Ocellus pauses outside the applewood door to Doug’s office, steadying her shaking hooves. What will she say, what will she do, what is the best way to convince him without letting on to her true intentions? She has an inkling of how it will go: he’ll be willing, if hesitant, as he was after the first time she bore him a nymph instead of a foal. But will he suspect foul play? As Queen Chrysalis taught her, the perfect crime is the one nopony knows occurred. She wishes she had more time to plan, to ensure everything is in place. Yet sometimes opportunity drops without warning and the most adaptable will be the one to take advantage. But can she pull it off?

She raises a hoof, takes a deep breath, and knocks twice.

“Yeah?” comes the muffled, irritated reply.

She cracks the door open, peeking inside. The office is as disheveled as ever. Mismatched folders splash a rainbow against the wall behind his heavy desk, little apple-themed knick knacks hold pencils or sticky notes or highlighters, all bleeding together into an organized chaos the ponies detest and in which the human thrives. Doug sits at the desk, working on three different cities at once, the Baltimare - Fillydelphia - Manehattan corridor on the Celestial Sea, having combined the maps over the bed on the back wall in a sideways manner one must cock their head to read.

He glances up at her, a flash of annoyance crossing his features, uttering a brief “Hey” before going back to scribbling on an already full sheet of paper not unlike the crumbled balls littering the floor or the other pages scattered around. “Need something?”

“Applejack sent me.” Ocellus lets herself in the rest of the way. “Wanted to make sure you didn’t miss the bell.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Doug snaps, oddly frustrated. She knows he enjoys the weather work, especially when it’s trying, and she steps closer to get a better look at what’s bothering him. One hand rubs at his forehead while the other idly twirls a pencil around; as she nears he raises his hand, welcoming her to his side. Fingers glide over smooth chitin, searching for the soft spaces between armored joints. But he’s missing that leering grin he gets when his mares are in his grasp, and stops before he can dig between her plates the way she likes. It lets her pretend he’s a predator, ripping away armor to get at juicy insides, the morbid thought oddly titillating.

“Something wrong?” she asks, tilting her head just the right amount to look him in the eyes while maintaining that innocent aura he prefers.

Doug snorts; perhaps the question was too obvious. He swipes at each map in turn, starting with Baltimare, sending the pages ruffling like leaves in the wind. “It’s nothing imminent, but Celestia sent me the latest estimates. Between the changelings and new foals, Equestria is looking at something like a twenty percent increase in infrastructure over the next year. Maybe more.”

“Wow,” Ocellus utters, mesmerized by the maps in all their intricate detail. In place of streets and buildings are elevation markers, terrain types, and desired rainfall, far more than she can take in at a glance. Little notes fill the margins, all the colors of the rainbow.

“Most of that will be concentrated in the cities.” Doug traces a few dashed blue lines around the tan metropolitan complexes, close to the existing borders in thick black. “But we’re not going to see everything grow that rapidly. Most likely, we’re going to pack new ponies into existing buildings, but by next decade they and their new brothers and sisters will be chomping at the bit for places for themselves. What will happen immediately, though, is all those ponies need to be fed. Which is where I come in.”

Doug shifts to the outskirts of the cities, grid after grid of dark green representing the thirstiest farmlands and orchards. “While you can cram more ponies into a building without too much hassle, it’s a lot harder to convince them to go hungry. But it’s not as simple as growing twenty percent more food; at least, not for me. You can’t just add more clouds as easily as you can add more fields. You put too many rain clouds together and you get thunderstorms. Ponies don’t like that. You put too many thunderstorms together and you get tornadoes and hurricanes. Ponies really don’t like that.”

“Weak,” Ocellus japes, drawing a smirk.

“But that’s what I’m working on.” Doug taps on the medium green area between Baltimare and Fillydelphia. It suddenly doesn’t seem as large as before. “How to get more water to these farms without it being too much. And then doing the same thing for next year, and the year after that, until this baby boom runs out. The real kicker will be when these two grow into each other, an even bigger Whinnyapolis and Faint Falls.”

“I can imagine.” Ocellus snuggles closer to the human; she licks her lips in anticipation. “And, speaking of growing together.” She lets herself get pushed back as he takes a closer look at her, his pencil idly dropped on the paper. “I was wondering… if you… wanted to try again?”

Doug raises an eyebrow. “Like, for a foal? Right now?” He glances out the blue curtained window to the Carrot House where everypony has likely stopped waiting and are busily chowing down. They’d be lucky to have food left and not have to scrounge from the pantry. “We’re already late, and-”

“No, no, silly,” Ocellus says, grinning like Pinkie Pie. “After. I’d need to get ready. And there’s…” She sinks down, mumbling while hiding behind her wispy pink neck fin, not that it provides any protection. “...Something I’d like to try.”

Doug frowns, concerned over the sudden shift in her demeanor.

“I know you like my natural form.” Ocellus offers Doug a shy smile as though she was scared of his reaction, of any sort of rejection. “You don’t have me copy somepony else. And that’s… that’s freeing, to know I don’t need to pretend around you. But I was afraid that might be… that might be why I can’t give you a foal. A generic pony form didn’t do the trick, so I need something more.”

For a long moment Doug merely stares at her. She can’t get a perfect read on him, not like she can on the ponies. She finds it worrisome what thoughts might be going through his head, but she keeps that infuriating feeling carefully hidden away. He’s obviously trying to read her, and it wouldn’t do to send mixed signals his way. She pulls the corners of her muzzle a little higher, a little tighter, playing the scared mare putting on a brave face. The worst part is the bald-faced lie, that knowing that even if she copied a specific mare it would make no difference.

“The nymphs you’ve given me have been enough,” Doug says, consoling her in exactly the opposite way of what she wants.

“No, they’re not,” Ocellus blurts out, drawing on the bluster she learned as a guardsmare. It gets Doug to lean back, startled but not afraid. “Maybe if I was in some other herd, but you’re the Prince Consort. You deserve the best. And if I can’t give that to you…”

She looks away, blinking rapidly to help the wetness saturate her eyes. His hand strokes her back, reassuring if she actually needed it.

“...Maybe noling can.” She chances a glance; his eyes are filled with concern, the worry on his face plain to see. “But I’m going to try. I have to try.”

Doug takes a deep breath, his hand digging into her withers. “Okay,” he finally says, pulling her face into the Celestial crest tattooed on his bare chest. She finds the warmth invigorating. “What did you have in mind?”

With a firm hoof she guides him back to his chair, pressing him down. “How about…” she draws out, potential schemes racing back and forth. “You wait here. I’ll tell them you’re busy; they won’t mind. I’ll bring dinner.” She winks, grinning from ear to ear. “And when I do? I’ll be in character.”

She sashays to the door. Her rump burns from his leering gaze, made all the worse when she transforms a certain purple ponytail and swishes it back and forth like she’s taunting a minotaur. She slips out the door before he can charge her, relishing his exasperated groan, and returns to the Carrot House in her natural form.

Today’s remnants of the herd are clustered around the dinner table. Applejack stands in the middle, pointing at the open photo album on the table while Luna and Twilight watch from the wings. Spoiled Rich looms over Diamond Tiara, the eager young mare occasionally snickering and sneaking a shared smile. The rest of the youngsters titter to themselves as Pomarbo lays slumped, his head against the table, hooves covering his face as though they could ward off the abject humiliation only a well-meaning dam could inflict.

There is a heaviness to Spoiled Rich’s breathing, a flush to the already pink face, a languid swish of a tail that will not stay still. Twilight’s ovulation spell must be working fast, far faster than she thought it would. But that’s the power of an alicorn. It amazes her that Chrysalis was able to impersonate one at all, much less for a week; then again, she did fail, but that was her plan all along.

“An’ this is his first bath,” Applejack explains, sparing Ocellus a brief glance before going back to their most recent album. She smiles, fond and doting. “Little tyke couldn’t stand the water. He thought he’d melt if’n Ah scrubbed the soil from his skin!”

“I was never that bad,” Diamond Tiara announces with a haughty grin at her dam.

“No,” Spoiled Rich agrees with a twisting smirk. “You were worse.” The words sink like a dagger, at least judging by Tiara’s look of utter betrayal, such a contrast from her dam’s light and airy tone. “We couldn’t drag you out of your hour-long bubble baths. That’s why we had the pool installed.”

“Dam,” Diamond Tiara pouts, now looking very much like the colt next to her.

“Spike was like that, too,” Twilight adds, then snickers. “Wait, who am I foaling? He’s still like that.”

Another round of giggles passes as Applejack flips the page, now showing Pomarbo attempting to push a soccer ball bigger than himself with his head.

Ocellus passes like a whisper to join Spoiled Rich’s side. “You ready to go?”

“Excuse me, but I do believe your spell has taken its full effect.” Spoiled Rich nods to Princess Twilight before stepping towards the kitchen. The alicorn returns a warm smile and wink before her attention returns to the giggles of the fillies.

“Doug’s busy in his office,” the changeling explains. She keeps her voice low, though Ocellus has little doubt the ponies, the alicorns especially, would have no trouble overhearing their conversation. She spots a plate waiting on the counter, a half portion suitable for Doug’s smaller size. “Could you take his dinner to him?”

Spoiled Rich seems offended by the request, aghast that she might be treated like a servant. Then she swallows, perhaps as practice, yet takes her part in this scheme as naturally as any changeling. “Very well.” She struts to the counter, deftly slides the plate to her back, and smoothly glides out the front door.

Ocellus studies every movement. The mare oozes a haughty sophistication that might be graceful if it wasn’t carried so highly. Her own legs limber up to practice the kinesthetics required: a dainty and refined gait as if one stepped lightly enough the dirt wouldn’t collect between her shoes, a tension in her facial muscles undergirding every masked and feigned expression, a rushed and indignant sharpness to her breath. This would carry over to the bedroom; she takes charge, commanding to the point of domineering, concerned with the pleasure of her stallion only as it makes her more appealing in his eyes. She wants to be important; no, she wants to be seen as important, and she wants the same for her foal, her foals, going to great lengths to ensure their success and thus her own. She recalls any and all words and phrases spoken, sorting by repetition and likely chance of being used.

The pale blue changeling goes to her pack, withdrawing the vial of energy extracted from one of the rams. A dark, effervescent cobalt swirls about, billowing like smoke from a fog machine, only for her to draw the fuming cloud into her gaping, vacuuming maw. She tries to be quiet about it, making no attempt to draw attention to herself, but inwardly hopes the others notice. It’s the same procedure she went through the other times she lay with the human, prepping her body for the hopeful implantation, though then it was done with the pony’s purloined power. She’ll leave it up for them to draw their own inferences.

Molding a pony womb next to the chambers dedicated for eggs takes all of her concentration and more energy than a single vial provides. Her reserves easily cover the deficit, though the taxing part will be after the deed is done and she needs to return to her normal form. A hasty transformation is liable to dissolve foreign objects or expel them, neither conducive to the continued survival of an embryo.

It takes a few minutes of meditation until the deed is done, a mature ovum patiently waiting for fertilization. She steps outside, noting Twilight’s cursory glance, and waits until the door shuts behind her. Once she is halfway down a flash like green lightning brightens the darkened hill. Her gait shifts with her form, pink hooves beating a haughty trot back to Ponyville. Anypony glancing outside would see nothing more than Spoiled Rich returning after an evening with her filly’s friends.

She arrives at the mansion unaccosted, her quick pace discouraging any passersby from engaging her in conversation. Again she has to stop outside the front door, steadying her hooves. She has never been inside the expansive residence, nor has Thorax described the interior. Where will she start? But standing around outside gets her no closer to her goal, so she tugs open the front door and slips inside.

Next Chapter: Ch. 136 - Poacher's Aim, Part Five* Estimated time remaining: 10 Hours, 32 Minutes