//------------------------------// // Chapter 3 - If At First You Don't Succeed // Story: Changelings, Love and Lollipops // by Georg //------------------------------// Changelings, Love and Lollipops Chapter 3 If At First You Don’t Succeed “Here’s your milkshakes, girls.” The happy pink pony bounced three overflowing glasses to the three little ponies that he was starting to think of as jailors, each little pony looking at their ice cream with sparkling eyes that should have made him stagger back under a wave of positive emotions. Still nothing. Whatever portion of his changeling anatomy that felt and absorbed emotions had completely burned out in that disgusting pink bubble. He could not even slump in the chair due to the amount of ropes wrapped around his body that only left his eyes and mouth exposed. He had never really stopped to just breathe in the scents of a place without the emotional overtones flavoring the mix. Restricted to breathing through his mouth, it still smelled a lot like the bakery he had worked at during his Stalliongrad deployment, only without the dour undertones of hundreds of depressed grey ponies plodding through the Rushian winter snow. There had been so few little sparks of love and affection that long, cold winter that he had felt himself slipping into the same grey outlook that the rest of the customers seemed to inhabit all of the time, and the greyness was beginning to return now as he considered his fate. “And here’s your milkshake.” The pink pony dropped his ice-cream laden glass on the table directly in front of him with a crooked straw just barely out of reach of his lips, before flouncing back into the bakery kitchen. “Ah don’t think Pinkie Pie liked the way Mister Tolliver backed out on his Pinkie Promise,” said Apple Bloom. “I thought she was a Miss, not a Mister,” said Sweetie Belle with a thoughtful grip on her straw and an inquisitive look in his direction that made him shudder. “He broke a Pinkie Promise, so maybe he lied to the mayor about being a mare.” “Or she,” prompted Sweetie Belle. “Or both,” said Apple Bloom. “I’m a male,” he said, glaring at the milkshake just out of reach. “Honest.” “Liar!” The word filtered back from the bakery kitchen, flavored with a bitter spite that he could recognize despite the lack of his empathic sense. “You broke a Pinkie Promise!” After determining that the chair he was sitting on did not scoot forward when he tried to hop, and that he could not even muster a small spark of magic to scoot the milkshake to him, he slumped in his bonds and tried the absolute last ditch ploy he could think of. “Look, girls. I’m dying. It hurts all the way through my chest, my wings are in pain, and whatever you tied me up with makes my whole body itch. Just let me go so I can fly home and die in peace.” “Ah don’t trust him,” growled Apple Bloom. “Or her,” put in Sweetie Belle. “They could be like Snips’ pet lizard,” suggested Scootaloo. “It took Fluttershy to figure out if it was a colt or filly.” “Hello? Dying here.” “Ya mean changelings don’t have things like lizards?” asked Apple Bloom. “Rarity says it’s impolite to talk about the size of a stallion’s thing,” said Sweetie Belle in a most authoritative voice. “Or a mare’s… private places, except among other proper mares, with tea and biscuits. Besides, colt lizards do have things, they’re just hidden. And little.” Three sets of inquisitive eyes looked at him, and he found himself blushing despite his circumstances, which was made only worse when he blurted out, “I do too have a thing.” “What would a cutie mark for Changeling Gender Inspection even look like?” mused Apple Bloom, slurping down the last of her milkshake. “A thing, probably,” said Sweetie Belle as she pushed her empty milkshake glass to the center of the table. “Ewww!” protested Scootaloo, having finished her milkshake some time ago. “Gross!” “I’m really thirsty. Maybe if you could just push the milkshake a little closer.” “We’re gonna to have to find somethin’ different to get our cutie marks in. Other than things,” added Apple Bloom. “Just a little nudge. I just need to reach the straw.” “He did say he was hurt.” “Or she.” “A little ice cream might help. A little bump in this direction?” “Well, we ain’t gonna fix he, she, or it up by ourselves, not after what Twilight made us promise the last time.” “I still say Twilight’s ankle was sprained. And we have all those extra bandages left over after wrapping it.” Three sets of little eyes looked in his direction. Three sets of little minds contemplated his situation. One carefully watched changeling tried not to smile at the thought of being taken to the hospital, where it would be easy to slip out of a window once the infernal ropes had been removed. Again. ~ ~ ~ * ~ ~ ~ It was not a hospital. It looked more like a refuge for wounded animals. An earth pony styled house, filled with little curious creatures staring down at him from the safety of their perches and nests, without a single easily-deceived nurse in sight. His little bugnappers had even left the milkshake behind. If his nose and stomach did not hurt so much, and his wings, and his torso, and everyplace where that blasted rope touched did not itch so much, he might have considered a protest. The very large and very grumpy bear standing just a wingspan away contributed to his decision. “Fluttershy, please? He says he’s hurt bad.” “Or she.” “And he’s not a pony, so that makes him a wounded creature.” “Or her.” “Sweetie Belle, will you stop that?” The barricade of furniture in the middle of the room shifted slightly and he could just make out the smallest hint of horrible pink from the top of a mane that poked out from above the couch. “He’s really, really, really hurt?” “Or she.” Picking up his prompt, and deciding on a much more natural male voice this time, he coughed once before responding. It was a wet cough, formed from years of experience with emotional manipulation. You had to be careful not to put too much phlegm into a cough for fear of making the target withdraw in fear, but it had to sound like it came deep from the lungs in a noise that only close mothering under the covers and lots of soup would cure. “I’m dying.” “Oh, you poor dear!” This time the pony behind the couch came almost halfway over the top, looking so worried that for a moment, he did not recognize her. And then he remembered the name. Fluttershy. The Fluttershy. The Terror of the Everfree Forest, Curse of the Cockatrice, Bane of the Basilisk and the Doom of Dragons. It was whispered among the cells of the hive that she had once defeated a giant dragon with nothing more than a look and a disapproving word. It was her presence that had Ponyville labelled as a double-proscribed town, forbidden to all changelings under penalty of dismemberment and death. And she had a pink mane, too. It was all he could do to keep from peeing or moulting in terror as she finished coming over the couch and touched his ropes with one gentle hoof. “I can’t treat him if he’s all tied up.” “Or her.” “Don’t let him out,” protested Apple Bloom. “He’ll just try and get away again.” “Yeah!” added Scootaloo. “We caught him fair and square. The mayor gave us each a milkshake for the reward.” “Now girls. I’m sure that if he, or she, promises very very much, it will be just fine to get him or her out of the ropes.” Turning those dangerous teal eyes in his direction, she smiled just a little bit, making him whimper in fear and blurt out a response. “Crossmyheartandhopetoflysticktwocupcakesinmyeyes?” It was, he considered, a very useful phrase. The terrifying pegasus seemed to relax somewhat, and even made the three little ponies help unwrap the ropes from around his body, although Sweetie Belle only seemed to be interested in getting a quick look underneath. Even the bear backed up a little, moving close to the only door out of the animal-choked cottage and leaving The Fluttershy enough room to carefully examine his injuries. He tried not to look at the open window. Step One: Gain their confidence Check. Step Two: Setup He grunted and winced in the appropriate places as Fluttershy poked and prodded, feeling a little like an injured puppy instead of a proud changeling, although he did eat the tasty little treat she slipped him after the examination, with brief mourning for the ice cream still sitting on the table in Sugarcube Corner. The words ‘cracked’ and ‘sprained’ came up a lot more often than ‘broken and ‘shattered’ like he had expected, but she seemed pleased with his physical healing progress so far, with one welcome exception. She absolutely refused the three little ponies’ politely worded requests to check if he had a ‘thing.’ His confetti-packed sinuses seemed less of a concern to her than the reddish tint to his soft chitin in places that she had examined with great caution and gentle touch, eventually declaring the possibility that it could be a fungal infection much like the termites in the house got at times, and that a good scrubby bath with some herbs from Zecora would make it all better. When she turned to open a cabinet, and while the three little ponies were playing with a puppy, he saw his chance. Step Three: Escape! This time he did not call out or telegraph his intentions in any regard. One moment he was sitting quietly on the rug in the middle of the floor, trying to ignore the powerful scent of an unknown number of mostly housebroken animals that somehow managed to leak through the thick plug of confetti in his nose. The next moment he was in full flight out the open window, curving his ascent past a fluffy cloud with a number of colorful balloons concealed behind it. Balloons attached to a familiar pink pony. And her cannon. ♥ ☆ ☄ ★ ☆ ♥ The first thing he felt as the darkness slowly receded was his nose. Or at least the absence of it. There had to have been such an enormous amount of heavy confetti rammed into his poor nose that if he were dropped into a lake, he would be weighted so that only his tail would stick out of the water. Pressure from his plugged sinuses made his nose numb, his head hammer, his ears ring, and some sort of echo of laughter bounce around inside his skull. Or maybe it was just having a cannon explode in his face for the — well, however many times it had been cannoned today. He was pretty sure it wasn’t even noon yet. The firm pressure of ropes all around his torso again was getting to be a familiar comfort. As long as the ropes were there, no cannons exploded in his face. The equation was simple. Ropes = No Cannon Ropes = Good After a few deep breaths, the ringing in his ears had subsided enough to hear the joyful chuckles and splashes of small ponies at play in a bathtub, so with considerable trepidation, he opened his eyes a crack to take a peek. And closed them. There was entirely too much pink in the room. The walls were pink. The rug in front of the bathtub was pink. The bubbles in the bathtub were pink. And the pony with the scrub brush in her mouth, vigorously scrubbing three little ponies, was, of course, pink. Pinkie Pie + Fluttershy + Ponyville... Oh, eggshells. The hive is going to force-feed me love just to keep me alive during the dismemberment process. Getting eaten by a bear is sounding better all the time. Of course, there was a lot of rope between him and that goal. Again. He opened his eyes just a crack and looked around. One door. No windows. At least they had not noticed he was awake yet. One pink leg trembled, one bushy magenta tail twitched, and Pinkie Pie turned to look straight into his eyes. “Whoopsie, Mister Liar Liar is awakies.” The little white unicorn gave out a startled ‘Eep!’ and ducked back under the suds. “Rarity says it’s not proper for a gentlecolt to see a young lady in the tub,” she gurgled. “I thought he was supposed to be a she,” said Scootaloo. “Well, there’s only one way to find out for sure,” said Pinkie Pie. Five minutes later… He was getting used to indignity by now, but being taken into another room and examined in great detail before being dragged back into the bathroom and propped up with a pillowcase stuck over his head so he could not see the ‘naked’ fillies in the tub was a new one. “He lied about being a mare,” grumbled Pinkie Pie, apparently using the brush again from the vigorous scrubbing sounds that ensured. It took longer than he expected for the three little fillies to finish their bath, get toweled off, and gallop downstairs with the promise of cupcakes, but as the sounds of wet towels being tossed in the hamper quit, the pillowcase over his head was whisked away and all he could see again was pink. And amazingly blue eyes. “All right, Mister Liarpants. I’ve got the tubbie all filled with Zecora’s fungicothingie herbs and bubble bath for you. Fluttershy said you need to scrub everything on you to make sure none of the pink fungus remains, although why it’s called a fungus is beyond me if you have to scrub it off. I mean wouldn’t it make more sense for it to be called a notfun-gus?” “Um. Yes?” “Good!” Powerful earth pony legs lifted, there was that brief moment where he could see his death by drowning approaching, and then he could see nothing but water. Water with pink suds. Wrapped up as he was, there was no way to get his nose above water to take a breath. That devilish brush descended into the soapy water repeatedly, jabbing painfully into his healing thin chitin and bouncing him along the bottom of the tub while its wielder was actually singing about the scrubbieness and tubbiness of it all. It was obvious now. She intended on drowning him. While singing. He tried to fight, but that brush plunged down whenever he managed to get a quick gasp of air and rolled him over and over amidst the bubbles. Finally he managed to get just the end of his nose above the suds, and the hydraulic pressure of all the water he had breathed in exploded. Confetti went everywhere, mixed with snot and unmentionable goo that he could have sworn was brain tissue. Every liberated sinus cavity in his head burned with unnatural fire as he coughed and spluttered for air, only catching a glimpse of where most of the confetti had gone after taking one deep breath of blessed oxygen. Pinkie fairly dripped with the sparkly ammunition for her cursed cannon, with a huge glob of multicolored confetti oozing slowly down her face and mane, pausing on the end of her nose, and plopping onto the floor with a disgusting noise. Narrowed blue eyes regarded him with a fierce glare, and as he raised both hooves to his head to try to hold back his burning sinuses, he realized something wonderful. The ropes had come loose. * * * It said something for Sugarcube Corner that a dripping wet changeling bursting out of the back stairwell and pelting through the customers scattered around the floor was not the strangest thing that had happened there. Although it did place fairly high on the list. The changeling leapt tables, darted between customers, and snatched one muffin right out of the air to eat it in a single bite. With a single hop over the counter and a quick grab for a juice box, he yanked open the front door and dashed outside. There was a fairly substantial silence. Then the stentorian bellow of a party cannon with a double-load of Maximum Power Pink confetti sounded, and the limp changeling came hurtling back into the store.