Elsewhere in the dead of night, a village lay in ruins.
Once beautiful cottages of a simple, rural lifestyle—topped with hay roofs and dressed up in old style walls and greenery—these now rest devastated, in smoldering ruins. The closed in walls were burned, choked by infesting vines. The furniture remained in a tattered state, ripped to shreds and standing out in nigh empty rooms no longer protected from the sky since the ceilings had also caved in. Cabinets which used to be crammed with all sorts of things like food, kitchenware, clothes, souvenirs, knick-knacks—these were now vacant, void of anything but a few stray items enveloped in the first stage of dust.
The streets fared no better. Though there was not much to ruin outside, the effects were still hideous to anyone who would come here for the first time. Instead of trees and flowers blooming in the spring, there were only weeds—the trees’ leaves having fallen or been shaken out a short time ago. That subtle green had left; even the grass was not spared, for patches of them throughout the town had either burned, too, or had been uprooted as could be seen by the holes on the ground and the occasional leftover root mingled with the shards of broken windows reflecting the moon’s soft glow.
This village had a horrible stench, like the smell of rotten eggs. Coupled with low murmurs and subdued buzzes, the town had gained a lurid atmosphere, a ghastly mood.
It was a cold night. A very cold night.
A changeling shivered.
Imperfect was his black chitin; his legs were tainted with holes, and so was his fin-like tail. The carapace on his back shone a somber blue under the moon, countless sparkles coming and going in his wings as they inched and arched to and fro. His pupilless eyes complemented his sharp fangs, and his pointed ears completed his look.
He would have been very menacing if he were not blubbering gibberish to himself while holding a bag of goods.
Thorax flew about in the abandoned village, passing by yet more fallen houses and stores, talking to no one around.
Half a minute elapsed, and he found himself in what used to be a marketplace. The trappings of it became evident upon his closer inspection: over there, almost at the start of it, were a few honeycombs with dried up honey lying on the filthy ground; over here, farther in, was an overturned apple stand, every apple also on the ground and dozens of them the food of an ant’s midnight snack along with his many companions; finally, at the other side of the market, was a desolate bargain shop, the shelves and displays ransacked with a scant number of products left.
Thorax flew out of the marketplace, traveling through more of the town.
A bakery stood alone in the middle of the village. It had a gingerbread-house feel to it—much of the roof was styled after actual gingerbread topped with frosting and sweet buttons, a cutout of a pony standing at the edge of the roof was holding up a candy cane, and the window fragments sticking out of the frames were pink. Actually, a good portion of the bakery was in pink: the flowers still persisting beside the steps to the entrance, the steps to the entrance themselves, the entrance itself, and the mailbox standing beside a hanging sign bearing a depiction of a pink cupcake.
Still lugging the bag on his strained back, he lifted himself up the steps and walked through the door.
Confronted by a blast of sugary scents.
Inside, several more changelings were running about, busy with carrying boxes to this or that place or manipulating ingredients into different sacks or just trashing the place and kicking down furniture and fixtures. Their features bore much resemblance to Thorax's: their frayed legs, their washed out eyes, their thin yet sturdy wings....
Around him were sweets of all kinds. Sure, they were moldy and inedible, but they were sweets. Muffins, cupcakes, cakes, pies, and, sitting on its own by a special table, was a fusion of a cake and a pie—a “cakepie”, as it was called by the sign posted next to it. These were being hauled into sacks which were then tied up by three changelings who just finished another set of them and proceeded to go out, carrying them over their shoulders and into the night.
“Something’s always not right with you, huh?” a brusque voice came out to him.
Thorax shivered, jumping up and into a distanced hover.
Yet another changeling came through the kitchen’s swiveling doors, putting on a purple-eyed grimace for Thorax.
“Late as usual,” Pharynx said, wagging his head at him. “But, there’s room for improvement, brother.”
Thorax took a step back, feeling his fangs with his hoof.
“Are you still unhappy?” Pharynx asked, going over the counter and trotting to him. “Haven’t you realized what we’ve accomplished over the past week?”
“Um, uh, y-yeah, b-b-but—“
“That rebellious scum, Zecora, is out of the picture! Her special heroes are gone, too—to be subject to either execution or food. Haven’t you heard?”
Thorax closed one of his eyes, turning away from him. “I-I was out of the loop. I had to come over when it was all done and—“
“That’s no excuse, even if you just arrived!” Pharynx yelled at him, placing a rough hoof on his brother’s nose. “Didn’t we drill the word ‘discipline’ into your puny head?!”
“It’s not puny—“
“Bah!” Pharynx exclaimed, swatting him on the face. “Who cares? If your head’s puny, we all have puny heads, and the puny heads are the winners.” Then, his lips curling into a slight smile: “In other news, Ocellus discovered something about this boring old ‘Cube Cornersugar’ or whatever it’s called.”
“It’s ‘Sugarcube Corner’, sir,” corrected a changeling stuffing his saddle bag with muffins from the counter.
Pharynx rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”
He placed his forehooves on Pharynx.
“Follow me. We’ve discovered an underground pony garrison in a hidden basement. Lots of things to loot, lots of confidential documents to give to the queen. They tried to burn it all down, but they were too slow to get even a tiny match on fire!”
Thorax caught air in his throat. “Am I g-good enough for—“
“You’re already pathetic enough as is,” Pharynx said, leading him by the hoof to the stairs. “You might as well jump straight ahead to something important for once.”
“Agh!”
The two brothers crashed to the stony floor.
Thorax, rubbing his head, struggled to get up, his legs wobbling and reeling from the pain.
Pharynx flapped his wings and hovered over the ground, looking at the long slide behind him. “Kind of childish, but it worked for them.”
And Thorax took it all in, smelling the same sugary scent in here as well.
Hanging from the rough cave ceiling were incandescent lights on ropes, the bulbs swaying with the least breeze. Carved into the walls were stone shelves, standing by those shelves were tall office-like cabinets and lockers—all now opened and under search by a team of changelings rummaging these spaces, examining objects and scanning papers and other kinds of communications. The end of the cave housed ten beds, all in good condition and complete with pillows; peeking out from one of the pillows was a mini-fridge with its door swayed open, revealing several plastic jugs of ice water inside.
The whispers reverberated, bounced around the walls, echoing into strange yet familiar forms inside his head.
“It’s about time you met one of the tops in this department,” Pharynx said, slapping his brother on the shoulder as he further led him to a changeling speedreading a stapled stack of paper. He motioned to her. “Ocellus, meet the brother I talked about earlier: Thorax.”
The changeling raised her head from the job before her and whirled it round to see him. A greenish tint was in her eyes, and a pink smidge was on the reflections of her wings.
Thorax gulped, holding out his hoof to hers. “Uh, nice to meet you.”
Ocellus smiled, shaking his hoof. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, too, Thorax. I’ve heard stories about you.”
Pharynx chuckled.
Thorax gulped again, cringing from the hoofshake. “Uh, why, yes! They were stories that were...true. Oh, and I also heard stories about you! Quite the, um, espionager!” which he finished with a swing of his forehoof.
Pharynx then smacked his own face with his own hoof. "No one says 'espionager'. It's not a real word!"
Ocellus giggled, putting down her papers and still facing Thorax. “I really don’t like flattery, but, I guess it’s not flattery if it is true.”
Pharynx glanced at her. “Ocellus, anything new? Substantial? Enough to discover secret plans?”
Ocellus nodded, picking up a loose sheet of paper and holding it up to the unstable light of swaying bulbs overhead. “This one had Vice Leader Fluttershy warning all the outposts South of Ponyville to change their locations immediately. I did a bit of deciphering and decrypting, but I wrote it all on the back.”
She hoofed the paper to Pharynx.
On the front were symbols. Some were simple shapes like squares, triangles and arrows. Others were complex not unlike a mishmash of patterns and punctuation marks. Still others were random groups of numbers—ordinary numbers, negative numbers, fractions, decimals, ratios, even real numbers outside of those categories.
Pharynx flipped it to the back.
On the back were written these words:
Approaching. 3 days don’t hear, move. Apple, ignore back-up and switch to high. Ready to support McIn. Dge, maneuver Hayseed and ignore back-up; try HorBay. Rockville, GorGal until end. McIn, stand ground, fortify. ColCur, if McIn goes, follow back-up. DaiCut, supply hub. Thbd, supply hub. HarKee, if prev. two go, back-up.
“Basically,” Ocellus continued, pointing at the paper and getting herself near the unusual letter, “Appleloosa’s going to move into the mountains nearby, discarding whatever back-up plan they have. They’re also supposed to coordinate with the McIntosh guys at the Hills. Dodge City will try to get to Horseshoe Bay through Hayseed Swamp.”
Pharynx grinned. “Right in our path! Then again, it was mostly obvious.”
Ocellus frowned. “There’s apparently a base at Rockville, and it’s probably a site of importance, considering that it’s ordered to hide in nearby Galloping Gorge for an indefinite period of time. It may have key items of interest, so we should at least send a scouting party there.”
Pharynx laughed and tugged his brother with a hoof. “This is what we’re waiting for! First, Ponyville’s destroyed, and now this! We’ll feast on their love for eternity, enslaving them and—“
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Pharynx,” Ocellus interrupted. “I’m still not done.”
Pharynx sighed, surveying his other fellow changelings in the cave studying their own papers and tearing apart an assortment of things from the shelves and cabinets.
“Colossal Curve is another new base. They’re stationed approximately twenty miles South of McIntosh Hills. It’s also new in another sense—just started in the winter. It’s moderately vulnerable, judging by the fact that the other new bases after it—Daisy Cutter and ‘Thoroughbred’—are ordered to become supply hubs, perhaps headquarters after that. That means Curve might be sturdy, but not too sturdy.”
Pharynx rubbed his chin. “Then, what’s ‘HarKee’?”
“Hard Keeper is located almost at the edge of Bone Dry Desert, near the old railroad on the East side of the tracks." She paused. "It’s their last ditch effort. Once we capture them, there’s not much left except for the stragglers.” She shrugged her shoulders. “There will always be stragglers to intimidate.”
Pharynx smiled. “That is good!” Faced Thorax, still smiling. “See, brother? Everything’s going according to our queen’s plan. An easy victory for the changelings!”
He looked at his comrades around him. “Say it with me! Victory for the changelings!”
And all shouted, “Victory for the changelings!”, raising their hooves in the air before resuming with their work.
With Thorax covering his ears, tuning out the irritating shouts.
Thorax sat beside the clock tower.
It was an immense clock tower. Made up of bricks, it overshadowed him already under the night’s shade, darkened by a blanket of clouds. Below the huge bell which was being repaired by two more changelings—the rest of the squad up there serving as guards in their newly acquired timekeeping watchtower—the clock’s face resided.
The time was eleven o’ clock sharp.
No ringing of the bell.
Thorax sat on the hill, looking over derelict Ponyville with its crumbling structures, its browning and withering plants, and its utter lack of lights and of normal life. He could hear the incessant buzzing of his kind roaming there, some issuing orders and some receiving orders. He could see boxes, bags, and wagons being pulled to certain spots. He could see a platoon of changelings coming in from far off in the horizon.
He could hear the screams begging his friends to stop stealing love.
Thorax turned away from Ponyville, closing his eyes and gnashing his teeth.