Breakfast at the Honeysuckle Inn was a spread of buttermilk pancakes with real maple syrup, freshly baked sunflower biscuits, and imported Saddle Arabian coffee, all served free of charge to the hotel's guests. Coco was having a hard time enjoying the meal, however, due to the fact that she and Trixie were not, in fact, hotel guest. She was constantly looking over her shoulder in expectation of the hotel staff coming to kick them out.
“Will you 'elax,” said Trixie, her mouth full of pancake. “I do thith thort of thing a' the 'ime.”
“This is wrong,” said Coco as she picked nervously at her own food. “I mean, we're basically stealing, aren't we?”
Trixie swallowed. “They're a fancy hotel, they can afford it. Besides, they owe it to me after the positively rude way I was treated on stage last night.”
“Excuse me?” came an unfamiliar voice from behind them.
“I'm so sorry!” squealed Coco whirling around on her stool and practically falling off of it in the process. “We didn't mean to! I mean, it was her idea!” She pointed a hoof at Trixie. “It was all her idea, I swear!”
An awkward silence fell over the dining area. Ponies all around them were staring at Coco's outburst, including the stallion who had interrupted them. Coco felt the heat rushing to her face, and it was only the paralysis of fear that kept her from bolting from the room right there.
“Can we help you?” asked Trixie, completely nonplussed.
The stallion looked uncertain for a second, but then he grinned. It was an unnerving grin, Coco felt. Entirely too toothy. He was a wine red Earth pony stallion, his unkempt mane a dark brown. His expression seemed eager and friendly, but Coco felt the hairs on the back of her neck just looking at him.
“Hi, my name is Brussel Sprouts. I saw your play last night. It was, um, very good. You said you were looking for ponies interested in joining your play, but then I couldn't find you after the show.”
Trixie's face lit up, but Coco was frowning. “Your name is Brussels Sprouts?”
His smile faltered. “Is that a bad name?”
“It's a perfect name!” said Trixie. “Coco here is just being rude. Please, have a seat!” As Brussels pulled a stool over to their table, Trixie leaned over to Coco conspiratorially. “See, I told you we would find ponies for the show!”
“You said you were going to Canterlot, correct?” said Brussels, leaning over the table. “To the Grand Galloping Gala. That's right, yes? And if I'm part of your play thingie, I'll be there too.”
“Of course!” said Trixie, nodding vigorously.
“Um, Mr. Brussels Sprouts, sir,” said Coco. “What exactly do you do?”
“Do?” he asked with a small start.
“I mean, what would you do, if you were in the play? Are you an actor? A musician? A set designer?”
There was a long, awkward silence. Then, his expression strangely blank, Brussels said, “I apologize. I am from a small village in a very remote part of Equestria, and I do not understand these words. Perhaps you could explain them to me?”
Coco and Trixie exchanged a look. Trixie cleared her throat, then said, “Well, um, it's all a part of theater, you know?”
This was met with another blank stare. Coco was staring to wonder if they weren't dealing with some sort of madpony.
“You see,” Trixie tried again. “There's, ah, a sort of thing called a play, where ponies present a story by acting out roles that are—”
“Oh!” exclaimed Brussels, his toothy smile returning. “The play! From last night! You pretended you were a pony you were not, and then they all laughed at you! Yes, I could do that. I would be very good at that.”
Coco was glad to see that Trixie looked as sceptical as she felt. “Listen, Mr. Sprouts,” said Trixie. “I'm not entirely sure if our company is right for you after all.”
“No!” he nearly shouted. “You have to let me join! Listen, listen to this!” Brussels cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice had shifted into an Appleloosian drawl. “'Pardon me, ma'am, but could y'all point a feller in the direction of the nearest waterin'-hole?'”
Trixie's eyebrows rose. “Well, that's certainly a fine accent, but there's more to it than—”
“I can do more! I can do all sorts! I can be pretend to be anypony, anypony at all! I could be a pony from Canterlot—” switching to the refined and precise Canterlot accent— “a pony from Baltimare—” the nasally Baltimare accent— “I can be an old pony—” with a rattling wheeze— “a young pony—” with a high-pitched giggle— “I can be the sweetest mare—” with a feminine lilt— “I can be the toughest stallion—” with a distinct roughness— “I can be you—” an eerily spot-on imitation of Trixie's voice— “I can be you—” Coco's own voice coming from his mouth— “I can be anypony, anypony you need me to be!”
Trixie's face had lit up again, and she was clapping her hooves. “Bravo! Bravo indeed!”
“That was, um, very impressive,” said Coco.
“He's perfect!” said Trixie. “He can be half the cast! All we have to do is throw a different costume on him and he can play a different part in every scene!”
“Trixie, can we discuss this?”
Trixie frowned at Coco, but followed her a few steps from the table and out of Brussel's earshot.
“I don't like this,” said Coco in a low voice.
“What's not to like?” responded Trixie. “He's amazing!”
“He seems like he might be crazy.”
“Oh, all actors are a little eccentric.”
“Did you hear that stuff he said about the Gala? It sounds like—”
Coco stopped herself. She had been about to say 'it sounds like he's only interested in getting into the Gala.' But when she stopped and thought about it, wasn't that the main reason she had agreed to join Trixie's “company”? She glanced uneasily back at the table, where Brussel was still grinning expectantly back at them.
“Something about him makes me really nervous, Trixie.”
“Coco, when you're in the theater business, you've got to learn to trust your instincts. And my instincts say that Brussels Sprouts is completely trustworthy.”
And with that, the discussion was apparently over and the matter decided. Trixie trotted back over to the table to finish up her business with Brussels. Coco joined them only long enough to finish her tea, then headed outside to get the cart ready for another long day of pulling.
A changeling couldn't have asked for a more perfect opportunity.
When Zaprax had been sent on the most honorable—and most dangerous—of missions, the infiltration of Equestrian society, his highest hopes had been to find his way into some local government's office, to find some scrap of strategic information that he could report back to the Hive before he was inevitably caught and executed. But to have found a way to the Grand Galloping Gala—in Canterlot, in the palace of the contemptible pony Princesses—was beyond his wildest dreams. What a blow for Changelingkind! What a disgrace for all of the stupid ponies, what terror would strike their cowardly hearts, when they learned that even in the heart of their silly castle, they weren't safe from the cleverness of the changelings!
Zaprax hadn't figured out what he would actually do once he got into the Gala, but he had time. The ponies were taking a very long route to get to Canterlot. He would have to hide the truth of his nature from them for quite some time. It would be difficult, but he was resolved to the task. The boss pony, who was called Trixie, suspected nothing. When Zaprax tasted her emotions, he found only pride. Her slave, the one named Coco, was more troubling. He could sense her suspicion, a slimy, slippery emotion, not to his palate's liking at all. But he could tell it was only the vaguest, haziest emotion—she didn't see through his disguise at all.
It surprised him, frankly, how unsuspecting they were. In Spy Training, back in the Hive, they had been drilled endlessly on the minute details of Equestrian history and geography. A changeling spy had to be ready at any moment to answer questions to prove that they were a real pony—or at least, so he had been taught. So far, not a single pony had asked him who the seventeenth Duchess of Canterlot had been, or what the population density of Baltimare was. It was almost as if they weren't living in a constant paranoid terror that the ponies around them were shapeshifting impostors.
But Zaprax knew that that was impossible. As shameful as it was to admit that ponies were good at anything, everyone knew that they were extremely good at catching changeling spies. The speed with which the Hive's agents were uncovered was match only with the brutality with which they were disposed. Every year the Hive sent its bravest, most cunning, most resourceful changelings into the enemy's heartland, and not a single one ever came back, or indeed lasted long enough to send more than a few reports. Zaprax's mission was all the more honorable for being a suicide mission.
The Coco pony pulled up alongside him. They had been walking for most of the morning, down the long dirt paths that ponies used to travel between their cities. The Coco pony spent most of the time talking with her master, the Trixie pony, but now the Trixie pony was riding on top of the wagon, writing on her paper. The Coco pony was pulling a very heavy wagon, but she was able to keep up with Zaprax's steady pace. It would have been impressive, if she wasn't a stupid pony and therefore incapable of doing anything impressive or honorable.
“Um, so, Brussels Sprouts...”
Zaprax steeled himself. He was ready; he could recall in an instant the date that Equestria was founded, the exact style and color of Princess Celestia's raiments, and the average yearly rainfall of every major Equestrian city. This was the moment his disguise would be put to the test, and he was prepared for anything.
“...where are you from?”
It was infuriating. The ponies seem almost determined to let his hours of learning their history go to waste, yet insisted on barraging him with personal questions. Spy training hadn't prepared him at all for this. In the Hive, no one asked where you were from. Everyone was from the Hive! The only thing that separated one changeling from another was their rank, and you could tell that just from pheromones.
Ponies, though, seemed to have an endless variety of quirks and personal attributes, and were expected to share such things with each other on a daily basis. He had no one idea how they kept track of their own hometowns and verbal tics and favorite colors, much less those of the ponies around them. More importantly, he had no idea why they cared.
“Um,” he said, thinking quickly. He knew she was trying to catch him in a lie; he had to try and be just vague enough to allay suspicion. “I'm from a small village, north of, um, Las Pegasus. Someplace that it is very unlikely that you have ever heard of.”
“Right,” said Coco.
Zaprax put on his best pony smile. It was the first lesson that you learned in changeling spy training: ponies smiled all the time. He had practiced his smile for hours on end, and it was flawless—except it wasn't having the desired effect. The Coco pony wasn't feeling any less worried, or suspicious.
He would have to resort to drastic measures. He had been taught that ponies participated in a bizarre social ritual called “friendship”. Rather than basing all social interaction on differences in rank and pheromone exchanges, ponies formed relationships based on finding common qualities that they shared. Fortunately, Zaprax was very clever, and had just such a common quality right at hoof.
“So, we are both from a small village. That is relatable, is it not?”
The Coco pony did not smile. She gave him a very deep frown. “How did you know I was from a small town?”
Ponies were very strange creatures indeed. They seemed obsessed with the most pointless details, but then missed the most obvious things.
“Your accent, obviously. Though you have some Manehattan speech patterns (probably affected) your underlying vowel structure indicates that you were raised in the predominately rural Northwestern region of Equestria.”
“Oh!” said Coco. “That's amazing. That's quite the special talent you have there, Mr. Sprouts.”
The compliment meant nothing to Zaprax. Ponies were stupid, and didn't know anything about anything. Why would he care if the stupid Coco pony thought he was amazing.
The Coco pony nodded. “You're right. I grew up in a tiny little town called Haybrook. It was a nice place, but I just dreamed of something bigger, I suppose.” She actually gave Zaprax a small smile. “I imagine that's something else we have in common.”
“It is?” asked Zaprax.
The smile disappeared. “Oh. I'm sorry. Um, I guess I just, um, assumed you had a similar story. You know, because we met you all the way out in Trottingham.”
“Oh!” said Zaprax. “Yes! I mean, yes. I too dreamed of bigger things, which is why I left the tiny village that I'm from, and that you have never heard of before. That place was stifling. Horrible. You wouldn't believe it. Why, you'd have to be some sort of crazy pony to want to live in a place like that.”
They fell into an awkward silence, the only sound the creaking of the wagon wheels behind them. Zaprax cursed himself. Now he was trapped into this lie about a village and a dream, and would have to always keep on his hooves whenever Coco starting talking about it again.
Who knew that being a spy would involve spinning such an elaborate web of lies?
Trixie's plan wasn't to stop and perform again until they got to Hollow Shades, so for Coco the next few days passed by uneventfully. By day she pulled the cart and talked with Trixie about the script, and by night she worked on costume designs in her sketchbook (subject to Trixie's ongoing tweaks and adjustments.) Trixie still wouldn't spring for any rooms, and the countryside was getting less polluted the farther they got from Manehattan anyway, so they spent each night camping. Working by firelight wasn't entirely ideal for her drawing, but for the late Spring their nights were mild and dry, and it was nice to be away from the noise and lights of the city. Coco almost caught herself enjoying herself from time to time.
Brussels Sprouts still worried her. She often caught the stallion giving her and Trixie long, inscrutable stares, and when they camped at night he always seemed to want to sleep a ways from the fire. He seemed mostly agreeable, though, and if he was a little strange, it didn't seem to Coco that he meant any harm. Still, she made sure to sleep with her suitcase close by, and to check each morning that the bag of bits that Trixie had given her was still stowed safely away.
By the time they reached the Hollows, Trixie had reached a manic state with her script. She had been on the top of the wagon all day. Even when the open fields gave way to the think canopy of the forest, she lit up her horn and wrote by the light of her magic.
“And that's done!” cried Trixie about halfway through the afternoon. She leapt off the wagon and began to trot alongside Coco.
“You're finished?” asked Coco.
“It's perfected!” replied Trixie. “I did exactly what you said. Now my protagonist has depth! Relatability! Conflict! The audience is sure to be in tears before the end of the first act! Of course, I was readily inspired by own incredibly tragic childhood.” Trixie's eyes began to mist up. “For you see—sniff—I was unfortunate enough to be orphaned at a very early age. Left alone to fend for myself on the streets of—”
“What about your parents?”
“What?”
“Just the other night, you were talking about the fight you had with your parents, where they wanted you to go to school and you said no. It was in your first script.”
“Oh,” said Trixie. “Those were, um, my foster parents. That came later. Really a minor detail. The part of my life where I was an orphan is much better fodder for the script.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Coco.
“Hear what?”
“That you were an orphan.”
“Oh, yes,” said Trixie. “It was very unpleasant. But it makes for a great play! I'd better go over lines with Brussels, we'll go ahead for a bit so we don't bother you.”
“Can I see it?” asked Coco.
Trixie hesitated for a second. “Well, you see, we're going to be performing tonight, at Hollow Shades. And, um, I was kind of hoping to have the new show be a surprise for you.”
“Oh,” said Coco.
There was a short silence. Coco wasn't exactly sure how to react to that gesture, or what was motivating Trixie to make it. The unicorn didn't seem very keen on saying anything more, either.
“So!” said Trixie. “That's what's going to happen. Now if you'll excuse me, we've got some rehearsing to do.”
Trixie trotted ahead to catch up with Brussels, leaving Coco alone with the cart in the thickening gloom. She could see the two of them just up ahead on the road, occasionally catching little snippets of the lines they were reading back and forth, but for the most part she was left alone with her thoughts.