“You’re awfully nervous, mister 1988,” says Hacksmith, spotting 1988 once again turning his head into the dimming shadows behind them.
“Yeah, well, after you get attacked by a worm-infested spawn of some dark womb that’s wearing the carapace of your species like a coat we’ll see how safe you feel out here in the open.”
“Eep!” 9999, once again riding on Hacksmith’s back, huddles closer to his neck.
“You completely forgot what I said before, did you?” asks 1988, giving 9999’s reaction a raised eyebrow.
“N-no…” 9999 gives up immediately after locking stares with the infiltrator, “Yes. Sorry, I was just so happy you were okay and still confused by not being able to speak… or think properly, too, for a while.”
“What was that about anyway?” asks Hacksmith.
“Internal workings of our species I’m not allowed to talk about without permission,” 1988 shoots him down immediately.
“Whose?”
“Anyone of high enough rank to give said permission.”
“Geez,” Hacksmith rolls his eyes, “Like when I was getting a zoning permit for that stupid greenhouse in my garden, just because it required plumbing.”
“What?” 1988 tilts his head in confusion.
“I’m not at liberty to divulge procedure information specific to internal employees of the zoning office of Stalliongrad,” the pony gives him a smug smirk, “See? That’s how you sound.”
9999 giggles, completely ignoring the dirty look from 1988.
“Look,” the infiltrator sighs, “Thanks for saving me and all, but our encounters with other species rarely go well because, you know, sharp teeth, glowing eyes, carapace, and most of us looking pretty much the same. This is a new set of circumstances forced on all of us, and until I know whom I can trust I’m going with years of shared experience screaming at me to avoid torches and pitchforks, okay?”
Hacksmith shrugs.
“It’s your call, horsebug lady.”
“You- I’m not-!” 9999’s snickering interrupts 1988’s irritated sputtering.
“Hey, this is a new set of circumstances and blah blah blah so I’m going to believe my eyes first and those eyes say that you’re the size of a mare, the general shape of a mare, and even the voice is a little too high-itched.”
“Is not!” objects 1988 indignantly, tone an octave higher. He immediately realizes that all he’s doing is giving Hacksmith even more ammo, “Hmph, fine, whatever.”
“Aww, just like my filly when she gets all huffy.”
“...ponies… grumble grumble… cocoon and suck them all dry… too good for them anyway… show you a filly...”
He completely misses Hacksmith whispering something into 9999’s ear. The drone scrunches its nose in an attempt to stop itself from snickering further and nods.
“You know, 1988, all that grumbling and scowling causes wrinkles.”
“I WILL SKULLFUCK YOUR SOUL’S ANUS AND FEED THE GAPING REMAINS TO ITS LARVAE!”
“...my everything suddenly hurts...”
“Swearing isn’t fitting for such a delicate lady, really,” the earth pony adds his two bits.
“Graaaah!” 1988’s eye twitches.
“Also, anal-tome-ally improbable,” 9999 crosses its forelegs on its chest.
“Wha-?” the nonsense stops 1988 like a brick to the face.
“Did you mean ‘anatomically impossible’?” Hacksmith’s brain hiccups as well.
“Yeah, that!” 9999 nods.
“...I’ll show you anatomically impossible… I’m a changeling… I eat anatomically impossible for breakfast...” 1988 resumes grumbling.
He stops only when 9999 carefully flies over onto his back and hugs him.
“Thanks for keeping an eye on me and making me able to think properly, 1988,” it says.
“...rassassafrasssss… too many sssssss... just 156’s orders...” mumbles the confused infiltrator, “...gonna choke you both later...”
“Didn’t think you’d take it that bad, chalk it up to cultural differences,” Hacksmith shakes his head, “Anyway, it would be a good idea to get it together and stop threatening us with pain since this is our first contact with your species. We’re almost at the camp.”
Chill runs down 1988’s spine when he realizes all this messing around completely distracted him from hearing the noise of bustling ponies coming from ahead.
Damn it, a mistake like this would have gotten me killed under any other circumstances. If not by ponies then later by any higher rank I’d be reporting to.
As soon as they clear the final line of trees blocking the view, 1988 starts examining the ‘camp’ in detail.
The central building - prefab, likely assembled on the spot from parts brought in during the initial phase of camp building. Hacksmith is leading us there, so it’s going to be the foreman’s office. The best source of information.
Lodgings surrounding its back in a C shape - old shipping containers filled with bunk beds and small furniture with “Central Stalliongrad Logging” painted on them. Same ones they use in Manehattan docks for cargo, just with added holes for air flow. Potential source of love-infused personal belongings. The entire camp seems to be set up for long-term living, months to a year, I’d guess, so there’s no way some of the ponies didn’t take important mementos with them.
Common eating area in front of the office - a long table with a tarp above it to protect anyone having a meal there from rain or snow. Probably useful for overhearing rumors but it’s unlikely to gain any relevant information. The ponies haven’t killed us on the spot so they don’t know about the invasion, which also means their contact with the outside world is limited at best.
Cleared-out area around - useful for anything that comes up. Some supply crates lying around, can’t see what’s in them from here. Two foals currently setting the common table, two stallions hauling dry wood towards a big fire pit filled with ash. Fresh ash, so a campfire must be a daily occasion.
A large deforested area north of the camp - logs are lying everywhere, so that must be storage for processed lumber and an access route for carts.
Ponies are now staring and pointing. Resist the urge to shapeshift and run. Don’t attract any unnecessary attention, the basics of infiltration.
Resiiiist…
RESIST THE URGE TO PUNCH 9999 WAVING AT THEM IN THE FACE!
I swear that if that drone gets me killed I’m haunting it. I didn’t survive a giant explosion turning my love reserves into acid while being launched like a rock with my wings nearly burned off for freaking hours to die here.
On the other hole, it’s not as if it’s their fault that they can’t understand the danger they’re in. They only know what those in charge let them.
Stopping in front of the office for a brief moment, 1988 takes a long breath and braces himself against the stares from ponies all over the camp who dropped everything they’ve been doing.
“What in Celestia’s name is that?” asks a dark green unicorn with brown mane wearing a pair of spectacles sitting behind a desk under the only electric light inside the portable building.
“Hi!” 9999 smiles at him.
“9999, let me do the talking. This is important,” 1988 spares the energy for a short hive link connection.
“Okay!” replies 9999 and the link closes.
“One of two reasons why I’m not still out there helping Uproot,” Hacksmith looks around, “Wait, where’s-”
1988 finally wins over his fear, experience, and common sense, and enters the office as well.
“-ah, there he is. Sawtooth, these are some new species of ponies that live in these woods or something. If we don’t want a repeat of what happened with those silent fireball ponies in the east, you might want to listen to them. Don’t want another indigenous tribe incident on our hooves.”
“Got it,” Sawtooth nods and looks at 1988, “Do they speak ponish or was that ‘hi’ just an accident?”
“We do,” replies 1988, nodding, “I’m 1988 and that guy is 9999. The numbers are a cultural thing.”
“Phew, that makes things a lot easier. So, what brings you to our camp?”
Okay, 1988, think up a fake story, then don’t forget to synchronize with others if it works. Useful hooks? Indigenous ponies, unwillingness to open hostilities. Topics to be wary of? Anything that would contradict what 9999 told Hacksmith.
Quick re-sync with 9999 regarding what happened while I was out… aaand done.
“We were curious about what was going on around here,” says 1988, “We don’t have good experiences with ponies. You find us rather scary,” he opens his mouth to show teeth.
“Is this your land? The logging permit CSL got from Stalliongrad didn’t mention any risk of us disturbing any natives.”
“Oh, no no no,” 1988 shakes his head, “We’re currently travelling around Equestria, looking for a place to settle for some time before our… our religious beliefs have us head back home.”
“Ooooh,” Sawtooth nods knowingly, “You’re on a pilgrimage. Like that Seven Graces thing that griffons do. Oof, that saves me so much paperwork you wouldn’t believe.”
“We haven’t met anything you call a griffon but otherwise yes,” 1988 nods.
Feigning at least partial ignorance will make things easier in the long term and allow for mistakes and misunderstandings the drones are bound to cause.
“Then let me assure you that you have nothing to fear from us. We’re only here to chop wood into pieces, not any other creatures. If your pilgrimage takes you through this area, I’ll inform the staff to avoid your kind and not cause any trouble.”
“Well, you see,” 1988 scratches his head, “It’s not that simple.”
“How come?” Sawtooth narrows his eyes in expectation of more paperwork he thought he avoided.
“You, uhh, kind of set up your camp... on one of our holy sites. We must spend some time praying to the old… quee- spirits.”
“Oh dear,” Sawtooth sighs, “Right here, really?”
“Well, not exactly here-”
1988 points downwards at the floor with a laugh.
Crap crap crap! What would be a good place for observation without being observed?
“-but it’s where you got all that lumber ready for transport.”
“That’s not good,” Sawtooth frowns, “We can’t move all that without stopping the logging operations. We’re on a tight schedule as is.”
“No no, that’s not a problem. If you don’t mind, we could just settle down on the south edge of your camp for a few days and pass through to get to our holy place. It would save us the time to clear out our own campsite. We’re just a little… paranoid about the torches and pitchforks thing.”
“Hmmm… this area is company property now, and I’m not sure I have the authority to allow this or share any supplies. I’d have to send a courier north to send a telegram to Stalliongrad-”
Contact with the outside world. Avoid!
“We could help you with your logging,” offers 1988, “There’s roughly thirty of us and, after two weeks of walking, it’s not as if we wouldn’t welcome a change of pace. I’d have to consult this with someone in charge but I doubt that would be a problem.”
An infiltrator like 1988 can clearly see the gears in Sawtooth’s head start turning.
Free labor, buddy. You know you want it.
“Hmmm, okay. How long?” says Sawtooth after some though.
Religious bullshit lets you get away with anything, really.
“Unless we get a sign that tells us otherwise, only a week at most.”
“Then we have a deal,” Sawtooth stands up from his desk and offers a hoof which 1988 shakes with a smile, “We let you use the safety of our camp and you help us with our logging in some small capacity which we’ll discuss once your superiors arrive.”
“Perfect,”1988 smiles, “We’ll go get-” he freezes, “You know what? Would you mind if 9999 and I stayed here tonight and went to get the others tomorrow? I’d prefer not to wander around in the dark and get lost.”
“I don’t see a problem with that, although I can’t offer you anything to eat or drink, and I can’t help noticing you’re not carrying anything with you.”
“Pre-meditation fasting,” replies 1988 immediately, “Don’t worry about us, we’ll find a place for the rest to settle. The carapace makes it easy to sleep on the ground,” he smiles, “Though it would help if you could spare a piece of tarp or something in case it rains.”
“I think I can find something for you,” he looks at the orange glow outside, “For now, feel free to join us at the campfire. Hacksmith, explain their situation to the others, will you?”
“Sure thing, boss,”
“Yay, no setting fire to us!” cheers 9999.
So, Sawtooth will doubtlessly want to hear Hacksmith’s version of events, which means he will likely hear about the thing that attacked me. So far, though, I can’t see any holes in our story which would pose a threat. Unless someone arrives from civilization with news about changelings. Seriously, it’s been three weeks, how often do these guys receive mail?
Gonna have to keep an eye on that, but tomorrow that’s gonna be 156’s problem, not mine.
Infiltration successful.