“A routine?” Ocellus asks, raising one eyebrow. It’s a distraction, and her wayward mind grasps at anything, no matter how fleeting, that will keep her from slipping again.

“A performance for the upcoming Equestria Games,” Diamond Tiara explains with a wooden patience. The young mare’s smile flickers, the twitch of muscles revealing she must force herself to keep it. But the Rich scion is often like that, haughty and aloof but careful not to show such arrogance around the Apple herd lest it disrupt her plans to court the Apple colt.

Ocellus knows the Games are a quadrennial competition for the pony cities in a wide variety of events, which often have clear favorites from how well the competitors do in individual events held more frequently, such as rodeos for the earth ponies and races for the pegasi. She can recall little else, especially how it relates to the young mare.

“Let’s head outside.” Diamond Tiara gives the room a distasteful glance before strutting to the closed door. “More room to practice.”

A light green hoof on Ocellus’ withers stops her from following Diamond Tiara and Pomarbo outside.

“Hey,” Thorax whispers, the pleasant rose of his eyes whirling with concern. She’s not used to seeing emotion from a fellow changeling projected so obviously that even a pony could see it. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I…” Ocellus trails off, shying away. Little things are supposed to be hidden, to be dealt with when alone and shuttered away from the world, because an infiltrator could not count on having a fellow ‘ling. Big things? A changeling that has big things wrong is a ‘ling not long for the world. And a ‘ling that cannot fulfill her duty is even lower than that.

“I thought you were okay with…” Thorax glances at the door now blocked by Pharynx.

The dark green changeling soldier fixes Thorax with a pointed stare. “Your thoughts are leaking.” He firmly shuts the door behind him.

Once the coast is clear a grimacing Thorax motions to her abdomen, which remains as thin as it has been since her transformation. This fact fills her with shame. Maybe if her belly could hold all that shame she wouldn’t look so out of place.

Her head hangs. Has she grown soft? Since the changelings officially joined Equestria two months ago she had been inundated with love from her pony herdmates. (It remains difficult to extract love from Doug, not that she tries anymore.) The holes in her legs were filling in, her wings becoming clear and pointed. After their transformation they don’t even need the regular (regular! The thought itself is so delicious she could eat it, but doesn’t need to!) infusions. She should be happy, gleeful, filled with joy to the point of bursting! But the highs being so frequent and predictable has merely made the lows, those times when her failure sneaks up and shanks between her chitinous plates, all the more unbearable.

“Hey.” Thorax drops to his barrel beside her, dwarfing her with his bulk. She notices it has gone quiet all of a sudden, the nymphs evacuating the Abattoir like a sinking ship. His foreleg raises, slowly and jerking, with a trepidation as if he is debating the best method of consoling her, or if he even should be doing anything at all. “There’s…”

A grimace crosses Thorax’s muzzle as he stares off into the distance.

An infiltrator must be able to read the other ponies in the room, at least well enough to pass for whatever form she is currently taking, and completely separate their personality from the form or forms they take. An integrator takes that to the next level, at least with regard to a single form, one they have prepared for extensively; such prestigious assignments are given to the hive’s best impersonators. It is a rank Ocellus never managed to attain, her lack of confidence holding her back. Soldiers, though still trained to detect and copy surface thoughts of those they can directly observe, are rarely as competent at partitioning their mind, and often slip and give indications that an astute observer can pick up.

“One of the worries I had,” Thorax begins, bringing his focus back to her, “was that the peace we have with Equestria would last until our little ones are born and no longer. The ponies would take their foals and buck us out.”

This is not the topic Thorax wants to discuss, and on occasion a worry she shared, though only with regards to them bucking her out; she listens patiently, glad for him to speak if only because she doesn’t have to.

“And who could blame them?” Thorax motions to the equipment surrounding them, specialized to cut and dismember, though these rams are being exsanguinated, preserved, and shipped whole. That’s how the dragons ordered them; they would pay more for a chase, but Equestria (and, as importantly, the sheep themselves) nixed those bargains. “We lived off death. We survived by stealing, and had for ten thousand moons.”

Ocellus nods along, well aware of their history.

“But that’s not what’s happening.” A joyous smile crosses Thorax’s wide face, as broad as his horns. “They’re having foals of their own, playmates and friends for the new faces we will bring along.”

“I…” Ocellus shyly starts, unsure how to best challenge the assertion without bursting Thorax’s bubble. “...don’t think that’s why they are having so many foals.”

Rose eyes flicker with delight, smile never fading. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He leans in close. “But that doesn’t mean they won’t be.”

Ocellus finds she has to grant that.

“And there are going to be so many little ones!” Thorax grips his forelegs together and sways from side to side, in the way one might snuggle a young foal - or a whole pack of them. “Oh, it’s going to be so precious, watching them grow and learn together. Hay.” His eyes twinkle. “They might even fall in love.”

The greenish blue of her eyes whirls around in small circles. He has always been sentimental, his whole brood teased him about it, but this? This is downright saccharine, sweet enough to choke a honeybee.

“All that is to say,” Thorax continues, finally coming around to his main point. His voice drops to a near whisper, though he keeps a conversational tone. “I overheard that my lead mare wants to have another foal. This year. Well, early next year. You know how long ponies take.” He grimaces at the reminder, however unintentional, of her failure.

“Spoiled Rich?” Ocellus frowns. Ponies go into estrus at the start of March and it lasts a week; it’s now two thirds through April. Why would she hide her interest in another foal? Plus, Thorax isn’t the sneaky infiltrator type. Him overhearing something means the ponies must have been very loud or oblivious. “Isn’t it a little… late for that?”

Thorax nods. “Normally, yes. Filthy wasn’t happy about it. Maybe because he’s overworked? He’s been really busy and barely has time for any of us.” He sighs at the admission, that things might be less than perfect. “She’s coming over to the Apple’s tonight for dinner. And… dessert.”

Ocellus raises an eyebrow. “Dessert?”

“That’s what she said. She didn’t say what kind when I asked, just told me to get out. It’s probably pie.” Thorax shrugs. “So, I came here.” He glances to the main door. “Anyway, we’ve been in here a while.”

Ocellus nods, absentmindedly following Thorax out the door. Pomarbo and Silver Spoon march in lockstep to the heavy thump of Diamond Tiara’s hooves. From the looks of it the young mare’s aim is to showcase them working together, but it comes off as uncanny instead of unifying, especially as they mess up and she corrects them.

Off to the side, standing at the close edge of her flock, Sassaflash holds a pair of heavy metal scissors. They don’t look as sharp as the knives in the Abattoir, but few things are. Pharynx and Fluttershy are on the far side of the flock, the yellow pegasus covering her muzzle with a hoof to hide her quivering glower while Pharynx leads two older rams to the animal entrance of the Abattoir.

“These,” the pegasus sheepherder explains to an entranced Babs Seed, Ocellus recognizing the filly from Applejack’s description, “are called shears.”

“Shears,” Babs Seed dumbly repeats, staring at the metal contraption with the kind of blind awe ponies sometimes get when talking about love or joy. Ocellus wishes she could get that love for herself, even if she has to devour it, just to satisfy that craving. But she wouldn’t do that, not now, not when doing so might jeopardize everyling’s new life.

“Earth ponies,” Sassaflash says, “sometimes go for a one-hoof version.” She demonstrates how she straddles and holds a sheep in place with her hooves while using both wings to trim the wool.

“Wow.” Babs Seed giggles at the sheep now looking as naked as Doug. She grabs a hoofful of fallen wool, letting it fall down in little ringlets. “Let me get a try!”

“Now, you want to be careful,” Sassaflash cautions as Babs Seed jumps up and straddles a different sheep. Well, not so much straddle as rides, her little hooves not even close to halfway down the ewe’s side, let alone touching the ground. Still, the filly gamely holds on, the thick wool giving her plenty to grab onto, and the sheep doesn’t seem to mind - or even notice.

“I got this,” Babs Seed boasts, taking the shears. She blows her mane away from her face as she flips them over, smoothly slides the sharp edge along the shoulders, and snips off a section of wool. A cocky and genuine grin pushes away that mask of bravado as she switches from side to side, evenly shearing even closer than the practiced wings of the sheepherder.

Ocellus’ attention briefly returns to Diamond Tiara. The earth pony has rightly surmised that something is missing from their performance, but can’t quite put a hoof on it. They stop their marching, tossing ideas back and forth about unity and harmony.

“Wow,” Sassaflash exclaims as Babs Seed quickly finishes the job. “You’re a natural!” She grins as Babs Seed continues along the ewe’s back, then hops down to get the wool around her belly.

“Piece of cake,” Babs Seed brags, grinning with pride at the pile of wool that comes up to her eyes. She takes a deep breath, her chest puffs out, and she takes a confident look backwards.

Her face falls at glimpsing her still-blank flank.

“I… it felt so close,” Babs Seed mutters, the shears dropping from her grasp to pierce into the well-trod dirt. She looks ready to bury her head in the wool, eyes shimmering and lower lip quivering. Diamond Tiara and the others have stopped their brainstorming to watch, Diamond Tiara with a teasing smirk that she immediately quashes when she sees Pomarbo’s concern.

“Hey,” Sassaflash consoles, wrapping a wing around the despondent filly and tugging her close. “Even if you didn’t get your mark in shearing, you really knew your way around a pair of scissors.” She elbows Babs Seed in the side, grinning and hoping to elicit a similar reaction. “You want to earn some bits?”

“Bits?” Babs Seed asks, blinking away her tears. “I could earn some bits?” She looks down at her hooves, then the fallen shears, then at her blank flank. “I thought… I was told you needed a cutie mark to make anything.”

“Nope! Look at me.” Sassaflash shakes her turquoise flanks marked with a pair of lightning bolts. “You don’t need a sheep cutie mark to watch sheep, and it sure pays more than watching clouds blow across the sky.” She leans in close and winks. “I get to watch clouds blow across the sky anyway.”

“Oh, yeah?” Babs remarks, standing up straighter and shrugging the wing off her back. Eagerness gleams in her eyes as she grabs the shears, grinning to herself and blowing the mane out of her eyes.

“Mmhm!” Sassaflash calls to the herd of sheep, “Any volunteers?”

The sheep lazily shuffle back and forth, eventually ejecting those with the thickest, coarsest coats least suited for the upcoming summer, which looks to be another warm one judging by the pleasant spring. Babs Seed quickly gets into a routine, working her way around sheep after sheep and leaving a growing pile of shorn wool.

“There’s so much,” Babs Seed remarks, eyes widening as she tries to take in the whole pile.

One side of Sassaflash’s muzzle curls up in a half-hearted smile. “Eeyup,” she returns much like the Apples from Appleloosa. “Unfortunately, there’s not a lot of demand for wool here in Ponyville. Or anywhere in Equestria outside Vanhoover, really. It’s too warm and dry in Appleloosa or Dodge City. And while the climates of Manehattan and Fillydelphia might lean toward wool, the fashion gurus… don’t. They promote silk and designer lace and Saddle Arabian cotton over ‘exploitive’-” she spits out the word “-materials like wool.”

“Exploitive?” Babs Seed frowns as she looks at the sheep herd. “You mean how they’re…” She turns and glances at the Abattoir, Pharynx entering behind the two rams. She gulps, transfixed on the spot.

“They claim it,” Sassaflash scoffs, “but what do they know? They’ve never talked to a sheep. They don’t know what they want or believe. They don’t think even one step ahead to ask what would happen to the sheep if they were ‘allowed’ to run free.”

As Sassaflash rants Fluttershy walks over, broadcasting concern over Bab’s distraught reaction. Ocellus finds herself drawn to the conversation, though feels less of an obligation to soothe the filly’s fears.

“W-what would happen?” Babs asks with less of a foal’s exuberant curiosity and more dread, hunching over and letting her mane fall in front of her face.

Sassaflash shrugs. “Hunted down, most likely. They’d have to worry about finding enough food to feed ‘em all, and a flock this large would overgraze without a pony supplementing ‘em. It ain’t like they ain’t gonna die one way or another, and this way gets ‘em something back for their death, something they can put toward having more. That’s what they believe in, basically, um, they call it…”

She glances at Fluttershy for confirmation.

“The supremacy of life,” Fluttershy prompts, her voice quiet yet firm, like she isn’t willing to let herself cry.

“That’s it,” Sassaflash confirms. “That it’s better to have lived and died, no matter how horribly, than to never have lived at all. Because that’s what would happen to these animals if the dragons or whatever creature wasn’t buying ‘em, they just wouldn’t get born, and the small enclave left would scratch out a meager living hidden away, always wondering when they’re gonna be spotted by a roc and carried off to be a meal for her chicks. They want the best life for themselves and their lambs, and if it takes selling themselves to make it happen, then more power to ‘em.”

The last line hits Ocellus particularly hard. What would she do so her nymphs (or foals) would have the best possible life? What would she sacrifice to make those foals a reality?

The thought consumes her as she goes back into the Abattoir, thinking on it between pouring her energy into making preservation units. After all, she is the ‘ling with thaums to spare, the other’s excess going to their growing foals.

Next Chapter: Ch. 133 - Poacher's Aim, Part Two Estimated time remaining: 11 Hours