//------------------------------// // Drop // Story: The Lunatics // by SpaceCommie //------------------------------// Time is flexible for Colgate. Not that she can make it go any faster than one second per second, or wanted to. Life is short enough. But it always seemed like it would be a good idea to hold on to one moment, to latch onto it and never let it go, to stop it in its tracks completely. She has been waiting on that moment. This is not it. But time does stand still, or something near to it, with Con still looming over her, his presence visceral, unbearable, and her thoughts slowly crawling inside her head. Not worth trusting. Her eyes are closed. There's nothing worth seeing. Con is bleeding onto her, the lukewarm blood from that surreal hole in his chest—surely talons alone couldn't do that—dripping past her fur down to the skin. Never were. She can't tell if he's breathing or not. She is, too fast and too shallow. Not by much, not enough that Con would notice—no, that's not true, he would, he had an eye for that sort of thing—but the dead Con, it doesn't, it doesn't respond at all. Dread like a poison, like a disease, settling into her gut, filling her mind with nothing but itself, churning on its own. A fat drop of blood lands on her lips, cool, tasting of iron and salt. She spits, and scuttles across the room, eyes now wide open—and at the door, there stands a changeling. Smaller than Chrysalis, of course it’s smaller than Chrysalis, and lacking that malice in its eyes. But still dangerous, certainly. It has to be. “Here,” the changeling says, stepping further into the room, taking in the scene: the dead pony, blood still draining from his body, the spy half-standing, half-cowering in the next corner, the moonlight streaming in from the window. Another pony walks in—tall, impossibly tall, with a navy coat just a shade above black, her expression intent. “Luna,” Colgate murmurs. Where does she recognize the name from? “Agent Colgate,” the alicorn—yes, there are wings pinned against her—says. “You have my most heartfelt apologies. You should have never waited so long.” The changeling turns towards her, and says something. Luna nods. For a single instant, the room shines like the inside of the sun—and then it is dark again, with only the moonlight gently pouring itself in. Con is gone. No, that mockery of Con is gone, with only a wisp of smoke in its place. Colgate stares at it, and then at the two newcomers. “Who are you?” The alicorn—Luna—glances at the changeling. “She remembers,” it says. “Or will. Still, remind her.” Luna steps towards Colgate, and leans to bring her face in level with hers. “I am Princess Luna. This is my... my friend Case. This may be difficult for you to believe, Colgate, but you are in a dream.” “A dream,” Colgate says. “Will remember more when you wake up,” the changeling says. “Ready?” “Wait,” Colgate says. “If I’m dreaming... where am I?” “Captured by changelings.” Her, Colgate thinks. “Huh. So... none of this is real?” Her voice cracks a little. She hates it. Neither of the others respond. “Colgate,” Luna says. “When you wake, do not be afraid. The others will come to rescue you.” Colgate tries to smile. “The others. Right. Okay, wake me up.” The changeling walks to her, places a hoof on her head, closes its eyes for a moment— And Colgate is gone.         Case turns to Luna. “Chrysalis was watching this, I think. Find Caballeron soon. I need to go. Remember—” And Case, too, is gone, and Luna is left in the moon-stained room as it fades into unreality. “So,” Soarin said, “anyone know some good knock-knock jokes?” Case was still folded up on that ancient armchair, inert, eyes closed, the faint glow of magic around her head like a halo. Moonshine wondered idly where they had got the chair from. Friend stood next to the chair. The posture was faintly off—something different about how the hind legs were jointed, perhaps—but he looked wary, dutiful, empty blue eyes surveying the room’s dusty floorboards, peering out the window into the void of the cave outside. Soarin was pacing across the room, wings twitching at his side. “Good knock-knock jokes don’t exist,” Moonshine said, glancing up at Soarin from her place on the floor. Soarin turned towards her. “I don’t think you know that for sure. You probably haven’t even heard the one with the orange.” He was talking just a bit too fast, Moonshine decided. His grin wavered. “Everypony has heard the one with the orange,” she said. “Still gets me everytime,” Soarin noted, and kicked at the floor. Moonshine nodded. “I do believe that. Friend?” The changeling turned its head, a smooth, mechanical motion. “How soon will she be done?” Moonshine asked. “Soon.”         “You said that three hours ago,” Soarin said. “Soon then, too,” Friend said. “Patience is a virtue.” “Thanks, Mom.” Friend took a second to respond, then exposed his fangs. “Funny.” It took a moment for Soarin to put his face back in order. “We have got to talk about your smile one of these days.” “I think it’s cute,” Moonshine said, looking at Soarin with serious, wide eyes. “Cute like puppies or cute like boy bands?” Soarin asked. “Puppies,” Moonshine said, with an air of finality. “Uh, okay then. Friend, can we at least get an estimate?” The room suddenly darkened, the shadows drawing closer, growing sharper. Case uncurled herself, the aura around her gone, and she gasped over and over again, a steady noise, like a machine. Her gaze shot around the room, eyes a bit wider than they had been before. “Need to leave. Now.” Soarin hated running. It’s not that he was bad at it, even. He could run a pretty respectable sprint or two during practices—occasional forays onto the ground during Wonderbolts shows had to be fast, of course—and tried not to complain about it after Spitfire had told him to stop being a little filly. But it just felt so, well... it felt grounded, obviously: pounding the floor, one hoof after another, the impact reverberating through his bones.         Soarin was in a tunnel, again, but this one was a bit different. The other tunnels were... smooth, polished. This one looked like it had been carved by an angry drunk using nothing but a rock. Worse, the drunk hadn’t been a fan of high ceilings; Soarin had to duck half the time. “Stop.” That was Case’s voice, most likely. It was hard to tell. Moonshine’s hooves—easy to recognize—clicked across the stone floor, slowed to a halt. “Okay,” she said, words coming quick and indistinct, “please tell me we can stop running for a while because I have had enough of it, and I swear to sol in the sky I will scream if I don’t get to take a breather.” “Said stop,” Case pointed out. “Oh. Thank you, Case.” “Yes.” Moonshine closed her eyes, pursed her lips, breathed in and out. “Where are we, anyway?” “A tunnel,” Friend said. “Thanks,” Moonshine said. “Not part of the Hive,” Case said, “not exactly. Don’t know where it comes from. Friend found it. Have ideas.” Case’s body shone dimly, and she traced the side of the tunnel with a hoof. “Look here,” she said. Soarin trotted over, peered at the uneven rock. It looked like it had been scraped away by something, a shallow depression bookended by two deeper grooves. One of them ended abruptly, the other continuing onwards for another foot or so. He ran his hoof over it, then turned back around towards Case. “This was carved by teeth, wasn’t it? Changeling teeth.” Case looked back at him, her face blank, fangs protruding from an alien mouth. “Yes.” “Why?” “Don’t know. Friend thinks it was the drones.” “Why would Chrysalis want them to dig this tunnel with their teeth? It doesn’t make sense.” “She had the tools destroyed,” Case said. “Long time ago. Too dangerous to her, the, um, pickaxes and hammers and chisels. We don’t think she wanted drones to do this.” “Escape,” Friend intoned. “Yes. Memories of outside, stuck deep in the hivemind,” Case said. “Most drones can’t understand them, don’t know how to get outside. But they remember the sun, the sky. The, um, workers made this tunnel, we think. Must have took generations, in secret, in the dark, without Chrysalis finding out.” “And they never even got out?” Moonshine asked. “No. Didn’t know which way to go. Just went forward, deeper into the mountain.” “That’s so sad.” “Yes.” Nopony—nobody, Soarin thought—spoke for a good minute, just breathed in the dark. “Are we good for now?” he asked. “I mean, I assume we were about to get busted by the changelings back there.” Friend seemed to consider that for a moment. “Yes.” “That’s what happened?” Moonshine asked. Case tilted her head from side to side. “Maybe.” “You don’t know?” Moonshine asked. “Don’t like taking chances,” Case said. “Something noticed me in the hivemind. Chrysalis, maybe. Maybe one of the others like me. Could have, hm, figured out where we were using memories, impressions. Not many houses around here. Wouldn’t be difficult.” “So where are we now?” “Nearly at hive. Ready?” Colgate woke up. It wasn’t sudden. It was more like the feeling one gets when one slowly realizes that she’s awake, promptly followed by the hazy impression that her alarm clock is going to start ringing in two minutes. Colgate, of course, replaced that with the less familiar recollection that she was in some sort of changeling jail, and that any awareness on the part of her guards that she was actually awake could be a problem. So she stayed where she was, eyes closed, trying to keep her breathing shallow and regular. No point giving away the fact that she was already awake. But where was she? It was just as humid and warm as the rest of the cave, and probably hotter. The acrid, ripe scent of changelings was stronger here, though, along with something else she couldn’t quite place. She was on some sort of—was this a fabric? It didn’t seem to be any sort of cloth: the texture was too smooth, too elastic. Maybe like a sheet of rubber?—but no, rubber didn’t smell like this, didn’t have the faint glossiness to it, wasn’t ever-so-slightly wet to the touch. Not rubber, then. Some sort of weird changeling… stuff. It seemed like the—well, whatever it was—was all around her, on every side. She pushed into it with one of her front hooves, gently, only moving forward maybe a half inch. It gave readily enough, and when she pulled back, it followed just as quickly. Huh. So she was in some sort of changeling bag. She pushed a leg down just a little—and the fabric, the membrane, whatever it was, didn’t offer much resistance. Nothing beneath her, then. She opened her eyes. Dark. Not a surprise. Quiet, too. She froze for a second, listening for any sign of life. Nothing. So I’m in some sort of changeling bag, being hung from the ceiling, Colgate thought. She did a quick inventory of the items in her possession, which wasn’t terribly difficult. It included (1) herself, and (2)... They better not have taken it, they better not have taken it... a virtually unnoticeable sky blue horseshoe on her rear left hoof, which was there after all. She grimaced and pulled it closer to her face. The Secret Service was never any good with whiz-bang gadgets, but Colgate had demanded, and gotten, her very own secret compartment with about three-quarters of a cubic inch worth of storage. She grinned despite herself, reaching towards it with her magic and slowly prying open the horseshoe. She didn’t have much in there. No papers, although she could get a note in there if she rolled it up or folded it. No suicide pills, for obvious reasons. Not really the Secret Service’s style, or hers. Silly idea, anyways. But there was a tiny little knife in there, which could prove useful for more cheery purposes. She pulled it out. Huh. It might be big enough to cut through the bag. It was definitely sharp enough. Worth a shot, probably. She paused for a moment. Did the changelings know she could time-warp? Probably not; she’d only done it with those two changelings back in Dodge, and she was sure she’d knocked them out before they knew what was happening. Maybe I can ask one when I get out, she thought, and smirked. Colgate began to cut a line across the bag. It was quick work, and she pulled the knife across the surface at a steady, smooth rate. She stopped for a second. Wait. How high am I, exactly? But the rest of the bag was tearing anyways, and the section under Colgate started  to tilt pretty steeply. “No, no, no no no,” she murmured. “Just a...” Her hooves scrabbled at the membrane, trying to get some traction, but it was just too smooth, and she fell.