//------------------------------//
// The Method Mares 
// Story: Society as We Know It 
// by Comma Typer 
//------------------------------//

A rising noise from a gathering, forming crowd.
Blue Alarm's ears perked up and he looked. He hovered between walls and rocky spires, over the stony ground, and simply flapped his wings over several fellow changelings as they gazed upon the approaching party.
Walking between bushes and on the dirt path was a group—a troupe—of ponies in chic clothes: sweaters, coats, berets and another trendy casual hat, and black shades that obscured and covered the eyes of two of the ponies. Two stallions, two mares—flashes of the camera did not make them flinch, never straying away from their serious faces.
"It's the Method Mares!" a voice shouted.
Yet none of them looked at that changeling's direction.
Blue Alarm did not smile nor did he frown. He only placed a hoof on his chin and scratched it. "This is going to be very interesting."
Changelings in other kinds of hats and glasses and also in none were pressing their way to the famed four who were handling the entire situation with unspoken grace and professionalism—that is, they just kept quiet and kept walking. They did not concede to the demands of "I want your signatures and those other things that famous ponies do with their writing instruments!" as one changeling shouted. They just kept moving along and that was that.
Farther ahead, several changelings—who had already caught sight of them—sweated profusely as they doubled the pace on the rough stage work: wooden stage of nailed planks, homemade light stands to brighten up the performance, a few curtains here and there to control the sunlight, another curtain to cover the backstage, and a rack of costumes laying nearby. Rush of wheels and hooves and wings—there they went off, panic in their words as they were unsteady—stammers and hesitations and repetitions.
Blue Alarm looked around in the active mess he was in—a rabbling and troublesome crowd about to step on significant ponies, a hurried and somewhat unfinished stage over there, and several more changelings were flying in to add to the problem.
"I'm sure they know what they're doing," Blue Alarm said. "The Method Mares have survived far worse, probably."



An hour later, there the changelings were at the "seats."
The "seats" consisted of the open floor in front of the stage.
The chatter was only growing as time went on, ticking by. Two of the changelings who were just arriving were none other than King Thorax himself along with his brother Pharynx—who had a slight disdain on his face.
"So, you've mentioned this 'entertainment' aspect of the hive," Pharynx said, accenting his words a little. "Why do you think it's going to help the hive again?"
"We don't worry about food and safety anymore for the most part," Thorax said. "We've got our friendships and relationships up and running—usually." He said, making yet another sheepish smile before bursting into a cackle.
Pharynx slapped his brother in the face.
"Ow!
"That's for leaving me in the dirt to take care of that soup changeling!"
Thorax was rubbing his cheek. "You know, that hurt!"
"It's gonna go away," Pharynx said. "Now, tell me again why this play and entertainment is going to help the hive instead of to hurt it?"
Thorax rubbed his cheek a little more then, after giving his older brother a glare—to which Pharynx only snorted—Thorax went on: "What else are we going to do? We're not struggling to stay alive, we're not suffering to keep ourselves safe, and we have more than enough love to share to create lasting friendships. So, what are one of the ways to help that friendship propser and develop?"
"Letting some ponies do a bad job at pretending?"
"They're not bad, Pharynx," Thorax said.
"I've seen some of them try," Pharynx said. "They only have a surface level understanding of how true acting works."
"Pharynx, I'm not saying that they're trying to shape-shift and mimic others," Thorax said. "All I'm saying is that they're going to act—they're going to be a part of a play which will bring in good memories to all of us who will watch the show. Then, we're going to talk about it, take pictures of ourselves enjoying the moment, and we'll all fondly remember it days and months and years afterward as a time of bonding."
Then, they took their "seats" in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by various changelings who were all egnaged in their own conversations and discussions, sometimes dragging in another changeling into their own talk and topic.
"Well, I can't stand watching them be so bad at our talent," Pharnyx commented. "I don't think I can stay here and watch a full performance."
"Come on!" Thorax said, poking him with a hoof. "You're not going to miss out on anything if you watch."
A few seconds of silence.
Then, a groan. "Fine, Thorax. But, this is only because you desperately wanted me to watch."
Thorax grinned. "That's great!"
Pharynx groaned again and looked away from his brother and toward the stage. "This is gonna be one fun night."



Outside of the two brothers' conversation, there were other changelings involved in other discourses. Over there was a changeling wearing a top hat and some black shades, gesturing a hoof to himself as he smiled and gave a small smile to all who were paying attention to him.
"It's outrageous and astounding—the prices!" the hatted and shaded changeling exclaimed, having—or imitating—a haughty, high-falutin accent. "I didn't buy these myself, but they don't feel like a thousand bits to me."
"Maybe if you bought them, Ptery!" another changeling replied, pointing at his hat. "Maybe you'll feel their worth!"
"It's going to take me months to accumulate all those bits!" Ptery said. "Even then, I have other things I want to buy! I like to buy food—"
"Doesn't everyone here like food?" some other changeling shot at him.
"What do you know about everyone here?" Ptery shot back. "Did you personally ask every single one of us here if they liked food?"
That daring changeling locked up, stuttering. "Uh, uh, I...d-didn't, b-b-but th-that—"
Ptery looked up and pointed his chin at the stuttering changeling. "Then, you have no right to say those things."
"But, you don't have to ask literally everyone to know that," yet another changeling said, taking the challenge and standing fiercely in front of the fancy changeling.
A few gasps from those around them.
"Hmph!" Ptery tipped his hat a little to the left. "Is that so?"
"We can settle that question with reason!" the betting changeling answered, garnishing his statement with a balled up hoof at the ready.
Ptery sighed, sounding disappointed and annoyed. "Alright." He looked at the changelings behind him. "Who has my papers?"
And a few changelings rushed out.
But, while Ptery and his challenger were preparing for a rational fight over whether it was necessary or not to inquire each and every changeling in the area to know if, truly, everyone there liked food, there was another group of changelings—over here, closer to the front of the stage—talking about the Method Mares themselves.
"I've read up on their history," a changeling with a pair of glasses said, raising a hoof in the air as if to signal the beginning of a speech. "It turns out—they used to be con ponies, some of the worst in Manehattan."
"So, they were bad at conning?" another changeling quipped.
"Uh—no. I should've rephrased that." He cleared his throat. "They were some of the best con ponies in Manehattan."
The changelings around him nodded, looking at each other with smiles. "So, that's why they're so good in what they do now!"
The glassed changeling nodded his head in return. "But, sooner or later, they were caught by the police. In fact, the reason why they're going about doing plays now is because they wanted to do some good for their neighbors, realizing that what they did before was wrong. And, here they are—free of charge!"
Those around him were now stomping the ground in growing affirmation.
"But, you just told us who they used to be," one changeling said, raising a hoof.
"What do you suggest, then?" the glassed changeling asked.
"Who our favorite Method Mare is?!" the changeling replied while throwing his hooves to the air and waving them about.
The chitchat then descended into squabbles and quibbles about who, out of the four Method Mares, was the best one.
Another dialogue was occurring over there, even closer to the stage—right in front of it, with no one between the two changelings talking and the wooden stage.
"Protur?" the yellow changeling spoke. "Are you sure you want to stay here for the rest of the week?"
"Why not, Collem?" Protur, a blue one, said. "There's not much going on outside—no major happenings in any of the major cities."
"But it doesn't have to be anything major," Collem said. "I've learned recently that, if you just take a step back from all the hurrying and dashing to this and that, there's a bit of beauty to be found. Actually, a lot of beauty is to be found by just stopping to catch a breath, seeing the wonders of the hills yonder on the other side of this place." He pointed a hoof past the stage and towards the forested ground beyond the rocky, plant-covered walls.
Protur looked there, too.
"Living does not always consist of being in an awful scramble to work and party. You'll find that living also consists of sitting down and just relaxing—taking in what's there and adoring the charm and the good looks of—"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm tired of all your boring speeches about how beautiful the world is and things like that. You're the one who's driving me to more work! I don't want to be asleep and to do nothing all day!"
Collem sighed.
"I don't want to be known for doing nothing! Of course, I'll sleep and rest once in a while, but I'm not going to rest everyday! That's your excuse—hah! Is that why you were late for crafts time yesterday?"
"Uh..." Collem cleared his throat. "On the contrary—"
"I'm not listening to you!" Protur said, turning his head away from his companion.
And there were more conversations like that throughout the crowd.
Time went on.



Finally, after several more minutes, the curtains were closed, the light was dimmed, the spotlight was on the stage, popcorn was being brought up and served by a changeling in typical popcorn-pony garb: red and white striped shirt with a white, plus a dainty soft cap. The popping of the popcorn did little to bother anyone in the audience which, by now, almost flooded the entire area with several outliers resorting to standing on their four hooves because there was no more room to sit down.
It was almost silent, some changelings whispering to each other and pointing at certain changelings or things.
Then, the curtains opened.
The backdrop for this scene depicted a row of several buildings, uniform in height and style and differing only in how that style was executed—a few trimmings added or subtracted, color schemes in a mixed diversity, and—surely—the ponies who were on some of the windows.
A big stallion with a stubble walked into the scene—holding a few stacks of paper close to his chest. A look here, a look there. Then, he beckoned somepony with a hoof's motion.
A mare then appeared at his side—and she was clothed with a grand gown that sparkled with its glitter and a hat of royal decor.
Whimpers from her—tears drenching her face. She tried to wipe them away, but more came.
The stallion patted her head; on his face was a sulking frown—downcast eyes. "Soon, you'll be safe," he muttered.
Held her close to him.
"For now, don't cry. You have to stay strong."
The mare nodded, answering in unworded words—a moan, a sob.
The stallion, holding her close, looked about him, regaining his vigilant pose. "Come on, this way."
The two ponies leapt and bounded on the fake sidewalk, whizzing by the detailed background.
Then, it was only the background, the backdrop for a while.
Another stallion stepped into view.
He had a curly mane and a curly tail. His coat was orange, his clothes were a jacket and a coat and a tie and a pair of shades, and his mouth curled upward.
"Nopony gets away from me," he uttered in a gritty voice. "Nopony. Not even a royal Princess from another land. What must be done will be done. You can't get away from those calling you, miss."
A grin.
"It doesn't matter where you go. There will always be a trail of evidence—something that slips up. And, do not tell me about the 'why' and the 'what'—I have a mission and you won't stop me from that."
So, he walked, walking to the other side of the stage.
Then, the curtains closed.



The curtains opened again, revealing the background of a simple home. A carpeted floor, a kitchen with the dining area just beside it, windows letting in the sunlight and emphasizing the brightness of the house—which had yellow walls and a yellow ceiling—and a couch on the side. Some stairs over there, too.
A mare was at the dining table, reading the newspaper with a bowl of hot soup in front of her.
"Hey, that's my—"
Several changelings around him shushed the disturber.
The actress did not glance his way—she did not even blink.
The mare continued reading.
Then, the door opened.
The mare looked at the two visitors.
She gasped.
"Who are you?!"
Dropped newspaper, stood up.
"Ma'am, it's fine, it's fine!" the stallion yelled, carrying the whimpering dressed mare and throwing her on to the sofa at the other side of the room.
She landed—continuing her wailing.
"Wha—y-you don't just invade my house!—intruder!"
"I can explain!" the stallion said.
The resident stood her ground, taking on a defensive position. "I'm giving you ten seconds to explain!"
"Alright!" the stallion said, holding up a hoof in his own defense.
Glanced one more time at the sobbing mare on the sofa.
Looked behind him. Open door.
He closed it; he slammed it shut.
"So rude!" the resident said. "No decency to even close the door proper—"
"I wouldn't be doing that if I thought that it was just OK," the stallion said, remaining firm in his voice. "Well, it's not OK to leave it open because the situation is that serious. If things blow over, there's going to be, I don't know, war or something equally terrible!"
"Don't you go gibbering about war and things you don't know about!" the mare yelled. "I've seen your kind, sir! Up to bring about a ruckus to help me give some of my bits to you! I've seen your friends before."
She pointed at him.
"B-but I'm the genuine article!" the stallion said. "I'm the real thing! This is a real problem and if it doesn't get stopped—"
"I don't care about fights and conflicts and other bad things like that!" the mare shouted. "I know how you operate, criminals. Trying to exploit me. I've lived here in Manehattan for over a decade and I know all the tools of the trade!"
"B-but, you have to—"
Winced at the door.
"Ma'am, please!" Voice becoming desperate.
"I'm not—"
"She's the Princess of the Qualtay Kingdom!"
"I haven't even heard of that name. But prove it!"
He glared at the supposed Princess.
She removed her dress.
Opened up—spread—her wings.
Removed her hat.
Unicorn horn.
The resident merely sneered. "Can she fly? Can she use unicorn magic? Preferably at the same time, too?"
The stallion nodded.
The resident looked at the Princess.
The frown on her face was still there.
She flew, hovering over the ground—flapping her wings.
Grabbed something with her magic—a box.
Her horn glowed.
The box levitated.
The mare took a few steps back, staggering away from the Princess before her.
"Before you say anything," the stallion said, "you have to keep her inside and never let her into the public until I bring in back-up." He placed a hoof on her shoulder. "There's no telling how badly this will go and we don't have enough time before—"
Door kicked open.
The shaded and clothed stallion at the entrance.
"N-no!" the first stallion yelled.
"Quite a yes, really," the second one said, taking careful hoofsteps—towards the stallion.
Looked at the resident.
"You don't have to worry about me, ma'am," the stallion said. He pulled a badge off of his jacket. "I'm part of the National Equestrian Protection Guard—undercover branch, ma'am; right under the E.U.P. These two ponies you have here are suspects at large—took us days to—"
Punch.
"You're not bringing her to jail!" the stallion yelled. "You mistook us for the wrong—"
A throw and he was sent flying to the other side of the room.
The Princess gasped. Then, glaring at the offending pony, she flew at him.
The resident cowered, taking cover behind a table.
Princess stopped.
Punched.
Knocked down.
Eyes closed.
The stallion cackled a little. "Real Princesses don't get defeated so easily. Me? I'm just an undercover cop—Earth Pony, yes, but a Princess is much stronger than that." Grinned. "Too bad. If you took me out, I would say all of my sorry's. But, that's all you are. A fake."
Both mare and stallion down, eyes closed.
"I believe we have it all under control," the undercover cop said, picking the resident up from her hidding place. "I only need to ask you a few questions and then I'll pull these ponies out and we won't be interrupting your day anymore."
"Oh, th-thank you, sir!" the mare said. "What questions do you have?"
"I want you to take care of the ponies—check their pockets, see if they've stolen any money or other valuables you have. I'll go upstairs—see if they have their own form of back-up. Crimes like these are risky, so a back-up plan is always necessary." He showed off his badge again.
The mare nodded. "Th-thank you, sir! Just do whatever undercover cops do!"
The stallion saluted her. "This is for the safety of Equestria, ma'am. Thanks for co-operating."



"Your help is much appreciated, ma'am!" the cop said as he pulled the two ponies out of the door.
Then, the resident closed the door and sighed.
"Now that's over," the mare said, "I'll check and see how much money I have left after all that drama. Heh, I'm sure it's just the same—I didn't spend anything during that whole commotion!"
She whistled her way upstairs.



The undercover cop plopped the two ponies on the fake sidewalk.
"Got the cash," he said.
The two ponies stood up and dusted themselves off.
"Fooled her right off," the second stallion said. "She has no idea how much money she has now."
The pair of ponies in front of him smiled. "Looks like we did it, then!" the mare said, taking off her fake wings and her fake unicorn horn, dropping the box she brought along with her.
The first stallion merely nodded.
Then, the resident appeared on stage.
All the Method Mares now faced the audience.
"That's a little short play we made up on the way here," the big stallion said. "Think of it as a prologue to the actual play we've prepared for and performed for many months now—although, it's not really a prologue, but you know what I mean."
No changeling response. A few crickets chirped.
"But, you enjoyed what you've seen, right?"
And all the changelings responded with a furious, collective shout and scream and yell and roar and cry of approval and of grand affirmation, shaking the stage a little.
But the Method Mares were unfazed.
"Thank you, everyone!" the big stallion said. "I've heard you've done good share of studying so you must know our names by now, but as an act of courtesy to those who still don't: I'm On Stage."
"I'm Raspberry Beret," the fake Princess said.
"I'm Stardom," the resident pony said.
"And I'm Late Show," the fake undercover cop said.
"I'm sure that we all know each other by now," On Stage said. "So, with that, give us a few minutes and we'll get on to the play you've been waiting for: 'The Equestrian Prisoner'!"
And the changelings burst once again into that mix of noise as the Method Mares went behind the curtain.