//------------------------------// // Queen Chrysalis Is Disguised As Your Bed (Estee) // Story: Fimfic Authors Are In Your Bed // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// Queen Chrysalis Is Disguised As Your Bed Estee Meanwhile, in a bedroom somewhere else: Everything looks normal from here.  The laundry basket is just where it should be.  Everything which was on the dresser at the last departure remains so, meaning the perpetual state of supposed disorganization which makes perfect sense while still somehow terminally offending anyone else who manages to look at it for more than five seconds -- well, it's perfectly intact.  The lamp still has the shade somewhat askew to the right.  The remote, if the Mute button is pressed down with all the force it's possible to muster and held that way for thirty nail-breaking seconds, may cause the television to experience a three percent drop in volume. Perfectly normal. But that's been a lie before. Nothing in the closet. Nothing in the bathroom. Under the bed...  well, nothing should fit under the bed (or rather, nothing else).  Or at least hasn't so far.  Still, there doesn't seem to be much need to look, if only because if everything is truly normal, it means confronting everything which would generally be under the bed. But the fact remains...  before the most recent entrance, there were sounds.  A startled gasp.  Scrambling noises, as if hooves were scrabbling for purchase on an unexpected surface, and that sound had an oddly-hollow ring to it.  And then, once the approaching footsteps were possibly detected -- silence. Maybe it's just paranoia.  After all, there's no reason to expect anything unusual, at least after discounting the reams of prior experience.   Still -- everything looks normal.  Which could mean that if anything else happened, it's already left. So the next step is clearly to shrug, put another checkmark in the 'paranoia' column, and sit down on the bed. This goes fairly well.  At least, after factoring out the sudden rough feel of chitin against skin, the outraged scream, and the pointy bit.  Especially the pointy bit.  The pointy bit shall not be discussed at this time, nor will the location of impact.  Or 'insertion'.  There's a word no one's going to be dealing with any time soon, and possibly ever. Jumping occurs, of the sound-propelled variety,  An unbiased and rather cruel observer might have likened the noise to something produced by a goose. Eventually, after many attempts to avoid rubbing, some level of stability occurs.   "All right.  What are you?" The bed, resting altogether too silently in a position which might be slightly off from the standard, somehow gives off the impression of thinking it over, and rather quickly. "I'm a magical talking bed," says the magical talking bed. "Really."  The word pulls most of the moisture out of the air. "Yes," the bed haughtily declares.  "That is absolutely what I am.  And furthermore, I resent your questioning me on this, especially when the proof is right in front of you." "And...  that proof is?" "Do normal beds talk?" "No."  That much certainly has to be admitted, if only for the sake of potentially-dwindling sanity.. "Well, there you go," the bed smugly replies, thoroughly satisfied with itself.  "If I happened to be a normal bed, clearly I wouldn't be talking.  And since I am, my speech must be produced by magic.  Therefore, I am a magical talking bed, and I'm not the least bit ashamed to say so." "Really."  The word repetition is now solely responsible for drought conditions in California. Silence descends, then hangs around for longer than anyone's strictly comfortable with. "And clearly," the bed imperiously adds, mostly to break up the very uncomfortable extended silence, "I am in no way a changeling queen who found herself in a completely unexpected situation that was, and I can't emphasize this enough, in no way her fault." "...because?"  Got to hear this one, right? "Because," the bed states with careful logic, "if I was a changeling, it would have been in my best interests to stay completely silent when you tried to sit on me.  In order to keep up the masquerade, correct?  No truly intelligent strategic planner and supreme leader of all she surveys would have given herself away on sound, no matter how unwelcome the impact.  Absolute quiet, that's the way.  But I?  Felt completely free to react, which in turn must indicate that I, as a completely innocent magical talking bed who has nothing to do with changelings at all other than having heard some very flattering stories about them once, all of which were incidentally almost criminally understated..." The bed seems to become aware that it's being waited out, indicating this realization with a slight shifting of pillowcases. "Anyway," the bed regally concludes, "a perfectly-trained royal changeling would have stayed quiet.  But I, as a magical talking bed, have nothing to hide, and therefore felt free to speak openly.  As you can plainly see.  And hear." "Right..." "I just thought I should clear that up immediately," the bed says.  "In case you have any doubts.  Which you shouldn't.  Because magical talking beds never lie.  That's a well-known fact, at least for those who know anything about magical talking beds."  With a rush of relief, "Therefore, any doubts you might somehow still possess are entirely your fault!" The bed slowly realizes this may not be entirely diplomatic, as seen in a minor rearrangement of the off-seeming ruffle. "Or..." the bed generously offers, "...perhaps your school simply didn't offer the proper courses while discouraging independent study?" "Maybe."  That much certainly has to be conceded. "I don't know what kind of standards they have in schools these days," the bed frustratedly declares.     "Me neither." "It's as if no one can be bothered to sing a proper learning song to the combs." "Obviously." "If there were changelings involved," the bed quickly adds.  "And their exalted teaching methods.  Which, regretfully, they are not.  Because changelings have nothing to do with magical talking beds.  Other than occasionally appreciating them should the two happen to meet.  Personally, I would much rather be a magical talking bed in a changeling queen's hive chambers than here."  With a disdainful sniff of the quilt, "Wherever this is." "And -- what happened to my old bed?" "...what?" "The old bed.  Where is it?" "How should I know?" the bed disdainfully sniffs for the second time, proving its supreme expertise in the maneuver.  "I can't be bothered to keep track of non-magical, non-talking beds!  It's not as if I can ask it where it happens to be going as we pass in the aether, or why it decided to swap places with me, or if it's planning on landing somewhere else entirely.  Or rather, clearly I could, as I happen to be a magical talking bed.  But it wouldn't answer me, now would it?" Again, that one pretty much has to be conceded. "You're rather stupid, aren't you?" the bed decides.  "Imagine, expecting a bed to talk." This silence lets that one sink all the way through the sheets. "An ordinary bed, I meant," the bed clarifies. "I got that part." "Good." "In fact, I totally get the point." "Very glad to hear it." "And having gotten the point -- about the point?" "...I don't quite take your meaning," the bed admits after a very uncomfortable moment. "The.  Point."  A rub at offended anatomy seems to be called for, which is why it doesn't happen. "Oh," the bed says without the slightest trace of embarrassment.  "That." "Right.  That.  And?" "Well, you wouldn't expect a magical talking bed to go out in the world without defenses, would you?  It's not as if I'm about to let just anyone sit on me!  And as for lying down..."  The bed shudders.  "So I'm rather picky.  And I'm hardly about to apologize for having standards, which I find to be completely lacking in all non-changeling communities." "And the defenses are why your sheets felt like chitin?" "...they did?" "Yes." The bed seems somewhat abashed.  "That's odd."  For a moment, the entire thing takes on a light tinge of green.  "Try it now.  Just your hand, please." "Still chitin." "Well...  clearly something happened during the transition.  Which was in no way my fault, because I'm not the one who intoned any kind of emergency escape spell and choked on several syllables due to the smoke.  Incidentally, did you know changelings can't be smoked out of their hives in any way and to try it is a complete waste of time which no one should ever bother with at all?  It's not as if we're insects, you know." Slowly, "We?" "They," the bed quickly says.  "I'm not used to your language.  I'm entitled to a bit of pronoun trouble." "Probably." "Additionally," the bed definitively states, "it is very easy to identify with changelings, especially if you're a magical talking bed whose highest possible duty would be to serve in the royal bedchambers, as opposed to here.  So I don't apologize at all.  I never do.  Magical talking beds are above such things, as are changeling queens, which is yet another reason it's so easy to identify with them.  Now if you'll give me a moment to myself, I'll see what I can do about making those sheets feel right.  Because I know what proper sheets should feel like, having been a magical talking bed all the life which I probably don't technically have.  Just close the door behind you when you go.  Because privacy will help.  Lots and lots of privacy.  Why are you still here?" It's probably not a good time to ask about the things which were under the bed either.  Maybe leaving would be best, at least when it comes to the amount of story which will be laughed at through during the inevitable follow-up meeting with a still-disbelieving psychiatrist.   "Wait," the bed says, and does so when the door is almost closed. "What now?" "That smell.  Alcohol tinged with honey.  What is that?" "Marinade whiskey." "Leave that by my front left leg.  Bed leg.  I think it might help." "Fine..."   The door starts to close again.  The singing begins. The door opens. "Why are you still here?" the bed demands.  "I ordered you to get my whiskey!  Even the most incompetent fresh-hatched drone could --" "-- you were singing." "I was?" "Yes." "No, I wasn't," the bed quickly insists. "Yes, you were.  Something about 'this day is going to be perfect'." "I didn't sing that," the bed doubles down.  "I would never sing such a thing, mostly because that beautiful traditional changeling conquest song has a certain personal connotation of insufferable and totally coincidental bad luck, and I've had more than enough of that in finding myself here, thank you.  I would never be mentally distracted enough to wind up singing it again.  You misheard me.  Clearly if I was singing at all, it would have been something else entirely." "So what were you singing?" The bed takes a moment. "'This duvet is going to be perfect.'" "Duvet." "Yes.  Duvet." "Because?" "Because I'm adjusting the feel of my sheets and I'm a magical talking bed," the bed haughtily clarifies.  "Obviously.  It's a simple mental exercise in the form of a work song.  And day, duvet, it's clearly all the same to whatever kind of ears those are supposed to be under all that hair.  Really, it's all your fault for not being able to understand whatever language this is.  Which I presume is your native tongue, so not comprehending me is your fault, and that happens to be a 'once again'.  How stupid are you, anyway?  Never mind, I know that one -- stupid enough to still not have brought a magical talking bed the marinade whiskey with honey which she so desperately needs.  So go fetch it immediately like a good drone." The door starts to close again.  As if that's going to help. The last words to come through before it completely shuts are more of a mutter.  "Now, what's a ruffle, and what is the point of it...?" The door is allowed to seal.  All things considered, a self-proclaimed magical talking bed can presumably work that one out for herself.