Chrysalis was offering flowers to the young heir of the Star fortune (who was also a penguin, albeit one with a normal black-and-white coloring) when something banged loudly enough to startle her out of her daydream.
The morphine’s effectiveness had just begun to fade—small amounts of pain were beginning to slip through if she shifted, though they felt like no more than bruises. Still, she avoided moving to see what had made that noise. Certainly, if it was the Guard they’d be making rather more noise, and a burglar would be making less.
It was probably Bold Words, back from his trip to... wherever. He’d never mentioned his destination.
Speaking of Discord, Bold stumbled in through the bedroom door. His pack was full to bulging with glassware that clinked with every step. It was packed haphazardly—the morphine vials were quite visible to anypony giving more than a cursory glance to the stallion. How careless.
More disturbing, however, was the small spatter of blood on the bag. She had quite the eye for detail; it hadn’t quite dried, yet—it was fresh. Very fresh. Something had happened either on the way there or back.
Bold smiled loosely. “Hey, Chrissy,” he beamed, giving her a wide, lopsided smile. “Got some morphine!”
Had he just called her Chrissy?
He extracted a vial of the drug from his saddlebags, tossing the rest carelessly onto his bed. “Morphy-morph-morph-morphine,” he crooned, spinning the vial in his telekinetic grasp.
Something was wrong with the stallion, it was plain to see. But what? She’d never really dealt with sick or injured changelings—that wasn’t her job. The drones took care of casualties.
Her train of thought was interrupted painfully as the syringe darted in and planted itself in her flank, carelessly dispensing its medication and then flying to one wall, where it shattered in the corner. “There we go,” Bold cheered. He popped something into his mouth and swallowed.
Without warning, his horn lit and the bones in her legs began to heal themselves, at a rate that was incredibly fast. He hummed absentmindedly while he worked—though he didn’t seem to be paying attention, there weren’t any obvious errors with his work.
Almost visibly, with each healed break, he sagged a bit more, the energy leaching from him unhealthily quickly. After a dozen or so breaks, he stumbled, grabbing a paper bag from his saddlebags and removing the contents—some pills which seemed vaguely familiar to the changeling, though she couldn’t recall why. She’d seen them before, but... where?
Gulping a pill, he straightened, smile loosening again and eyes sparking. He finished with one leg and moved on to the next, moving faster and faster, with a third pill making its way down Bold’s gullet as he finished. He began to sing nonsense syllables, stringing them together without a care to rhythm or pitch. He seemed almost deliriously happy, off in his own little world.
The pain was much diminished, now—her broken carapace still ached, but since she hadn’t been moving for hours, it was a muted thing, pushed under by the morphine coursing through her veins. Her horn still throbbed, but all things considered, it was easy to ignore with the relief of shattered legs gone.
On the third break in her last leg (it was a disconcerting feeling, the bones mending with this speed—almost like worms were crawling around in her legs), he paused, eating another pill. He finished that fracture, but not five seconds later, before he could move on, he blinked a few times.
Bold Words smacked his lips, almost thoughtfully, and then his pupils dilated. Bloodshot eyes rolled upwards, and he collapsed senseless onto the carpet at her feet, twitching.
That wasn’t good. The pills—something in them was causing this. The symptoms were known to her—it looked like changeling venom, at least in its final stage.
Her stomach lurched unpleasantly as she suddenly remembered why those pills seemed familiar. She’d hoofed them out before—sold them, as a matter of fact.
Created a whole industry around them.
No wonder the symptoms looked so similar to changeling venom—it was.
Now, changeling “venom” wasn’t very poisonous, so it wasn’t proper to call it venom. Mostly, it made the victim more susceptible to manipulation by overwhelming inhibitions and misgivings with a blanket wave of contentment and joy. When collected from drone fangs and tongues (now that was a room that had always made Chrysalis want to snort, just a little, seeing all those drones licking and biting poles to drip venom into the pools below) and allowed to dry, it formed a powder with no taste and only slightly diminished effects.
It was terribly addictive.
Funnily enough, stupid equines (of which there were so many) thought it was great as a drug and went to some lengths to buy it voluntarily, which baffled her. Why would you buy something that impaired you? But buy it they did, and she’d seen a perfect opportunity to help her hive.
After all, its unique properties, imparted euphoria, and easy addiction made it a perfect drug if you were trying to build an empire off of it.
There were some side effects, she remembered, that had seemed great at the time. Now, however, they could prove disastrous.
Ignoring her creaking barrel, she levered herself upright—slowly. There was no need to hurry—the overdose lasted a quarter-hour.
But when Bold awoke, happy grin on his face (the effects tended to linger for hours) she demanded harshly, “How many times?
“How many times have you overdosed?”