Star Tracker swallowed a juicy bite of soft apple pie inside the main hall.
As dozens of ponies sat at the same table, munching on apple pies and apple fritters fresh from the fenced kitchen behind him. To his right was Press Release, to his left was Flash Sentry, both busy with their apple food.
“You don’t think we haven’t gotten it yet?” Tracker asked Press, taking a sip of his water.
Press shook her head, then downed half of her cider in one chug. “No, not yet. They still haven’t made a pie other than apple.”
“Are you complaining?” Flash asked, making some ponies turn their heads there.
“I hope not,” Press said, shaking her head and picking up a slice of pie. “Maybe when it’s over, I’ll be fine. It’s...” flinched a bit, “better when it’s over, when we’re all done with the changelings and we can make more delicious food.”
Braeburn raised his eyes at them, sitting miffed across the table. “I’m an Apple pony, so you better watch your words ‘round here!”
Tracker gulped, his throat clear of any food. “I-I’m sorry!”
“Not you, her!” Braeburn pointed at Press.
Tracker gulped again. “I’m sorry for her, too!”
A few laughed at that.
Flash patted him on the back. “Come on! You let her apologize!”
Tracker looked at him with an awkward grin. “O-OK…?”
Then, ignoring the apology Press was making to Braeburn, Tracker continued eating his pie.
Star Tracker sat on the bed, beside a window overlooking the overreaching desert.
Braeburn, rough green patterns now painted all over his face, locked the door.
Inside Wildflower’s bedroom, salve-wearing guards were posted on each corner, and there was an additional guard sitting on the bed with him. The shelves had been opened and emptied, all of them scrunched up in a pile of garbage under the table.
Braeburn sighed. He took the jar of salve from the table, rubbed some on one hoof. “Come ‘ere. We best make sure no one’s got to you earlier.”
Tracker rose from his bed and had the salve slathered on his face and on his hooves.
Braeburn arched his brow at the finished work of art—and work of security—he had done on this pony. “Nothing’s fishy ‘bout you. Guess you’re still nervous.”
Tracker nodded, visibly shaking as he stood. “Y-Yes, sir, I’m nervous, I think, but...who wouldn’t be? I could’ve died!”
Braeburn brought attention to the green markings on his own face. “Don’t you worry. I have it, so you don’t have to be afraid anymore. As long as I have this—" pointed to his face "—you know it’s the real me. Got it?”
Tracker nodded, moaning a bit and rubbing his cheek.
Braeburn took up a chair and sat down on it. “Sit straight on the bed. Make yourself comfy.”
Tracker did so, sitting beside another unfamiliar guard. The guard eyed him with a neutral expression, scrutinizing the features of this pony’s head.
“We’ve put off asking you and Press Release because you’ve arrived quite recently,” Braeburn said. “In fact, we’ll do this with her later this evenin’. Now, I don’t know what you had in Manehattan or in Panhandle, but, here,” motioned to the wooden floor beneath with a serious face, “we do surprise interrogations designed to catch changelins’ off guard. Only the best o’ the best could get past us, and we’re tryin’ to make it hard even for them.”
Tracker nodded, understanding everything so far.
“But, you’re a pony—surely, you are.”
“Then why am I here?” Tracker asked, a little miffed.
“’Cause we need you to tell us all the details 'bout what happened back on Sunday.”
Tracker nodded again, slightly hesitating. “You mean when I got here and there was a changeling running around?”
“That one.”
Tracker scratched his chin, pensive.
Braeburn leaned farther towards him. “I'll jog yer’ memory: What were you doing when you arrived here?”
Tracker coughed, covered it with a raised hoof. “I just followed the guards all the way to the house where you found the changeling. When we arrived, they were already shouting and panicking and...things like that.”
Braeburn raised his head, rested it on a lifted hoof. “Why were you lookin’ at the house while you’re leaving?”
“I was, uh, trying to get a look of the changeling inside,” Tracker said. Hesitated. “Curiosity.”
“I see. What did you do downstairs?”
“I-I went to sleep.”
Braeburn looked surprised. “Weren’t you worried about gettin’ caught if we lost?”
“It was one changeling,” Tracker replied.
Braeburn frowned, adjusted his wide-brimmed hat. “You must’ve come from a very lenient place. It’s good we discovered four changelins’ there, but...for a moment, I thought I was the only pony left when they started revealin’ themselves!”
Tracker sweated, shifted his eyes at those words.
“But, we’re more than ninety-percent sure they’re gone,” Braeburn went on, sounding more confident and slowly rising out of his chair. “At least, normally speakin’....”
“Nomrally speaking?”
Braeburn angled his lips, somewhat frustrated. “What if they’re switchin’ positions? What if they brainwashed those ponies to do their biddin’? They’ve already brainwashed the deep-seated ones out there—it’s only a matter o’ time before she teaches those methods to her minions an’ then…”
Caught himself. Checked himself.
“Sorry for botherin’ ya’,” Braeburn said, holding out a hoof to him. “It’s just...it ain’t what it used to be, an’ you know what I mean.”
Tracker nodded. “Yeah.”
“I don’t really know much about what you city folk used to do,” Braeburn said, “but I was livin’ the frontier life, the life of a true cowpony out there. Bracin’ the harsh climate, havin’ to live by whatever’s there—if you think it’s tough to live here now, then you’ve seen nothin’. I do remem’er the buffalos we used to have...Chief Thunderhooves was ‘specially kind after we made peace.”
Tracker nodded with him. “Yeah, me, too….”
The guard beside him stifled his own laughter. “Hey, Braeburn, looks like somepony’s sleepy!”
Braeburn laughed a bit as well. “It’s siesta so I can’t do anythin’ ‘bout it, but we still gotta do this.” Turning to Tracker: “Sorry for distractin’ you.”
Tracker smiled, brushing the offense off with a hoofwave. “It’s OK!”
Braeburn sighed, straightened himself up on his chair. “So, you woke up after. When did ya’ wake up?”
“Maybe an hour later,” Tracker said. “I didn’t keep track of the time. It was...Press Release who woke me up, treated me and one of the guards who went with us to some coffee. I went back to bed—“
“After drinking coffee?” Braeburn asked, incredulous.
“Why not?” Tracker said. “It’s a thing I do, but I couldn’t sleep even without the coffee, because Swift River was talking about his failed love life beside me.”
Braeburn chuckled. So did the guards though, keeping with their occupation, they kept it to themselves.
“Press woke me up again and we watched everything happen with the big circle of ponies there and the changeling. I lost sight of Press real quick, and then…a changeling took my place!”
Braeburn nodded, slower and sadder this time. “Silverstar could tell. One of the witnesses there saw you runnin’ to the hat shop, an’ when the sheriff went there...you know the rest.”
“Like the back of my hoof,” Tracker said, and blinked a few times at that.
“Where were you durin’ that time?” Braeburn asked. “Do you remember anything?”
Tracker gulped. “I...I don’t remember that much. He gave me a whack to the head, and it was blurry and weird….but, I remember coming to when they carried me back to bed to rest and Press told me it’s OK and...I slept. That was it for me.”
Braeburn narrowed his eyes at him. “Did you notice anythin’ suspicious since last time we asked you?”
Tracker shook his head. “I did my best to stay alert, but...I was scared. I didn’t want to think about it. I just wanted to survive and help out here, and if there was a changeling….”
Braeburn smiled. “That’s alright, there. As long as you’re here and we’re here, we’re gonna be fine.”
Tracker smiled back.
“So, nothing else?”
“Nothing else, sir.”
The both of them stood up from their chair and bed, shook hooves and patted each other on the back.
“You can go back now,” Braeburn said. “Tell Press Release an’ Swift River we’ll be interviewin' them last at seven.”
Tracker nodded, unlocked the door, and trotted out into the hallway.
Braeburn sighed and slumped down on the bed.
The guard beside him caught his head which was about to hit the bed's own head. “What’s wrong?”
Braeburn gave him a good glare. “That Star Tracker pony...he’s a bit off. Maybe he’s jus’ the anxious type.” Took off his hat. “Maybe he really is so scared an’ shocked that he doesn’t know what to say...like an amateur spy.” Paused, collecting his thoughts. “Didn’t they train him to have tough nerves an’ wits? Those Manehattan stallions are too soft with all their holdin’ on to whatever they could grab from their fancy high-rises!…and, I’m sure he’s a pony, not a changelin’. We got the salve and everythin’! The recipe, too!”
The guard arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t Bulk Shipment say something about fake salves?”
Braeburn looked at him square in the eye. “That’s still unbelievable. Even if they mem’rized the recipe, what’s that gonna do?”
“Disguise yourself so efficiently that you get past it?” the guard answered. “Make something that would go against it? Learn what it does and see what weaknesses it has?”
“But nopony except us took care of it, right?” Braeburn said, pointing to himself.
“Yeah, but what about the other copies of the recipe?”
Braeburn was quiet.
Then, he looked up.
Mouth trembling.
Grabbed the guard by the throat. “Did you catch the smell o’ it?!”
The rest of the guards aimed their spears at him, suspicious though not going forward a single inch.
With unbelievable calm and composure despite his constricted throat, the guard said, “It smelled the same! It’s horrible—“
“Did it look a little different?!” Braeburn asked, raising his voice even louder.
The guard shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
Braeburn shouted, and slammed the head of the bed with a strong hoof, causing some wooden splinters to fly off. “We need those sciency ponies to get the composition or whatever o’ it now! It can’t possibly work without the correct steps! And you!” Pointed at one of the corner guards. “Order ‘em to make a new batch o’ it now! Make sure the ingred’ents ar’ genuine, an’ if they’re not sure, send ‘em to the science ponies!”
The guard nodded. “Yes, sir.” He was off, opening the door and then leaving the room.
Braeburn stood up from his bed, breathing heavily and clutching his chest. He trotted to the window and saw the scorching desert there under the noonday sun. “They’re...they’re getting on to us, but I’ll not let Appleloosa be taken from us!”