No matter how long I lie awake, no matter how deep I attempt to delve into my thoughts, and no matter how I try to push these thoughts away to get at least a couple hours sleep, I get absolutely nowhere on any front. I fear that here my life may all too easily freeze into something pointless; that I will be stuck here and, for the rest of my days, live as one of the Changelings that play as Wood Work; that I will spend my days off betting my turns as the pegasus stallion at the risk of taking others’ turns in-between helping raise Reflection’s… Grub? Hatchling? My subconscious instantly recognizes the attempt at self-distraction for what it is and dismisses any pointless conjecture that may have arisen on what a Changeling just out of the egg is called. To think I may be forever trapped in Apploosa, afraid to leave… how more swiftly and efficiently can a dream be turned into a prison?! A prison with its gilded halls, but a prison nonetheless.

I’m just going to have to get used to it! Who knows? Maybe I’ll come around to thinking like Changelings do about these dangers? Eventually… At least until Chrysalis either forces Celestia to take stronger measures against Changelings, or until she succeeds in taking Canterlot and from there roots out all the traitorous scavengers in Equestria… I almost sigh at such grim prospects, but remind myself that Replie’s face is right in front of my muzzle, and I don’t want to wake her accidentally—especially since Reflection and Twin are going to be gone for who knows how long, so she’ll be Wood Work constantly when she’s used to taking turns in a cycle.

Focusing on keeping my breathing level and rhythmic, I don’t realize at first when Replie’s own breathing deepens; only when she groans and begins to stretch do I swiftly close my eyes to pretend to be asleep. The shifting of the bed underneath me and the blanket on me tells me that she’s standing carefully, so as to disturb me as little at possible. Her hoof runs through my tattered, uneven mane once before she pats my forehead softly with one tiny giggle—one tiny step at a time, I think to myself and have to focus not to smile—before she flies off the bed with a light buzz of her wings, opting not to walk on the bed, which has a greater potential to disturb me than just standing and slipping out from under the blankets.

As her hoofsteps, even as she tries to walk silently, disappear, I can tell from behind my eyelids that she doesn’t light the chandelier. Of course, how would she know that I don’t know how to cast even a small, candle-lighting fire spell? And I can’t go outside, since Green Fields and Hopping Hills are supposed to be on a train and there aren’t any other ponies I can use as a disguise… Great, so I guess I’m stuck here, sitting in the dark. I roll my eyes and this time let out a very refreshing sigh. Maybe now that I’m alone, I’ll be able to sleep. How long have I been laying here, awake, anyway?

I pause as I bring my metaphorical left wrist up to my mind’s eye to read that always blurry and vague internal watch; it feels… early. Really early. Maybe even before-the-sunrise early, but then again, for a settlement like Apploosa, that wouldn’t be surprising. Come to think of it… over a period of a thousand plus who-knows-how-many-more years, I’m sure Celestia had to have been late with the Sun at least once, so maybe-… and this is not “trying to fall asleep” at all.

I resist the urge to slap—or, probably more accurately, crack—myself across the face with a hoof, weighing that I’d just be more likely to give myself a throbbing bruise than put enough force behind it to knock myself out. Instead, I try to narrow all my thoughts onto one thing and not let it wander any more. With all the will and ability of a Zen acolyte, I focus on one muscle at a time, forcing it into relaxing before moving onto the next. Once I’m finally finished with that, I turn to my breathing, willing it into a deep and slow rhythm.

Finally, I feel the darkness of unconsciousness creeping upon the edges of my brain. I try to will it to come further and take me completely, but it is chased away faster than it had come by a hiccup. Seriously?! I open my eyes as if I could glare down what had chased away my chance at sleep, only then realizing that the chandelier had been lit in the meantime when its light seared through my poor, unsuspecting optical nerves. Thankfully, however, it’s gently-green tinted light is not strong, but such cannot be said about the shock of finding it lit nor Replie returned—and now flipping through some book, obviously searching for something specific within it—enough to drive my hiccups away.

Quickly enough, though, I realize that such are not hiccups at all, but the beginning of something far more… disgusting; a realization and prospect at which I grimace. Necessity is necessity, however, so I stand and look about, but find nothing down here that may offer itself as a suitable container; under my black fur I can practically feel my skin go white. To think of doing such a thing to these Changelings’ hideout not even a week after they’ve so graciously taken me in! I worry in a panic as I put a hoof to my heaving stomach; the fleshy bands there twitch with need.

Replie seems to have noticed my state, having looked up at me when I had first stood up, and with a quick exclamation of, “Ai! Here!” she levitates a large bowl as might be used to mix enough batter for an entire wedding cake out from under the bed and places it before me. “I can’t believe I forgot…” she mutters to herself as she returns to her book, but I hardly notice, being much more focused on the fact the bowl is already about one third filled with a green slime. Even if my stomach had not already been heaving, I would have vomited.

Instantly, however, I know that I what I do then is not vomiting; at least not so in the way of removing something indigestible, poisonous, or otherwise dangerous. Not only because I finally reason that the “vomit” had been left in the bowl purposefully, but also because I dimly realize, as I empty my “stomach” of the very same green sludge, that the act is not at all unpleasant. Though the splattering is still somewhat sickening, there is no burning in my throat, bitter taste on my tongue, or sour smell clogging my nose, and when I finish by swirling my tongue around my mouth to catch any of the remaining slime and spit it out, what I feel is most comparable to the satisfaction that comes after a good, strong sneeze.

With a small huff of a sigh of satisfaction, I stare at what may easily be taken for a sample of a disgustingly polluted lake. My nausea having left me at the realization of what this is, I find myself intrigued by a very unique and interesting smell coming off of it; an experimental sniff later and I instantly identify the smell, as faint as it is, of potatoes and apples—my hash and apple juice from yesterday, no doubt—before the dizzying myriad of other foods which are far too numerous for me to pick out individually.

A realized question hits me like a blow to the back of the head from an assassin: Wait… If I can smell it now, what was up with that absence of taste yesterday? I can breathe through my mouth, and pronounce nasal sounds, so I should still have a complex intersection of the esophagus, larynx, mouth, and nose comparable to a human, but it’s obvious my sense of smell didn’t aid my lack of a sense of taste… Except in the case where the most simple—and therefore more likely to be true—answer is that it is a truly different setup that both limits Changelings (and ponies?) from smelling the food in their mouth and is still capable of producing human-speech-like sounds. Oh, and ‘maybe magic’… The Multiverse is apparently more like Pinkie Pie than one may think at first—best to just shrug and forget trying to explain it. Poor physicists…

I sigh as my mind abruptly lurches into examining the benefits and complications of such a deprived sense. On the plus side, I suppose I don’t have to worry about failing to fake liking a food my disguise enjoys but I find disgusting. Yet again, it probably wouldn’t end well if what should be good food is inexplicably disgusting, but I can’t taste it, and then somepony eats the same as me. Explaining it away with a cold or some such thing could probably help a Changeling in such a situation temporarily, but… Either way, I’m sure Changelings, who live with this “disability” from birth, have worked out much more long-term strategies throughout the countless generations of their kind, Strategies I should probably work out for myself before I get found out as an imposter amongst Changelings! Unless… I can get whoever is to teach me about Wood Work to, if I’m lucky, show me these strategies without them knowing…

I shake my head, realizing that I’ve probably been staring into the depths of the bowl of slime—I should really get the name of this stuff, somehow—a bit too long, so I straighten up and smile at Replie. “Thank you for this,” I tap the bowl with a forehoof. “If you hadn’t been down here, that could have-… that would have been much more embarrassing,” I give a lopsided, somewhat strained grin before adding, after a moment, “and messy.” I try to chuckle the idea away, but the laughter comes out sounding as if I had been embarrassed anyway. Probably has something to do with vomiting in front of someone I haven’t even known for forty-eight hours, even though it’s not really vomit, and the emotion I can feel from her, and I know she can feel from me, has allowed us to find out far more about each other than perhaps even ponies who have spent half a year together… So it probably has nothing to do with the act of whatever that was, but if so, then-?

“It’s alright,” Replie unknowingly cuts over my internal self-questioning, but by the tone of her voice, it seems she caught the tone of my inexplicably embarrassed chuckling. “If that did happen, it would have been mostly my fault for forgetting to show you where we keep the pazara… so I would have helped clean it up if you insisted I not do it all by myself.” She smirks playfully, and I don’t have to think hard to catch that she’s poking fun at my insistence of chivalry yesterday; something that I decide to mentally shrug off, reminding myself of my reasoning that anyone with the ability to feel emotions like Changelings would likely never come up with any such code.

All the same, I smile good-naturedly and let out a short snort of laughter from my nose. Then, without really thinking of it, I levitate the bowl off the bed and slide the pazara back underneath it. I stare at where the bowl had disappeared from my view; I had no trouble from there continuing to levitate it, as I had simply sensed where it is in a similar way to how I can tell what color my mane is and how it’s styled without having to look at it. All of this… convenience at being able to do things I have never done before—from walking on four hooves and flying with ragged but-no-less-capable insect-like wings to casting levitation and transformation spells—is starting to strike me as more and more ominous a sign that I must be missing something obvious. Something I have no hope of working out at the moment, though that fact doesn’t keep my mind from wandering into that territory.

I let myself flop back into the now-ruffled blankets as my brow creases with a dozen crisscrossing thoughts; Replie looks up at me worriedly for a second, but has apparently found whatever she needs, so she replaces the book, takes on Wood Work’s form (again?), and leaves me with a somewhat strained, “See you tonight.” What if I’m really a Changeling with an amnesia or delusion of some kind? Chrysalis had said I’m not “one of her children,” but would that mean “not a Changeling” or perhaps “the child of a traitor” or more simply “child of another Changeling Queen?” But then it wouldn’t make sense for Chrysalis to accuse me of working for Celestia… unless she thinks the Princess is working with scavengers. There’s also that “smelling a powerful transformation spell” and calling me a pony, but was she speaking literally or symbolically denying that I’m a Changeling, calling me a pony because she thinks that I’m work for them? If not-. Gah! Either way it doesn’t matter any more!

I flip myself over, trying to stand up swiftly as if such a motion can help me leave the frustration I feel against myself, only for the blanket to get caught in the holes of my legs, promptly causing to fall right back down with my legs twisted painfully around themselves. I huff before closing my eyes and calming my breathing; eventually (I’m sure the absence of windows and clocks may very well steal my sanity some day) I open my eyes again and this time stand more carefully while disentangling my legs. Sitting down and bringing up one of those “swiss cheese” legs before my eyes, I finally inspect them without that unequaled panic of awaking in the Everfree Forest with no idea how I had gotten there.

The first thing of note is that the holes do not all run parallel to each other, as they had been when animated; instead, they are quite random, and some even have a curve, or concave or convex bowing. Some even cross through each other, creating “intersections,” though they are more likely than not imperfectly lined up. Looking back and forth between my left and right forelegs, a realization slowly creeps up on me: these two, and my two hindlegs, all have a different set of holes; more than that, when I think about Replie, something—perhaps yet more of my Changeling instincts—identifies that she has a different set of holes from me… and every other Changeling I had seen so far, as if a part of my brain had unconsciously been filing away these “leg holes” (I’m sure the Changeling language has a much more graceful name for them) as a means of identification—Which I’m guessing is their function, given that Changelings appear very similar otherwise… That, and because my Changeling brain just automatically used them as a means of identification… without me even knowing it, I realize as I go over everything that had happened to me after Celestia teleported me away and know that if I ever encountered the same Changelings again, I would be able to tell, as long as they were not covering their legs. Twisting my head around as far as it will go to look at my wings, I realize the same holds for them: the specific entirety of all those nicks, slits, and gashes form a kind of visual finger print.

Dropping my hooves, I sigh as I look around the room. Boredom certainly does not become me… I think into the otherwise bareness of my thoughts. My eyes are soon caught by the chandelier, and how its somewhat dim, lightly-tinted green flames are in such contrast to the bright, white lights of Chrysalis’s throne room. The chandelier is hardly more than an enlarged, glorified fishing hook with three prongs, allowing me to easily notice—now that I’m actually looking at them—that in place of the fishing hook’s prongs are not candles, but shallow bowls filled with something green. No doubt that that is pazara, which is apparently not only flammable (not really a surprise), but that when lit, it burns slowly (little bit more of a surprise, there).

With my curiosity in the chandelier thoroughly sated, my eyes are next drawn to the egg that I have yet to examine in any detail, and now that no one else is around… It may be within the definition of “horrible” to think such a thing, but needless to say I had never before seen such a thing as that egg, and my boredom only spurred me. Urg. “Spurred.” I suppose I should try to get used to it. Equestria’s existence seems to depend on a daily serving of puns, after all… So, with some remaining reservations slowing me, I step up to the egg.

Immediately, my first thought is that it is probably soft instead of hard—of course I daren’t touch the thing—by the fact that it has some transparency. Not much, mind; though I can see something black taking up about half of the space (diameter-wise, not volume-wise), I can’t make out even the slightest detail—not even where his or her legs are—due to how murky the green “contents” of the egg are. More and more green… Changelings really have a theme going on; I’m just glad our blood isn’t green, otherwise I’d’ve been-.

CRACK

I can almost hear the breaking of my thoughts as my mind just halts at realizing I had just thought to myself “our” when referring to Changeling blood.

If I had pupils, I imagine they would have shrunk to pinpricks (though I imagine those white areas serving as Changelings’ pupils might yet shrink—magic, after all) as my legs start shaking and that question I really don’t want to think about because of how useless it is rears up again. But how can I ignore, for any length of time, the question of who I am?… A question so integral to the human psyche? And, judging especially by the CMC, no less so for ponies? Why would it be expected any different for Changelings? I shake my head before beginning to pace around the oval of chairs and couches. I can’t ignore it; that much is clear, but I can’t answer it, either! There is simply no way for me to get out there and just start “looking for myself!” Not with, I shiver so much I’m forced to stop pacing, Princess Celestia out there. Waiting for me to show myself and prove her right.

Ignore it. Simple. I only need a distraction, and, lucky me, there are a few shelves down here filled with them; that, and once Reflection and Twin come back—If they come back… I shake the thought off quickly—then I’ll have plenty more distractions, I’m sure. As long as they don’t ask too often about how I’m doing, because there’s no doubt they’ll be able to feel I’m trying to ignore something bothering me… But I, as always, am able to dismiss this worry thanks to my high skillpoint investment in the “ignoring own problems” stat.

Stepping up to the shelves, I look them over quickly (not questioning how I can read their “Pseudo-Romanic Alphabet”), deciding I should start with some spellbooks—specifically and hopefully (especially hopefully) a spellbook that can detail how to light a small fire just right for igniting the pazara chandelier. Though the subjects of the books vary greatly (and are not well organized—Twilight would be having a fit), I do find a number promising-looking books, pull them from the shelves, then levitate them beside me as I trot over to take a seat at one of the more comfortable-looking chairs.

I find a candle-lighting spell quickly enough, along with a myriad of what I think will be very useful spells, and just as I fear, they come to me far too easily than I think they should. After setting the tip of my tail on fire (on purpose, as I have no actual candle to burn) on the very first try, I put it out by biting on my tail, wanting to take advantage of my mysteriously dampened senses only to find out that such doesn’t apply to the taste and smell of burning hair. So my senses of taste and smell have become… selective instead? At least I haven’t lost them completely; that’s good, I guess… I think as I experimentally sniff at the pages of the spellbook, then use my magic to flip the pages to blow a gentle wind up my nose; indeed, the smell of “new/not-much-used book” is just as I remember it.

Moving on to such things as a fur and hair regrowing spell (practiced on my now-burnt tail and selected for later use on my shoulder and cheek), a horn-illuminating spell (“lumos!” … ha ha…), and a “drying” spell that works by drawing liquid out of cloth and fur (done to my own saliva, after purposefully spitting onto the armrest—though I suppose here they’re called headrests because “hoofrests” are a stupid idea… then again, ponies wear boots that have room for toes, so what do I know?), I find I can cast each one in less than five attempts. I try to explain it off as part of my new Changeling brain, which I reason must be very adept at picking up a lot of varied skills very quickly in order to imponynate multiple ponies (and maybe not-ponies) with any success, but no matter how much I repeat such to myself, I can’t quell the question in the back of my mind.

With those four spells down pretty much pat, I replace the spellbooks—noting them to refer to later—as I don’t want to wear myself out or confuse myself trying to memorize too many spells at once. As I do so, I notice an anomaly I had skipped over somehow before: a series of encyclopedias, but with “C-E” obviously newer than the rest. With some idea why, I pull it out and quickly enough find this entry:

CHANGELING

(Here, below the entry title, is a picture of… the body of a Changeling, laying on its- her side, with her wings pulled out into an unnatural angle to display them. Simply this has a shiver running down my spine and my mouth going dry, feeling very much as if I’m looking down at a body of one of my own kind—Something simultaneously disturbing yet… for lack any better word I can think of, comforting.)

Changelings (scientific name: Synaisthimabius allagistoma) are one of a very small number of known shape-shifting emotuvores; parasites that, different from most parasites, do not need to live in or on the host. Specifically, Changelings feed on love, which denotes them as amorivores. Because most countries are reluctant to screen their citizenry for signs of Changelings, the number of cases, their spread world-wide, and their intensity in different environments are largely unknown, but it appears ponies (of any tribe) are preferred as hosts.

Changelings are roughly pony-like in shape, size, and physical attributes, mixed with other characteristics that are generally described as “insect-like;” in particular their eyes, wings, shells on the back (which are often erroneously described as “beetle-like”), and fleshy, furless “bands” between the barrel and flank. In addition, Changelings have distinctive holes that go through their legs, a thick, shiny black coat which may give the impression of an exoskeleton at a distance, and short, tattered grey mane and tail hair. However, Changelings as a species have a natural skill in transformational magics, and can alter their appearance to mimic a wide variety of animals.

S. allagistoma infection is called allagistomiasis, one of a number of synaisthimabiasis diseases (colloquially and collectively known as fear flu, or rarely phobiaitis) caused by the genus Synaisthimabius. Most often, Changeling infection occurs by a single Changeling temporarily replacing one of the host’s loved ones (spouses, filly/coltfriends, immediate family members, rarely close friends), but there are cases of a group of Changelings swapping out to feed off the same host using the same disguise. During feeding, the replaced is often kept alive in a magically-induced sleep, and once feeding is finished, memory spells are performed to provide the replaced with memories of what happened in their absence.

Signs and Symptoms

Symptoms of allagistomiasis—as with all synaisthimabiasis—occur immediately with the beginning of feeding, but are indeterminate until the final stage.

The first sign is only a sense of “feeling cold,” which may be more or less prominent depending on the host’s core temperature and the ambient temperature. This typically lasts only one to three hours, after which an asymptomatic second stage begins, which lasts for approximately one week.

During the third stage, which lasts between five to nine days (extreme cases an known to extend between three to fourteen days), the host experiences itching on various parts of the body with no discernable reason or pattern in their origin on the body, nor their coming and going. Also, there is a sensation of “dryness” and/or “dirtiness” all over the body, as well as a sensation of dryness in the throat. This typically results in the host constantly sipping water, applying lotions, and taking long baths or showers multiple times a day. Finally, there is a general feeling of malaise, which starts out very mild and steady grows over this second period of symptoms. This malaise is typically misinterpreted as a sign of a cold, and the host will typically wish to avoid others during this period for not wanting to spread the imagined cold.

When the fourth and final period of feeding symptoms begin, all previous symptoms disappear. A constant, but not debilitating, headache will develop. This headache typically has a day-long cycle: worse at night, better during the day, but this is easily altered by the actions of both the host and the Changeling(s) (e.g. a nocturnal host will likely experience the reverse). Though the headache itself is not debilitating, the host will also develop lethargy during this period, which may result in frustration if the headache disrupts normal sleep rhythms. Increased appetite and weight loss will also be experienced, which, when combined with all the above, is enough to finally make a definitive diagnosis.

If, however, allagistomiasis is allowed to fester for an extended period of typically more than three months, going undiagnosed and untreated, a nonspecific sense of impending doom will eventually develop and steadily worsen. This culminates in the host attempting to warn others away from the settlement the host(s) live in; to abandon it. If asked about this warning, the host(s) will not be able to describe what disaster is to occur, when it is to occur, why the host(s) think it will occur, and why the host(s) themselves do not flee. However, if any of the host(s) have preexisting phobias, they may describe a disaster that is in some way connected to such fears (e.g. a host with a fear of snakes may believe their town will be attacked by a giant reptile of some description).

If there are multiple cases of allagistomiasis in close proximity, these “visions of disaster” will be nearly identical, even with no communication between the hosts. As a result, if they go untreated for an extended time, those who did not have the specified phobia (if any) within the vision of disaster prior to infection may develop it, and continue to be affected by it even after they are no longer a host.

The above time table is concerned with constant feeding from a single Changeling on a single host. If there are multiple Changelings feeding off of one host, the symptoms worsen much more quickly. If one Changeling alternates between feeding off multiple hosts, the time a host is not being feed off of generally gives him or her enough time to partially recover and in all but two known cases none of the hosts developed past the second stage.

Treatment and Prognosis

In almost all known cases, Changelings do not kill either the host or the replaced. As well, it is highly suspected that most cases solve themselves long before the final stage when the Changeling(s) leave the host on their own. Only occasionally does a case require treatment via forceful removal, typically by killing the infection, as decreed in most countries, though there are rare cases wherein the Changelings are exiled (such as in Ryuupon).

However, the host, as described above, may experience permanently developed phobias after extended infection. As well, a host may be driven to suicide by their visions of disaster depending on their specifics and severity, and the host’s preexisting mental and/or emotional states. If the case is treated before the final symptom develops, then the host experiences a quick, full recovery to 100% health. There are a small number of cases in which the ex-host experiences paranoia and difficulty trusting others, but more often specific social policies, official decrees, and shared beliefs (such as believing that one’s community is “immune to infiltration” even after evidence to the contrary) ward this development.

There has been a very small number (seven) of known infections in which the host experienced no symptoms. The Changelings apparently also experienced no negative side effects feeding from these hosts. Why these hosts experienced no symptoms is a mystery. Research attempts have not only yielded no meaningful data, but those who experienced no symptoms before suddenly developed symptoms in the presence of a Changeling in a controlled setting in all of these cases except one. It is likely, then, that this is a result of something about the Changelings, not the hosts.

Physiology

Given their appearance and nature…

Though there is more, I look away with a grimace. The encyclopedia’s wording—not just scientific, but clinical in talking about “infection” and “treatment”—is clear enough: The view of Changelings is no better than anything else that causes disease: bacteria, viruses, intestinal worms… something thoughtless and voracious… something to be eliminated not merely without thought, nor simply with anger, but with relief. Then, that phrase, “a Changeling in a controlled setting…” Who ever that poor soul, or more likely, souls, had been, my heart goes out to them for the suffering they no doubt endured-. No… -for the suffering that had no doubt been inflicted on them.

An unexpected flash of anger burns through my thoughts for a moment, leaving me gasping in surprise at the intensity of it. It hadn’t just been at the images of injustice, but at the idea of “my own kind” being tortured; I don’t want to admit it, but the passion behind that emotion had been too strong for even me to ignore. With a shiver, I reshelf the encyclopedia and, on a whim of a suspicion, pull down the next one—E-“backwards F”—of an obviously previous edition.

FEAR FLU

Fear flu (sometimes referred to as phobiaitis) is a cluster of diseases with as-yet determined cause or causes. There are a number of characteristics that these diseases share, prominent among them being a development of strong, constant phobias.

Amongst the various fears this disease may cause, a fear of city-destroying disaster is most common, followed closely by fear of failure, fear of being alone, and fear of being unclean. The only thing that can be said about the means of transmission is that those affected by these diseases almost never had such fears before infection, and may have instead had fears of the exact opposite (such as fearing being in crowds before developing a fear of being alone).

Signs and Symptoms

Prior to the development of the phobia, there are a multitude of symptoms that develop and disappear over time. These symptoms begin approximately fifteen to twenty weeks before the actual appearance of the phobia.

The most common symptoms across various strains of fear flu include weight loss, increased appetite, headache, malaise, a disruption in the infected’s sense of temperature, a disruption in the infected’s sense of taste, nausea, feinting, low blood pressure, chest pain, sensations of being strangled, stiffness in the neck, increased libido, lethargy, dizziness, and pain accompanying movement of the legs.

The above and other less common symptoms never occur all together. Instead, they develop in particular stages and patterns before the final stage: the emergence of the phobia. A specialist can use these patterns to determine the strain before the phobia itself develops.

Treatment and Prognosis

Although there is no known treatment, most instances of fear flu solve themselves eventually, sometimes before the phobia actually develops—determining how often this actually happens is impossible, as it is suspected not all patients suffer all the way to the final pre-phobia stage, which is the only point at which a decisive diagnosis can be made.

Of the known cases that did not solve themselves, approximately 30% of cases ended in suicide, of which most of the patients were already predisposed to on account of preexisting deteriorated mental and/or emotional health. Of the remainder, the patients mostly manage to live in relative normality with the addition of their constant fear, for which they receive constant therapy.

Research

Though there have been many efforts in the past to determine the cause—and a potential cure—for fear flu, there has been no new information gained in the last one-hundred, thirty years after the final strain, fear of sunlight, was linked to its own series of symptoms. At the time of this publishing, only two efforts in research—both in Gryffia—are ongoing.

I don’t know what I thought I would gain from this entry, which is so… vague (what else did I expect?); I shake my head at my own foolishness. Replacing the encyclopedia, I then look through the shelves for something a bit less strenuous on the mind and, to my disappointment, discover that there are apparently no Daring Doo fans among my three rescuers and new “roommates”—Ah, well… I never cared for Indiana Jones anyway, I lie to myself—though that doesn’t mean the shelves are bare of fiction.

Eventually pulling down The House of the Manticore by Pure Orange—Last name “Orange”? I wonder…—which seems to be this universe’s The House of the Scorpion, judging by the blurb on the back cover, I spend the rest of the day—or what I think is the day—reading the strangely familiar work… Only this time, however, I find myself feeling perhaps a little too empathetic towards the protagonist’s plight.

—

That night—or so my internal watch informs me—Replie does not return to the basement. At first, as my eyes grow itchy with tiredness and I retire after making a quick study of an extinguishing spell to put out the chandelier, I do not worry. After all, as I’m still without any way to tell the time, I convince myself that Replie’s work hours haven’t ended yet.

However, as time stretches on to the point where I all but know it must be after sunset, if not many hours past, and I have yet to fall asleep for all my growing worry, I sit up under the blanket and look around the dark room with my new horn-light spell. Pointless, really; if she had been close by then I would have felt her love for me, no matter if I could or couldn’t see or even hear her.

Dare I go up to see what is keeping her? Has “Wood Work” been caught? Perhaps because of Reflection or Twin getting caught? But they wouldn’t say anything. Even if Celestia gave any Changeling she captured time to say anything, she like as not wouldn’t believe them. No matter how much they swore the “pony” they point out is in actuality a Changeling, Celestia wouldn’t believe them in fear for her precious trust. Would she? But still… My thoughts chase each other around, eventually tiring like a dog that’s chased its tail too long, and I fall asleep almost reluctantly.

When I awake next at some unknown time, I find the place exactly as it had been: No Replie. No Twin or Reflection. No hint of anything wrong, nor of anything well. Just like that, the one place where I thought I had found a sanctuary in this world that seems determined to kill me is turned into a prison instead. I try to study yet more magic, but I can’t focus and give up after splashing myself with explosions of water fifteen times in a row while trying to freeze it into ice cubes (using a sink that had been partially hidden behind the numerous chairs, so I only find it while looking for something to distract myself with, instead of when I needed to “expel” my pazara); at least I can still cast the drying spell without trouble. Similarly, however, I find it impossible to distract myself with The House of the Manticore.

Eventually, I find myself simply laying before the cross, trying to distract myself with unanswerable questions as to its meaning. All it brings to mind, however, is my first impression of a tombstone, and the fact it’s made of wood draws my thoughts towards that fence of wings hardly an hour’s trot away, which brings me full circle to the seemingly all too high probability of our being found out because of me. All I can do after that is sit, frozen with fear and guilt. Tears building up as all-too-real images of killed and desecrated Changeling bodies—some with all too familiar leg-holes—flash before my mind’s eye.

Yet another unknown amount of time later, I’m shocked out of my fear-induced daze by the slamming of the trapdoor. I jump up in shock, my wings buzzing to life to instinctively catch me to prevent me from falling back on my legs in an awkward position. What comes next is definitely the sound of more than one or two sets of hooves coming down the stairs. Somewhat stiffly, I turn around to the doorway, half expecting a dozen guards in gold armor to suddenly burst into the room, spears ready. Without really thinking of what I can even do, I pull my reserves of magic forward, my horn shimmering and casting a dim green glow over the top of my vision.

As soon as a pair of black muzzles, immediately followed by two pairs of solid light blue eyes (except for the faded white “pupil”), I recognize the love flowing into me (as well as out of me). With a sudden smile that feels like it should have been enough to remove my lower jaw from the rest of my face, I gallop, almost bounding, forward to embrace the two, all the while shouting, “Reflection! Twin! You made it back safely!”

Shutting my eyes tightly as I hold their necks against my chest, Twin releases an “oof!” of surprise, while Reflection coughs out the much more refined sounding “gak!” They make no move, however, to remove or wiggle out of my grip. I don’t even realize, from behind my tightly shut eyes, that I’m crying until I taste one of my own tears that had slipped around the corner of my lips; after that, I release them with a sigh strained by emotion.

“What? You were worried about us?” Twin asks after taking in my doubtless tear-streaked face. I just nod somewhat shakily even though I can all but taste the rhetoricalness trough the amusement in his voice. I’m about to tell them of Replie’s unexplained disappearance, but he chuckles and says before I can ask about her, “Well, we may not be like you in a lot of ways, but thankfully one of those ways includes us not needing to work alone.” He gestures behind them, and I finally look past them to realize why I had heard the sound of so many sets of hooves.

Questions about Replie leave my mind at the sight of so many other Changelings. I almost ask instead how they had all snuck into Apploosa, but the logic behind the apparent counterintuitiveness of the strategy hits me first: For as long as Celestia denies screening, and places like Apploosa retain that they’re impossible to infiltrate, then even a large influx of Changelings (especially in a place so tourist-happy) shouldn’t draw even a second glance. So instead I ask, “Who are they?… Oh! And what happened to Replie last night?” Given neither Twin nor Reflection turn downcast at the question, I assume whatever had kept her isn’t even close to terrible.

Reflections answers my second question first and Twin lets out a sound of understanding something that had apparently confused him. “Ah, it seemed that a couple of Luna’s Moon Guards came by the other night after we left, but this morning a couple of Celestia’s Sun Guards came by and… ‘removed’ them.” Twin shakes his head, chuckling again at this. “It really is lucky for us how Celestia constantly retains her policy on trust, even if it means she’ll be getting into an argument with her sister once those guards report back to Luna, I’m sure.”

“Wait, ‘being alone?’” one of the closer Changelings says in a whispery-husky voice—the voice of a gentle giant, though he is no larger, or smaller, than any of the others—“You mean this is that kapish you were telling us about?” I quirk an eyebrow when Reflection shoots a nasty look at the Changeling when he says “kapish,” as his tone doesn’t seem to indicate any ill meaning; quite the opposite, if anything, though Reflection doesn’t change her expression when he continues with, “Of course I mean that as a compliment! We are all nukapish here after all…” As Reflection looks insulted by the implication of her being included in the nukapish, I try not to let my confusion show at wondering what kapish could mean that it could be taken as both an insult and compliment, which is helped by him moving on quickly. “You are the one who used to live alone in Ponyville until just a few days ago, before being found out, and Celestia herself-?”

“Yes-szzz.” I cut him off, sounding more annoyed than I intended and buzzing my wings as well as my voice—which surprises me for a second, though thankfully I manage to push away the implications quickly enough—but it hardly puts him off; rather, my affirmative answer only turns his stare, and most of the others’, from curious to appraising. I consider trying to explain how most of it was luck and in spite of my efforts to drive my defenders away from me and to keep them from incriminating themselves, but I have a feeling that such would not have the intended effect, if not the complete opposite! Oh well… After a facehoof careful enough not to knock myself out, but hard enough to tinge Twin’s and Reflection’s love with slight worry, I look up to glare at them, trying to scold them with my eyes and ask silently, “What, exactly, did you tell them?!” Twin turns effectively mollified, but Reflection, somewhat surprisingly, looks almost defiant.

All the same, she thankfully changes the subject. “As for who these are, they are our fellow scavengers, though they live in Manehatten; they also left soon after the siege,” she says as the three of us finally move away from the doorway so the others can enter (on hoof or wing) and seat themselves into the chairs and couches; the answer as to why there are so many seats only then becomes clear to me. As they pass us, Reflection introduces them. “Mirage,” is the one with the whispery-husky voice, then behind him comes, “Proxy,” a female, “Forgery, though she prefers Forge, Echo, Ersatz, and Shadow.” the last three are—Gah, whatever; “female” and “male” sound too clinical—stallions. “Oh! And everyone, this is Alternate,” she finishes in an offhoof, “I-just-remembered” way as if they already know this—which I’d be willing to bet a whole month’s worth of turns as Wood Work that they do.

“Or Altie,” Twin adds jokingly as the three of us follow them with me bringing up the rear. His comment earns a round of chuckles as well as an increase of incoming love; I can only speculate that my having a nickname somehow imbues me with “endearment” or “imagined familiarity” that in turn creates more trust that becomes love. How can such a tiny thing have such a huge effect? I marvel yet again, and I shake my head as their trust and love in me only turns right around with my own caring for them.

“Or Alter,” I jab right back, my tone of voice and playful glare intended to remind him of his initial mistake with my name. By the way he suddenly sits straight and stops laughing, his expression going relatively neutral, I think I can say, Mission accomplished! by starting another round of laughter, which, as I hoped, Twins joins after a few seconds.

Even after the laughter dies, however, no one says a thing as we simply bask in the good feelings permeating the room as one might sink into a Epsom salt bath. For that moment, I almost forget that I had been worried about Reflection and Twin at all, at least until Mirage speaks up. “So-oo…” he begins slowly and hesitantly as he stares interestedly at me, likely figuring he’ll need to be sly to get any information about my fake previous life (though of course he knows nothing about the “fake” part). “Did you really think so little of Reflection’s and Twin’s abilities to discard a disguise safely?”

Given the way he grins as he says it, I know it must be meant as a joke, but my heart still flitters with panic for a moment. Hoping to waylay any chance of either (or both!) taking honest offence by this idea, I answer quickly, my tongue stumbling with haste. “N-no! I di-didn’t think any-nything like that at all!” I blush when my mouth catches up with my mind, and when I make to continue, to correct and clarify myself, Reflection shakes her head with a smile, obviously saying silently: There’s no need.

I hope, then, that I would experience a sense of déjà vu, in which I would hear yet more of the others’ exploits in infiltrating Equestria (and perhaps other lands), but of course that would be proven wishful thinking! Instead, Proxy waves her forehooves about as if to shoo away the lighter chuckling that my response elicits to ask, “If no one else here is going to be so blunt, allow me to say that we have all been interested in hearing your story ever since we’ve heard of you.” I can’t keep myself from wincing at that, but a glance to Twin, then Reflection shows me that neither are going to let me remain silent this time.

I look down at my hooves and scrunch my eyebrows together in thought, though I hope it can pass as hesitation, shyness, or something like that—this time it seems my wish is granted, as I feel no sudden suspicion cutting off any of their love. “That’s, uhm… flattering?” I try to buy a little bit of time, not wanting any of them to further prompt me should I remain quiet too long. “Well, I-… uhm… What do you want to know… more specifically?” I look back up with a awkward grin. If I had my fingers, I would’ve crossed every single one of them that they wouldn’t ask something I have no hope of answering: my supposedly short life in the hive, how I’d come to Ponyville, where’d I’d lived before then… how old I am (how long do Changelings live?), how I’d gotten my name (apparently, Changelings’ last names come from the father, but what about the first name?)… a great list of too many topics to hope to be avoided!

The eight of them look between themselves for a moment before staring at Echo and Ersatz, who are now whispering into each others’ ears. No one seems keen to interrupt them, so I just sit still, looking from one to another, waiting for one or the other to speak up; eventually, Ersatz turns to whisper into Forge’s ear, who in turn asks out loud, “Why don’t you start with your life in Ponyville? What’s the place like?”

I could have sighed in relief. If we’re jumping to Ponyville, then this shouldn’t be too hard… as long as no one asks about anything before then! “Oh… ah… Ponyville is-… Well, I liked living there while I did… but I guess going back isn’t an option.” Oh, what wonders can eight little words do, as their curious, excited faces flash to pity for a moment. I try to think quickly over what I know about Ponyville—general things, mostly—and my casted thoughts land on how long I had supposedly lived there. “It was- is, I guess, peaceful most of the time, but when things got… interesting, they never got ‘just a little interesting.’” Yes. Just relax. You can do this. I tell myself as a few of them laugh at this, including me.

The lies and half-truths (mostly half-truths, or so I try to argue to myself) come easily after that—uncomfortably easy. I try to impress upon the relative quiet, mellow, almost-solitude of the town, and only mention things like parasprites and ursa minors as if they’re once-in-a-life-time freak occurrences—trying to get out of as much storytelling as I can, not just from being uncomfortable with the half-truths and limelight, but also fearing, as I go on, accidentally letting something slip and blowing my cover. One thing of which I’m utmost careful about, however, is not about myself, but Zecora; I have no idea how they might react to such a thing, and I’m not about to be responsible for any (more) animosity leveled against ponies—not that they display such until I mention Twilight’s Want It Need It spell, which, most darkly interestingly, has a powerful effect on all those present: making them shiver and frown.

“That sounds like…” Proxy murmurs in a fearful tone, making my ears perk up with betraying curiosity, which Proxy notices before I can correct myself; she shivers once before giving in to my unvoiced, mostly unwanted question. “Mahu-… -sayii.” The word comes out more like two little squeaks than anything with meaning; Proxy quickly goes on. “If you weren’t at Canterlot, then you’ve probably never felt it before, but it’s… intoxicating… all but literally.”—So, this Mahusayii is a “type” of love after all, it seems… but what does Mahusayii have to do with the siege of Canterlot?

I know I should change the subject; this is too painful for every single one of them, as I can feel in their emotions, but how? What can I change the subject to, if not Ponyville again: those dangerous waters? Gah! -No!… Buck “elegance;” this needs the “one-eighty degree” treatment! “Now, I’ve heard some of Replie’s, Twin’s, and Reflection’s stories, and you’ve heard some of mine, but-…” I hesitate, but it’s all too clear every one of them is now hanging on this change of subject, thankful. Just ask it! The wording of the encyclopedia wasn’t encouraging, but maybe… hopefully… “I haven’t been able to, ah-? -gather much of what ponies think of Changelings; I’ve always been too busy, being alone, but I was always curious what ponies think beyond, well, ‘enemy’?”

I cannot say whether the hate now on most of their faces is better or worse than the, for lack of a better word, despair concerning the yet-to-be-understood Mahusayii. “What are you looking for?” Proxy asks with not a little venom. “More ponies like the one’s who had defended you against Gimaraz Qasabu? Zun; you were lucky.” At this, another strange wave of admiration washes from the Manehattenites and over me, betraying Proxy’s use of the word “lucky.” All the same, she goes on with a menacing tone, putting a harsh, rough quality to certain words. “Stupid ponies… thinking we’re all part of some ‘hivemind’ so they can be comfortable in killing us without poking hypocritical holes in their precious harmony.” Everyone nods at this with grim agreement tinged with a kind of lamentation that I’m sure is the “taste” of wishing this is not so in spite of what Mirage’s voice may imply.

Twin, who is one of two (the other being Mirage) who doesn’t look absolutely disgusted by ponies’ thoughts on Changelings, speaks through the rancor of the others. “All you really need to know is this: It’s easier to kill something by turning it into an unthinking monster… but if you’re still curious about specifics, though, I think we have a book somewhere by one of the more prominent… ‘Changeling researchers…’” various sounds and gestures of contempt and disbelief comes from everyone but Reflection at this. “Somepony with a foreign name… Nomizokakos?”

Nomizokakos? Greek ponies? Why not? Where else would allagistoma come from? I shake my head with amusement, which thoroughly confuses my previous audience. I wonder if it’s actually called “Greek” here, though, and not something like Hippochora and Alogaglossa. I let out a few chuckles, at which Twin looks bemused. In fact, I think I-.

CRACK

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-!”

—

The next thing I know, I’m blinking my eyes open as someone shakes me; I’m laying on my back, and Reflection is standing over me, her forelegs “gripping” my shoulders in a pincer-like hold. What… the Hell? is the only coherent thought I can make through the continued pounding in my head. Relief and worry wash over me from all sides as I shuffle to get Reflection to release me so I can lift a hoof to me forehead. As Reflection steps back from over me, her voice shakes as she asks, “Are you alright? It looked like you were having some kind of… seizure… and then you just… fell still. I thought-.” She shakes her head, but I don’t even need the sudden surge of energy coming off of her—which I quickly return, as always—to tell me exactly what she must have thought.

“I’m-…” fine, I want to lie, but who would I be kidding? (“Foaling”?) Then again, considering how Reflection had latched onto my change of subject before… It might not have been “lying,” but it would be hard to make a case that it at least wasn’t self-deception. “I don’t… know. All I remember is suddenly getting a massive headache, and then I blacked out.” That, more or less, is the truth. But the more important question is, “What had triggered it, and why?” I try to focus, but the agonizing slowness with which the pain in my head is fading creates a mental blockade.

The only thing I could honestly expect from saying such things is for the worry to increase, but now it seems tinged with something new, something with less concern… for me, and more for themselves. Excellent, Alternate. I wasn’t an epileptic before, but who knows what side-effects being transformed into a completely different body and teleported into a different Universe has? And now you’ve just set yourself up for a perfectly reasonable exile from this tiny haven… As if to confirm my thoughts, everyone turns to the obvious alpha: Reflection, who herself instead stares at me with eyes more studious than worried, and if I had any remaining doubt, it’s quickly dashed when Mirage finally asks that question. “Well, Sagim, wh-?” but she doesn’t get any further.

“How many times do I have to say it!?” Reflection suddenly cries out, and her annoyance almost manages to drown out the sorrow behind it. Sorrow that, to me, yells ever louder, reminding me of what Replie had confessed to, and that it had been Reflection who had ordered… it to be done. “Maybe this will help: Man zan Iksigima! Sagama taha u Krisalis AB!RA!DI!” She yells with such force, I’m surprised the house above us remains intact, and moreso that none seem worried a pony above may hear her, but it appears the only negative effect her yelling has is on my poor head. “Do you understand THAT, Nukapish?”

As I lay there, putting my other forehoof to my head (No, I don’t understand, but I’m sure it would be fascinating if I could focus on trying to decipher that language…), I can only assume everyone has forgotten about my pain in the wake of Reflection’s manic glancing at each one of them in turn. All but Twin draws slightly back from her, but she doesn’t seem to mind him as he instead shakes his head with a kind of half-grimace-half-grin that makes me think, besides the entire Sagim-thing, that situations like this are not rare with these Manehatten scavengers.

“‘U Krisalis abradi?’” Echo (Dear Brain, Seriously? “Is there an Echo in here?” I hate you. Sincerely, Alternate) puts a surprised emphasis on the last word of whatever Reflection just said.

“Barada? Harsh…” Ersatz whispers, glancing at Echo. “Abradi”? “Barada”?

Reflection only sniffs with contempt at these accusations. “If they don’t think for themselves and realize what a mistake Chrysalis is making, they are ubrad.” She glares at each Changeling in turn, daring them, without words, to challenge her judgment, none of them do, though most look even more shocked by the word “ubrad.”

Proxy is the only one to stare right back at Reflection. “Fuu, tan don’t like the title Sagim? How about…” she pauses to give a strange grin. “Gimarazrasu Maraza Riflakshun?” Everyone but Reflection and Proxy gasp and step back, including Twin this time, which creates enough room for me to slip off the table—though the shell on my back protects my spine from getting sore, I’m not comfortable putting my wings in such a vulnerable position—unnoticed and onto one the couches. Somewhat vaguely, through the continual thumping going on within my skull, I hear Echo and Ersatz whispering frantically in what I assume to be whatever language Proxy and Reflection are switching in and out of, as what snippets I catch I don’t have a hope of deciphering or understanding.

“Don’t. Even. Joke. About. That.” Reflection hisses and buzzes her wings with (what I suspect is) dangerous intention, for she crouches as if readying to charge. As I lay back, I weave between being offended by being forgotten and ignored so easily, to not minding being left to my headache, to understanding why they wouldn’t be so concerned considering my apparent condition. Eventually, I settle on deciding to think more about this later, and right now focus on emptying my thoughts in an attempt to ease the pain. I can’t turn off my ears, though, and what I hear compels me to keep my eyes open.

“Jhii? I’m not.” Proxy stands firm—not even lowering herself a fraction of the way into a defensive stance. “If Chrysalis is not ataa Gimaruuza, and you are starting your own Tabuura, how are you not Gimarazrasu Maraza?” She says with a significant look towards Reflection’s egg. This… would be really fascinating in understanding Changeling sociology, especially the dynamics between Changeling females who have abandoned their queen (Is this argument a mask for some kind of display of dominance, perhaps?)… if this headache would only go away!

Before Reflection can respond to Proxy’s argument, there’s a bang and hurried hoofsteps from the hall, and everyone, to my amusement, turns to the doorway with fear suddenly tainting their emotion and painting their faces. Replie, as Wood Work, appears with a worn, exhausted expression. “I need a break, can somepony-?” She stops upon noticing how everyone is standing, eyes lingering on each of us in turn: me, with a hoof to my head; Reflection and Proxy not taking their eyes off each other, even to glance at Replie; and the rest, now staring at her; even Echo and Ersatz abandon their whispering to do so. Replie blinks in a dazed way a few times before opening her mouth to continue.

“I can take over.” Reflection beats her to speaking, suddenly breaking the staring contest she’d been having with Proxy. She flies over the tables and chairs, landing at the doorway, before taking on Wood Work’s appearance and saying over her shoulder, “As much as I’d rather keep telling you all that I’m no Saguuma or Gimaruuza, I should go quickly. -But one last thing: Alternate is staying.” With that, she leaves, as Replie sheds the pegasus stallion disguise while donning confusion at what her decree means. At least that’s settled. I think with more relief than I had expect to feel as the others’ concern and love returns from themselves to me.

Proxy, taking her own seat as everyone starts to settle down and get comfortable again, takes on a kind of grimacing smile as she says, “Just like a Gimaruuza…” What I feel next I would have loved to blame on my headache, but the taint in her emotions are immediately interpreted by my (relatively) new Changeling brain, even in pain as it is, as jealousy. That… doesn’t mean what I think it does. Not by itself. -and if it does, I don’t want to know, I’m sure.

Replie has an distressing and pensive look on her face as she weaves around the tables and chairs towards me. “Reflection, Gima-? Oh!” she exclaims a few pony-lengths (whether ponies use meters or “hooves,” how long is one relative to a pony, anyway? The whole “apple comparison” assumes apples are the same size across Universes, after all) away from me, stopping in contemplation for a moment before suddenly grinning and jumping onto the couch next to me, making me bang my pounding head against the headrest/hoofrest, and in turn I involuntarily moan from the rush of pain that flows through my head like fresh magma.

“Achaay! Sorry! Sorry…” she apologizes as she climbs on top of me to nuzzle my shoulder. “Here; let me-…” And as her horn lights with a soft green, I remember her having been a… nurse, or doctor? And for how long, again? I want to refuse, not out of fear for any inexperience, but simply, as before, not wanting her to waste any energy on curing something that will likely be gone by tomorrow, if not sooner. …-But it’s not “just” a headache, is it?

Before I can muster the strength and mental awareness to put up even a vocal protest—never mind a physical one—I feel a sudden weightlessness wash trough my head; not lightheadedness, but more suspended in utter bliss: a place where pain cannot follow. As the spell fades and that place of inner peace gives way back to reality, leaving it’s comforting effects behind, I shake my head as a kind of twin test to whether that had been real and actually relieved my headache. Both, it seems, as nothing happens but Replie giggling and the surge of energy cycling between us increasing in strength. “Wow… that belies your words of ‘a few spells’ from a couple days ago. Thank you.”

Replie only giggles a little more at this as she settles atop me like I’m part of the couch; the way her ribcage bounces against me is blissful in its own way. “Well, it’s somewhat comforting to know that you’ve picked up one pony habit,” she says into the fur of my neck, fangs tickling and running a strange but welcome thrill down my spine; that is, until I register what she must be referring to. “One pony habit”? The only thing that makes sense is “thank you”… There you go again, Alternate. Of course a society where emotions are laid bare and reciprocation occurs every second when in another’s company wouldn’t need to vocalize thanks—the feelings of love is enough for that!

“Ari, you look so… contemplative over there!” Forge exclaims playfully, widening her eyes expectantly (Changelings, and ponies, don’t really have eyebrows that can be raised). “What are you thinking about so deeply?” She finishes with a slow not-quite-flutter, but neither a buzz, of her wings—I can only guess it’s some kind of non-verbal sign, though of what I have no clue.

I think for a moment before deciding to be half-truthful; though it’s not at the forefront of my thoughts, it’s still a curiosity, and now that I’m in such diverse company… “Only wondering about the different ‘flavors’ of love,” I say as I turn to nuzzle Replie’s cheek, “and whether it could ever be compared to the flavors of various foods, if I could taste them.”

Replie pulls back, leaving me confused with her look of surprise and apparently wanting to say something, but Shadow speaks first, and for the first time, with a voice rather high for a stallion. “Ah, so you’re one of the lucky ones with the mutation, huh?” He shakes his head before releasing a wistful huff; thankfully, I don’t need to give voice to the odd question when he continues on his own. “I know you have to go through extra training and always be wary of food and such, but it’s not as if taste has any advantages!” He suddenly gets a halfway manic look in his eyes—the look of recalling an embarrassing memory that can never be forgotten. “One time I volunteered to take the place of somepony that looked like an easy job, only to discover they hate pears, while I can barely stand to look at one without drooling! It was too late to back out, and afterward I ate nothing but pears for a week straight! But really! Who doesn’t like pears!?”

I can’t help the disappointment and bemusement that overtakes me then, which superficially hurts Shadow. Really, Multiverse? You’re not only going to make that “a thing,” but you’re shoving it in my face? You charlatan, unoriginal hack… Wait… “Who doesn’t like pears”…! I can’t help it: I facehoof. Hard. -And the pain is more than welcome, though the resurgence of worry in my direction makes me feel a little guilty, but not enough.

“Altie?” Replie eventually voices her concern, but I only continue to stare at the bottom of my hoof, which I keep on my face. “… What are you doing?” She finishes with a kind of deadpanned tone, perhaps realizing I’m neither hurt nor confused.

“Doing”? What I’m “doing” is expecting a blue police call box to appear out of nowhere any time now… “That’s-… That thing about the pears is just one of the silliest things I’ve ever heard.”

“‘Silliest thing’?” Echo—Buck you, Multiverse!—repeats, turning to smirk at Ersatz.

Ersatz turns in mirror to Echo. “Sounds like a challenge to me.” While half of me groans, the other half is relieved that the spotlight is free to swivel off of myself again.

—

The next two days are largely uneventful, though with the way Ersatz and the rest would tell it, Manehatten is hardly so quiet, and from what I gather, the six aren’t the only scavengers in the city—something I suppose I should have realized before. Something I do realize beforehoof is, in addition to the number of chairs, why three Changelings would have two large (“princess-size”?) beds, as we all sleep in huddle that makes me think of a pile of huddling dogs… Only we’re not cold; we’re scared. Scared of Queen Chrysalis and Princess Celestia…

For most of the day, the Manehatten scavengers go out to play their parts as visiting Wood Work and to feed on the ambient friendliness that permeates Apploosa. At night, as Celestia apparently talked Luna down from being so paranoid, everyone is free to reconvene in the basement for games and bed, rather than one needing to remain above to placate the Moon Guard “audience.” So when the Manehattenites leave two days later, while the days feel no different, the nights feel uncomfortably quiet and… depopulated—I can only imagine this is some kind of Changeling “hive-like” instinct. Safety in numbers. After all, I feel so even on those days that it is not Replie’s turn at Wood Work, either, which usually means I spend most of the day with a Changeling all but glued to myself… not that I mind! To the contrary, I do my best to forget my past—a past that I cannot return to—as much as the other three have left behind their grim work in Canterlot, and I return every nuzzle and lick, which includes cleaning each others wings, interestingly, and the holes in our legs, which are most sensitive. Still, in spite of our closeness, we have not yet taken “that step;” whenever I think about it (for Replie never brings it up directly), I can’t help but freeze, which in turn only makes me disappointed in myself, even if Replie never shows any interest in, as perhaps a Changeling might put it, “becoming a queen.”

Over the first week, most of the days are taken up by whichever two are not acting as Wood Work teaching me about the pegasus carpenter: everything from the obvious to the quirks and ticks that, while only a Changeling could name, a pony would still notice “something off” without. Similarly, while not the scavengers’ intention, I learn a bit about ponies as well—of note being those things that would never appear in the show. Indeed, given the apparent gender ratio in Equestria, I feel afterwards that the fact ponies practice polygamy, specifically polygyny, should have been obvious, lest more mares than not be left to themselves (or each other)! All the same, I can’t help but feel slightly… discouraged by the idea, in regards to any potential peace between ponies and Changelings. If, in America at the very least, the disgust with which monogamists view polygamy is so strong, then how would the polygynist Equestria view the polyandry of Changelings, even if none of these other problems between the two species existed? The natural aversion to “the different” and “the other” appears no less strong in ponies than humans, after all.

As for Changelings, I can only assume how their biology, which forces them to understand other cultures in order to blend in with them, also, in a way, “forces” them to view “the other” with… somewhat less animosity, at least. Certainly, the somewhat awkward and confused but not outright hostile tone Twin uses in describing to me the various mares who have put their sights upon Wood Work and are competing against each other in pseudosubtle ways for the title of “current girlfriend” (for it seems only one mare may be considered by a stallion at a time) and eventually alpha mare—an idea which, I can tell, is at best odd for a creature who submits to a queen who takes for herself all the reproductive rights.

I try to put away my own inhibitions concerning both ideas, but all I can hope for is that, when it is time for me to slip on the pegasus disguise, I’m lucky enough to avoid any confrontation—and advances—of Cactus Rose (no relation to “the flower sister” Rose), Rough Diamond (no relation to Diamond Tiara; honestly, there are only so many words that can be used as a pony name), and the others. This lucky, I am not. Instead, I go on hoping that the bickering for alpha mare would draw attention away from me; how naïve I am, to not foresee such a thing as the fact that the position of alpha mare is, in fact, decided by to whomever the stallion pays the most attention. Worse yet is the fact the Wood Work has been designed to be most ignorant of all advances—I imagine this is for the best in regards to the fact that Wood Work doesn’t actually exist, but is instead a composition of Changelings, and not suitable for any mare who wishes for a foal; not that Wood Work, any more than any “other” stallion (or even human male), would admit to such! Still, this acted (oh so acted!) ignorance does not deter any of those poor mares who would make a stallion (who doesn’t exist) theirs.

So, every forth day, for five weeks, I suffer under the fires of determined “suitesses,” as it seems in Equestria, it is expected that the mare make the first move. I suspect this has something to do with the fact that, with so many mares going after so few stallions, each male is all but guaranteed to get a mate—it seems that the ponies’ gender ratio has effects on their society no less strong than the effects of the Changelings’ ability to feel emotions has on their interactions with each other. All of these differences in the end can, sadly, only create more troubles between the two species, even without the impending war.

On my days off, I spend my time expanding my magical repertoire, giving the quick explanation to Twin’s questioning that, as I had been all by myself before and quite busy gathering love for myself, I hadn’t had time to study much magic—he, and the other two, believe me easily enough. Between my arcane self-studies, I go back to the encyclopedia, after which I decide against going into the supposed studies on Changelings by Nomizokakos. After the… medical analysis is (as I suspect by Replie’s look when she curiously looks over my shoulder at what I’m reading and by what I know now that I’ve been amongst Changelings) a hypothetical at best, speciesist at worst, look at Changeling physiology and “sociology;” to put what ponies think in two words: thoughtless hivemind. At this, I can only shake my head and admit not only that Proxy’s conclusion of such baseless hypotheses makes killing us guiltless, but encourages a cycle of animosity that would continue through generations.

There is one sentence, however, that makes me stop: “Changelings, when not feeding, return to their queen in a hive located in the desert at the western border of Equestria in order to breed.” This, to me, seems to be an oddly specific, particularly dangerous assumption to make. After all, who is it that would say something so foolish as the idea that all Changelings live under one Queen in one hive and no where else, with no other Queen, in no other hive? Especially when it’s obvious that such a thing would be impossible to infer, and hard evidence (that just as obviously has not been gathered) would be needed? However… given that Celestia apparently wants me to prove my evil nature, and if she had therefore told the truth about sending me to Chrysalis so I may survive, then she would have to believe that I came from Chrysalis’s hive; of course, how could she assume such a thing unless she believes Chrysalis is the only Changeling Queen? More impossible questions I have no choice but to leave unsolved.

As odd as it sounds, especially to myself, all of the above, and more, turns into a routine I slip into so easily that, had I not been a Changeling, and therefore a creature pretty much evolved to slip into roles not my own, I may have been worried at how I could abandon myself without apparent effort. Still, as I busy myself with Wood Work’s work—which is extensive, considering he is the only carpenter here, and the settlement is still growing—I find I often drift in my thoughts to the worries for the Bearers of the Elements of Harmony, for Princess Celestia, for Queen Chrysalis, for Equestria, Hasharstan, ponies, Changelings, scavengers, and everything threatened by the unwillingness from both sides to consider a peaceful solution. I must also suppose, unfortunately, that only I, as an outsider, can consider such as mournful, as the ponies, whenever Changelings are brought up (which is often in Apploosa, considering the border) get a fervent, violent look in their eyes, and even Replie, so filled with guilt of her own actions, doesn’t see the ponies as without blame themselves.

I, myself, for six weeks since I had been accepted by Reflection, Twin, and Replie, admit that peace is an impossibility. For six weeks, until, by chance, I overhear an argument…

—

Maybe it’s a bad habit, but I have been keeping track; I’ve been in Equestria for exactly forty-two days now. Six weeks, precisely, since I woke up inexplicably as a Changeling laying on a path in the Everfree Forest… and forty-one days since I had learned the horrible truth about what happened during the siege of Canterlot. It had never been brought up again, by Replie or myself, or by Twin or Reflection, and I’ve been most content in leaving it be—leaving it in the past, as it is painfully obvious that Replie and the others would not do something like that again—and it seems to me that Replie herself is at least attempting to leave it behind.

Forty-one days… that’s also how long it’s been since Sun Smile had first chased after me to return my “tip” (I’ve learned her name since then). Now, of course, she doesn’t recognize me as I take on the act of Wood Work sitting in the corner of the restaurant and working on a dinner of salad and noodles in an “apple broth” (true to some suspicions, there are indeed options for a more carnivorous broth, but that isn’t part of Wood Work, and in any case, it all tastes the same to me); all the while, I feign ignorance to the “bedroom eyes” Rough Diamond occasionally shoots at me from two tables to my left, but I only barely need to “feign,” for my attention is instead drawn to a particular light blue-coated mare with silvery-white hair and purple eyes; the absence of her cape (along with her hat) leaves her Cutie Mark of a star-tipped wand and magician’s veil obvious, even from the other side of the room.

Trixie—who else would it be? Certainly no Changeling would risk starvation by taking the place of a traveling showmare—sits alone as she munches slowly through a hayburger, quite as indifferent to my observance of her as I play to Rough Diamond’s silent “advances” on me. Just as the three of us (Trixie, Diamond, and myself) are about to finish our respective dinners, Braeburn—himself!—finishes paying for his own meal, walks up to Trixie’s table, and sits opposite her with a… not very friendly look on his face. It’s then I remember that, besides everything else, Trixie had “beaten” Applejack in a rather embarrassing (for the Earth pony) way, and as the Element of Honesty, I can only imagine her admitting her defeat, perhaps sometime after the issue with the buffalo had been dealt with. I can also only imagine that Braeburn, after hearing of such a thing, would have a few choice words to say about Trixie performing in Apploosa.

Unfortunately, the general din of ponies talking over their dinners and the distance between us leaves me most in the dark about Braeburn’s and Trixie’s actual words—or, if their expressions are any indication, “whispered argument” may be more apt a description. My staring at them, however, doesn’t go unnoticed by Rough Diamond, who turns from confused, to “put off,” to angry within seconds. Pushing away the rest of my meal, I purposefully weave between tables to get closer to them than strictly necessary to get to the register to pay; I sigh when Diamond follows me with the intent of… something I’d rather not think about.

Before I can get within earshot, however, Trixie notices us and stands up in the middle of Braeburn’s whispered (what I suspect is) ranting, and, ignoring his affronted look, Trixie rushes ahead of me to pay; with an offended sort of snort, Braeburn exits, though I suspect this is hardly the end of his “campaign.”

“Table two,” I murmur, now used to the restaurant’s “new” addition of the electronic register, which the ponies run on a trust (… always, always…) system of the customers keeping track of their own table number. In the beginning, I had been confused and hadn’t known I should keep track of which table at which I had been seated, but at least I hadn’t been the only one, and the owner had been very understanding and patient and… all those things expected of a pony interacting with another pony.

Leaving Rough Diamond to pay as fast as she can so she doesn’t lose track of me, I trot out as fast as I dare inside the respectable establishment, and step outside into the end of what I can only suppose to be either a shouting match or verbal beating—no one is eating outside, given the rapidly cooling evening desert air and the low angle of the setting Sun, which annoyingly glares off at least one window no matter which direction one may turn.

“… -You’re nothing but a coward and liar, and tomorrow I better see the back of your pathetic wagon heading back to wherever you came from!” Braeburn, glaring at the mare standing her ground, points with a forehoof to the wagon parked at the end of the road before making a rather violent “out” gesture. I stand at the low fence surrounding the restaurants outdoor tables, where I had stopped when I heard the vehementness in Braeburn’s accusations and order… where my mind latches onto one word as Trixie silently turns away with a roll of her eyes.

“… Coward…”

“Wood Work?” Rough Diamond steps up next to me, but I barely notice. “Double W?” Even the playful nickname—up until this moment sure to catch my attention—fails, but now Diamond turns more worried than angry. “Do you know that blue mare? Are you okay?”

I at least manage to nod, but I tune out whatever she says next as I begin to walk slowly after Trixie. Coward… Coward… the word rings in my head. Fear… Scared…

Then, I realize something. Something horrible… It should have been obvious. I should have known it before, but I had dismissed as ridiculous. Or impossible. Both! But now, when I whisper these three words to myself, I know they are true: “Celestia… is… scared.”

Scared! Princess Celestia, practically (if not actually!) a physical god, is scared! And not without reason! No! Why wouldn’t she be?! Who knows how long it's been since Equestria has faced a threat capable of subduing the entire Royal Guard, capturing the Elements of Harmony, and defeating Celestia (and presumably Luna) in one day?!

… But that’s not all… My trot turns into a canter. That’s not the only reason…

She’s scared stiff about how Changelings can crumble the foundation of trust without needing to do anything—just as I proved! She's so scared, she doesn't know what to do besides kill and try to scare away what's scaring her… If this war is going to end with any semblance of happiness, then she has be shown the truth, somehow, before it gets out of hand… but nopony is going to do that, even if a pony can step back from thinking of her as the infallible goddess she’s not and realize the truth… and no Changeling would dare approach her in order to confront her about this…

Which leaves this… to something neither pony, nor Changeling…

I’m now sprinting steadily towards the only chance I see; that chance which has already disappeared into her wagon. Damn me and my reckless, fatal selflessness! So I tell myself, but truthfully, I know that no matter the outcome of the brewing war, scavengers would be hunted down, whether by Princess Celestia or Queen Chrysalis, there would be no difference in the outcome: both would kill us, either forced by the war to finally give in and start testing the residents of Equestria for Changelings, or, after winning Equestria, hunting down the scavenger “deserters,” and punishing them accordingly…

In other words, I, and those three who saved my life, are dead either way. When you only have one bullet, better to shoot in the dark than wait until it’s too late…