Chapter 2: My Name is Mantodea, and I am a Changeling
“I am a changeling. That is what I am, and this I know for sure. But to be a changeling, I first must find a way to forget I am one; to let the dark magic pour over me, warming my cold, hard exoskeleton and turning it into a soft pelt. Let it grasp my long, sharp fangs; sand them down. They are no longer meant to break bone, but to chew through foliage.
“I must let it engulf my whole self; my mind, my body, my soul. I am a changeling, but to be a changeling I first must become a pony. So no longer am I Mantodea, the changeling. I am Blubbernote, the fat, singing pony.
“I am not just a fat pony. I am the fattest pony that ever lived. The other changelings… I mean, other ponies… hate me. I have no friends. My only talent is that I can sing. I can sing so well, in fact, that that the queen… the princess… herself asked me to sing for her at her birthday party. But she… I… ate all her cake, so she exiled me from the hive… E-equestria… for 1000 years. That… isn't that kind of overkill?”
I felt the dark magic drop from around me like a heavy stone brick, along with whatever progress I’d made. I wasn’t a pony.
And Tamite wasn’t pleased. “Dude… you don’t question the character!” his hoof met his face just before my gaze met the floor.
“I can’t help it…” I tried to defend myself. “I mean, she wouldn't even live another 50 years, let alone 1000!”
“That’s not the point!”
“I know, I know…” I scratched the back of my head in shame. “My mind just wanders…”
When I looked back up, I saw Tamite rubbing his temples in anguish, leaning back in his chair. “You know I’m taking time out of my training to help you learn one of the most basic of changeling skills?”
I nodded my understanding. “Yes, I know...”
Tamite took a moment to relax a bit. “Ah… well… I’m sorry for snapping like that…” He sat up in his seat to look straight at me. “You have to get this down though! How are you ever going to get through your training if you can’t even shape shift?”
“B-but…” I stammered my uncertainty “isn’t it easier to do with a real pony…?”
Tamite shook his head. “They won’t give you a real pony if you can’t do it right.”
I groaned in defeat and sunk down to the floor, bracing my back against the rounded wall.
The room in which we sat, like every other room in changeling culture, was round. This made it pretty hard to pin anything down as a floor or a wall, especially when they were designed to be walked on regardless of gravity. I could have been bracing my back against the roof for all I knew; but I wouldn’t know unless I took my barbed hooves off the ground and noticed which way I fell. I felt Tamite walk over and lay a hoof on my shoulder. “I know it’s hard the first time… especially at your age. I swear, drafting changelings any younger than 130 moon-cycles is crazy talk.”
Less than a moon-cycle ago our Queen, Chrysalis, announced that changelings 110 moon-cycles and elder would now be drafted into the army in preparation for our invasion. I happened to be 146 moon-cycles old at the time, so I ended up being drafted. My friend Tamite was 162 moon-cycles in age, so he was drafted much earlier than I was. That’s why I was asking him for help.
Of course, they didn’t really plan on drafting us into soldiers at such a young age. We were horribly underdeveloped for combat (a changeling’s exoskeleton usually isn’t fully developed until they reach 130 moon-cycles in age), and as such we would be slaughtered when the time came for a fight. Instead, they started training us to be hunters. That way they could get elder hunter-changelings off of the field and train them for combat instead.
Unfortunately for me though, I was… less than suited for the job. I studied and trained as much as I could, but there was no getting around the fact that I just wasn’t skilled in that area. And on top of that I still had to make a living casting mabone. I was hoping to start up my own little business making quality items, but as it was I had to make do with the low wages and monotony of the typical mabone casting most changelings were stuck with until they completed training.
I acknowledged Tamite’s support with a pat of his back. I gave a half-hearted smile and spoke quietly
“Can you imagine something like that? Being exiled?”
Tamite gave an even shallower smile. “Hardly. But what I can imagine is horrible.” He hit my shoulder gently before continuing. “But you ain’t no Blubbernote, bub.”
I smiled a bit more genuinely before changing the topic. "Hey, how about we ditch this and go do some dueling practice?"
Tamite shook his head at me. "Mantodea, what are we ever going to do with you... fine, but we go to an eatery afterwards."
Now it was my turn to shake my head. That request wasn't at all surprising; Tamite probably ate more than ponyfolk on a regular basis. "Alright, deal."
~ ~ ~
Dull thuds and grunts echoed in the dark cavern. Small arenas all around me were filled with changelings, dueling under the eyes of trainers for the upcoming invasion. The dueling grounds were massive--by far the largest part of the hive's training quadrant, which was the second largest quadrant of the entire hive. The large, flat, hollow underground outcropping was once the proving grounds of the Lochra swarm; a changeling swarm driven from their hive centuries ago by the pony princess Celestia. We connected our hive to this and many others through tunnels which now span all of Equestria.
It was the perfect place for us to begin training soldiers for the invasion; during the midnight hours it would be packed with far more changelings than it was now. Even with soldiers and trainers littering the cavern floor there was still plenty of space for two changeling drones to touch up on their combat skill. Tamite stood at my side, the both of us observing a particularly interesting duel.
Two seasoned changeling soldiers stood hoof-to-hoof, locked in intense melee combat. Every movement was sharp, precise, elegant, and deadly. The one discernible by his torn ear had lunged and locked fangs with his opponent, fighting to overpower him and move into a better position. The changeling's opponent was not letting up though; the changeling’s every move to twist his opponent to the ground or flank him easily countered. The one with the torn ear had clearly grown impatient, his jaw no doubt sore from locking fangs for so long, and this drove him to his defeat. He made a simple move to drive his opponent's head to the ground. His opponent took advantage, rolling away and in turn twisting his opponent's neck, forcing the torn-eared changeling to roll with him. From there the opponent was two easy steps from holding his fangs to the torn-eared changeling's throat; steps which he executed perfectly.
The match was now over, and the small crowd that had begun to gather dispersed, though not without occasional acknowledgements of both duelists' skill.
Tamite looked at me; his shoulders slumped as he tore his gaze from his preferred fighter. "Damn it, I was really sure of that guy. Personally I think he should have backed off; given his fangs a rest and used his hooves, or his horn… Well Mants, that's why you never gamble. You always lose."
"No Tamite, YOU always lose." I reminded him. "I honestly couldn't be bothered."
Tamite grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head in shameful self-consciousness. “Hehe... speaking of gambling, I bet you if I challenged you to a round of hoof-to-hoof combat like that I’d beat you to a pulp.”
“Yeah Tamite, you probably would.” I turned away and strode towards the armory before Tamite had a chance to look at me all slack-jawed.
“Oh c’mon dude, that’s the part where you come up with some cliché comeback and challenge me to a match!” Tamite complained as he followed me.
“And then I’d lose. You know I don’t have any training in that kind of thing. Besides, we’d both probably just embarrass ourselves trying.”
A lack of response from Tamite told me he’d probably figured I was right about that.
Tamite and I both entered separate parts of the armory; a proper duel demanded neither of us know our opponent’s weapon of choice until we were both out on the field. The armory itself was a simple box-like structure with several rooms, each filled with the same broad selection of death-tools for any aspiring killer to practice with.
Obviously, none of the aforementioned death-tools were actually deadly. Most were carved from the screaming oak wood native to the Everfree Forest; perhaps to a pony they could still be dangerous, but most changelings could take consecutive blows to their exoskeletons and escape with no injury.
There was a very wide array of weapons to choose from; everything from standard straight-swords and war-hammers to some of the more advanced weapons such as hoof-scythes and wing-blades. Almost every weapon had multiple copies; all except for one.
I ran my eyes along the sea of battered and beaten blades, thinking carefully which one I ought to pick. As I searched my gaze lingered momentarily on the only weapon in the room so rarely used that there was only one copy: an elegant, beautiful Lochrian claymore.
The Lochra hive’s casting and blacksmithing skills were renowned throughout all of changeling society, so such a weapon was not easily replicated. Rarer than the blade itself, though, was a changeling with both the strength and skill to use it. The blade was as long as a full grown changeling drone and quite heavy, though contrary to what one might expect, the blade relies less on strength and more on pure, elegant technique. Wielders of the claymore were like water dancing over pebbles—rushing under, over and through the opposition with mesmerizing beauty matched only by the dancing of the stars and the very eclipse of the sun.
Regardless, one like me could only dream of the ability to wield such a blade.
Resuming my search, I found my eyes drawn to the lighter weapons on my right side.
I then found myself torn from the deep abyss of though at the sound of a sharp crack; one—two—three times. The deafening sound continued to echo after that, but it became inconsequential as I managed to pinpoint its location: the opposite end of the cavern, and more precisely the training grounds for changelings specializing in magic.
I wasted no time at all rushing outside. Cooler air greeted me, rushing over my face as I ran. I quickly located Tamite and cantered over, all the while never tearing my gaze from the opposite end of the cavern.
“It looks like there’s a serious fight going on.”
Nodding in agreement, I sat down next to him.
“We really should check it out,” Tamite reasoned. “In the event someone’s gone on a rampage. Might need us.”
The air in my lungs grew heavy, and I heaved it out in a sigh. Tamite was right, as usual. That didn’t make me any less reluctant to go anywhere near that damn place.
I felt a hoof drape over my shoulder and Tamite pulled me closer, spreading his wing across my back.
“Hey, I haven’t forgotten what it was like for you over there,” Tamite ensured. “And I swear if we run into any of those stuck-up assholes they’ll have a whole lot of me to go through before I’ll let them anywhere near you, ‘kay bro?”
I knew it would only make the moment about a hundred times sappier than it already was, but I leaned into the embrace and closed my eyes, pushing all my reluctance and nerves to the lowest part of my gut in hopes I could focus on the more present matters.
After a while I lifted my head and spoke softly. “Okay...”
Tamite’s hoof and wing left my back, and moments later he buzzed into flight, hovering just over my head and awaiting my pursuit. Wasting time on just one more deep breath, I soon followed his example, buzzing my wings and hovering just behind Tamite.
~
Every changeling near enough to hear the sound (which was a pretty large-scale radius) had flocked to the magic-wielders’ training facility. The training grounds was very small compared to the rest of the quadrant, due both to the lack of space required to train and the rarity of changelings specializing in the art. As a result, by the time we got there it was packed with changelings. We tried our best to gather information on what might have happened, but it was too crowded and chaotic to figure anything out. Only once the looming crowd of curious changelings thinned a little did we stay behind to sate our own curiosity.
The occasional helpful changeling would tell us something like they heard a spell they were testing had gone wrong, but they managed to contain it.
That partially confirmed our fears. Sometimes if a changeling is trying to create a spell and something goes horribly wrong, dark magic could grasp their minds and force them into a rampage. Tampering with magic is always a bit of a gamble in that fashion.
There was once a changeling whom had found a way to recreate the process and force any changeling into an artificial rampage. That was many, many years before the extermination, when changeling society was still in premature development and rebellions weren’t uncommon. Ironically enough the extermination had united our kind, under the one thing we now had in common: a searing hatred of all pony-kind. It was a short-lived unity, as one by one each of our hives were crushed until ours was the only one to remain.
It just so happens that our hive was the one that had originally developed this artificial rampage, which many now dubbed the “hive mind.” In fact, we were most famous for it back in the day—to the point of which our swarm had developed the name of “hive.” It’s said that the knowledge of this spell was passed down only between queens, and even to this day the queen could very well bend the whole hive to her will using it, though no record exists of such an event ever happening.
Natural rampages however were much more dangerous and destructive, and it stood to reason that it wasn’t at all likely that’s what had happened here.
I don’t know when I and Tamite got separated, but it became evident to me that we had when no reply came to my inquiries regarding whether we ought to leave. I looked all about me, but all there was to be seen was the gradually thinning but still crowded gathering of changelings.
I cried out for him, but the voice that met the cry was not his.
“Well, there’s our little test dummy!” No matter how many years I went without hearing that voice, there was no way I could ever forget it.
I didn’t turn to look. I knew who it was, so turning was pointless. All I could do was stare dead ahead, frozen stiff, wishing Tamite would swoop in right then and drag me away.
I felt a weight on my shoulder and light breath on my ear, which twitched at the sensation.
“We all been lookin’ for you.”
The weight lifted, and a black form stalked into my vision, followed by another on the opposite side. Finally, the ringleader and previous speaker of the group circled around and stood just in front of me.
“Hello, Mantodea,” Thoris spoke once more, his condescending voice scraping through my ears and into my head, which gave no consent but was helpless to stop the more powerful force. “We’ve missed you an awful lot. It just ain’t been the same since you left. I’m sure you missed us too, didn’t you?”
I gave no response.
The other two now began to throw in their two bits, giving mock expressions of emotional pain.
“Aw, don’t be like that!”
“Just ‘cause you’re a failure doesn’t mean you’ve got to take it out on us.”
“Garin, we haven’t seen him in, like, twenty moons. Be nice.”
Thoris stepped closer to me, analyzing my face with his deep blue eyes and lifting a hoof to his chin, pretending to think.
“Ohh, I know. It was that experiment we did, that one that made him mute! He’s makin’ a joke about it, ain’t he? Oh, that’s so cute!” The group burst into violent guffaws at the distant memory.
Once upon a time, before I knew Tamite and the impending invasion was hardly a rumor on the horse’s lips, I was actually a trainee under the magic wielders’ wing. For changelings like me who had difficulty shape shifting, often the only hope was to run them through rigorous magic training in the advanced league, where the constant exposure to dark magic could eventually unlock the talent in their minds. Most managed the feat after a moon-cycle or two in training. I was there for much longer: nine moons and a few days.
I don’t know how, but eventually I got caught in with these three assholes: Garin, Jok, and their inherent leader, Thoris. Being young and ignorant at the time, I actually believed them when they said that “testing” their various spells on me might speed the learning process along. Sometimes the effects were harmless pranks, like the aforementioned temporary “muting” spell. Sometimes they were… well, more serious. I spent nine moons in that horrid place, until one day I met a changeling from the physical training division. His name was Tamite.
It wasn’t the best way to meet a life-long friend, but the gang and I were going through another “experiment.” By that point I had learned to dread these experiments, but I didn’t have the will to walk away from it all. This time though, they were testing out an unsuppressed combat spell.
Magic suppression is the defensive action of softening the blow of a combat spell by countering it with magic. All magic duels were held under a strong suppression field, making sure no changeling ever got killed in training. Dueling with unsuppressed magic was illegal; probably why the gang was so curious to find out what would happen to me.
Luckily enough for me, Tamite was there. He never explained to me just why he was there in the first place, but I don’t complain about that. He stopped the gang before any serious damage could be done, and dragged me away from them.
From then on out Tamite went to work helping me set my priorities straight. I learned for the first time that I could support the hive without magic; the invasion had just then begun proper preparation, and he told me that if I trained with him then by the time I was old enough to join the army I’d be ready. With his help I managed to tear myself from the magic training wing, and I learned that I not only had a knack for dueling, but a passion for it. Tamite tells me that if the provings still existed, I’d rock at them in my age division.
I wish I could say I never had to think about it again—I really do. But the truth is that I still thought about it, almost on a daily basis. I never realized just how miserable I was until I left. Having to start training as a hunter again didn’t help much either, though, Tamite promised me I’d never have to go back here.
And yet, here I was, standing back in front of those monsters, reliving every miserable moment of those nine moons in only a few seconds. It took every bit of the will I had left not to break down right then and there.
The overwhelming tide of cruel laughter eventually subsided, and Thoris stepped forward to speak once more.
“Oh, it just ain’t been the same at all without you around, little dummy,” he repeated. “What do you think about us, maybe, havin’ another go? For old times’ sake?”
Almost before he finished speaking I retaliated unwillingly with a single syllable that had been burned into my mind at that point.
“No?” Thoris echoed, trying to act surprised but still making it very clear he was not. “Well, looks like that popper managed to build up a spine in you. Is that asshole still around?”
I grated my teeth at that. “Popper” was a derogatory term used by magic wielders to insult changelings who learn physical combat over magic. It’s not commonly used, as the magic wielders are generally a minority, but it was popularized by the Keilth swarm before the extermination and is still used as a dirty sort of between-the-legs insult on rare occasion. Not to mention he also called Tamite an asshole.
I stepped forward and thrust my snarling muzzle right up close to Thoris’, which managed to draw a genuine look of surprise from the drone.
“If you’re going to insult someone, insult the one who’s here to defend himself you coward.” My voice was even and absolutely teeming with hostility, and I recognized a hint of reluctance in Thoris’ eyes. Just a hint, though; not nearly enough to override the headstrong personality I was hoping would drag him into a fight.
He was silent for just a moment. Thoris then proceeded to flick his ear and tell his two henchmen to give them some room.
“I never did get to test that combat spell on you, little dummy.” Thoris’ voice was perfectly level, which told me he was concentrating deeply—that scared the Tartarus out of me.
I moved into a battle-ready position. If he was readying up a spell, which he probably was, I’d have to get in there and bop him on the horn, hopefully hard enough to break his concentration, if I wanted even a chance of this fight lasting more than a few seconds.
We both held our positions. I kept my gaze locked on Thoris’ eyes, searching them for any tiny hint as to what he was thinking. He stared back at me much the same way, running his eyes over my slimmer figure—likely judging the best way in which to bust it open.
I was so fixated on trying to read Thoris that I didn’t notice a large changeling hurtling our way until it was too late.
I scrambled back in fear and surprise as a broad-shouldered drone dropped from the sky, landing hard on Thoris.
“Sweet queen of the Fae, have I wanted to do that for a long time!” Tamite’s voice echoed through the empty circle that the changelings around us had now formed, each one quiet as death in cold-hearted observation.
From where he stood Tamite had Thoris pinned to the ground beneath his hooves. Through his legs I could just barely see the side of Thoris’ face; his exoskeleton was cracked along his cheek, down to his chin and perhaps further. It had already begun to bleed, trickling viscous green liquid that spilled out over his face. The liquid mabone in his blood would eventually fill the cracks in his cheek, harden and turn black; the wound would likely be healed this way in a few hours.
“Get off me you bastard!” The tip of Thoris’ horn began to glow, and was followed by a bright flash that demanded everyone look away. The moments thereafter took on a sort of silence beyond silence; a place where everything that needed to be said was already known, and no one dared to break the heavy veil of remorse, practically tangible in its intensity.
I opened my eyes.
Thoris was just starting to get up, touching his wound and wiping the blood from his face. A bit closer to me, lying limp on the ground, was the other changeling. There was a crack in his exoskeleton that went from his shoulder to his flank, and branched in several directions. Unlike Thoris’ wound, this one was very serious. Blood poured from the crack in copious amount, staining the ground and slowly spreading closer to my own hooves.
Thoris was now standing fully erect, looking out over his work and bearing a dumbfounded expression while doing so.
Several changelings from the crowd were tending to Tamite. Despite my immediate fears, he was alive. Not one drone lifted a hoof towards me or Thoris, though several onlookers met my eyes and nodded to me. At this point, the scuffle had become a matter of honor and dignity, and no one seemed hesitant to let it play itself out.
My hooves were grappling for Thoris’ throat before I even realized it. Thoris stumbled back, still a bit in shock from what he himself had done. I didn’t care how he felt though. I didn’t care if he was sorry, if he had meant it or if it was his fault. All that pent-up hatred for Thoris was bubbling to the surface of my mind, and from there to my hooves, which had all intentions of injuring their target as badly as he had Tamite, or worse.
Despite Thoris’ desperate scramble in the opposite direction, my hooves eventually struck their target, digging hard into the crack in his cheek and drawing far more blood than before. From there I took the chance to smack his horn, hard, before he could even think to conjure up a defense.
There was nothing graceful about this fight; No elegant movements, no strategic thought. All I had to offer was pure anger, and I let that out in droves. By now my onslaught of full-strength blows had knocked Thoris to the ground, where I pinned him and continued to beat his face to the ground. Thoris was helpless beneath me, and I loved it.
I loved it, right?
My hooves slowed. They hammered away still at Thoris’ face, but not quite as ferociously.
No, I didn’t love it. Tamite was horribly injured, painful thoughts were coursing through my mind, and a massive crowd of changelings was watching me beat—actually beat—a fellow changeling’s ass into the ground. How could any of that possibly feel good?! It didn’t. In fact, it hurt.
My punches gradually slowed, becoming weaker and weaker, until I no longer had the will to lift my hooves up for another attack. In fact, I found myself lacking in any serious will to do much of anything but leave. My hooves hurt. My eyes hurt. My chest hurt. Everything hurt.
Continuing to follow the now established pattern, everything was quiet. I didn’t look at any of the faces in the crowd as I stood up and walked away, quiet steps made deafening in the overwhelming silence. I didn’t meet Tamite’s barely conscious gaze as he watched me draw closer, shoulders slumped and ears lowered in shame. And I most definitely did not look back at what I had just done, or the growing pool of blood on the ground that was resulting from it.
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Ooo! It looks good!
Man, the ending was brutal. Very nicely done though.
I do so love a good fight scene, especially with the underdog emerging... victorious?
Oh man, way to kill a victory.
But honestly, if I ever beat anyone to a pulp, I imagine the exact same feelings would grow in me. Very well described, Flux.
Interesting that you refer to the passage of time by moons. Still, drafting just shy of the equivalent of 11 years of age is pretty brutal. I wouldn't want to be a changeling youth in that society.
Nice work keeping to the dark themes. I'll make an update post for you in my next feature this Sunday.
3392140 thank you, thank you, and... well, thank you.
I'm glad you enjoyed it.
3390200 you think so? just wait for what I've got planned later on.
3389278 thank you, I appreciate the feedback!
3393271 YAY FOR BLOOD!