Oh, Celestia. He was going to die here, Bold realized. There was nopony else around. They were all at work, or of the same caliber of pony as the two pointing weapons at his chest.
And he knew that ponies around here, if they went into crime, didn’t bother with pesky things like witnesses to get them caught. After all, there were plenty of places in the slums the guards would never look or even think about. Many of them were just the right size to stuff a stallion—or mare—into.
His knees grew shaky and he began to hyperventilate.
“Throw me your saddlebags,” the knife-wielding one snarled, taking a step forwards for emphasis.
Bold stammered, “There’s very-very fragile stuff in my bags—can I set it down and back away so you can get it and nothing breaks?”
“Boss?” The pistoleer hummed, then nodded.
“Sure.”
Bold set down his bags and hurriedly backed away. “There you go.” ‘Someone, please help me!’ he prayed as they checked his bags.
“Whoo, the boy here had some pretty strong stuff,” one whistled. “Look at all that morphine.”
“Nice.” The boss grinned. “Now to finish the job.”
‘Somepony, anypony, save me!’ he desperately pleaded as the pistol once again floated level with his head.
-----
Chrysalis took a sip from her teacup. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Star,” she said nicely, disguised as her maid. It was the same house she remembered; same dim lighting, same old curtains, and the same nauseously expensive dining set.
Only one thing was different, and that struck her as of being of no importance.
Mrs. Star was a magenta penguin.
“It’s no problem, dearie, with all the work you do around here,” the penguin quacked, a kindly old mare’s voice coming from its beak. “The least I can do is offer you some tea.”
The changeling’s reply was forestalled as something pricked at her senses. A drone was in trouble. It was spewing fear and trouble signals to her wavelength. She caught the feeling of impending doom.
For some reason, the connection was very weak and tenuous. It was like nothing she’d ever felt, but as the diningware complimented her manners, and the floors slowly began to change colors, she sent a burst of courage and reassurance to her drone, pushing it through the connection and forcing the connection back to something resembling full strength.
What a strange dream this was. Chrysalis was quite aware she was still lying on the stallion’s floor, terribly injured, and this was a drug-induced hallucination, but it felt nice.
Comfortable.
She had no intention of breaking the illusion anytime soon.
And being able to feel a drone again—that one was so close, even if it was imaginary and in trouble—made her irrationally happy. There were no more drones in real life, in the city she was in—only a gaping emptiness and pain.
So she smiled at the penguin and complimented, “This is a very nice tea set, Mrs. Star. Tell me, where did you get it from?”