//------------------------------// // Chapter 4: Under the Grip of Changeling Martial Law // Story: Within, Without // by KvAT //------------------------------// Manehattan. City of chaos. Where changeling military reigned supreme, everypony bowed down to each and every changeling passing by, and hoped the daily Love Tax rotation caught everypony else but oneself. At least, that was what they wanted. Daybreaker left for New Mareland, with all few of her loyal royal guards. With one gone, came the other. Chrysalis stood over the city for a whole five hours, until the sad withering skyline lost her crown jewel. The once-proud, rearing statue of Lady Friendship, representing what little of it Manehattan had left, crumbled into the river, per the changeling queen’s request. In her place to sweep the dust down under the rug made of pony coats was Protectress Lilac. Protectress. Hah, the changelings, funny bunch.  Ponies left to rot by the stupid sun tried to fight for themselves. Against an army that successfully pushed against the edgier version of Nightmare Moon, however? Noble, but futile. The supposed “protector” squashed indiscriminately without mercy. Though, changelings fared no better. Their entire army composed the rolling tide. With the wave over, the waters slowly stilled. Garrisons distributed, and Equestrian lands scoured for resistance pockets. The tide disbanded, and without the force of a wave, what good are still waters to fight against even a thin layer of plank? The theatre got repurposed as a circus, but my front row seat remained.  Manehattan became nothing but a stage show. Battered ponies too tired to fight readily accepting their changeling overlords. Inexperienced changelings too few to rule over an entire city trying their best to look intimidating with their guns and tanks, loaded with nary but a single bullet each. One intimidation tactic they did successfully was draining ponies to near death with their ability to harvest love. Hype the execution down, force ponies to watch, put several undesirables high up a pedestal, and suck the love out of them. Pretend the weightlifting was easy while in fact it strained their wits down to shreds, and you’d have obedient ponies lining up to meager ration stalls for dried hay way past expiry date. Guess who had the privilege of standing high above on the pedestal? Yours truly. The crowd winced as the changeling behind me pulled a part of my soul away. Nerves blaring, screaming danger and murder, as what little of my supposed “love” seeped away from my being. Couldn’t walk for days on end, but the look of utter disgust on that changeling who fed on me made the long-lasting burning within my spine worth every second of it. Oh, the pony they used as demonstration slipped into heavy love-drain exhaustion? Give him a rest in the military barracks, place an ice pack, slap a band-aid, and on he goes, good as new. At least they gave me a heart-shaped band-aid. Hated the green colour though. Specifically because it was changeling green. The same colour infesting every nook and cranny of Manehattan. Formerly colourful, with every shade of colour within visible light meticulously painted in extravagance, now all black and dark green and dreary. If ponies escaped the changeling invasion by a skin of their teeth, nothing escaped the true invasion of drab sickly slime green. Green fridge boxes. Green dumpsters and trash cans. Green buildings, factories, everything. All green. Disgusting. Is there anything not green? Well, there’s Lilac’s Administrative Office. Painted with teal, matching the shade of her eyes and mane. A place as drab and dreary as any other new changeling structures hastily made to accomodate the urgent need of information headquarters.  Not for me. Awesome place, really. I mean, a dry alleyway right beside it, a broken van parked right in it, and trash bins full of upper class changeling’s junk. More than what I could hope for. Also met the first changeling bum I’d seen. Shooed him away, for whoever claimed the place first reigned king over it. His existence worried none, both changelings and ponies, but me. Why? Poor changeling conditions meant even poorer pony conditions. Poor conditions led to less wasteful practices. Less wasteful practices led to less trash. Less trash would be the end of me. Working ponies were fed specifically to continue working. Non-working ponies would be captured, shoved into a prison camp, and forced to work. Actually physically unfit ponies? Left alone. Move out, rot, die? They don’t care. Changelings suffered the same fate, funnily enough. New, aspiring bums die in a week, not knowing where to look, where to forage, where to live, and where to dumpster dive. Old bums like me survive by differentiating between a rock hill painted green and actual pastures. Green traps include the canneries, industrial areas, and food stamping posts. Actual dumpsters worth diving sat near military barracks.  Young aspiring changelings, ready to take on the job, collect love, and to quote one of them, “make mom proud.” Wasteful with food, careless with equipment. Some foal, or should I say nymph, they turned out to be. More often than not the young ones were moved into open plains and small villages, in groups of two or three. Definitely not the lives advertised, but sucks for them. A pair of unicorns passed by, almost eerie in timing as they agreed on my private mutterings. Their matching purple starry cape fluttered by the breeze. Following me, they turned into my alleyway. Doing spy work, espionage, or whatchamacallit. Disappointed by me being a homeless bum instead of a fellow spy or a changeling collaborator. The name Trixie seemed familiar, but the name Starlight rang no bells. Both whispered to each other of some plans. Desires of counter-occupation, liberation, and freedom of ponies once more. Build underground weapons factories, call Griffonian allies, find and contact Princess Twilight. Eradication of changelings from all of Equestria. You know, the works. Something I had to just snort on, leaving them self-conscious of sitting on my boxes. War can be black and white, but specieses are not. Never will be. A nationwide supply problem sparked a war like never before. Stupid leaders called for stupid decisions, and with a spark, the fire ignited. But under the blazing black or orange flames laid burnt charcoals of the same grey colour. Where’s that Magic of Friendship they so desperately tried to spread now? Ponies talk big of not judging a single entity based on hearsay, but see their leaders making bad decisions and now all changelings became the evil boogeyponies that haunts foals’ bedrooms, sucking their love when they least suspect? An entire species built the way they were, unable to change their nature, and it just so happened that ponies were their entire lifeline of existence. What happened to Love and Tolerate? What happened to pursuing peace and reaching a mutual understanding?  “Heh, foolish.” Those words escaped my mouth, an accidental expression of opinion which the two certainly did not like. The two mares turned with absolute disappointment and anger, before leaving with a twirl of Trixie’s cape.  Even as they walked away, those eyes were unmistakable. Disgustion. Disdain. Contempt. Not even to the changelings, but to their fellow pony. Confront idealists with reality and their confident visage crumbles.  Hypocrites, the load of them. Another individual entered my alleyway, a janitor changeling from the building. She sneered a look, huffed in exhaustion, dumped the trash, and moved back inside. Honest disgust for my bad odour, and most-likely foul-tasting love. A tiny bit of pity for my living condition. Hunger, which retreated upon the sight of my being. She left a big bucket of water, a bar of soap, and a stern instruction to bathe. Probably only to not have me stink the entire block. Not of care, or concern. Only selfish reasons. Still, free hygiene care. Who am I to refuse?