October 15, 1000 ANM
It has been three days since Mi Amore Cadenza’s pink fluffy bunny chased me around the palace. Since then, I have come to a conclusion. It is not fit for a future empress to fear love something while her subjects do not. Therefore, I decided to inflict the terror of rabbits onto everypony I can, even if they are not of that peculiar pink type.
I perused the library for a few hours this morning, eventually coming across a film involving monstrous rabbits (a tautology, of course, but the emphasis is not feeble). I quickly seized it and fled to the Bat Cave, eager to inflict the bunnies on Micah Jayfill and her little friends.
“Behold!” I exclaimed upon reaching my destination, flourishing the film fantastically. “You have mocked me for the last time, my little prisoners! Now you will scream with horror at the evil that lurks in the heart of nature, or at least Discord’s attempt at imitating nature. ‘Tis called Night of the Lupus, and soon you shall all fall victim to—”
“Ah, I think it’s Lepus,” Micah Jayfill corrected me, looking far less anxious than I would have liked. “With an E, the letter E. Not Lupus.”
“It’s never Lupus,” Raven added helpfully, munching on an oversized sandwich.
I reexamined the packaging. “For once you are correct, commoners. But your attempt at intelligence will not save you from a close future of weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. I have it on good authority that the pink fluffy bunnies in this film are among the worst things you shall ever see!”
The pony and her automatons considered this. At length, Gem Torque provided a suitable reaction. “Oh no. Evil fake rabbits terrorizing the populace. It’s so edgy. Hold me, I’m scared.”
“That is the spirit!” I crowed. “Well done, you pig-like pariah. Now prepare yourselves, for the next two hours shall hold naught but amusement … for me, that is.”
Blueblood dutifully sent the film, though he turned to me as our prisoners scrambled to enter the tortuous theater. “Would I be right in guessing this is about the bunny incident?”
“No.” I considered his tone. “Well … perhaps.”
“Do you want to talk about it? I’m sure I can pull aside a servant for you to complain to.”
“A princess does not complain,” I sniffed, “no matter what little bursts of nonsense Mi Amore Cadenza indulges in. ‘I felt a disturbance!’ she will say, or else ‘Stop trying to take over Canterlot, Auntie Luna!’” I shook my head, and I reached out to idly toy with the lever holding back the nonexistent reticulated python. “And whining, of course, is already your expertise, so there is no reason to believe—”
“Mother, don’t touch that!”
It was too late. A wave of orange liquid burst out from behind the opened flaps, crashing down on us with a downpour that reeked of tang. I quickly found myself shivering from the onslaught, though Blueblood looked more irritated than anything else.
“Blueblood,” I said sweetly, looking at neither him nor the ankle-deep carbonated drink we were standing in as remnants dripped down on us like rain on a phoenix. “Tell me what we are marinated in.”
“The peasants call it orange soda, Mother.”
“How fitting. Now, can you tell me why we are marinated in it?”
“Well, there was a vein of the stuff flowing through the walls of these caves, so it seemed reasonable to redirect them to an area where they couldn’t do any harm.”
I looked at him. When he finally noticed this, I pointedly turned my gaze to the trapdoor ahead, then directed his attention to the lever.
“... I suppose I could’ve thought that out a little more thoroughly,” he remarked, looking faintly abashed.
“You certainly could have.” With a flash of my horn, the orange soda condensed into a sphere around his body, freezing him in place and only leaving his head visible. “I am not dense, changeling. Blueblood would certainly do something that would interfere with his appearance. Then again, the true Blueblood cannot employ earth pony magic, nor can he encounter a mess such as this without his head threatening to explode. Thus, it seems apparent that you were not completely concerned with maintaining the illusion.”
The changeling wearing Blueblood’s face smirked, not much fazed by its sudden entrapment. “Oh, darn. The jig is up.”
My lip curled, and I leaned in close. “What have you done with Blueblood?”
“Nothing.” It was so unbearably smug that I would not have been surprised if it was Chrysalis herself. “He’s probably in his room. I just wanted to see how long it would take you to notice."
I would not take its word for fact so simply. With another burst of magic, I teleported us to the mentioned location, and we were deposited swiftly into that corner of reality.
The real Blueblood jumped out of his plush armchair. “Mother!” he exclaimed, trying desperately to hide his book behind him. “Where did you come from? Why am I in a ball of orange soda?”
“‘Tis a member of those shapeshifters I was informing you about,” I said, appraising his choice of reading material. “It seems progress for the Dreamscape exodus is moving more rapidly than we had anticipated.”
The false Blueblood huffed, most likely at its inability to hold that secret above our heads. I could not hide my grin. Chrysalis may have been a sly devil, but was ultimately a creature of the realm I had once ruled. She could not hide anything from me for long. Nor can she presently, for those of my future readers who insist on technicality with temporal terminology.
“But there are more important matters to discuss!” I said, trotting over to my son with a firm hoof and a narrowed eye. “Why are you reading a supernatural romance?”
“Because it’s popular, of course! Why else?”
“I thought I raised you better than to read such nonsense.” I seized the offending novel and flipped through its pages; my eyebrow lifted at the same rate at which those pages moved. “As usual,” I scoffed. “A brooding ‘hero’ and a love interest who cannot feel her own lips. It is good to know that some things have not changed in the past thousand years.”
“That just means this could be great literature in the next thousand years!” he retorted, full of pride.
“That is falsehood.”
“You don’t know that!”
“On the contrary. I would confidently say that this is trash, but then I would be uttering a tautology.”
“Excuse me,” the changeling whined, drawing our attention from our literary debate. “Are you going to let me go anytime soon? I have better things to do than listen to you two bicker.”
I considered this. “I may do so. First you must tell us how matters have progressed with your people.”
The false Blueblood rolled its eyes. “They managed to harness enough power to send me ahead on a test mission, so clearly things have hit rock bottom. Don’t worry about me, though. I’m not about to blow our cover five seconds into this.” Its nostrils flared. “Now are you going to release me, or not?”
With a relenting flare of magic, the orange soda melted. I only realized that this was an unwise decision two seconds too late.
“Mother,” the real Blueblood said sweetly, now boasting a fresh new coat color. “Tell me what we are marinated in.”
“Your impersonator has already stated what this substance is, my son.”
“Can you tell me why we are marinated in it?”
There are instances in which I almost wish I had not banished Micah Jayfill. Currently I am in hiding, as Blueblood is sure to be sure the blame for this matter is thrown in my direction. The fact that I caused the mess in the first place is entirely beside the point.
Sister Dearest is looking for me. I can hear her hoofsteps, even from my safe location under the table. There is little doubt that she cannot find me. I must not let down my guard, however, even with the smallest of matters. When I escape, I must interrogate the changeling further, and then Blueblood and I might ev