Pick sat down on her side of the booth, groaning as the aches and pains that accompanied her line of work began to manifest, and glanced at Fangheart as she dropped her saddlebag onto the spot next to her.
He hadn't stopped blushing in the entire span of time since they'd given the Matriarch a show in the mess hall, though the forest green glow on his cheeks was harder to see in the dimly lit restaurant she'd dragged him to. He wasn't smiling, nor was he particularly proud of what he'd done, but he had been following orders, and he was at least satisfied with the results. His ears were pinned back against the sides of his head, and his wings were resting uncomfortably at his sides.
She grimaced at him, and said, "Dammit, I can't believe she's gonna replace me with you."
He couldn't help but smile at that. "Well, well, calm down. I'm not stealing your job. She only said that I'd take over for you on Sundays."
"But Sunday's swimming day," she groaned, and dropped her head onto the table.
"Look, I'm sorry I turned you into a merpony that one time. I would've done it again if you'd said something about enjoying it," he told her, smirking. "It's not my fault you didn't tell me what you liked. I'm sure I would've let you drag me to one of the water caves every other hour if you'd really wanted. Besides, you can just reschedule the whole thing. What's wrong with say... Tuesday?"
"Tuesday's the only day I have off," she explained, not looking up, and slid her bag across the surface of the table for her forehead to rest on.
"And now you have Sunday off, so there," he declared, leaning back against the booth, and picked up a menu from the rack to his left. "Look, it's not my fault that she liked what she saw."
"Yeah, it kinda is," Pick argued.
"She ordered me to do it, and so I did. You'd rather I flunk my only chance at a quick rise to the top than remind you what you're missing out on?" he asked her, raising an eyebrow at her. "If I do recall, you got married after just a year of service."
"I worked my flanks off for a whole year, and now you're gonna march in and steal my spot on her bed, after less than a day of work," she said. "I practiced in my spare time. I spent so many nights with my guests. Do you know how many hours I spent trying to make my tongue wrap around things? My tongue didn't always do that, because, y'know, I'm not a changeling."
His blush returned, deeper this time, and he said, "Well... I learned a lot from you."
"My point remains, you just marched back in here and stole my job," she told him, straightening out her back.
He shook his head slowly, and said, "Well... I haven't technically stolen the entire thing yet. I'm just taking over for you once a week. Calm down, it's just one day of the week. It's one less day you have to work."
"But I like my job."
"That's not my problem," he said defensively.
She groaned, and hissed, "Buck you."
He raised an eyebrow at her, and asked, "Again? There are kids all over the place. I mean, I'll do i-"
She leaned forward, and placed the underside of her hoof against his lips, shutting him up. "Fine. Bug you," she corrected herself.
He pushed her hoof aside, and nodded, "You are being pretty annoying."
"Shut up."
He sighed, allowing a faint smile to form on his lips, and glanced to his right, where a yellow unicorn dressed in an apron stood, looking from side to side between her two customers. After they ordered, and the waitress left, he took a deep breath.
If this went wrong, he'd be snuffed out before his plans could gather steam. If Pick wasn't on board with his plan, she'd probably rat him out to the Matriarch's face —or haunches, depending on the circumstance. He was putting everything on the line, and he was either going to pay for his mistake with his life, or get the most powerful prisoner on his side.
He leaned forward across the table, and spoke in a hushed tone, "Pick, I know a place where the changelings can live, where they will never need another prisoner, and can live safely under pony rule."
"The local population is already familair with changelings, and anyone old enough to remember anything at all knew at least one changeling. The princess who runs the place allowed me to sneak a stray worker into her kingdom, and is personally taking care of it," he whispered, not taking his eyes off of Pick.
She raised an eyebrow at him, and slowly set her menu down, before looking around carefully. She leaned forward, and whispered, "You sound like the Matriarch when she started her revolution."
He stretched out his right wing across the table, something he'd often seen young pegasi do when stealing a kiss without the knowing of the parents —they had always looked like idiots, and gotten caught, but he'd rather be accused of stealing a kiss than plotting against the government. "The Crystal Empire hasn't been around for the last millennium. It was dualy inhabited by ponies and changelings before the latter group left during a military coup," he said.
"How far away is that?" Pick asked him, her voice absolutely dripping with skepticism.
"North of Canterlot," he admitted. "Look, I need someone powerful and well respected to be the figurehead of this movement, so, naturally, you were my first choice."
She took a deep breath, and said, "You're nuts."
"Yes, you are quite familiar with them, but I need an answer," he shot back.
She sat still for a moment, either thinking it over more carefully or internally groaning at his joke.
Just in case she's missed it, he said, "It's a pun on you're, the contraction of you and are, and the word your, the second person possessive pronoun, along with the adjective, nuts, and the slang word for a-"
She nodded, and said, "-Yeah, I got it, I got it. Allow me to reiterate." She cleared her throat quietly, and said, "You're insane."
He gulped, and said, "So... Um... You're out, I suppose."
She stroked her chin with a hoof, and said, "Well... I'll have to think about it."
He nodded, folding his wing against his side, and said, "Yeah. I suppose that makes sense."
A distinctive clacking sounds filled the restaurant, whereupon both hybrids turned their heads to search for its source. It was followed immediately by a vehement exclamation, "Yes!"
A group of three griffons was gathered around a billiards table, with the two eldest ones each holding a pool cue. One was fairly old, enough that, if he died right then and there, it would be said that he'd had a good run, but he had another few years ahead of him. He was of a fairly standard complexion, eagle head, striped tiger body, blue feathers around his eyes and on the tuft above his forehead.
"Six-Pockets," Fangheart sneered, the very sight of the griffon and the clacking of billiard balls drawing him back into memory.
He remembered the end of the tournament like it was a dream, the white fog of nostalgia obscuring the edges of his vision, the blue dust of chalk drifting down to the ground, the griffon's smile as the drone lined up his shot. He remembered the very spot at which he'd hit the cue ball, just down from the center, and a bit to the right, attempting to keep it from continuing after it glanced off the eight ball, which was a scant few centimeters away, so it wouldn't sink one of his opponent's balls.
He remembered the griffon's firm talon shake, the pat on the back for making it so far in the tournament, the hearty laugh, and the odor of scotch on his breath. He remembered watching out the corner of his eye, the griffon's son running up to embrace him.
His eyes wandered to the griffon's companions, and instantly recognized the aforementioned son, named Eight-Ball, now a handsome young adult in his own right. He was half eagle, half tigon, as his mother had the lioness half required to give him the cool orange and tan coat for his stripes to rest on.
The feathers around his ocean blue eyes and the tuft above his head were a shade of light grey. His dextrous tail curled as his father dropped the white cue ball into his taloned hand, and turned to consider the scattered arrangement of balls atop the green table.
Gripping the edge of the table with black and gold striped talons, by which he held himself up so he could watch the game unfold, was a hybrid fledgling. His left eye was an unmoving globe of vibrant blue, and the immature feathers around it were edged with black chitin, unlike the keratin that made up his elders' feathers.
His left wing was a mosaic of black and green feathers, against the standard brown that made up its right counterpart. He also had a smooth black horn, which curved back from the front of his scalp.
His orange and white fur had horizontal black stripes on it, not unlike that of Eight, which led Fangheart to presume that he was looking at the third generation of pool champions. He guessed from his size that he was three years familiar with the world around him, though he was larger than a normal griffon of that age, as changelings and their hybrid offspring grew more quickly than the other creatures that inhabited this world.
Halflings tended to learn more slowly when compared to the soldiers, though their non changeling parents never seemed to worry about it, even said that they learned faster than the other children.
The fledgling's unfixed eye darted from side to side across the table, then locked onto his father's cue stick. He followed the white cue ball with his gaze as it knocked other balls aside, before stopping just short of a corner pocket, transferring the last of its momentum to a striped ball, which completed the journey by rolling over the edge of the hole.
Eight smirked as he caught the halfling's gaze, and slunk around the table, ruffling the plumage on the child's head as he passed, careful not to touch his horn. He glanced up at his father, who was sipping a steaming cup of coffee from a black mug with a white spot on the front, in which the number eight was placed, and said, "You're losing your touch, old bird."
Six slowly set down the mug on the table's edge, not looking away from his son, and said, "Don't tempt fate, kid."
Eight rolled his eyes, and placed his foot on the corner of the table behind the cue ball. He spread out two of his talons, forming a right angle between them, where he rested the cue. He closed one eye, and drew the stick back a bit, before smoothly sliding it back and forth a few times as he adjusted the angle at which it would hit the cue ball. Suddenly, he struck the ball with the blue tip of his cue, and stood up a few moments later.
The white ball rolled across the table, making a wide arc as it narrowly slipped between other balls. It forcefully clacked against the blue striped two ball, which sank into a nearby pocket.
All three griffons watched the cue ball intently as it glanced off a solid ball, and then rolled towards a corner pocket. It almost stopped, but then fell over the edge with the last of its momentum. The room filled with a familiar clamor as the ball navigated its way through the network of tunnels within the table.
Eight sighed heavily as he looked down, shaking his head.
Six grinned at his son, and said, "Don't tell Lady Luck who she's dancing with." He produced the white cue ball from the end of the table, and cast his grandson a knowing smile. "Let him think he's winning, and you can't lose."
Fangheart looked back at Pick to avoid Eight's gaze as it swept over the surrounding tables, and told her, "Don't worry about me. I'm not interested. Besides, I don't have any money."
Pick raised an eyebrow at him, unconvinced, but said, "That never stopped you from offering... other things as rewards."
He glanced up at her, and said, "Well... I'm not that guy anymore. I don't just... There are minors all over the place... I'm not giving Eight another holejob. He likes it too much. It's unsettling."
She shook her head, and said, "Look, you're getting hungrier and hungrier. What'd your marefriend do to me if I told her that you starved to death because you wouldn't swallow your pride?"
He grumbled something under his breath, and hemmed thoughtfully, looking down. As he became more engrossed in his thoughts, the faint semblance of a smile touched his lips.
Though he kept his head pointed at the table in front of him, Pick could see a familiar spark appearing in the areas around his eyes. She could just feel his gaze locking onto the cue ball as it clacked and bounced off its numbered counterparts and the cushions lining the edge of the table.
He lifted his head up a little bit, his smile growing contorted, bordering on one of madness. His right ear flicked once, then twice, and he leaned forward to tell his friend, "Just for the love of the game. That'll be enough for me."
Pick argued, "You don't have any money. Your only option is t-"
He held up his right forehoof, presenting to Pick a small brown bag, and gently juggled it in his hoof, letting its contents jingle to prove her wrong.
Pick's ears stood up, and she immediately reached a hoof below the table, digging through the contents of her bag. She narrowed her eyes at him, and asked, "How did you-"
"-You really need to stop carrying this with you while you're working," he explained, now looking straight at her. He dropped the small bag onto the table between them, and gingerly pulled the crumpled mouth of the bag open. He produced three gold coins, and held them in an upturned hoof as he slunk out of his seat.
Pick swiftly pulled the bag over to her side of the table, and yanked the drawstrings out, closing it, before dropping it into her saddlebag. She grumbled to herself as she watched the pegasus make his way towards the trio of griffons. She smiled, and said, "This'll be fun."
Fangheart didn't really think about what he was doing, for he couldn't even be said to be doing anything. His senses still fed qualia to him, allowing him to see and hear and smell the many things around him, the small forms of the white hatchlings in front of him, the looming weight of the nursery's curved ceiling, and the chirping pleas for attention that followed the sounds of eggshells cracking open, and the pained grunts of incubators in labor.
He was a servant now, as his body obeyed the commands of the hive mind, as his hooves gently lifted the young changelings from the ground, and hugged them to his grey chest as he carried them to the entrance of the nursery, where workers waited for the children, and would carry them to their respective homes.
The worker hatchlings would be carried off to a new nursery, where their restricted brains would hold the reigns of choice for a month or so, learning the shapes and patterns they would need to understand by playing with one another, until they were called upon by the hive mind.
The soldier grubs would be brought to a separate section of the hive, where they would be taught the fine arts, and the sciences known by the nobility, the heroes who had dedicated themselves to the hive for decades, even ceturies, who would teach them for as long as they could be controlled. Then they would grow, and they would desire.
They would want food, and closeness, and passion, and their lust for flesh and blood would grow until someone finally fell over from the pain that came with the rapid, even violent final stage of their development. They would become unmanageable mating machines, and rut anything that moved or breathed, including some of their worker brethren, often whilst they were unconscious.
His eyes saw, and his ears heard, but he was not in charge. The use of his body and control of his actions was entirely held by the hive.
And for hours he worked, though time seemed to lose meaning. His body grew tired, and he felt the monotony of his task taking its tole.
After what felt like days, he requested relief through a few simple thoughts.
His body snapped back into his control, and he looked around, having mostly ignored the information his senses provided. He felt strange. Walking took some getting used to, and he missed the strange sensation of flying, though he had never learned how to use his bulky feathered wings.
He spotted a worker nearby, panting from the exertion of its task, and the few grubs at its side, with white segmented bodies, and eyes that would one day open for the first time. He staggered towards it, and smiled warmly at the newly relieved incubator.
Its eyes were empty, cold, and the same ghostly blue shade as any other changeling. It didn't see him until he was standing right in front of it, and even then, did nothing to react. It was without instruction now. It had completed the only task the hive mind had given it before disconnecting.
He propped his back against the wall next to the worker, and reached a fur covered hoof to gently stroke the back of its neck. He listened to its haggard breath, the beat of its spent heart, and caught it in his forelegs before it could fall over. He gently set it down on its side, with its head in his lap, and watched as the young it had borne were gathered by the nearby workers.
He watched its eyes flutter closed, and smiled at it. He tried to imagine all that it had sacrificed for its hive, all the pain it had gone through in the previous few hours, but couldn't. He'd never given birth before, and he didn't feel like he'd ever want to.
His thoughts wandered to the changeling he'd escorted to The Crystals Empire, and that medicine Nurse Redheart had given her. It had taken away her pain.
He focused his attention on the sleeping form in his lap, and wondered aloud, "What if... What if you had some of that?" He pondered this for a moment, and then considered the gains that could be made if the hive could study pony medicine. He didn't know exactly how effective their methods were, but he knew that a pony had healed a worker that he had considered past the point of no return.
The worker's head shifted a bit, and it snuggled more closely to him, pressing its nose into his fur.
He could... save more of them. There was a museum, a room as large as a warehouse full of items from the pony world. Surely, some useful medical supplies could be salvaged from it. Surely, some prisoners were trained in medicine. Surely they could learn to practice their science on the sick and wounded changelings that grew more numerous by the day.
Not only was an opportunity to save lives staring him in the face, but so to did a potential for popularity. If he could make himself the figurehead of such a movement, then he could win over the soldiers, and perhaps even the nobles of the Matriarch's court, who were likely suffering the worst of the plague's effects.