hurriedly stuffing them in her pack, then turned to the man and stuck out a hoof. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Dark Wing."

"Tony," Tank-Top said, shaking her hoof with a firm grip rather than doing the knuckle-tap of those more familiar with Equestrians. "But, you, uh." His face crinkled up. "She said you’re Catalyst. And that means we've already talked. A lot."

"I am not Catalyst. And that’s why we need to talk." Dark Wing sat up straight, focusing on Tank-Top. "Also—and I must stress, this is purely a secondary concern—ever since they arrested Harvey Chutney for assaulting Brittle Horn, there has been an ongoing, active investigation into Catalyst’s business. So, even if I were her, I certainly wouldn't admit it, not even to friends." Dark Wing stared into his eyes, her expression neutral.

"I get it. I think. Sorry." Tank-Top dragged a chair over from a nearby table to her study desk, and then curiosity shaded into his scent. "And, uh… friends?"

"Like you, I hope."

"Thanks. But what I meant is, you said"—he hesitated at her glare, then sighed—"Catalyst said that your kind doesn't do friendship. She was pretty clear on that."

"Then I'm sorry Catalyst gave you such a poor impression of our race." Dark Wing smiled. "Friendship isn't a dirty word. Freedom Hive certainly seems to think so, but, well, they've made a big point of paying for my college degree to expose me to new ideas, and I want to make certain they're getting their money's worth." Her smile grew fangs.

An undertone of worry entered Tank-Top's scent, though he smiled and his tone turned jocular. "It sounds kinda ominous when you say it like that."

"Don't worry, just venting about family drama." Dark Wing waved a hoof, her expression re-lightening to match his. "I mentioned that Brittle Horn is the worst kind of liar, right? As you might have noticed, unredeemed changelings are jerks. When they do you a favor, the only thing in their mind is what they will get out of it. Having recently been on the receiving end of that…" She trailed off, then shook her head and looked back at Tank-Top with an unreadable expression. "Anyhow, I needed to talk to you because Catalyst was no exception."

"Oh." Tank-Top stared at her for several seconds. Then his face fell, and uncertainty took over his scent.

"Is that why you tried so hard to find me?" he asked. "You did something nice to make me owe you, and now that everything's gone to shit it's time to pay up?"

Dark's eyes widened. "What? No! The opposite, damn it. I am trying to apologize."

His odor intensified into a sharp spike of relief, but the uncertainty lingered. "Why? I don't get it. You aren't the one who went homicidal. That’s not on you."

"Nevertheless, Catalyst wronged you."

Tank-Top sighed. "Listen, if you aren’t actually Catalyst, I don't want you apologizing for her. Let me talk to her again."

Dark pressed a hoof to her forehead. "Ugh. If you have to think of me as Catalyst to make this work, then do that. Because no one else is her, either. But if you overlap us like that, it’s not going to end well."

"So I’m talking to the right person." Tank-Top’s scent of suspicion grew an acrid whiff of disappointment, and Dark’s heart sank. "But… a few minutes ago I would have said you sacrificed to set us up despite the whole I-don't-do-friends thing. There's nothing to apologize for there. So that means—" His scent intensified. "You knew it would go wrong."

"No!" Dark Wing's voice rose in agitation. "Shit, no. Please, let me explain before I blow this up too."

Tank-Top leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He nodded for her to continue, but it smelled like the explosion had already occurred.

"Have you ever done the right thing, but for shitty reasons?" Dark said. "Unredeemed changelings don't have a model for goodness, only a rainbow-colored living doormat who believes friendship means never saying no. We've got a fantastic model for evil, though. So when we stumble in the direction of good it's by facing the example of Chrysalis and backing away. All we know about good is what it isn’t."

Tank-Top said nothing. Dark Wing felt her panic rise.

"Point is," Dark continued, "when Catalyst smelled two people who needed to be together, and when she said to meet her in the Bicentennial—"

"You."

"Sorry, what?"

Tank-Top shifted in his seat. "When you invited me to the Bicentennial. If you’re actually trying to apologize for what you did, can you quit your bullshit on that?"

"I keep telling you, I'm not…" Dark trailed off, then exhaled heavily. "Look, can you just let that go for a moment? This really isn't easy."

"I can tell. You keep evading what you're actually apologizing for."

"You keep interrupting me."

Tank-Top massaged his temples for a moment. "Fine. Go ahead."

Dark took a breath to steady herself. "Okay. So part of me immediately—" She stopped midsentence, muzzle curling in distaste. "Sorry, misspoke. Part of Catalyst immediately figured out what—"

"Oh, come on."

"Let me talk. Before you two ever talked she knew what she could have charged you for her help. I'm not apologizing for that, because that's who unredeemed changelings are, it's a reflex like breathing. But more importantly, because Catalyst never followed through on that. She told herself she was better than that."

The library fell into silence for a moment. "…And?" Tank-Top said.

Dark Wing took a breath. "And, well. Helping you was proof she was better than that. So she got very, very invested in you two working out, and she ignored the red flags."

"Invested?" Tank-Top said, scent shifting to disbelief. "You shut me up when I tried to introduce myself! You blocked my number!"

"Because Catalyst was trying to fix everything and then vanish without taking credit. Because that's what good people do. That only works when you do a good thing, though. She kind of screwed that part up."

Tank-Top, smelling of disappointment, gestured with an open palm. "Okay, see, you say you're apologizing, but then you keep insisting something awful happened to me which was entirely the fault of your evil twin, and that is really not helping your case."

"But I'm not Catalyst. How many times do I have to say it?" Dark's voice tightened again. "I’ve cut her entirely out of being. Do you understand what it means for someone to exist for that long and then, suddenly, never again? She’s dead. Murdered. I’m so serious about fixing things that I have blood on my hooves."

"If you’re willing to go to that extreme then just say it! You’re sorry for what you did to me!"

"You are entirely too hung up on some extremely specific and incorrect words."

Tank-Top's frown deepened. "Real talk? You're sitting here talking about metaphorical murder while Harv almost actually killed me. This conversation has gone very fucking weird. I thought this was just going to be a chance to commiserate about him going off the deep end.” He shook his head. “You were clear he was deep in the closet, and I never thought about blaming you for anything. But you’re trying so hard to evade this that I'm beginning to wonder."

"I am literally apologizing!" Dark Wing lifted her hinds from the chair, standing atop it. "I've gone out of my way to track you down and demonstrate to you that Catalyst was bad and I’m backing as far away from that as I can! What part of that is unclear?"

Tank-Top, too, stood up. "The part where you take any responsibility for anything you did."

Dark's muzzle curled up to reveal fangs. "I thought we were going to commiserate about Harvey, too. But you are misunderstanding me so willfully that now I'm beginning to wonder how you fucked up to turn him homicidal."

"Oh, fantastic apology there," Tank-Top said, his scent beginning to smolder.

Dark's wings flared. "Don't throw it back in my face then get all high-hooved—"

She stopped herself midsentence. Then she closed her eyes and glanced away. When her head swiveled back, her eyes were calm.

"No," she said. "I am better than this." She retucked her wings and sat back down, pulling her classwork back out of her backpack.

"Are you?" Tank-Top said. "You thought that last time too."

Dark Wing pulled out a pen and turned to her notes. "I'm glad you're unharmed. Good day. I won't contact you again."

"There. Right there. You're literally doing the Catalyst thing again."

"You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said." The pen began to tremble in her horngrip. "I assure you I'm not."

"You absolutely are. Once again you just wanted me here as proof you're a good person." Tank-Top put his hands on the desk and leaned in. "I get it now. You think the act of apologizing makes you good, so just like when you didn’t charge me anything to set me up with a psychopath, you do the thing which you think earns you goodness points. Then, having scored them, you refuse to engage with what's actually going on, and block any possibility of follow-up so nobody can challenge you on it. You’re going to get punched in the face again someday, and you will deserve it, and you will once again learn jack shit."

Dark Wing stared up impassively into Tank-Top's eyes, setting the trembling pen down and extinguishing her hornglow. He stared back, eyes challenging her for a response.

"I'm sorry you expected better from an unredeemed changeling," she finally said.

"I didn't," Tank-Top said. "But I expected better from you."

Without another word, she lowered her muzzle to her schoolwork.

After some time, footsteps receded. And when she looked back up a full minute later, Tank-Top was gone.

Dark Wing glanced around, sniffing the air, making certain she was alone. Then a smile slowly spread across her muzzle.

"He actually did," she murmured to the empty room. "I guess Brittle wasn’t lying after all."