//------------------------------// // Chapter Twelve 【Twilight】 // Story: A Sparkle-ling Perfection // by Cast-Iron Caryatid //------------------------------// Making sure that I’m seen leaving the house is more luck than anything. Oh, sure, I can be conspicuous, wave at anypony I see and so on, but I can’t ensure that there’s anypony present to see me to begin with, nor that anypony who does see me will actually pass on the information in any relevant, meaningful way. It’s lunchtime, so there are a few ponies around, but not a whole lot since this is a residential district. Nevertheless, I do my best and head back in the direction of the school in order to increase my chances of being seen by somepony there. Along the way, I distract myself by filling Shimmering Armor and the hive mind in on the specifics of what Moon Dancer said to me and listen in on the resulting conversation. I don’t quite agree that Sunset Shimmer should be the one to befriend Moon Dancer, as I could obviously do a better job, but I am overruled, and I can’t really argue the logic behind it. As it is, my research will be crippled by my need to masquerade as Moon Dancer until she comes out of the new chrysalis they’re going to be building, but hopefully it will be worth it in the long run. I’m tempted to request some time in Sunset Shimmer’s neurospast just to make sure things don’t go badly in my absence, though I suppose I can always spend what spare time I have in the hive mind putting together some prospective genetic combinations instead. Unfortunately, I can’t go into that now as the events happening at home continue to hold my attention—particularly when Night Light gets a little heavy-hoofed in handling Sunset Shimmer. A great deal of the hive mind is mildly disapproving of that, though it looks like he’s going to get away with it until he goes and tells her about it like an idiot. My casual trot slows to a halt and I end up just standing in the middle of the street, gaping at him over the link—and I’m not the only one. A feeling of dread comes over me when I realize that the Queen is one of the changelings so reacting, and she was already on her way to the house to deliver the egg we need for Moon Dancer. My face aches in sympathetic pain while I consider how to ensure that I don’t have to go home until she’s gone. The multi-layered irony of being struck on the back of the head at exactly that moment does not escape me, though consciousness does. I wake to a feeling like my head being split in two. I buzzing swear, the amount of head trauma I’ve been suffering lately is becoming a real problem. Oh, and I guess I’ve been foalnapped, so there’s that, too. Who would’ve guessed that Moon Dancer’s concerns were actually justified? I mean, aside from when we did it; that obviously doesn’t count. Fighting the ache in my head in order to look around, I find myself tied to what seems to be the face of a heavy old work table that’s been tipped over on its side and immediately take two stars off my rating of this foalnapping, plus another one for not having anypony here when I wake up. The rope, too, is rough and frayed; it’s definitely been left out in the elements and not done well for it, so probably raw hemp rope that’s been misused or neglected. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not hostage-grade, though I suppose I’ve already docked enough points for using cheap materials. The room isn’t much better, appearing to be an unfinished basement that had at one point been used for canning. There’s an old, wood-burning stove-and-furnace in one corner, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of filthy glass jars filled with murky, unappealing slop, many of which are cracked and rotting. As someling who takes pride in her basement lab, I’m offended on principle. In fact, the very next time I have the opportunity, I’m going to replace those splintered old stairs that Sunset Shimmer has been whining about just so my basement has nothing in common with this travesty. Even the walls of this place have mortar falling out of the cracks, and the less said about the rock and dirt floor, the better. It’s great and all that my foalnappers were at least competent enough to avoid putting me in a room with windows, but I could probably dig my way out of this place in a single night. The hive mind reminds me that ponies are not natural diggers like changelings are. It also expresses no small amount of incredulity at my situation, having up till now simply assumed that I was ignoring it again. I dismiss the hive mind’s not-so-subtle reprimand as unimportant and return to considering said situation. For all that I could theoretically escape if I were to resort to utilizing my changeling abilities, nothing that I can do would allow me to escape quickly, which means that, loathe as I am to admit it, I… actually am in some danger here. Case in point, the heavy hoofsteps stomping around upstairs, approaching the door to the basement. The door opens with the kind of awful shrieking that’s ominous in horror stories but is really just a sign of the poor upkeep that the rest of the building shares, and I finally get a look at the kind of pony who has decided that it’s a good idea to assault a filly in broad daylight on the streets of Canterlot and drag her to a place as ill-kempt as this. Except it’s not a pony—it’s a donkey followed by a gryphon, which… explains a lot. It’s not racist if you’re a changeling, especially since they both reek of greed like sour plums. Entirely justified racial profiling aside, both of them are wearing cloaks, though they’re otherwise very different. The donkey comes off as someone who lives in places like this, whereas the gryphon seems more like the kind of person who robs places like this. I’m insulting both of them there, in case the hive mind’s sense of humor didn’t get that. Thankfully, I know exactly how Moon Dancer would react in this situation. “Please tell me this isn’t a cult,” I say before my captors can even get a word in. It’s rather convenient having a script to work from, though I think I won’t mention my ‘father’s’ money. No reason to distract them if they don’t know about it, and I’d really like to know why it is they foalnapped me in the first place; it could be valuable information to know so that we can apply it to our own foalnapping of Moon Dancer, if applicable. Apparently my flippancy catches them by surprise, since they seem quite offended. “A cult?!” the donkey shouts, nearly dropping the unlit butt of the cigar he’s chewing on, as if the idea of the donkey foalnapper wasn’t stereotypical enough already. “What in tartarus could possibly make you think this is a cult?” I cock my head at him in question, not quite certain if he’s being serious. I would motion at his everything with my hoof, but said hoof is tied up behind me. Instead, I make a show of looking him up and down. “Well, the ominous cloaks for one.” “‘Ominous?’” he repeats with a derisive scoff, looking himself over with a distaste like rancid oil. “You think this thing’s ominous? Phah, naïve little chit; though what else should I expect from Sky Dancer’s spoiled brat? Do you have any idea what it’s like walking down the streets of Canterlot as a donkey? Sure, the princesses talk big about equality, but a bare flank is a bare flank, and, well, on an adult that just makes ponies uncomfortable, don’t it?" “So you've foalnapped me in order to protest against the reception you get thanks to donkeys having a reputation as foalnappers?" I ask. “What?” he snaps, caught between anger and confusion. “No!” I give him a perplexed look just to rile him up. “Well, you shouldn't be wearing the uniform then, should you?” The amused smirk on the griffon's face, along with his generally more kempt appearance, gives me the impression that he's probably a bodyguard or mercenary—or just kind of an ass, but we've already established that the other one is the donkey of the two. I immediately regret sending that thought to the hive mind when it helpfully extrapolates the joke and changes my location from ‘dilapidated cellar’ to ‘filthy ass-hole.’ Toilet humor. Wonderful. Perhaps someday the hive mind will learn how to actually be funny. Thanks to the hive mind’s distraction, I miss whatever response the donkey yells at me before kicking me in my mother-buzzing face with an audible crack of bone. Buzzing… bucking… Erfernaflmargh. It's all that I can do to hold my disguise through the pain and keep myself from throwing up when I realize that with this final injury, part of my face is actually loose. As much as I hate to do it, I have to hand over control of most of myself to the hive mind just to try and wash out the experience of my cheekbone not doing its job via the excessive application of glorious, glorious hormones. I don't think that the donkey realizes exactly what he's done, since he seems to be continuing to monologue to me when I can barely think. I don't even try to follow his words, since the hive mind is listening in on my behalf anyway. It's little consolation to me that the hive mind seems inordinately pleased about whatever it's hearing, though I can at least rest assured that that is the only source of its pleasure. I am exceedingly popular in the hive mind and noling would even think of basking in the schadenfreude of my suffering. Soon enough, he finishes with his ranting and I feel the heavy table I'm tied to tilt back so he can get his smelly breath in my face. "I’ll put this real clear for you, princess. Tell me where to find the plans for Sky Dancer's unfinished airship if you want to live.” The hive mind has me tell him… something… and it doesn't even have to encourage my body to cry in order to sell the act. Whatever it is I tell him, he seems to believe it since the next thing that penetrates the haze of chemicals the hive mind is filling my head with is the sensation of being lifted up and tossed over the back of the griffon. Vexingly, they're just competent enough to blindfold and gag me without considering that it would be stealthier to simply toss me in a bag. Needless to say, I nearly grind my teeth to flattened nubs when they pull the dusty cloth tight against my broken face, even with the help of the hive mind dulling things. Just about the only consolation I have is the fact that, with the conversation over and me unable to see anything, the hive mind might as well just push me that much closer to blessed unconsciousness and spare me what it can. It's a difficult balancing act and not at all what the hive mind is made for. The hive mind is additive; it can't actually stop me from feeling physical sensations from my own body, so it has to resort to the biological reactions it can trigger. With me finally no more use than a bag of soggy potato chips, the almost dreamlike state it sends me into is a relief. Not that I appreciate the efforts of the hive mind or anything. Almost insensate to the outside world, I take the opportunity to review what I missed on account of the horrible, blinding pain. Blah blah blah donkey is an old assistant of the late Sky Dancer with an inflated opinion of his own contributions to the company before he was fired for his irreverent behavior and replaced with a hot piece of ass. No—seriously—he was actually replaced with another donkey who had two more degrees than him and was infinitely easier on the eyes of an older, married stallion. Now he thinks that if he can get his hooves on his old boss' unfinished plans, he can finish them and make a fortune selling them as his own. This, in spite of the fact that if he was actually capable of solving whatever issues Sky Dancer hadn’t at the time of his death, then he wouldn't need to steal anything to begin with. Well, that tells me absolutely nothing of value that I couldn't have guessed on my own. Really, I’d say nothing of value period—except, I guess, it does give us a better idea of what Moon Dancer's life must've been like before she was orphaned, so there is that, at least. Frankly, I'd rather know how exactly a set of missing keys from the school janitor resulted in the death of Sky Dancer, his wife and their oldest child, but apparently noling has been able to come up with an answer to that one. My love would be on it being cover-up for someass like my foalnapper assassinating him, except I can’t imagine Princess Celestia taking kindly to her ex-student being slandered like that, no matter how bad the terms they separated on were. The hive mind takes great pride in informing me just how wrong I am, since, apparently, the god-queen of ponies once had a sister who is now vilified in storybooks and legends. Wow. Just… wow. Note to self: never get on Princess Celestia's bad side, or she's likely to banish you and then slander you in the place that she banishes you to. Barely conscious as I am, I don't notice immediately when my foalnappers take me outside, though the slightly fresher smell of dirt and rock that replaces the musty fungal odors of the house are a sign. Mercifully, the hive mind takes the hint and resets my location to ‘unknown,’ signaling everyling available to look for me, though the percentage who just want a head start on coming up with the new insulting epithet for wherever I end up is a little rude. As certain as my rescue is, considering the hive mind knows where my foalnappers are taking me, waiting for it to happen is still incredibly dull. You'd think that the time would just fly by with me half-asleep, but the single sliver of consciousness I have left in my body is taken up by a sharp throbbing pain that has me counting every second and every bump. This would be so much simpler and more comfortable if donkeys could fly. There's no joke there; with the griffon carrying me, it's the donkey that is slowing us down. Forget travel time; if we were flying, the hive would have located us in an instant, but nooooo, buzzing slow-ass donkeys have to walk everywhere—and they never hurry, do they? I mean, have you ever seen a donkey running? That's also not a joke. I am entirely serious. I don't know why questioning the capabilities of donkeys always sounds like the setup of a joke. Bump—ow—bump—ow—bump—ow. I'm really, really tempted to borrow the eyes of someling who is searching for me, just to fill the time, but I'm afraid that in the condition I'm in, all I'd end up doing is emptying my stomach. Somehow, the hive mind hasn't yet solved the issue of motion sickness, which is kind of a problem given its additive nature. Really, the hive needs more changelings like me working on improving things. The hive mind insists that one of me at a time is more than enough. Bump—ow—bump—ow—CRASH—ow—ow—ow! Mother buzzing tartarus! Someling could've warned me over the hive mind that my rescue was imminent. Why yes, I am a hypocrite. I think we've established that. Unfortunately, the hive mind is just as surprised as I am, and therefore not responsible for my ending up in a ditch, though I can feel the anticipation of the insulting epithet committee waiting to turn my situation to their advantage just as soon as I get my blindfold off and find out where I am. Wait, what? Take my blindfold off? No sooner do I realize what the hive mind is implying than I start to come out of my enforced tranquilization, and with full consciousness comes pain and cursing. Lots and lots of cursing. To my never-ending gratefulness and relief, I don't actually have to struggle with my blindfold and gag since my magic is perfectly capable of cutting them free, though frankly, I'm not sure if removing them is actually an improvement for my injury. Who knew that having something to hold my face on would be beneficial? Buzzing tartarus, even blinking my eyes clear hurts like the queen's own hoof that started this whole mess, but eventually I'm able to make out the shape of the northwestern gate to Canterlot. I double check just to make sure, but the guards in golden armor pressing my struggling foalnappers into the dirt confirm that, yes, they were stupid enough to just walk up to the city with a bound and gagged foal on their backs. I have no words. Though I make no secret of my inability to comprehend the average non-changeling, I do not actually make a habit of disparaging their intelligence, but this… I am embarrassed to have been foalnapped by criminals of such extraordinary incompetence. All they had to do was take a single helpless filly into the business district and get jumped by changelings, but no, they had to walk right up to a bunch of royal guards and basically turn themselves in—which would be fine if they had just left me behind, but again, no, they had to bring me along and now I'm stuck getting processed into the system with an obvious, distinguishable injury. Buck, if I'd known this was going to happen, I would have gone back to my Twilight Sparkle disguise and claimed the idiots grabbed the wrong filly, since they apparently are that stupid—but now they're coming over to me and I’m… I'm… …What was I saying? Oh, I guess the hive mind is putting me to sleep so I don't have to talk to the nice white stallions in golden armor. You know what? Fine. Wake me up when this is all over. Zero-point-five stars.