Belonging

I stand in front of the mirror, taking in my black, chitinous form. It's rare that I allow my gaze to linger on my base form, the shape I was born with. Normally the sight of my glossy body, tattered bug-like wings, and ragged fangs disgusts me, and I am quick to take on one of the many shapes I have memorized and adopted over time.

But today, I must allow myself to exist in this in-between state for a while longer before changing. Today is one of the rare occasions where I must fashion a new body for myself. And for that, I need a blank canvas to start from, a rough hunk of clay that I must, piece by piece, mold into the being I am to become.

Along the frame of the mirror, I have taped a myriad of photographs, sketches, drawings, and written descriptions of my target. Looking over them in preparation for the change, I am immediately grateful for two facts. One, my target is a pony. This is a boon, since my nascent form is already roughly pony-shaped - quadrapedal, of a similar height and build. Griffins, minotaurs, and similar beasts are a bit more of a challenge, and I still have not perfected their forms. That will not be an impedance for me on this occasion, however. The other boon is that the target is a female, so I will not have to adopt the mannerisms of a different gender.

I have, as have all my fellow worker-changelings, also been born as a female, though I have spent nearly as much time in the form of a male body as I have in female ones, certainly much more than in my raw form. The few males of the hive are short-lived, spending their entire existence attempting to mate with the Queen. I do not envy their existence, trapped in the ragged, punctured body that the workers are able to shift away from.

Sadly, my new target is an earth pony. Which means I will have to be rid my wings as a first measure. I look over my shoulder and watch as a cold green flame dances over the thin membranes attached to my back. They swirl and meander, everywhere the flame touching causing the mass below to twist and dissolve. I allow the mass of the wings to reabsorb themselves into by body.

Mass is the one constant I am powerless to change. I can change my color, my size, my appearance, even my scent. But I cannot change my mass, merely shift it around, compressing and expanding as needed.

This means that when I take on a smaller form, such as a foal or a smaller creature, my insides are kept hotter than they are when I am stretched thin. If the acquaintances of my targets were any more perceptive, they might realize that their friend sought out the cooling breeze of a fan more often, or bundled up more tightly in mild weather. But they never do.

Ponies are, on the whole, an unperceptive race. They will allow for many minute changes in behavior and appearance without the slightest shimmer of a second thought.

This does not mean that I can allow myself to be sloppy, however. When shifting to the form of a pony for purposes of mere casual use - strolling through town, absorbing stray wafts of love from the passing couples, shopping for the necessities of pony life - one might allow a rougher form, one that lacks subtle details that a closer inspection might reveal. But that will not do for this new target. This body must be perfect, in every way.

Changelings are, as a race, scavengers. We live on the fringes of society, blending in where we can. Most ponies go their entire lives without realizing we exist. That they walk past us on the crowded street every day, or see us in their schools or workplaces. We usually are the ponies nopony gives a second glance to. The janitor that comes in just as you are closing shop, the street sweeper you barely glance at, the beggar on the side of the road. We feed off of positive emotions, but our own hearts are bitter and black. We gather what we can and try to draw no attention to ourselves, changing our forms and our identities when the risk of discovery becomes too great.

It's not hard to create a pony from whole cloth. It takes practice, make no mistake. The young of the hive often shape their bodies into crude approximations of different creatures before they master both the skill and the nuance of the bodies they will someday inhabit.

Ironically, when creating a pony from scratch, it is much better to create a body without fine details. Moles and freckles, wild hairs, subtle colorations of the mane and tail, imperfections in the face or on the body - all these details can have to unintended effect of making our crude approximations stand out all the more for what they are. We call this effect the "uncanny valley", and are warned that, if we are not recreating a pony that already exists, to shy away from these small details.

I have three or four such creations ready at any given moment. One never knows when one's ruse may become discovered, and one will have to make a quick getaway. They are mere shells, ponies with no history or identity of their own. Quite unlike the shape which I will be making for myself today.

Every once in a great while, an opportunity will present itself. We sit and wait and watch for these openings, these opportunities to step into the role of a former pony. For while it is one thing to absorb stray wafts of love from passersby in the street, it is something else entirely to bask in the full glow of a family member's or loved one's adoration. A single month of a singular source of love can allow a changeling to exist for a year or more on her own. And, more importantly, that changeling can bring the excess love to the Queen, to fulfil their purpose and commitment to the Hive.

This will be the third time I am able to perform my obligation. The opportunities are varied and unique, but they exist. Usually they are spontaneous. Perhaps a loved one will suddenly pass in a far-off location, or an impulsive youth will make a spilt-second decision of to flee their parents' loving embraces.

When that happens, we sometimes step in, take their place. Only for a short while, usually. Enough to absorb all the love we can without being discovered. In those cases we often have to settle for a rough approximation of form at first, until we can infiltrate the homes and families, find photographs and letters and hear stories. We piece together the details of their lives, their bodies, their habits, hoping that we pass until we can form a better picture.

This time, however, I have been blessed with the gift of advanced planning. A young filly is going abroad as part of Celestia's Peace Corps. She plans to write every day, but her letters are bound to be "lost" - thanks to a hive-mate in the post office - while I take her place, the place of the grief-stricken and homesick filly who couldn't bear to leave her family behind. She'll make her tearful reunion, spend most of her time moping and sulking in her room over her decision, until after about a month she is given another chance to sail away, which she will then accept.

She'll return a year later, having no knowledge of her last-minute hesitation. It might be mentioned at some point, and the subterfuge might be discovered then, but by that time, I will be long gone, in the form of another target and swollen full of the delicious love her family willingly gave to me.

So here I stand, staring at by black and twisted shape in the mirror, surrounded by photographs I have gathered over time of the smiling and happy filly. Green flame coats me momentarily as I allow fine hair to cover my body. I check the hue against the photographs, and adjust again. Each slight adjustment is accompanied by cold green flame.

Once I am happy with the color, I begin to mold my body. My legs become shorter, my neck thicker, my head rounder. I pause to check my progress and again examine the photographs.

In my current state, I no longer resemble my insect form. I do not resemble a pony in any more than a foalish approximation. I am a nothing, an in-between shape, a blank. A youngling, first shown the picture of a pony, might shape themselves much like I am now.

For me, it is the base that I mold to form my new identity.

As is my custom, I start at the tail and work my way forward. Tail, in length, style and color. Also consistency, as I examine the way it moves in the various photos of my target in motion.

Then my legs, muscle tone, hoof size based on sales receipts from the local horseshoe store, length of fetlocks. Both back and front legs receive this attention individually.

The cutie mark - a rough blotch of color. I will fine-tune that later.

Curve of the barrel, adjust the mass from the transformation inside of me to approximate organs. It is a labor for me to simulate a heartbeat, so I only do that when it becomes relevant. I hope not to let a pony near enough to me to have to do so, but I will not pass up on the pure, sweet, unfiltered love I can receive with a single hug. I'll set that small ball of tissue strobing when that occurs.

Shoulders, width and muscle tone.

Neck, fine tune the length and width. Shift the voice box around to the approximate right pitch - another detail I'll fine tune later. The filly's voice will often be rough and scratchy from crying, which will help mask the deception.

Mane, matching the tail in color and consistency, adjusting the length. The filly will get a mane cut in the first few days, to help her readjust to home life. Any effort I can undertake to make excuses for a change in her appearance will help evade detection. A pony may, on a subconscious level, realize something with me is "off", but if I can simply say "I had a manecut", oftentimes ponies will think no further.

Ears, prominence and size. Also, shagginess of the tufts of hair inside the lobes.

Horn... that will be the last to go, and the last reminder of my gnarled form. I use it to focus my shapeshifting magic, and the base will be covered by hair once I do remove it, so no need for fine detail there.

The face, the single hardest part for us to mimic. I start with the muzzle, extending it to match the profile pictures of the target. Fine tuning the nose, the width and size and seperation of the nostrils.

Then the teeth, easy due to the amount of smiles present in the pictures.

Lips are harder, as it is rare to find a picture where they are not stretched taut around a grinning visage.

Then the chin, the fine hairs that creep onto even the youngest filly's face.

Once I am satisfied with the muzzle, I start on the cheeks. Cheekbone, puffiness, the slightest hint of a blush. Blushes are another reflex that, like the heartbeat, I must simulate as need be. Changelings have no heart, no blood, merely ichor.

Then I move to the forehead. Prominence, width, curve, shininess. A mare might apply powder to cover that, and I could easily shift to the appearance of wearing makeup in the first place. But they shall first see me raw and naked, and I must get even that detail correct. Besides, it is much easier to simply apply the makeup, along with its natural degradation over the course of the day, than to try and keep the simulation of that in the forefront of my mind.

Eyebrows as well, though these will be changed along with my mane early on.

Then, the part that I have been dreading. The eyes.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. While this may or may not be true, it is a fact that the gazes of ponies are automatically drawn to the eyes. Therefore, as we are taught early on, if we perfectly mimic the eyes, we could appear with an entirely different appearance, and ponies will still be fooled.

I spend a great deal of time on the eyes, nearly as much as I do for the entire rest of the body combined. Each little tweak is followed by a careful study of the photographs, and another minor alteration, and the occasional return to a previous version. Each time, green flame blinds me for a second as it flashes before my eyes.

Finally, while not entirely satisfied with the eyes - as I never will be ever quite happy - I make a second pass over my body. Here a detail, there a change. Here a nip, there a tuck. Here a mole, there a freckle. The texture might not match the target's exactly, but detail is important. No pony can ever recall exactly the number and type of minor imperfections on another pony, but if there are none whatsoever, their absence will be noticed.

As a final measure, I allow my horn to burn away. No aspect of me is now changeling. Even my voice, coming through my modified vocal chords, matches the target's nearly identically in pitch, though I will have to practice her mannerisms and vocal tics. That will come later, with more study. Now that I have created this form, it is enough for me to recall the configuration, and I can once again become this mare. I take a few steps, testing out the movement, making sure no muscles are attached to the wrong places, or any joints insufficiently limber.

I look in the mirror, and see nothing but a yellow earth pony with a red mane. Young, but not so small that I would feel the effects of confining my mass too far. I once again compare my cutie mark to that in the photo, confident that the trio of apple blossoms on the wooden branch is indistinguishable from the original.

Green flame once again engulfs me as I return to my previous shape. The mare departs in a week, in which time I will try to stay as close as possible to her, to study her mannerisms and habits. The anticipation of the delicious love of her family makes my mouth begin to water. I decide to stroll through the marketplace one last time, to absorb the stray currents like an anemone feeding on stray bits of kelp in a great ocean of love.

Soon I will have my place once again in that ocean. Soon I will, once again, belong.

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