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// Epilogue: Moonbeam 
// Story: A Shift In Gears 
// by BlackRoseRaven 
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Epilogue: Moonbeam

Moonbeam the Changeling hummed a little to herself as she dusted the inside of Moonbeam the unicorn's cottage. It was important to keep everything clean: not because Moonbeam really cared about appearances, but because any dust on the glass would make blotches when Moonbeam focused her magic on it.
She worked methodically: it was boring, repetitive, monotonous, and it was exactly what she needed right now. It kept her mind off other things and other worries and the fears that hadn't gone away, even though she'd really, honestly thought they would once she was out of the line of fire, after she proved herself to the ponies.
Her mechanical limbs hummed and clicked as she continued to work: she used magic to pick up the sheets of glass, but gently rubbed a rag across each surface by hoof. She didn't entirely understand why Moonbeam – real Moonbeam, that was – had been so firm about her not using magic to just blow it all clean... but this was good. This made her focus. This made the rest of the world less threatening.
She grimaced a bit as these thoughts tried to intrude, looking up briefly, but then shaking her head and looking back down at the glass. It wasn't important, or real. She had to keep that in mind. Moonbeam didn't take as kindly to her coming crying as Octavia always did.
That made her smile a little: and yet once upon a time she'd thought of Octavia as harsh and unfair. But getting to know her had changed things, helped her understand her, and they'd become good friends, as well as student and mentor. She hoped that getting to know the real Moonbeam would help with the same... although it was going to be a longer process, she thought. As much as she knew about Moonbeam already, well...
She glanced up as she heard hoofsteps, then smiled a bit as the back door of the shop opened and Moonbeam herself leaned out. She squinted in the dimness of her own shop, her mane a frazzled mess, leaning heavily against the doorframe before she turned her eyes towards the Changeling, not speaking, just glowering a little. Trying her hardest to hide how weak she was after all the time she'd spent being fed on and comatose: the Changeling admired that pride, that stubbornness, that determination.
The Changeling gently put down the piece of glass she had been polishing, walking over to Moonbeam and asking: “What would you like?”
Moonbeam scowled at her clone, her eyes roving down to those mechanical legs before she shook her head shortly, not bothering to say anything. But the Changeling could feel Moonbeam's emotions, and understood what those looks and fidgets meant: she was angry, she was upset, and all of it masked the fact she felt strangely guilty and inferior, like she couldn't take care of herself...
“That's not true at all.” the Changeling reassured gently, and Moonbeam scowled at the floor, not looking up, not meeting her eyes, and biting down on her emotions. The Changeling smiled briefly in spite of this, then she shook her head before she asked quietly: “Would you like something to eat?”
Moonbeam didn't answer, only grumbled as she half-shoved past the Changeling to look around the room like a hawk searching for prey. The Changeling could feel her frustration, and what was almost desperation: that desire to find something out of place, to lash out, to not feel replaced... “I don't want to...”
The Changeling halted as Moonbeam twitched slightly, and then she cleared her throat before she instead said: “I'm going to go make us a snack. Would you like some?”
Moonbeam didn't answer. The Changeling wished she would. That just once, maybe, she'd speak her mind. Instead, she always had to try and read Moonbeam's confused emotions, which were always such a muddle: when she was angry, she was grateful. When she was resentful, she didn't want her to leave. When she was silent, she wanted most to speak up.
Ponies were so complicated. Some more than others.
The Changeling bit her lip for a moment, but then she only nodded and turned, heading inside to the small, unused kitchen. She knew better by now than to offer Moonbeam her help: Moonbeam would just refuse her or get upset. She didn't like being helped. She didn't like leaning on other people for comfort.
She was so damn stubborn.
The Changeling smiled despite herself: she guessed that was something they shared, though, since she was still here, in spite of the way Moonbeam treated her. But there was something there, too: something that begged for contact, that wanted her to stay, even if there was... bitterness, resentment, anger, all those other not-so-nice emotions roiling around in her, too.
She entered the kitchen: it was a little less dusty now that she was actually using it, and making more than just instant meals. It was cozy for one pony, even if tight for two, but Moonbeam never seemed interested in doing much in here.
Not-Moonbeam hummed a bit as she decided to put together a bit of a treat: chocolate-covered apples. Moonbeam seemed fond of them, and they weren't very hard to make: they took just enough thought that she had to keep an eye on them, not enough that they didn't feel worthwhile for the time and effort.
She continued to hum a little tune under her breath as she worked: she didn't know why she did, or where she'd picked it up. But she never questioned it or wondered about it: some things just were. That was one of the few useful things she remembered from her days as a Changeling.
Well, she was still a Changeling, even if she was... something else, too, something not quite Changeling, not quite pony. She didn't want to erase her past, though: she wanted to learn from it, develop, and become a better pony. She wanted... oh, she didn't entirely know. She just wanted to be happy, and safe, and to help these people who had all helped her and who she had... wronged.
She looked down into the bowl of chocolate glaze she had mixed up: where had she learned to do this? Whose talents had she taken a taste of to be able to make this so perfectly? Or did perhaps Changelings have special talents, too, hidden away under the layers and layers of training and theft?
The oven dinged: the apples were baked. She removed the tray they were on with magic and set them down on the countertop, studying the half-dozen now-baked green apples. She picked one of these up with magic, then rolled it through the bowl of chocolate, careful to glaze every inch of the apple before she set it aside on a sheet of wax paper.
As she rolled a second apple, she was almost surprised into dropping it when a voice she was still unfamiliar with said: “You need a new name.”
The Changeling turned towards Moonbeam, who was looking at her moodily. She licked her lips, then said: “You can't have my name. You're not Moonbeam, you're not me. But I'm tired of calling you the Changeling, too. You need a name.”
The Changeling smiled at this despite herself, blushing a little bit: as tactless as Moonbeam was, those words meant a lot to her. “I... okay. What should-”
“I'm not naming you. I just want a name for you.” Moonbeam groused. “It's your name. You should come up with a name you like for yourself.”
“I don't... really know what I like.” the Changeling admitted after a moment, but Moonbeam only snorted at this.
“That's stupid. You like apples. Chocolate. Chocolate-covered apples, you're always making them.” Moonbeam shrugged, waving a hoof out. “What else do you like?”
The Changeling shifted awkwardly, and then she blurted out: “I like you.”
“Well you're not me and you don't get to use my damn name.” Moonbeam retorted crankily, although there was maybe a bit of surprise, maybe a hint of a blush, maybe the strangest, subtlest... sadness?
Not worth it?
The Changeling blushed and lowered her head, then she nodded awkwardly before opening her mouth. But Moonbeam only grimaced and shook her head before she grabbed one of the baked apples, then turned and quickly left.
The Changeling studied the apples left behind quietly: she did like things, didn't she? Chocolate-covered apples... but she wasn't an apple, or an Apple. What did she like? What was she like? Shouldn't her name say something about her?
How did you design yourself?
The Changeling picked up another apple, then rolled it slowly through the chocolate. She lifted it after a moment, watching the excess drip off before she set it aside. She repeated the process, then picked up the bowl and looked back and forth before she ducked her muzzle into it, licking up some of the sweet glaze left behind like a foal.
She put it down, then wrinkled up her muzzle as she felt something trickle along it, wiping automatically at it and blushing as she found chocolate all over her metal hoof.
She paused after a moment, looking closer at her steel appendages: she hadn't even considered those. But even though they were part of her, they weren't her, she had figured out. Having these didn't decide her fate for her, or mean she could never be anything but some kind of weapon or experiment. She was still her, whoever she was.
The Changeling walked out of the kitchen and headed to the little, cramped bathroom, where she smiled despite herself at the sight of herself in the mirror: face covered in chocolate. Well... maybe that wasn't such a bad color on her, she thought.
She washed her face off, then shook her head before she turned and headed back out to the main shop area. She was surprised to see Moonbeam was out here, grumbling around, cleaning things and moving glass sheets around haphazardly: but even when she seemed to throw things, she always seemed to know just how hard and how far she could toss something before it broke. She had a second sense when it came to the delicate materials she worked with, one that had obviously been honed over many years of practice.
The Changeling hurried towards her, but Moonbeam huffed at her and almost thrust several pieces of glass between them, then she grimaced as her magic aura fizzled. The Changeling caught the glass pieces before they could fall, gently setting them aside, and Moonbeam muttered: “Don't scrape them together.”
“You should get some rest.” the Changeling said, but Moonbeam only grumbled and half-shoved herself away, heading over to a display.
The Changeling followed quickly after her, but Moonbeam only asked grouchily: “Have you come up with a name yet?”
The Changeling blushed, her eyes shifting automatically around the room before they locked on an open book of color palettes, and she blurted out: “Marina!”
“Marina?” Moonbeam frowned and turned around, then she looked over at the open album and snorted. She walked over to this, looking moodily at the color chart before she muttered: “Fine. It works for now. But you're the wrong color.”
“I thought a Marina was a dock.” the Changeling said before she could stop herself, and Moonbeam cracked a rare smile for a moment in spite of herself.
“You want to be a dock? You want ships in you and sailors all over you?” asked Moonbeam, and the Changeling turned beet red and shook her head hurriedly.
“No, no, that's not what I meant! Nevermind, I'll-”
“No, Marina works. I think it works just fine.” Moonbeam retorted, and the Changeling lowered her head and gave a small smile despite herself, her eyes shifting almost shyly to the side as Moonbeam frowned. “What?”
“Okay. I'm glad it makes you happy.” The Changeling, now Marina, said quietly, before she rose her head a little and added: “It's almost like you named me anyway.”
Moonbeam rolled her eyes, then she turned away with a grumble, muttering: “Just make sure you find another face to wear, too. No point in you having a different name if I'm going to just keep looking at myself all the time anyway.”
Marina nodded, then smiled as Moonbeam walked away, but maybe snuck the slightest glance back at her.
Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for the two of them after all.