//------------------------------// // 16. One Of Those Lives // Story: Buggy and the Beast // by Georg //------------------------------// Buggy and the Beast One Of Those Lives He was running. The familiar environment of the docks surrounded him with crates and cargo nets forming a maze of sorts where the rough passages and corridors narrowed with every corner he turned. There was something behind him, gaining on him with slavering jaws and a glare of green magic which snapped at his heels while he ran. If he paused for a moment, it would certainly devour him in several quick bites, so he ignored the pain in his side and the clamoring of the alarm bells as his hooves struck sparks on the concrete until the looming darkness behind him surged forward across— The hammering of the alarm clock brought Beet Salad up out of the disquieting dream, allowing him to pant in suppressed terror while the images receded away from him like fog vanishing before the sun. After catching his breath and turning off the alarm, he stumbled up from the mattress, which he had dragged across the living room floor and fairly close to (but not against) the lump of dimly-glowing green goo containing his changeling. There seemed to be no real change from the afternoon when he had put down his guitar and curled up to get a few hours of sleep before work. It was just so damnably frustrating to be this close and unable to help in any way other than just being here. It was probably a lot like foalbirth for the stallion, although the closest he had ever been to one was in the waiting room as a little colt, listening to the murmur of the doctors and nurses while his mother was going through the process. Still, he comforted himself with the knowledge that he was doing as much or as little as was possible, and after taking a moment to put a few records on to play, he busied himself in the kitchen while packing lunches for later. There was something bothering him other than the disturbing dream where the changeling had hatched into some terrible pony-eating monster, and it took until he checked the calendar to realize what it was. It’s Saturday evening. I missed my shrink appointment this morning and I didn’t have to get up now. Bollocks. A few deep breaths helped, as well as realizing Nectarine had promised to drop by too, so he would have needed to get up anyway. While waiting for his friend, he sat at the table, meticulously chopping, dicing, and slicing vegetables into labelled containers for next week’s lunches. It was an unexpectedly comfortable domestic scene which he would have never dreamed possible a few weeks ago, although there was a dragging feeling in the back of his chest. Sultry Breeze, or whatever the changeling’s name really was, could never remain in Baltimare. The government building where she worked undoubtedly had unicorns with the changeling detection spell vigilantly zapping every visitor and employee, or at least until the next budget where the mayor could fire them and use those valuable bits on some vote-buying project or another. She could not even stay around Beet Salad’s apartment without being constantly tracked by the Royal Guard, one of whom would probably not be happy without a live vivisection and public display. Well, probably just a private interrogation and extensive examination for several days, more realistically. To avoid being detained, she would hatch, leave, and Beets would just have to get used to the giant, gaping hole in his life. A quiet tapping at the door shook Beets out of his daydream about how much his life had changed with the addition of a single bug. “Come in, Nek,” he called while using his magic to turn the locks and unlatch the security chain. He had just sealed the top of a container full of bell pepper slices when he remembered the unwanted Royal Guard who had always accompanied his friend over the last few visits, but his urgent revocation of entry permissions died in his throat when he looked up. There was an unfamiliar young unicorn mare at the door, looking inside with a polite but blank expression on her spectacle-clad face. The pony he did not recognize, but the thick glasses were far too familiar. After waiting wordlessly for her to step inside, he reached out with his magic and quietly closed the door behind her, remaining at the kitchen table with the knife still held in his magic field. “Idiosyncrasy, I presume?” “You missed your appointment,” said the disguised changeling. “I thought it wise to drop by and have a brief session, due to your employment issues at work.” “I’m sure.” Beets did not release the knife. The changeling gave out a brief but heartfelt sigh and sat down on his new carpet. “Mister Beet Salad, I assure you I hold no hostile intent towards your young boarder—” the disguised changeling gave a nod towards the newspaper-strewn corner of his apartment and the glowing lump “—but you must be prepared for the worst. Allow me to summarize. When Queen Chrysalis was injured and her cry went out across the hivemind, Sultry fainted and crashed into your dock. You are well aware of the severity of her resulting injuries. Her assigned harvesting area has a low yield rate, and we had already given nearly all of our supplies of love to the hive for the invasion. After consulting with my husband, I was amazed at her persistent survival, given your natural emotional restraint and your previous mental trauma. In short, I believed she was in danger of starving to death even before she cocooned herself, so I shall be quite blunt about my next question. Have you fallen in love with her?” “No!” snapped Beets. “What a ridiculous question. She must have just withheld more love than you estimated, or maybe she’s—” Beets cut off abruptly when the changeling blazed with green fire, dropping her disguise and transforming into a changeling who appeared to be nearly identical to the changeling encased in the green block of goop on his living room floor except for the thick glasses perched on her nose. Despite his best efforts, Beets felt his heart lurch, and the paring knife he was holding clattered to the floor. The changeling psychologist was not done, though. A second wave of green fire swept over her, and the form of the sky-blue pegasus mare appeared, also with glasses, and also with the same heart-twisting lurch of emotions through Beets. “Would you care to rephrase your answer?” asked the disguised psychologist, who now looked and sounded perfectly identical to Sultry Breeze’s pegasus disguise, except for the thick glasses. “No,” said Beets through a suddenly dry mouth. “Change back.” “In a minute,” said Idiosyncrasy. “I still have your psychological evaluation for the week to complete.” She nosed around in her sidesaddle and produced the familiar notebook while Beets picked up the paring knife and attempted to return to his vegetable slicing. He deliberately did not look in her direction while working, but he got the distinct sensation the changeling was quietly tucking away every wisp of love which was unintentionally floating her way. After filling up a container with pepper slices and taking a look at the psychologist scribbling away in her notebook, a twinge of guilt made him offer a little something material to go with her immaterial snacking. “Would you like some bell pepper slices while we’re talking? Or some white tea out of a bottle?” “Tea,” declared the changeling. “No lemon, two ice cubes, and thank you for your consideration. Tell me, Mister Salad. I noticed your hostility towards me earlier, but you seem to be handling it well now. I honestly expected you to take a swing at me this evening, or even attempt to poison my tea with the can of bug spray you have under the kitchen cabinet.” “I thought about it,” grumbled Beets while assembling two glasses of tea, and then a third once he remembered Nectarine’s upcoming visit. The plastic of the glasses muted the thump of the ice cubes and crackle of the warm tea expanding them, but they counted as formal dining glasses in his apartment. He floated the glass of tea over to the psychologist, who took it in her hooves and sat it to one side. “I know you changelings have a mind control spell. Sultry used it on Missus Spitonoikokýris once, maybe even twice. I notice you didn’t light up your horn when you first came into the apartment, so you must not have wanted me to be nervous about you scrambling my brains.” “Actually, Mister Salad…” The changeling coughed into one hoof and took a sip of her tea. “I shall be brutally honest with you, because I do not believe I can remain in this town for many more days. I have exceedingly weak magic projection. Internally, I can transform and feed off loose emotions fairly well, but—” “It goes with your vision, I suppose,” said Beets, who had quit packing his lunches. “She’s a frail thing, you’ve got buggered up eyes and a weak horn. Buggy seems to think only the cripples and the gimps got left out of the invasion. What kept you from being recycled into mulch back at the hive?” The disguised changeling eyed him with a wary expression which Sultry would never be able to duplicate. “Most drones, male or female, are dumber than rocks. I’m smart, and therefore useful to the hive.” Beets snorted and took a bite of the green pepper he was dissembling. “Yeah, with the psychological secrets you’ve dug out of Princess Luna’s brain, I’ll bet your buggy queen is just tickled pink. Now you’re able to add Princess—” “I do not break the rules of patient confidentiality,” snapped the disguised changeling, looking very much not-like Sultry any more despite her disguise. “Not for you, not for my queen, not for anybody.” Beets took another bite of his green pepper. “You mean to tell me your queen could call you into her throne room and command you to tell her Princess Luna, oh, I don’t know, secretly sleeps with a doll or something, and you would tell her no?” The changeling’s face was a perfect emotional blank. “You can think whatever you want. I am a physician. I would die before I betray my moral and professional code of conduct.” “Sure you will.” Beets took a last bite of his green pepper. “Love, honor, and cherish, for as long as the both of you shall live. Right?” Cracks began to appear in the changeling’s inviolate emotional wall. A faint twitch appeared under one eyelid, her lips drew up into thin lines, and her voice nearly cracked when she said, “That’s none of your concern.” Realization flooded over Beet Salad like a kick to the head. “You’re actually in love with your husband, aren’t you?” “Changelings do not give away love,” said the disguised psychologist. “It’s an aberrant behavior. Love is for the hive.” “A little hive of two, right? Can’t you just tell the hive to kiss off or something? Take your husband and run off to Rio Neigh Janeiro or Mexicolt? Adopt a couple of little fillies and drink tropical drinks all night?” “We are here to discuss your own problems, Mister Beet Salad,” insisted the changeling. “Unless you are considering skipping town with Miss Breeze and traveling through Equestria as nomadic night watchponies, I sincerely doubt the problems being suffered by my husband and myself have anything to do with your situation. Now.” She damped the end of her pencil by giving it a quick lick. “Other than now, have you experienced any desire to do violence to any other pony since our last session?” Beets simmered for a while, arranging little plastic cartons of veggies. “I met Fire Brand again. I wanted to hit him, but I didn’t. I did trick Shining Armor into slamming him through a wall in the courtroom, though.” Idiosyncrasy gave him a very dry look. “Shining Armor explained the encounter during our session. He claimed the violence was entirely his own fault.” “Shining Armor is a suffering masochist who only wants to be punished for what he sees as a crime against his wife when he slept with a bug,” said Beet Salad in a frustrated burst of words. “Oh, and I had four of Fire Brand’s little buddies try to ambush me at work. Brave Sergeant Roquefort of the Royal Guard came busting in, cleaned up two of them and I took the other two. Nothing broken except Mayhem had a concussion from where I busted my nightstick over the back of his head.” “I see.” Idiosyncrasy sat down her pencil and looked straight at Beets. “Are you aware that when you speak about inflicting violence, you experience an emotional release similar to sex?” Beets bobbled the plastic cartons he was trying to float into the icebox, scattering them across the floor when his magic field flickered. “No,” he hissed, trying to collect his wits and the scattered vegetables. “There are several complicated psychological terms for it, but in general terms it appears you have been compensating for the loss of your parents and your younger sibling by shutting out the world and diverting your anger into physical violence and self-abuse instead of facing your emotional and psychological issues.” It took a little while for Beets to unclench his jaw enough to talk. The guitar was hanging right there on its pegs in the kitchenette. It would have been emotionally and psychologically pleasurable to bust it over the head of the annoying psychologist, and he might have even done it, if the bug had not been wearing Sultry’s face. “So you’re saying that screwing a bug would be good for me, right?” he managed to growl. “Not… even close.” The changeling shifted positions slightly and brought out a cleaning cloth for her glasses, continuing to talk while cleaning. “Screwing a bug, as you so crudely put it, may just be the worst treatment possible for your psychological issues. It could even force you into a one-sided pathological dependency, driven by a changeling’s natural urges to extract as much love as possible during a fleeting contact rather than allowing the relationship to mature naturally. “Careless and stupid changelings do not withdraw emotional energy from their prey without inflicting some sort of psychological damage. You are already aware of Shining Armor’s emotional issues, but he was an emotionally stable stallion before he was assaulted, and with relatively little therapy, he seems to be making a full recovery.” “I thought you didn’t talk about your client’s issues,” growled Beet Salad. “In your case, since you were both the target of his one emotional outburst, and the contributing factor in another, I am willing to bend the rules slightly,” said the disguised psychologist. “Particularly since I understand your taunt was the final straw which convinced him to attend sessions with his wife. Don’t consider psychology as an alternate career,” she added almost apologetically. “Please.” “Concussive therapy,” said Beets with a deep sigh. “I like problems I can hit.” “This issue being one which you can not.” The disguised changeling paused to scribble a note. “Your substitution of violence for your emotional healing process has been subverted by your attraction to my associate. Were this an ordinary relationship between two ordinary ponies, I would be concerned about the probability of domestic violence erupting because you have not learned the proper behavior of dealing with an emotional female, other than ‘hitting’ as you said. Since you have become attracted to a changeling instead of a pony, and thus are unlikely to establish a pair bonding in which both elements of the relationship exchange affection on an equal basis, your relationship would normally only progress to a certain point, at which you two would begin to ‘drift apart’ and eventually break up. Amiably, I would hope.” “I’m sensing a big ‘but’ in here,” said Beets. “But,” said Idiosyncrasy, “Sultry will eventually hatch out of her cocoon starved for love and willing to do anything to get it. Provided she survives to hatch, of course.” “She will,” growled Beets, casting an uncertain eye at the pile of newspapers in the corner of his living room. Idiosyncrasy fixed Beets with a dead serious stare. “Even if she survives, she will be ravenously hungry. She may not even recognize you. Your life very well could be in danger. She could suck out every one of your emotions without even realizing she is killing you in the process. You are a blithering fool to even consider remaining in the same room with her.” “And?” prompted Beets. The disguised psychologist stood up and let her disguise burn away in green fire until only a somewhat small and short-horned changeling remained. “We changelings take debt very seriously. I am somewhat indebted to you for your actions in convincing Shining Armor to see reason. Likewise, it seems I am also indebted to you for keeping my secret. It is exceedingly rare to find somepony whom a changeling can trust, even in the slightest.” The question itched in the back of Beet Salad’s mind to the point where he had to let it out for some exercise. “Does Princess Luna know?” “No,” said the changeling, although with a faint quirk to the corner of her lips. “Perhaps,” she added. “It is difficult to tell. She conceals her emotions well, but she trusts me, and I have been unwilling to test the limits of our trust by revealing any more of our nature to any of the Equestrian princesses than is needed.” “That makes sense,” said Beets, “provided they don’t already know. We met Princess Cadenza… I mean Cadence and her husband in the stairwell after one of their sessions with you. I’m not positive, but I’m almost certain she called Sultry by her name before being introduced to her.” “Do you have a point?” asked the undisguised insectile psychologist. “Not really.” Beets let out a sigh. “So, you owe me one, and my houseguest is about to turn into a dangerous starving beast. What ties those two together?” “Trust, Mister Beet Salad. I’m willing to share a little of my husband’s love with your… marefriend, if you agree. It goes against everything I’ve ever done as a changeling before. We are very… conservative about such things.” “You said it was aberrant behavior,” said Beets. “Love is for the hive.” “If I let you get killed by a changeling, it would be a violation of my Hippocratic oath.” The changeling looked somewhat embarrassed. “My husband still wants to straighten your nose someday, too. He’s got this stupid notion about having to fix anything he sees having a problem.” “Yeah, I’m glad I’m not that dumb,” muttered Beets. * ♥ * It was an exercise in trust, or more accurately, distrust. Beets did not trust the changeling to do what it was she said and not actually suck love out of Sultry’s cocoon instead. The changeling did not trust Beets to watch while she did it. In the end, Beets stood at the other end of the room with a chair grasped in his magic and the changeling psychologist kept an eye on him while pressing her short changeling horn to the gooey glob of green goo and doing… something. The glow from inside Sultry’s imprisoning cocoon did not seem to change much if any, despite a considerable amount of grunting and apparent concentration on behalf of Idiosyncrasy. When it was all over, she took a step backwards and just stood, breathing slowly and steadily with all four hooves braced to keep her from falling on her side. Beets stayed back, although he did put the chair down and got the exhausted bug another glass of white tea, which she made vanish in three long gulps. “Your friend is quite the stubborn one,” panted Idiosyncrasy before taking a deep swig out of her second glass of tea, having taken the form of a nondescript unicorn again, although somewhat the worse for wear. “She’s a cold-hearted bitch who kept trying to kill herself when I first found her,” said Beets with unexpected fire in his voice. “Since then, she’s quit trying, but she’s still as cold as a brick.” “Cold or not, I believe you may have cracked a hole in the shell we changelings tend to craft around our hearts.” After a quick flare of green magic to tidy up her messy form, the ‘unicorn’ ran a hoof over the surface of the glowing goo and sighed. “I wish these things had a gauge or something on them. I could feel the love going in, but I can’t tell how much is in there.” “Yeah, I noticed,” muttered Beets. “Look, my friend is going to be dropping by this evening, provided he’s not off chasing tail all over the city, and he’s got his handsome cousin Roquefort tagging along behind him.” Idiosyncrasy cocked an eyebrow and turned her head slightly to one side. “No, Roquefort isn’t gay! He’s a Royal Guard.” said Beets, although he wanted to moderate his statement almost immediately when the psychologist pulled out a pencil to make a few quick notes in her book. “So, you do have a sexual attraction to powerful stallions,” said the disguised changeling, slightly muffled due to the pencil in her mouth. “NO!” It was exactly the wrong thing to say at the wrong time. The changeling scribbled several lines in her notebook before looking up. “Ah. Latent heterophobia. I can work with that.” She put the pencil down and and started to concentrate, only for Beet Salad to put a hoof on her nose and hold it there. “No, and I mean NO, because you were about to try seducing me while dressed as my best friend, weren’t you?” The psychologist looked pensive. “Maybe.” “I’m not gay. Nectarine is bi. Heck, maybe he’s tri. He’ll screw anything not nailed down, and even then I wonder if he’s going to come over here stuck inside a bottle someday or something.” Beets thought for a moment, and continued somewhat slower. “How do you even know what he looks like?” The changeling shrugged. “I don’t. I was just looking for your reaction. So, is your friend having a sexual affair with this Royal Guard he’s flying around with?” Beets frowned, deeply frustrated that he could not simply take out his frustrations by punching the changeling in the nose, but somewhat comforted by the fact he was not considering doing it anyway and to Tartarus with the consequences. “They’re cousins,” he said in as level a tone as he could manage. “Incest is best in the family,” said the changeling in a cheery tone before opening up her notebook again. “They’re both male,” added Beets. “No three-eyed foals to worry about, then,” chirped the changeling while writing most probably embarrassing things about Beets and his relationship with other ponies. Or changeling. “Roquefort is also a Night Guard who is determined to get a search warrant for my apartment in order to look for changeling activity,” said Beets. “He’s shown up with Nectarine every evening for the last few nights.” There was a sharp knock at the door. “Nek also has the worst timing of any stallion in Equestria,” added Beets. “He’s probably the reason I’m still a virg—” Beets coughed several times, and even though the psychologist did not change a muscle in her expression, there was a twinkle in her eyes. “Let me go chase him away,” he grumbled, moving towards the door. “Hey, Beets,” said Nectarine in an obscenely cheerful tone when Beet Salad opened the door to the end of the security chain. “It’s evening, and I promised to come over and brighten up your evening, so here I am.” The slim batpony closed his eyes and took a sniff, making Beet Salad suddenly remember Idiosyncrasy had been wearing a hint of perfume, and Nectarine had a nose for mares like a bloodhound. “Whoa,” said Nectarine, opening up his eyes with a precautionary glance over his shoulder showing he was not alone out in the hallway. “You have a mare on the side. And you didn't invite me. We could have had a threesome.” “I’m happy with my onesome,” grumbled Beets. “Now go on, shoo.” “No prob,” said Nectarine, adding a waggled eyebrow. “You want your old buddy to get you anything for your date? Flowers? Wine? A few instructional manuals?” “Privacy,” grumbled Beets before closing the door and locking it. Nectarine’s voice filtered through the thick door. “Bring her over to the Flowers On Your Piano bar afterwards. First drink’s on me for both of you.” He was surprised to find the disguised changeling apparently suppressing a case of the giggles when he turned back around. “What?” She waved a hoof. “Never mind. You just have… a humorous emotional state, I suppose is the best way I can describe it to somepony who can’t sense emotions. Now I understand a little more about how she managed to survive.” The psychologist picked up her pencil again and made a quick note. “Since the Port Authority is covering this expenditure, let’s at least go over some of the basic emotional history of your tendency to violence. We don’t have to talk about your family unless you want to.” “I don’t,” he mumbled. “It’s still too painful, even if you can look like Sultry.” The psychologist laid down her pencil. “I take it you were willing to release some of your buried stress for her to feed on?” “I suppose that’s dangerous, like singing to her or something,” said Beets, who stretched out and laid down on the new carpet, trying to feel what it was like under his belly instead of thinking about why he was talking to a changeling about his emotions. “Results speak louder than all the precautionary lectures in the world, Mister Salad.” She tucked the pencil away into her notebook and laid down on the carpet right in front of him with her nose only a short distance away from his. “There are only two ponies I know of who could be this close to someone they know is a changeling without throwing a fit or worse. One of them is my husband, who I may have to abandon.” “And the other is me,” said Beets. “Wonderful.”